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Story Name: Home
Genre: AU-H, Romance
Word Count: 3745
Summary: Carlisle's tranquility has always been the balance to Edward's insecurities, both personally and professionally. Though their love for each other is unconventional, it is the foundation they both need to build a home. BDSM.
I can't tell you what it really is
I can only tell you what it feels like
Eminem's lyrics roll through the room as I bring my left hand back again.
I watch the air as the cane slices through it, then the red welt that begins to form on Carlisle's ass.
He's prone, bent over my expensive custom-made padded bench, wrists locked with padlocks to the front wooden legs, ankles to the back. I'm sure he's making a mess all over the leather with his leaking cock, but the thought just makes me smirk wider. I fucking love making him leak, beg, whine. Maybe I'll make him clean up with his tongue later.
The criss-cross patchwork of red has begun to bloom and spread, no longer contained to one distinct area. I'm careful, not to mention good at what I do, and make sure that I'm not causing too many welts. The poor guy has to sit tomorrow, after all, and I still plan to fuck him, so his ass can't be too bad off.
Dropping the cane, I move my hand to rub and touch. Carlisle is a good toy and doesn't move.
"Are you going to be late next week?" I ask.
My hand smacks at his flesh, hot sting over hot sting, and he is clearly exercising a great deal of self-control. This is where he is perfect.
"No, Sir," he says, voice straining.
"That's fucking right."
I land another smack on the other side. I don't particularly give a fuck why he's late, and I didn't want to hear his excuses. He knew what the punishment was, and he always took it like a man. It made my cock even harder, my heart more proud of him, when he did.
"You know I hate it when you waste my time," I say.
High off of love, drunk from my hate, Eminem sings to me again.
Love, hate, it's all the same to me, Em, I think as I circle my prey. I'm trying to decide if I want to fuck his ass or his mouth, and the way he's presented to me, I could do both. Briefly, I consider that – hitting both – but I'm exhausted from my outside life. Beyond these walls, who I am is all-consuming. Inside of them, it's who he is that consumes me.
Either way, we've been at this for some time, and I know my energy is waning. I walk to the cabinet, pull out a condom, and grab the lube. When I'm back at the bench, the dark bottle lays on his skin in contrast – black against white. My eyes flick up to the other black on Carlisle's skin, the ink he has on his finger, and my dick twitches.
Jesus, I'm getting sentimental in my old age.
Just to counterbalance that emotion, I decide to be an asshole.
My fingers have already pushed their way deep inside of him, slick with lube. He pushes back and allows his body to move, once I have given him permission. Here, he takes from me, but gives more. When I know he's ready, I line up the head of my cock, then pause once the tip is in. It's warm and welcoming, and the closest to home I'll ever get.
When my fingers curl around his hips, digging into his skin, he begins to groan. I know he's ready, but I'm not, and we fuck when I say. My petulant side cannot be reasoned with tonight, apparently.
He accommodates me easily, his body accepting me as his heart did years ago. Every time I think I'm a sentimental sap, I remember that Carlisle is ten times worse. The thought spurs me into action, and once I'm in all the way, I pull back out almost the same distance.
I set an unrelenting pace, fucking him hard. It's my turn to take.
"You may be able to fuck me in the boardroom, old man," I tease, using the nickname I know he hates the most. "But in here? I get to bend you over and fuck you whenever, however, and wherever I want."
Carlisle is barely older than me (six months) but it's been a running joke since we met. While I retained my youthful charm, Carlisle has aged gracefully, greying at the temples.
His response to my taunting is non-verbal, pushing as hard as he can against me. Yes, in here, this is what he needs. What he wants.
I take my time fucking him, because he isn't going to come. He's locked up carefully in a cock cage, and in little danger of coming unless I hit at the right angle. I know what that angle is, and he knows I won't hit it. Win/win.
The lube falls from his back and to the floor with a loud thump, and I laugh, then smack his ass.
"Such a greedy cock whore, Carlisle, you lost the bottle."
I know he's probably not listening to me anymore, lost in the sensation and his own brain, but eh, it made me smile.
One of my hands leaves his hip and wraps in his hair, pulling. Our bodies are so close, so warm together, and it almost makes me want more. Almost.
