(no subject)
Title : Neighborhood Hero
Author : Sheena
Pairing : Mike / Billie Joe
Rating : NC-17
Disclaimer : I'm sure Bill and Mike have had the cops called on them before.. but perhaps not for this reason.
Warnings : BDSM, electro-play.
Author's Notes: Well, I finally got rid of my writers block, maybe it has something to do with having two free seconds to actually write. In any event, I'm off to read all the good stuff I've missed these past couple of weeks here on CC - for now, I leave you with this kinky little interlude.
At eleven-thirty-two p.m. on a balmy night in mid-July, Arlene Montgomery calls the police for the one-hundred-and-eighth time in her seventy-two year life. She calls them from her cheap white hardwire phone, because Arlene sees portable phones as a luxury. Arlene does not waste money on luxuries. Arlene spends her money on her grandchildren and her time keeping track of the neighbors through old lace curtains and meticulously polished windowpanes. Arlene has lived at one-hundred-and-twelve Parkwood Boulevard for thirty-seven years, now - and in that time, she has seen fifty-six residents come and go on the block.
She has reported every last one of them to the police on at least one occasion. The police are civil servants, funded by taxpayer dollars - and Arlene, who is always sure to get her moneys worth, calls on them whenever something happens to bother her. Why ask that young Carrera couple down the block to turn down their radio, or the Armstrongs next door to keep their children off of her lawn, or the Madisons across the street to adjust their floodlight so that it doesn't shine through her front window at night? Arlene Montgomery complained to Arthur Montgomery for forty-four years of marriage, and he never once listened to her; but people listen to the police, and so Arlene leaves the Madisons and the Carreras and those horrid Armstrongs to the boys in blue, and watches with a sour pout through her lace curtains and spotless windows.
Contrary to popular neighborhood belief, Arlene Montgomery knows deep down that she is nothing but a cantankerous old woman who complains for attention and resents the fact that time has forgotten her. She knows that none of the neighbors like her. She knows that she makes mountains out of molehills and abuses the emergency numbers on her cheap white hardwire telephone, and that - nine times out of ten - the police themselves do not take her seriously. She knows that she is nothing but a joke, now, to all of them.
But tonight, things are different. Arlene may be old, but she isn't stupid; and when the screaming wakes her up in the middle of the night, she, of all people, knows exactly who to call.
She is used to screaming. The Carreras scream at each other quite often, and Arlene calls the police. Mr. Madison screams at the television during football season, and Arlene calls the police then, too. But never before in her seventy-two years has she heard screaming like this, before - raw, grating, dissonant, like the wails of agony that Arlene imagines from the souls in Hell when she's reading the Bible. Humans do not make sounds like these unless they are dying.
Someone in the Armstrong house is getting murdered.
Tonight, Arlene Montgomery will call the police for the hundred-and-eighth time in her life - and maybe, for once, she will be a hero.
* * *
Billie is pain - raw and red and blinding, rolling in waves, burning and bruising and bleeding all at once and molded into the shape of a human being. Billie is pleasure, sweet and hot and searing, shooting in sparks, twisting him up and off of the sweat-damp mattress as far as the restraints will allow. Billie is strapped to his bed with tight, slick leather straps that cut into his wrists and his thighs and hold him wide open for the onslaught of thick, curved metal plug digging into his prostate, stretching his ass, rubbing at that sweet spot again and again with every little twitch of Mike's fingers.
Which would be all too sweet, were it not for the electricity - which burns like acid and stings like razors and makes him come ten times as hard as usual, all at once, with no way to separate the orgasm from the agony; they are one force, one fury, and the combination has him screaming yes please god please no stop go more no more please more please please please inside his own head.
But through the gag, he simply screams - wailing and guttural and without the luxury of syllables, muscles locked and shuddering with each new current, slicked head to toe in a thick sheen of sweat, green eyes glazed and rolling back in his head when he runs out of breath. The electricity does not allow his lungs to expand, and so he has to wait, choked and desperate, for the shock to be over before he can breathe again; he cannot gasp his way through the pain of orgasm, or the pleasure of torture. Or maybe it's the other way around - Billie is sure of nothing, anymore, except that he needs oxygen.
And then it stops, and he's gasping, again, chest heaving with every breath so that every last rib shows when he inhales. His eyes are glassy, flickering, incapable of focusing. His entire body is shuddering to the point of convulsion; he has come nineteen times in the past two hours, and there is only so much that his body can take.
Mike is leaning close, now, checking his circulation in the restraints and kissing the tears from his temples.
"One more time," he whispers, as Billie whines behind the gag, long and keening.
And Billie Joe's screams drown out the sirens.
* * *
The police come. They ring the doorbell of the dark, still Armstrong residence for half an hour. Mr. Madison from across the street tells one officer that the house is empty; the husband travels a lot, and he saw the wife and children leave this morning, packed for a weekend - and as for screaming, well, he's had the TV on and he really wouldn't know.
Arlene insists to a lieutenant that she's not crazy; she heard the screams, they woke her up. Someone was killed in that house tonight - they should break down the door, and see for themselves. The lieutenant smiles patiently, and pretends to believe her out of kindness.
And a story above the commotion, in the dark and the quiet, Mike is kissing Billie Joe calm again - soothing him with quiet words and gentle hands and running a cool, damp cloth over the tortured little body beneath him. Mike is wrapping Billie up in blankets and a warm embrace, massaging the soreness out of his wrists, coaxing him through a glass of water sip by sip. Mike is watching the red lights of the patrol cars spin across the walls while Billie Joe is simply resting; soon enough he will fall asleep to the rhythm of Mike's fingers trailing through his hair, and Mike will hold him close until morning.
And the police will go away, and Mr. Madison will go back to his television, and Arlene will not be a hero tonight, after all.
