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The bass is deep and rumbling, raising the fur on Sendak's neck with each pulsing wave, the rhythm steady and unchanging. The lights flicker and dance across the room bathing everything and everyone in a blue otherworldly light. But Sendak prefers his spot in the shadows, his booth tucked away in the back where no one nosy could reach him, apart from his men who rarely left their commander’s side. Most would take one look at the commander and decide that the permanent frown did not invite to conversation, a truly wise decision.
His men busy with their talk, Sendak find his entertainment in his drink and the view. Amongst countless patrons, high ranking individuals like himself and their entourage, there is little interest to be found. Most he knows, if not by name then by looks or smell, some of them he has been personal with, if not by curiosity then out of boredom at a late night like this one. But tonight a different type of distraction swells in his gut.
By the wall is a pedestal, one amongst many, each with an individual, slaves mostly, bound by chains that exist only to keep them in their place but not to restrain, moving their bodies to the music as best to their abilities, apart from this one slave that sticks out like a sore thumb, but not for any bad reason.
They are well built, male if Sendak would have a guess, the bulge in their miniscule shorts being any indication, the hair an interesting combination of black and white cut short with a fringe in front, the skin pale and mostly hairless but Sendak has a feeling a lot of it has been removed on purpose. Even from his seat on the other side of the room Sendak can smell the slave’s scent, not as intense as a galran but still sprinkled with enough spice to be interesting and making the commander flare his nostrils to really get a read on the creature. But scent aside that is not what caught Sendak’s intense stare.
The chains dance on the slave’s chest where finely sculpted muscle ripples in time with the music, delicate waves of flesh that rise as the music reaches a peak and ebbs as the music slows down, like ocean waves. The slave is one with the music unlike his equals who seem more to be doing a routine. It is mesmerising watching the pale skin move. Signs of combat litter his skin, and the flexibility of his movements hint for someone who knows how to fight and do it well. But there are no fights here, only movement, and Sendak can't keep his eyes off him. Not even when one of his men offer him a new drink does Sendak move his eyes off the slave.
The slave tosses his head backwards mouth agape baring the part of his neck not covered in a heavy metal collar, the white fringe on his forehead brushing over the scar on the bridge of his nose in the process, and Sendak feels it necessary to uncross his legs, his pants starting to become uncomfortably tight.
The slave keeps his eyes closed as his body move, but when they open they are heavy lidded and distant like he isn't truly there, drugged out of his mind by the establishment most likely. Probably for the best, Sendak thinks as he downs his drink and one of his men hands him another without prompting.
Hips swaying before making gentle subtle thrusts into empty air as the rhythm picks up in quick pulses before dying down to gentle swaying again. It is a routine but it is filled with emotion, a need to be synched to the music and let it carry you and the slave does it well, almost too well. Sendak was never a dancer, his movements are always swift and decisive, never had room for unnecessary motions. It is fascinating seeing this being doing it so effortlessly.
The slave has built up a fine sheen by now, his pink tongue darting out to catch a few drops of sweat off his upper lip and Sendak’s mind imagines other things that soft prehensile member could do. A few droplets makes their way down his chest where rosy areolas shine like rosettes on the pale skin, over the stomach muscles, rippling at each roll of the hips and Sendak follows their journey down the canvas of smooth skin, circling the navel, the scars the only hindrances with their criss crossing patterns. The drops threaten to slide down between the legs if not for the minimal shorts the slave wears and Sendak wonders what they would look like crumpled on the floor, after all they do not leave much to the imagination.
He wants to taste that glistening skin, feel it on his tongue and sense the pulse beneath it.
How many hearts does his species have? One? Two? Will their beats match the music? If not for the heavy beats he would have heard but the music never stops, only ushers the slave on, keeping him moving.
The slaves hands runs over its thighs, over hips, over the chest where two perky nipples stand only waiting to be touched, but the fingers ghost around robbing Sendak of the satisfaction. If he didn’t know better he would be certain the slave is teasing him.
The hands end their journey hugging the shoulders and Sendak lets his tongue run across his sharp incisors in annoyance. Sendak’s patience is running out.
The slave turns, showing the scarred back to Sendak proper, and the perfectly shaped buttocks in the tight shorts is what is the final trigger. Sendak rises from his seat and before his men can react he has crossed half the room and quickly finds himself in front of the slave he has spent the last vargas obsessing over, though they have not even noticed the commander exist still lost in the music.
It requires no effort to grab the chains and rip them from their socket pulling the slave from the pedestal before any of the staff can protest. His men makes howls of laughter and cheer their commander on stating the true fun just started. Sendak has no plans to share however.
The slave stumbles after the commander as he pulls it by the collar back towards his booth uttering no words apart from noises of surprise. A pair of charcoal eyes on a white background looks up at him and to his enjoyment there is no fear there only curiosity. He drags the slave into his seat letting it rest against the soft cushions and Sendak can't help but wet his lips in anticipation.
