Work Text:
Eighty-eight percent polyamide, eleven percent elastane, one percent polypropylene. The color is black, smooth, without gloss. Reinforced toe, molded foot. No shorts, no panties, no stupid lace and jewelry.
Twenty den.
Xeno sits on a chair and watches intently as Stan tries to wear tights, one leg elegantly propped up on the edge of the bed. A kind of piquant evening for a familiar couple. The idea belongs to Xeno, performed by Stan and…
The tights rip with a bang. This is the second pair.
— Hmm, — Stan doesn't even try to hide his snide smile.
Generally Xeno bought three pairs.
— No! — Xeno says emphatically. — No, no, no, and no again! That’s not how it works. Give it to me, I'll do it.
— I’m so sorry! — Stan makes a dramatic gesture with his hands.
But he sits down on the bed obediently, without any further objections. Xeno kneels in front of him, and Stan puts his feet on his shoulders.
— It was your idea. Take responsibility.
— Whatever you say.
Xeno kisses Stan's ankle, lightly touching his toes. Stan immediately groups, pushes away.
— It tickles, — he says, half complaining, half flirting.
— Be patient.
This should be the perfect equation. What's easier: a pair of black semi-transparent tights and a pair of deliciously beautiful legs. Just like two plus two, and Xeno won’t tolerate a single clue in his plan.
He needs only to summon it.
— Stan.
And Stan holds out legs to him in turn: not resisting, but not helping, rather, allowing himself to be dressed.
Foot, ankle, knee.
— Stand up.
There's a bruise on the outside of his right hip. Xeno stops at this place a little further away, gently stroking, coodles, feels pity for. In general, it suits Stan to be both covered in blood and beaten up. This asshole, apparently, in a previous life, somehow especially distinguished himself, if in this life God compensated for everything with his appearance.
If you’re gonna want to ruin such an exterior advisedly, you can’t do it.
There's no underwear on Stan. He stripped down to nothing more than make-up: eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. Therefore, Xeno has to tinker to put the pantyhose on his ass correctly and not pinch the excitedly protruding dick.
And still, as soon as the elastic band of the tights is at the waist, Stan climbs to get better. But Xeno catches his hands in time and pulls them away. All that is necessary, Xeno will fix himself.
He admires the result.
— Like it?
The question is logical, but stupid, and clearly doesn’t need an answer.
— You know, usually when people are gonna, well, do it.
— What?
— Have sex. They undress, not the other way around.
Stan tries to keep his voice calm. His posture is absolutely outrageous, but his voice is under control.
— Ordinary people are wickedly bleak. Don't lie, you're interested.
— I want to smoke.
— Be patient.
— You've already said that.
Whims, whims, all whims. Someone is misbehaving.
— If you suddenly have an urgent need for oral fixation, and you need something to occupy your mouth...
— Oh, no! Please have mercy!
— Is something wrong?
— Yes! Your blow job puns are disgusting. I'm about to drop everything that I got up with such difficulty.
Xeno looks doubtfully at Stan's cock, pinned down by his pantyhose. There is a small wet spot on the fabric near the bellend. And who are you trying to fool, Stanley Snyder? But this game is supposed to be played by two people.
— If you want me to suck your dick, ask me humanely.
— How's that?
Stan grins contentedly, reaches out to touch Xeno's face, and gently runs his thumb over his lips.
— Say “Blow me, Stanley”.
— Blow me, Stanley.
— And please?
Xeno bites his finger, and Stan pulls his hand away.
— Quick.
— Yes sir?
No, he keeps provoking! He's getting rough.
— On all fours, Stan. Get on all fours.
— Whatever you say.
This time it is said quietly and without unnecessary irony in bed.
All right, Stan wasn't offended — Xeno had known him too long and too well. In fact, Stan likes to be on the bottom, likes to be fucked. If he is fucked by Xeno, he will accept everything and even more: in any clothes, in any position, how he prefers. Xeno can do anything with him.
And Xeno would never let anyone else see Stan like this. He wiggles his ass on his knees.
Through the thin nylon, everything is perfectly visible: Xeno admires Stan in the mirror opposite the bed. And the mirror, which infuriates and scares at night all the rest of the time, is truly invaluable at such moments.
It shows how Stan crawles closer, arches his back, takes off Xeno's pants and does a blow job.
It's like watching a porn movie and participating in it at the same time.
Hot, wetly, damply.
— Deeper, — Xeno commands, and Stan obeys.
After all, there are advantages to army drill. Any order is executed instantly. The main thing is to know how and when to command.