Author : Sheena
Pairing : Mike / Billie Joe
Rating : NC-17
Disclaimer : I'm sure Bill and Mike have had the cops called on them before.. but perhaps not for this reason.
Warnings : BDSM, electro-play.
Author's Notes: Well, I finally got rid of my writers block, maybe it has something to do with having two free seconds to actually write. In any event, I'm off to read all the good stuff I've missed these past couple of weeks here on CC - for now, I leave you with this kinky little interlude.
At eleven-thirty-two p.m. on a balmy night in mid-July, Arlene Montgomery calls the police for the one-hundred-and-eighth time in her seventy-two year life. She calls them from her cheap white hardwire phone, because Arlene sees portable phones as a luxury. Arlene does not waste money on luxuries. Arlene spends her money on her grandchildren and her time keeping track of the neighbors through old lace curtains and meticulously polished windowpanes. Arlene has lived at one-hundred-and-twelve Parkwood Boulevard for thirty-seven years, now - and in that time, she has seen fifty-six residents come and go on the block.
She has reported every last one of them to the police on at least one occasion. The police are civil servants, funded by taxpayer dollars - and Arlene, who is always sure to get her moneys worth, calls on them whenever something happens to bother her. Why ask that young Carrera couple down the block to turn down their radio, or the Armstrongs next door to keep their children off of her lawn, or the Madisons across the street to adjust their floodlight so that it doesn't shine through her front window at night? Arlene Montgomery complained to Arthur Montgomery for forty-four years of marriage, and he never once listened to her; but people listen to the police, and so Arlene leaves the Madisons and the Carreras and those horrid Armstrongs to the boys in blue, and watches with a sour pout through her lace curtains and spotless windows.
Contrary to popular neighborhood belief, Arlene Montgomery knows deep down that she is nothing but a cantankerous old woman who complains for attention and resents the fact that time has forgotten her. She knows that none of the neighbors like her. She knows that she makes mountains out of molehills and abuses the emergency numbers on her cheap white hardwire telephone, and that - nine times out of ten - the police themselves do not take her seriously. She knows that she is nothing but a joke, now, to all of them.
But tonight, things are different. Arlene may be old, but she isn't stupid; and when the screaming wakes her up in the middle of the night, she, of all people, knows exactly who to call.
She is used to screaming. The Carreras scream at each other quite often, and Arlene calls the police. Mr. Madison screams at the television during football season, and Arlene calls the police then, too. But never before in her seventy-two years has she heard screaming like this, before - raw, grating, dissonant, like the wails of agony that Arlene imagines from the souls in Hell when she's reading the Bible. Humans do not make sounds like these unless they are dying.
Someone in the Armstrong house is getting murdered.
Tonight, Arlene Montgomery will call the police for the hundred-and-eighth time in her life - and maybe, for once, she will be a hero.
* * *
Billie is pain - raw and red and blinding, rolling in waves, burning and bruising and bleeding all at once and molded into the shape of a human being. Billie is pleasure, sweet and hot and searing, shooting in sparks, twisting him up and off of the sweat-damp mattress as far as the restraints will allow. Billie is strapped to his bed with tight, slick leather straps that cut into his wrists and his thighs and hold him wide open for the onslaught of thick, curved metal plug digging into his prostate, stretching his ass, rubbing at that sweet spot again and again with every little twitch of Mike's fingers.
Which would be all too sweet, were it not for the electricity - which burns like acid and stings like razors and makes him come ten times as hard as usual, all at once, with no way to separate the orgasm from the agony; they are one force, one fury, and the combination has him screaming yes please god please no stop go more no more please more please please please inside his own head.
But through the gag, he simply screams - wailing and guttural and without the luxury of syllables, muscles locked and shuddering with each new current, slicked head to toe in a thick sheen of sweat, green eyes glazed and rolling back in his head when he runs out of breath. The electricity does not allow his lungs to expand, and so he has to wait, choked and desperate, for the shock to be over before he can breathe again; he cannot gasp his way through the pain of orgasm, or the pleasure of torture. Or maybe it's the other way around - Billie is sure of nothing, anymore, except that he needs oxygen.
And then it stops, and he's gasping, again, chest heaving with every breath so that every last rib shows when he inhales. His eyes are glassy, flickering, incapable of focusing. His entire body is shuddering to the point of convulsion; he has come nineteen times in the past two hours, and there is only so much that his body can take.
Mike is leaning close, now, checking his circulation in the restraints and kissing the tears from his temples.
"One more time," he whispers, as Billie whines behind the gag, long and keening.
And Billie Joe's screams drown out the sirens.
* * *
The police come. They ring the doorbell of the dark, still Armstrong residence for half an hour. Mr. Madison from across the street tells one officer that the house is empty; the husband travels a lot, and he saw the wife and children leave this morning, packed for a weekend - and as for screaming, well, he's had the TV on and he really wouldn't know.
Arlene insists to a lieutenant that she's not crazy; she heard the screams, they woke her up. Someone was killed in that house tonight - they should break down the door, and see for themselves. The lieutenant smiles patiently, and pretends to believe her out of kindness.
And a story above the commotion, in the dark and the quiet, Mike is kissing Billie Joe calm again - soothing him with quiet words and gentle hands and running a cool, damp cloth over the tortured little body beneath him. Mike is wrapping Billie up in blankets and a warm embrace, massaging the soreness out of his wrists, coaxing him through a glass of water sip by sip. Mike is watching the red lights of the patrol cars spin across the walls while Billie Joe is simply resting; soon enough he will fall asleep to the rhythm of Mike's fingers trailing through his hair, and Mike will hold him close until morning.
And the police will go away, and Mr. Madison will go back to his television, and Arlene will not be a hero tonight, after all.