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PARISA

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Is the sex dungeon in the basement a little too on the nose?

[ Immediate thoughts: I'm too busy; that's too public; I don't even know what she looks like. ]

yes.
omw

[ The basement. He's never been down here, and he hits the Otherworld landing at speed and sends another text not long after. ]

theres a password?

( wow, a newbie. this gets better and better. )

"Land of the Ever Young." I'll see you when you walk in.

( the otherworld is a spot where parisa can get unfettered, unrestrained attention for exactly however long she likes. naturally, she's here a lot, stirring up a frenzy with the folk — dancing a little off beat on a dancefloor, watching people alpha dog over who gets to dance with her and tangentially, who gets to take her to bed.

the answer is none of them, once carmy walks in. luckily his cousin (or not cousin, as some shallow internet sleuthing has informed her) shared a picture of him, so she knows who she's looking for and what to expect. parisa's in a short, midnight blue dress, no lipstick, and she lifts a pinky wave in carmy's direction once they lock gazes, parisa nodding him over to a nearby bar while she disentangles from all the sweaty, dancing bodies in her vicinity. )

Hey. ( vaguely accented french/farsi combo. a girlish, possessive hand on the small of his back. parisa offers him a small, viper's smile. ) I'm Parisa.

[ Outside the kitchen Carmy pretty much always wears a clean, expensive white tshirt and high quality blue jeans — there's no fucking way he's letting anyone put lipstick on him, though. He was too enthusiastic, didn't shower, so he smells a little like baked goods and dish soap and his curls are a little sweaty. He feels kind of self-conscious about it when he looks at her, because Parisa... Parisa is a goddess, by any metric. She's the kind of girl people kill to be with — he's pretty sure some of the guys she was just dancing with are trying to glare a hole through his tshirt, right above where she's put her hand. Small. Warm. Forward. She's so fucking beautiful and confident. It's gonna be really hard not to make an idiot of himself. ]

Carmy. Hi.

[ He knows Richie sent her a photo of him, like some kind of asshole matchmaker. Speaking of Richie, his phone is going nuts; he turns it off in his pocket without reading the messages. Attention completely on Parisa. But like, how could it not be. She looks like a Bond girl. One of the scary ones. ]

So, um. You seemed pretty ready to just get down to it.

[ He thinks maybe he should offer to buy her a drink, but money is so meaningless in this place and he doesn't drink, himself. He's done this before, very immediate encounters, but they weren't usually at a bar or a club, more kind of an alley or bathroom situation. And that was sex. This is... probably also going to be sex, but he isn't sure. It matters less that he gets his nut than that he works out if Richie making him feel shitty and small works for him because of the Richie factor (the continuing motherfucking problem of the Richie factor) or the ... humiliation kink thing. If that's what he's got. ]

Do I seem desperate to you? ( she gives carmy an arched brow look, eyes pointedly sweeping from his shoes up to his eyes. ) That's more your style. You burned rubber trying to get down here.

( which is honestly very flattering and cute, and if the direction of the night hadn't already been laid out in cement, she would've told him as much. as it is, parisa has a thumbprint on his psyche, a little toe crossing the boundaries between minds ( something to be careful of, because in this place even chefs with degradation kinks can have mental training ). necessary to make sure carmy doesn't get more hurt than he wants to — equally necessary because parisa can't turn it off, this whole club a cacophony of varying desires that spool from one end of the kink spectrum to the other, with a soft, vanilla center. carmy, luckily, interests her. there's just something about a mouse willing headed to the trap that speaks to her, perhaps profoundly, on a relatable level. carmy has a mind like an avalanche in perpetual motion, this exhausting cycle that never slows down and never lets up, enough that even this much inaction is likely making frenetic energy build up inside him, a ticking time bomb waiting for the countdown's permission to blow.

in this case, she's the countdown. she scrutinizes carmy with a cloying kind of meticulousness, her focus entirely on him, play acting for his benefit. parisa already has his number, but there's a purposeful balance act between humiliation and her obvious absorption in him, necessary so he knows it's a kink, and not just parisa being a bitch. sliding her palm around his waist, heeled feet step between him and the bar, her fingers falling into the loops of his jeans, putting him in taunt to her. )