Next to Stan, any idea, even the craziest, seems normal. You can make up his lips, put on his tights, bend him over, fixing his head, fuck him in the mouth. And everything will be perfectly fine.
And Stanley Snyder, ready to turn his enemies' heads seven days a week with his bare hands, will only obediently open his mouth wider, close his eyes and take it deeper.
Damn, he really did close his eyes. The picture is too pretty.
Too perfect.
Too much, too much, too much.
Xeno needs a distraction. Think of something neutral. For example, about England. Of course, Xeno is not the Queens of England, but on the other hand, Stan has never knelt in front of them in the most vulnerable position, and never has...
It doesn't help. Thinking about England definitely doesn't help! All he can think about is Stan, Stan, Stan.
Should Xeno cums in his mouth or on his face? If on the face, the makeup will be terrible. The sperm will glue the eyelashes, get on the nose and cheeks.
— Stan, that's enough. Stop it.
Not so. Not now. Early.
— You didn't like it?
Stan is disheveled and speaks softly so that his voice doesn't shake. His lipstick is still good, kissproof. Not smeared.
What do you mean “you didn't like it”? Where do these nerves come from?
Relax, it's okay. I just don't want to come shamefully before you when we just started. Don't hold your breath, you can't get rid of me so easily. Don't even dream about it.
But instead of talking, Xeno kisses Stan. He doesn't deign, he even likes it. And Stan step by step relaxes, returns this kiss.
Splendid. And now last but not least.
— My turn.
Stan wraps his arms and legs around Xeno, cuddles him. He tries to hide and to seduce. That's enough of this, Xeno, let's just finish it the old-fashioned way.
Only when Xeno pulls away from Stan’s lips, gently disengages himself from embrace, and strokes from his chest to his groin that Xeno picks out Stan is confused. It's funny! And strange. But he's really confused and more excited than he'd like to be.
Xeno is interested, he wants to test his theory. He settles right between Stan's legs and kisses his hip. The fabric tastes completely unpleasant: what is so great to touch with hands, it wasn’t so delicious to lick. But Stan utters a subaudible groan, and Xeno realizes that he is ready for any feats for him.
If necessary, Xeno would wear Stan in a tight suit and lick him from head to toe. But he will start with his feet, of course with his feet, where else it should begin.
He’s anxious to reduce Stan to almost a blackout and until his knees buckle. Just to touch him wherever Xeno’s hands reach, and kiss, kiss, kiss.
They’re great together and Xeno feels like he's already bitten everywhere and has just a taste of everywhere.
You'll never feel so good with anyone again. Who else can think, construct, even guess that you like it when your toes are spappen, your feet are licked, that you scream and moan like a girl when your cock is sucked through the fabric.
Everything seems too sticky and moist, and the temperature in the room is rising. Xeno thinks he could spend the whole night like this until Stan's mind goes completely blank.
He's already no longer there, lying under Xeno and asking endlessly:
— Please, please, please.
— What?
— I want. You. Inside me.
That’s all. You don’t need to ask again. The third pair of tights is torn to pieces. And Stan is squeezing so heavy that it's hard to move.
— Quiet, quiet. Take your time, you'll hurt yourself, — Xeno says, trying to keep Stan on the bed.
But it looks like he needs it. Stan needs hurt like this. He needs to take the situation into own hands, under own control. Get over it, even through sex. Okay, hell with you, — Xeno defers.
Let it end the way Stan wants it to. There will still be time to rematch.
— Who taught you that? — Stan smokes in bed, flicking the ash onto the sheets.
Xeno sits wrapped in a heavy cotton blanket. And he would have liked to escape — he wasn't allowed. Stan holds it tight, professionally, he knows how to do it. That's why Xeno decides to keep his comments about smoking with the window closed, and in general in bed, to himself, and Stan's rhetorical questions are unanswered. He is too lazy to answer or justify himself.
— No, don't get me wrong, I liked it. But if I find out who it was — I'll kill. Not you, of course.
Stan is still sitting there with his tights ripped open on his ass. And Xeno knows for a fact as a run developed down his right leg from his groin to his ankle. Xeno can't see it, but he knows it's there. He wants Stan again.
No, he must be a maniac after all. And a bit of a pervert. Well! Okay, not a bit!
— You’re still alive? No, Xeno, what the hell? I'm the one who ended up getting fucked, not you. And don't try to sleep.
— I'm not sleeping.
— I got a question!
— I'm all ears.
Stan smiles, takes a drag and blows Xeno smoke in his face.
— How meticulously!
— Why tights? Why not stockings?
Is that really what Stan wants to know?
— Because stockings are for amateurs. Mediocre persons. Real perverts prefer panty-hose.