Thoughts of more cloud my head as I land one last really good spank on his right cheek and I come.
There is no warm embrace. There is no kiss. There is no post-coital cuddle. I withdraw, tie and toss my condom, and slump on the couch. I'm sweaty and messy and sated; this is the part I don't excel at. This is the part, in fact, that I fucking fail at every time. This is where Carlisle needs me the most, and I try, I really do.
After I've collected my thoughts and spent a few minutes just observing his body, fine as it is, I stand again. Grabbing the keys on my way, I unlock his ankles first. His legs are long, lean, and muscled. The urge to bite into his flesh overwhelms me, so I do. Even now, I continue to take. Such a selfish cocksucker I am. My mouth caresses his skin first, but my teeth sink in. I'd never break the flesh, mind you, just … letting him know I'm there. My lips soothe as I pull away from his body, and I smile at the way he lets out a soft oooh.
When he's unbound from the bench, he does not move an inch. His breathing is slow and steady, and I honestly admire him. I couldn't be a sub for this exact reason... I'm never still, rarely compliant, and mostly just an asshole. Well, in here I am.
Already, the dread of my life is seeping in, and it pisses me off. I fight as hard as I can to stay here with him, just for these last few minutes.
"Up," I say.
His eyes meet mine when he sits, and the string of precum from his cock to the bench is just as I'd expected. My eyebrow arches at him in expectation.
"Thank you, Sir," he says.
It pains him to say it, I know, because it means we're done now. Me? On the inside, I'm snickering and practically giddy. Over the next two days, every time he gets hard – well, as hard as he can locked up – he'll think of me. He'll probably get pissed at some point, angry he can't come at will, but then he'll remember why.
And when I fuck him on Friday?
It will be epic.
"Clean up the bench, Carlisle, with your mouth. God, you're so messy sometimes." I feign annoyance. "See you Friday."
I know he wants to respond. He wants to remind me that he will – in fact – see me tomorrow, but he won't. I own him, body, mind, heart, and he knows it. We both know it.
Staying and watching him lick my leather would be ideal, but I can't. I have work to do and it pisses me off, but there is little choice. Running my company is demanding; more demanding than anything else in my life.
As I shower, I think about when I met Carlisle in business school. Everything was easier then. Love meant girls. Fucking meant women. Needing money meant calling my dad.
When my father had a heart attack and I had to take over temporarily, I discovered the company was in financial peril. The board was, to say the least, upset. My majority stake in the company was gone, and through some fuckery in the universe, Carlisle was appointed Head of the Board.
My hand drifts to my cock and I think about the first time he got on his knees for me. Always so good to me. I stroke myself casually, getting hard slowly and decadently taking my time thinking about him. The water is hot against my skin, but not as hot as his mouth around me. Not as hot as his ass when I drive into him.
By the time I'm dried off and dressed, he's gone. I fix myself a snack, pour a whiskey, and dive in to work in my home office. My check-ins with Carlisle are so ingrained now that I've sent the email to him even before I fully realize it. I ask the usual questions, make sure he's safe and okay, in good space in his head, and remind him not to be late on Friday. While I work, the hum of anticipating his response is a low buzz in the background of my brain. If I don't hear from him by the time I'm exhausted and ready to pass out, I'll call and he knows it.
Several hours pass, and my work is almost finished. His reply is waiting for me, and I laugh when I read it. Not only does he confirm he's fine and won't be late on Friday, but the asshole reminds me about our weekend. I roll my eyes, close the program, and go to bed.
Ever since Carlisle instituted his weekend request, I've struggled. I know why he wants these weekends together – only us, no work, no BDSM, just his body and mine, and usually (even I can admit) a lot of fun – I simply struggle with them. I'm just not a touchy feely guy, not even before all of this began. We rent a vacation cottage for one damn weekend a month, and it seems wasteful to me, but he's right, it's good for us. He's also told me more than once that we can stay there anytime, and I know he would meet me there whenever I ask, but I just can't. We've agreed that if we show up and the other person is there, we can spend downtime together, but I have yet to show up anytime other than our designated days.
When I finally fall asleep, it's to thoughts of him cooking for us, in our kitchen.
