27. Micha #3
“Help me then,” he begs, leaning in closer, and I happily meet him halfway.
His lips brush over mine, tentative at first, like we’re unsure of the tone we’ve set.
He’s asking for help to get over the traumatic deaths of his mother and stepfather, whilst I’m thinking about how hard I can fuck his pretty mouth.
The kiss deepens when I grab the back of his head. Our tongues mix, and the taste of him makes me groan.
“Fuck it,” I grunt, flipping him over to lie him down on the couch. “You want to get over it? I’ll make you get over it.”
He smiles, like harsh sex and trauma dumping are exactly what he was hoping for and not weirdly messed up at all.
“You don’t like the blood, do you?” I ask before licking up his neck. My leg shifts to rest between his, my thigh grinding against his hardening cock.
“No,” he replies. “Not when it leads to death. I like it when she makes me bleed.”
An idea rushes to my head and my cock.
I pull away. Arlo tries to grab me as I head to the kitchen space and grab the biggest knife from the rack. This could either go really well or really badly.
“What are you doing?” He leans on his elbows and watches me walk back. He swallows loudly when he sees the blade, but I push forward. I crawl back on top of him, holding the knife in front of his face. “Micha?”
“You’re going to cut me.”
He shakes his head. “No. Besides, it’s me who likes pain, not you.”
He’s right. I’m the pain giver, and he’s the taker. But we’re both giving and taking today.
“I don’t care, and don’t talk back to me.” I grab his hand, place the handle in his palm, and force his fingers to close. His hand trembles, and he stares at the blade like it’ll grow legs and attack him. “You’ll associate knives and blood with me and orgasms from now on.”
I grip the hem of his shirt and tear it downwards, splitting it in half and freeing his tattoo-covered torso. Before he can say another word, I pull down his joggers, freeing his semi-hard cock.
“I’m going to watch you get hard,” I announce, grabbing his wrist and pushing the knife towards his own chest. It rises and falls with heavy breaths, and the panic starts to overtake him, but I force him to push past that initial fear and let the tip touch his inked skin.
I’m careful to trace the outlines of the tattoos—I think he’d kill me if I ruined his art.
I’m mindful of how hard this could be for him, but I know what pain does to this boy.
“You feel that, Pipsqueak?” I whisper, pressing his wrist to push the knife in. Not enough to cut yet, but enough to dent. He gulps, stretching his eyes to look at what I’m forcing him to do to himself. “Look at your skin taking my knife. Just like your cock is going to take my mouth very soon.”
I don’t miss the way he starts to harden. It’s working.
He whimpers when I add more pressure, and the knife breaks skin.
Arlo’s head leans back against the armrest of the couch as he groans loudly, his entire attitude changing as soon as the blood starts to bead around the blade.
The sight of him getting off to pain makes my cock ache and twitch, desperate to be buried anywhere inside of him.
“Atta boy. I wish I’d known earlier how fucked-up your little head is.”
I drag his arm, pulling the knife through flesh, slowly and carefully. His cock hardens completely, the piercings glinting with the knife blade, and he bucks his hips.
“This isn’t fair, Micha,” he whimpers.
“You’re right. It’s not.” I release him and take my top off, revealing my broad chest. “It’s your turn to cut me.”
His head snaps up, like he forgot that was part of the deal.
“Cut me like I cut our parents and the people who tried to take you from me, so every time you see a knife, you see blood, you think of this pleasure. I killed your mother, Arlo, because she didn’t care about you.
And I killed my father because he laid his hands on you.
The only person you will ever need is me. Now cut my fucking skin.”
The goading works.
His hand still shakes as it moves the knife away from him, blood across the keen edge and dripping down his chest. I’m not holding him anymore; he’s doing this on his own accord.
He watches intently as he presses the tip to my chest, dragging it without hesitation, staring at it like it holds the answer to his mental pain. My hand wraps around his cock as he drags it across, making me bleed, making me take his hurt.
“That’s it, little brother. I will harbour your pain for you for the rest of our lives.”
He still isn’t over his mother’s death, but they had a decent relationship when he was younger. She would take him to the circus, and it became his favourite. But that version of Nancy no longer exists, and she died selling her son for petty cash.
“You see that blood? It’s mine. It comes from my body, but it belongs to you. Like this cock of yours belongs to me.”
I stroke my hand down, feeling the ridges of his piercings. He pathetically bites his bottom lip, bucking up his hips.
“Keep cutting me, Arlo. My flesh is untouched, unmarred. It’s here for you to carve into.”
He follows orders as I pull my cock out of my trousers, hard and already leaking.
I reach my hand out and drag the blood across his chest, smearing the proof of life, and it makes me twitch.
I put one leg on the floor, the other kneeled between Arlo’s legs, and press my cock against his, wrapping both hands around us.
He whimpers as I stroke us together, and the blade digs further into my chest, pooling more blood.
I look down and spit, coating our adjacent tips and smearing it with my hands.
“That knife comes off my chest, you don’t come. Got it?” He nods desperately, bucking his hips like he wants me to move. “Eager little thing, aren’t you?”
I thrust my cock into my hands, rubbing against the underside of Arlo’s, and he throws his head back. The knife digs in with every shift, but the pain is distant, overpowered by pleasure.
“Look at you, taking your big brother’s hand. I will never regret what I did, Arlo. Get that stuck in your pretty head,” I grunt out, fucking my hands faster, slipping against his wet cock, slick with saliva and precum. “Do you understand? Tell me you understand. Thank me for killing those people.”
“Thank you, Micha,” he cries, jerking his hips, silently begging for release. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“You won’t ever doubt what I do for you again. I will kill who I want for you. Karma will eat whoever she damn pleases. And you won’t be going anywhere. You’re stuck with us.”
“Good,” he groans, and his stomach twitches. He’s not far. “Please, Micha, more.”
I lean forward, shifting my hips quicker.
“Stick out your tongue.” He obliges, opening wide without missing a beat, and I spit onto his tongue. “Keep it like that. Let me watch it slide down your throat as I rub your long cock.”
His eyes roll as our balls rub together. He doesn’t move his hips, letting me control the pace completely, and he keeps his mouth wide open. My saliva drips down his tongue into the back of his mouth, and when it disappears, I say, “Now swallow, Pipsqueak. And thank me again.”
He gulps. “Thank you, Micha. Fucking thank you,” he cries, and I can see he’s on the verge, his eyes fluttering shut.