Sendak's men wants in on the fun but a warning growl backs them off his prize. They will have to be content with watching as he has no intent of sharing.
Pressed up against the wall of their booth Sendak mouths at the slave's neck, skin as soft as he imagined, tongue running over damp skin with fervor, the sweat there like a sweet and salty syrup he just can't get enough of, and he is rewarded with a shuddering moan that does nothing more than make his pants strain even more.
A claw hooked underneath the collar is all that is needed to pull the slave close enough for a deep kiss full of tongue and teeth. The slave meets him halfway and clumsily returns the effort. Good enough.
Sendak rumbles pleased and lets his tongue explore the warmth and wetness. Not bad either.
The bulge in his pants is getting painful and with no amount of subtlety Sendak rubs himself against the slave’s chest to relieve it. He receives a needy moan in return and a faint roll of hips so similar to his dance moves from before.
Effortlessly he flips the slave over, chest against the wall, and he lets his straining erection grind against the slave's back before working himself lower. If this one can carry or not does not matter, he will take the commander's seed nonetheless.
Sendak fumbles with his pants and when his erection springs free it is with a deep sigh of relief. It is the last time he will wear them to an activity like this.
Claws rid the slave of their shorts in matter of ticks, the fabric tearing easily, sliding down from the hips to tangle between the knees, out of the way for now.
Sendak let his hand glide over a firm buttock, not even that spared from marks of battle, and the slave makes a small gasp that makes Sendak's own pulse race a bit faster, especially when the slave returns the favor by grinding their ass back into Sendak's grip.
His men makes a comment on how needy the slave is and Sendak agrees with a grunt, the slave is needy and how much of that need is its own or the drug speaking he does not know. But he has no plans of stopping now and with both hands, metal and flesh, on the slave's hips he buries his cock in the cleft of his ass teasing the lesser being with his length and girth. He is instantly rewarded with a squeeze and a moan and Sendak's heart pounds in his chest. Sendak thanks the gods for Galras slick precum as the slave obviously doesn't self-lubricate, so he rubs his member vigorously between those globes of flesh he so desperately needs to delve between.
He can feel the tight pucker against the underside of his cock, teasing him but also telling him loud and clear that their size difference might cause some problems. But Sendak has dealt with worse, he can manage, he is resourceful after all.
Clawed fingers join his ribbed member poking the pucker gently, letting the slick do its job. The first finger slips in accompanied by a groan as the slave pushes back against his hand and Sendak purrs in delight as he pushes in another feeling the tight ring of muscle swallow him up. A third finger joins the rest and the slave trembles as its own cock twitches and Sendak feels generous enough to give it a few strokes with his metal hand in reward.
Sendak enjoys this and absentmindedly he pulls his fingers out and pushes the legs of the slave further on the cushions, spreading him wide.
He leans in and whisper, voice tainted by impatient lust: "You want this?" The only words uttered between them so far, both a question and a statement.
A shuddering moan leaves the slave and his request is responded with a buck of their hips.
"I-I do," he stammers out and Sendak grins and lines up his throbbing cock with the slave's twitching hole. Every ridge, every bump is swallowed by the tight heat and Sendak must contain himself from losing all restraint and just claim the slave uncontrolled. He wouldn't want to wreck him too fast.
A few precise thrusts later Sendak finds himself buried deep within the smaller creature, tight as a vice and so so warm and his flesh hand dares to run over the slave’s stomach to feel the distended skin there, bulging with his cock, his member. His manhood fills this being so well and if he gently presses his hand the slave responds with a needy whimper. Oh he will give it to him.
Movement is slow but calculated, letting his slick properly coat the slave’s insides, making each thrust a bit smoother until he slides in with little effort and still retaining the friction that ignites all his nerves, pushing him towards euphoria. Then the slave starts moving too, pushing against him, confronting his assaults in the most delectable manner, not surrendering but meeting him head on in a display of need and want. The slave has a warrior’s fighting spirit and it shows, it won’t roll over and give up and that makes Sendak grin.
Their battle continues, flesh against flesh, slaps filling the space of the booth to the heavy thumps of the bass, they are synchronized, two of the same as they roll their hips together, a grinding symphony of flesh and desire. And then the slave flexes their inner muscles in a squeeze that leaves the commander hissing under his breath. The slave dares to challenge him?
Claws and metal grips the hips and with little mercy he teaches the creature who is in control with thrusts that wrecks cries from its pretty mouth. Foolish of it to think Sendak would not retaliate. Each slam into that tight orifice delivers a song from the slave’s mouth and Sendak finds it better than the music that surrounds them, doesn’t hinder him from matching the rhythm himself. Two can play that game even if Sendak cannot dance.
The slave’s breath hitches after a particular brutal thrust and with a sweet moan spills itself, ropes of pearly white, across the cushions lining the wall. Sendak chuckles in victory and fucks him through it receiving pleasured mewls in response.