I hate Thursdays. They're like a taunt of Friday to come, and seem to drag. Since the company is going through a state of flux again with a few VPs leaving (good riddance), the board has demanded we meet more frequently.
Fucking Carlisle. I almost think he was digging for a reason to bring us all together and sing Kumbaya more. I never question his leadership skills for the company, though. Where I want to slash and burn shit to the ground, his even temperament and level-headed thinking have saved us more than once.
Alice, the world's best executive assistant ever, is on the money today, though. She's done everything I've asked, and then some. It's like she has some extra sense of what's going on in my life at all times, and frankly, I appreciate it.
The last thing I do before I head to the boardroom is scribble a note on my iPad to get her raise approved.
Carlisle is waiting there, the rest of the room occupied with strange and stuffy old men, but he's my sole focus. I could give two shits what these over-educated assholes think should be done with my father's company. But what Carlisle says? That is gold, because he's the smartest person I know.
He's smarter than me, that's for sure.
The meeting begins with his wide palms on the table, fingers reaching out, serious business pose all the way as he observes each of us. When I see the platinum on his left hand, I smirk. It covers my initials, my ink, that marks him as mine. We agreed it probably wasn't prudent of him to wear a bold EC on his left hand with no explanation, so he wears the band to cover it.
The rest of the idiots here think he's married. Only he and I know the truth.
At my smirk, I see the corner of his mouth lift momentarily, but then he runs his hand through his hair and gets down to it. Things are serious here, and I'm required to think and respond. No one is perfect within these walls, but Carlisle comes close. My professional admiration for him has nothing to do with our personal lives, but it certainly helps. I could never bring myself to fuck a stupid person.
After the meeting, I'm almost the last one to walk out of the room, Carlisle behind me. His hand on my shoulder is a friendly gesture to any of the other douches around, but grounding to me. No one knows the effect this job has had on my life, aside from him. He has seen the stress etch itself on my face, the sleepless nights resulting in an email at two in the morning with random assignments made up for him when I need to grasp control of something in my life. He's felt my muscles, tense and knotted, during those weekends.
Takeout is my dinner, and another late night of work means more whiskey.
Friday breaks early, and even though my sleep was minimal, it felt good. I'm ready to kick ass and take names, at work and in the playroom, and I can't fucking wait for this workday to be over. Alice is on her game, and we work together to quickly tackle projects. On her way out the door, she wishes me a good weekend with a smile and a wave.
How she can stand my sorry ass day in and day out is beyond me, but I'm glad the board approved her raise. When I told her while we worked during lunch with sandwiches from the deli, she hugged me. Hugged. Me.
Shaking my head again at her, I smile and realize I'm in a good mood.
When I reach the playroom a few hours later, I'm still in a good mood. Carlisle is there, in position, and I find myself thinking I've missed him. Surely, I think, I mean that I've missed his cock. But no, it's not just that.
I spend a minute in the doorway, uncertain if he's heard me yet. I appraise him, his physical self, and think about how much fun I want to have with him tonight. I want to hear him, feel him, fuck him, make him sweat, and do it all again. His muscles are tight, but not tense. His skin is flushed, waiting, aroused, ready for me. Always.
It turns into one of those rare nights, too, where Carlisle is just as happy as I am. His enthusiasm practically radiates, and once he's down on my table, he can't keep the smile off his face. Normally it would piss me off, but it doesn't. It makes me smile right back.
I tease him, touch him, lick between the cracks of the plastic cage covering him, and come all over his body. He lays, panting and moaning when I allow, otherwise still and compliant.
"Fuck, Carlisle. You should look like this always."
The thought of him conducting a board meeting naked aside from my cum makes me twitch.
Later, on his knees, he takes me deep in his mouth, making me come again. He's gorgeous, kneeling and looking up at me with love and lust. Nipples aching from the clamps. Cock straining against its confines.
From my apartment, we'll drive separately to our place. Walking through the threshold is like exhaling for me.
Alice knows this is my uninterruptible weekend. I have no idea what she thinks I'm doing, I'm just glad she's smart and savvy enough to be able to keep things at bay for two whole days.
