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Let's Defile Checkhov

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It was another thing that Parker made him do, and he liked it. Oh, he did. At first it was just another job to do. He shut up and didn't complain. He didn't really have a choice. Then one night, beforehand, Parker put Checkhov in silk stocking and heels. Smeared lipstick all over his mouth. Eyeliner. After Parker had his way with him, messed him up, he dragged him into the bathroom and forced his chin up to the mirror. His mouth kissed blurry, a grey stream down his cheek. It looked wrong on him and he loved it. All dirty and ugly and male.

And he got hard. Really hard. He wanted to be degraded by a sick old fuck like him.

Parker took notice of that.

"Anybody in this room is yours," Parker would tell the high-rollers, grinning indulgently. "Except for me, of course." An arm around the shoulder, an offer of a cigar. They'd get a smug little glint in their eyes, like they were the first to ask for and the first to get his right-hand man. Or maybe they all knew they could use the house like a whore and it made them feel powerful.

Good money in it either way.

Parker would watch over the procedures with an air of professional disinterest, and would usually keep them from damaging the merchandise. Usually. One time they hurt him so badly tears started rolling down his face. No, he sobbed, openly, through his bar gag. It felt so good to be striped, flayed, exposed, and yet, desirable. The more humiliated he was the more they wanted him. It was the only way that he could get off. It was the only way, after a while, that he could live with himself.

He needed it.

And then he and Parker parted ways. Should have killed the fuck, but no. No. It was over.

The guilt was too much, after. Couldn't handle it on his own. So he started going to the club. (The club was one of those ritzy, dangerous, clandestine places Checkhov had learned to move in so well, and also happened to be attached to a casino. You can take the man out of the champagne room, but you can't take the champagne room out of the man.) It was expensive, but he wasn't eating, he couldn't sleep at night. Couple times he got drunk and found himself sitting on the kitchen floor with a straight razor and lines of blood on his inner thighs. The club got him right a hell of a lot quicker than psychotherapy. He needed his fix.

He didn't like telling people what to give him. Too personal. Or too impersonal, on their end. He wanted to be wanted. He wanted to be used.

Eventually he and the club worked something out. Left him tied up and gagged and blindfolded. Let anybody debase him. Sometimes two or three of them at once, sometimes women riding him. He never knew who. He liked it that way. He didn't deserve to see who was fucking him. He didn't deserve to make a sound.

The only one he ever cried out for was Parker, because Parker saw him as a human being, knew him in his waking life, and there was no avoiding that. Parker would slap him until it shut him up. That was good. He liked that.

That night he was kneeling, his hands tied behind his back and a bar gag clenched in his teeth. Waiting. He heard footsteps, felt a man's gaze on him.

"I know this one," the man standing before him said, though Checkhov didn't know who he was speaking to.

The man pulled the blindfold off. Checkhov stiffened, keeping his eyes tightly shut. "Yeah. I thought so. Met him back in Los Vargas." He took his chin in his hand, appraising him, and added, softly, hungrily - "He's into some sick shit."

He spat on his face. Chechkhov's heart quickened. He was hard and wanting. They knew everything about him. They knew.

The man unbuckled his gag, which was on too tight tonight. Checkhov ran his tongue over the sore points it left at the corners of his mouth. He barely had time to take in a breath before the man's cock forced open his throat. He winced, not daring to cringe back from it, focusing only on trying to inhale through his nose.

The man behind him ran a hand over his ass, pushed him forward, and then (it wasn't his first tonight, he was well-fucked and ready for it) drove it home, fucking him hard and fast, with something like indifference. He wanted to get off and go home. It accentuated the attention of the man in front of him, rocking his hips slowly, savoring his throat. Checkhov felt an odd response to the stimulus, as if the man at his back was fucking him for the sole sake of getting Chechkov off, and the thought of receiving pleasure shamed and excited him. Some people liked to see a man humiliated that way, screwed to climax like a girl. He kept his eyes shut, moved his knees restlessly under his erection, and took it all as he concentrated on trying to breathe with his throat all filled up.

The man standing said a couple of words Checkhov didn't hear clearly, and the man behind him pulled out (and seemed to disappear off somewhere in a minute or two). The man he was blowing put a hand in his hair, warning him still, and pulled out of his mouth with a twist of his hips.

Chechkhov suppressed a low, yearning sound.

"Did you like that, darling?" the man in front of him whispered. He put his hands to his shoulders and guided him to the floor.

Something about the way he said that shook Checkhov to the core. It sounded almost genuine. (But not enough, thank God, to bring him back to himself, remind him that outside of these binds, this cold black floor, he was a man and a man who hated himself.) He began to think he might have heard that voice somewhere, but he wouldn't open his eyes. Wouldn't ruin it. Chin scruff brushed against his neck. Normally he disliked taking pleasure, disliked showing it even more, but when the man kissed his neck he allowed himself a small, grateful exhale as the man moved on top of him.

He moved his mouth down his body. He kissed the scars on his legs. Then he took him easy and willing.

As he entered him the man reached behind him and undid his bonds, and Checkhov was about to protest when he felt the cold steel press into the side of his head. He gasped softly, a tremor of arousal running through him. What the hell was going on? Wasn't anyone watching? (But if the man with the gun were the right kind of person in a place like this, Checkhov knew his life could well be forfeit.)

It turned him on.

They knew who he was.

He moved closer to the man's body, sitting up now, resting his forehead on his shoulder. The man moved his hips up into him, in slow, shallow motions. His mouth on his neck. Like he was a lover. Checkhov choked back a noise.

"Talk to me," the man whispered. Checkhov moaned.

He moved them over a foot or two, to a wedge on a forty-five degree incline. There were straps there, but the man didn't put him in them. He just wanted something to brace against. He lay him back against it and started in on him again, fucking him firmly, deeply. Checkhov wrapped his arms around him, keeping his face pressed to his neck, feeling more vulnerable in this position than he had in a long time. The gun was still up against his head.

"Please," he whispered. "Please kill me."

The man moved his mouth over his. Kissed him truly, insistent and hard. "When was the last time someone used your name, Vanya?"

Checkhov shuddered against him. Who was this man?

He cocked the gun. "Open your eyes."

Checkhov shook his head no, lips pressed together tight. He couldn't. Not now. Not now. It's so perfect.

"Just keep fucking m - " he started to beg.

Just then Vanya came, his body tensing, arching up into that cock, his hand trailing down the small of the man's back, as mindless and possessive as a lover. "Oh," he cried, his voice off kilter, off guard. "Oh..."

The man pulled out, and after a moment Checkhov felt his warm come blanket his face. His features relaxed when it hit him. The tension went out of his body. He lay there, dizzy and sick with love, his eyes still peacefully shut.

He felt different. Cleaner.

But by the time he opened his eyes the man was gone.

He had left his gun.