Sendak pulls out, not too rough, he still wants the slave in working order, and sits down in his seat before dragging the slave down next to him, letting him rest his trembling legs for a moment. One of his men procures a drink out of nowhere and Sendak accepts it as easily as breathing, taking a small break before he moves on to the main course, meanwhile he will enjoy watching the rise and fall of the slave’s chest.
"Dance for me." It's not a request and the slave obeys dutifully, straddling Sendak's hips before sinking down on the cock standing there so easily before working their magic to push up and down as best as it can and to Sendak's great delight even this matches the music with it's never changing rhythm. The slave rides the waves of the bass, large cock sliding in and out of that beautifully stretched hole as its own cock bobs at half mast between their legs, Sendak's men mesmerized by the display, finally catching up with the commander's fascination of the creature. When one of them dare to try and touch Sendak is quick to give them a snarl in warning making them cower in fear. If they do not do anything else out line he will consider not punishing them in the morning.
Sendak slowly sips his drink as he observes the slave and drinks in the vista it provides. This close he can hear every sound he makes, see every little detail with clarity; fine hairs that covers the entire body, the way the chest rises with each deep breath, the blue veins that creates complicated patterns across the skin. The commander traces such a vein with a claw, gentle enough not to scratch as the skin is thin, and here this close he can hear the beats of the slave’s heart, two steady thumps, four chambers pumping blood, a single organ. It is a gentle rhythm, soothing, and Sendak finds it fitting all things considered. The scent is so much stronger this close as well and Sendak finds his senses are fighting each other in which to take his attention, sight or sound or smell or touch, bordering sensory overload. In the end he allows the last remaining sense take control, letting his tongue lap at the slave’s throat and neck rewarding it with yet another taste of the slave’s essence. And finally Sendak gives attention to the nipples on the slave's chest, running his rough tongue over the delicate nubs, and the sounds the slave makes in return was definitely worth the wait, and they stiffen and stand perky in the chill air the moment his mouth abandons them.
He moves his attention up to the slave’s face, watching him pant for air due to the overwhelming sensations. He pushes back the white fringe, slick with sweat, to better see the charcoal eyes before letting their mouths clash in battle once more. So small but still so passionate, with a stranger no less, it makes Sendak rumble pleased, letting a deep purr leave his throat. They only separate for a moment to breathe before diving back into it with renewed fervor.
They split apart again, both panting, lips shiny from spit but the spirit is still there and it needs an outlet. It is Sendak’s turn to lead.
He lets the slave ride him, his metal claws have a firm grip on the slave’s hips while his left hand embraces the small cock, letting it grow and fill again between his claws. A fascinating member, the head a darker shade, almost purple, while the shaft firm and unyielding allows for a most delectable sensation between his fingers. And the noises the slave makes when he plays with it makes it all so much better, so many mewls and whines, it’s like an orchestra of pleasure only broken up by the music occasionally.
Sendak is close and not wishing to finish first picks up his toying with the slave’s cock, stroking and fondling in combination with the assault on his prostrate in lieu of the cock inside him until the slave breathes rapidly. The slave looks at him pleadingly and Sendak gives him a smirk before really picking up his pace, feeling close himself.
The slave comes, the second time that night, a deep moan filling the space between them, eyes closed gripping the fur on the commander’s shoulder and neck desperately, and the come paints the commander’s hand a striking white against the purple. But Sendak cannot rest and the view of the wrecked creature spurs him on towards his own fulfillment.
A grunt and his orgasm washes over him and if not for his ever present control he would have crushed the slave in his grip, but he doesn’t and together they catch their breaths, their steaming bodies the only thing in their worlds that moment.
"Name?" Sendak demands, his voice as commanding as always but it is his curiosity that is getting the better of him.
“S-Shiro, sir,” the slave breathes out and Sendak nods in affirmation before letting the slave rest its head against his chest, burying their face in his shirt, and his scent, Sendak muses before sitting back to rest himself.
The afterglow is accompanied by the gentle buzz of the alcohol and he lets his senses slow down amidst the lights and music, but he is not really listening nor watching, just enjoying the calm and the warm body pressed up against his own. He wouldn’t mind bringing this one home, but he doubts the establishment would be willing to part ways with it, even if it would be with the Emperor’s Right Hand.
A varga passes, several drinks too, and Sendak knows it is time to leave and he looks down on the still sleeping form of the slave laying in his lap, he wouldn’t want to wake him so he carefully pushes him off and onto the cushions. A finger on his lips tell his men to keep their comments to themselves else face a reprimand, and they make their way to the exit.
A staff member greets them at the door and Sendak tosses a stack of credits onto the counter.
“Give the slave a day off, he’s going to need it,” he says and walks off but not before giving one last glance at the sleeping slave, this Shiro, with a small smirk on his face.