The shower is already running, and for a moment, I just stand and listen. This is different space; I don't get to make all of the decisions here. It's not easy for me to cede control anywhere, but Carlisle makes it almost effortless.
Under the water, his lips demand from mine. I was the asshole that denied him an orgasm all week, and I'm sure he's going to exact his revenge. In fact, I kind of hope he does. Water splashes to the plastic still over him and I'm sure he's whispering a plea to me, but I don't hear it. I feel his lips, never stopping, moving across my skin as I fumble with the key, giving him freedom.
The plastic hits the floor and my hands cover him in long strokes. Carlisle is beautiful everywhere, and when I drop to my knees, I hope he can see and feel in my actions just how true that is. I want to make him see his beauty, feel the pull he has on my heart, the feelings he provokes that no one ever has. The way I'm just as wrapped around him as he is me. I want him to hear the things I never say.
Just like leaving the playroom, I feel real life invading our weekend on Sunday night. We never have a set time to leave, but it doesn't matter, it sucks if it's ten or midnight or two.
On the drive back to my apartment, I think about how Carlisle has managed to crawl beneath my skin and become necessary. How many years did we just fuck and suck and never give it a second thought?
Maybe it was just me.
It occurs to me that, maybe, it was never just fucking for Carlisle. He has never put up a fight for anything I've asked, not even when I practically demanded that he permanently ink his body with my initials.
I force the thoughts out of my head, though. I can't let them sink in right now. I have no time to be a boyfriend or whatever, I have to go back to being CEO and President, Good Son, and Asshole Boss soon. Prep work starts now.
Over the next week, I find myself actually paying attention to Carlisle and his actions. I mean, I always know what he's doing, but beyond Wednesday night and the occasional Friday, I'm not really focused on it. I begin to realize that he does a shitton of nice things for me, and have I ever said thank you?
I'm not even sure.
I send him email Tuesday. It's awkward and uncomfortable for me, and I'm not sure how he'll react, which only makes the awkwardness increase in my head. I do it anyway. It's simple, easy, and to the point – I ask how his day is going. I offer him no more than thirty words, and his reply back is quick and thorough. Almost robotic in tone.
Does he think this was an assignment?
I write back again, dissecting and addressing some of his comments, hopeful that I've clarified this is friendly banter. I hit send and close my eyes.
I don't recognize myself anymore, but I don't know if that's a bad thing.
Wednesday is routine, in every sense of the word. We both sort of phone in our night together, and there is unspoken tension, at least on my side. Now that I see Carlisle, really see him, I'm not sure how to read his actions and motivations.
My discomfort slips quietly into everything about us, and everything about me.
The casual email back and forth between us has continued, and I feel like we're getting to know each other in a different way. It's intimate, but superficial at the same time. I find out how he likes his coffee, and realize that in all of our weekends, I've never noticed. A pang of sadness echoes through me at how unobservant and douchebaggy I can be.
There are more board meetings, more sessions in our private space, and more weekends alone together. I find myself confused, more than ever in my life. I've always been certain of who I was, what I wanted, and where I saw myself. It's distracting, and I fucking hate being distracted.
As I'm driving home from another maddening day at work, I drive a familiar route, but not the one to my apartment. I don't see his car out front where we usually park on weekends, but I go inside anyway; I need to smell and be near him, and maybe I will call once I'm inside, if I can find the bravery to confess this weakness.
When I open the front door, the scent hits me, and I realize someone's cooking. Confusion mars my face as I walk to the kitchen, ready to assault whoever fucking dared to intrude on my space with Carlisle.
As I get closer, I hear music and humming, and I realize from that sound alone, it's him. He's here. He's cooking. How did he know I'd be coming? How?
I don't bother with words. My hands at his waist startle him, but as they move all the way around, he relaxes against me, into me. Inhaling, I close my eyes, resting my forehead between his shoulder blades, and let it all out on my exhale.
"How'd you know I would come?" I ask quietly.
Carlisle's body rumbles slightly with laughter, and he turns, still in my arms.
His eyes light up as he smiles at me. "Edward," he says, "I've lived here for the last six months."
I shake my head; he has to be kidding me.
"I was just waiting for you."
Six words alter my life forever, and I know I'm home.