You're just a silly little boy, looking to get his dick wet. ( parisa mock pouts at him, pitying. ) And you thought I'd make it easy for you. Well, maybe. Is it — I don't know, really big? ( her knuckles run over the front of his jeans, pity deepening in her sulking face. ) Aw. Not that, then. Maybe you're just so talented with women, that's why you think you can fuck me. ( her chin tilts, tugging on his jeans suggestively. ) Kiss me. Let's see if we can find something you're good at.

Edited 2024-09-01 16:46 (UTC)

No, I... not desperate. Fuck.

[ There's a scar that curves across Carmy's palm, thick and waxy, more than a year healed but still pink and ugly, distorting all those lines that are meant to be his heart and his life. The day he got the news that Mikey died - maybe even the minute, it's a haze now - he reached out and put his hand right on the white-orange coil of the burner. He tells people it was a saucepan he didn't know was heated. But it's there, in his mind, when she gently opens him up and eases in somewhere he wouldn't want her to go. How much does Carmy want to hurt? How much has she got.

Chef David Fields leaning in behind him as he works. Telling him he has a short man's complex. Say, Chef, I'm so tough. Carmy beat off to that every night for the rest of the week. He'd be dead on his fucking feet, about to fall asleep in his day clothes, and Fields would slide into his head and his hand would slide into his briefs. Low, masculine whisper: You are not tough. You're talentless. You should be dead.

He's gonna carry that with him forever. When the people who love him, his ex-girlfriend Claire, his not-cousin Richie, tell him he's good, tell him they're proud of him, it's meaningless bullshit. He doesn't buy it.

The only thing that's real is this: a beautiful woman's hand on the front of his expensive jeans, feeling out where he's already chubbed up for her, and finding it wanting. He flushes - it's an embarrassing bullseye, he knows he isn't like, big. His blue eyes are so dark in the low light, and he's getting it, he's picking it up, it's exactly like Fields at Empire: he's expected to follow orders, give one hundred and ten percent, and then she's gonna say this shit that makes his insides curl up like a dead spider and his dick so hard he can't think straight.

Good.

Carmy doesn't half-ass it just so she has an excuse; he kisses her like he means it, one hand on the dip of her waist and the other coming up to rest a thumb at the line of her jaw. He kisses her hot and slow, the pulse of his dick translated into the needy hunger of his mouth. There's a brief thrill of being, you know, the guy, the one kissing the most beautiful woman in the club in front of everyone. The high point of the roller coaster before the next drop. ]

( perfect little victories: he does know what he's doing, a man on a mission, parisa's toes curling against the straps of her expensive shoes while he kisses her, fingertips dipping under the hem of his shirt to stroke the taunt bit of muscled belly skin just above his waist. she swallows up a moan forming there in the back of her throat, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing it, because she has her little finger dug into the broken, rotting part of his overripe tomato brain and understands him between one hungry stroke of his tongue and the next. he is driven by the chase of praise, but uninspired by the reality of it — there's mold in his psyche where self-preservation should be, eating away at the part of his brain that's supposed to enjoy the success of a job well done.

parisa almost laughs at how off the mark his cousin was. almost.

instead, she has a frown marring her mouth when the kiss breaks, her pitying look back in place — a bleeding expression that mocks the boy who actually believed himself capable of pleasing her, that says is that really it? with a tut of her tongue. one hand lifts, cups his handsome cheek affectionately. ) It's not your fault. Some people are born completely worthless.

( the fact of the matter is, parisa is only so convincing in her brutality because she honestly believes it. you can't live life as the most beautiful woman in the world, reading everyone's thoughts that they broadcast into you, without coming out jaded on the opposite end of puberty. she's in her thirties now and has yet to feel impressed with what humanity has to offer — life is one constant string of disappointments, as long as you have brittle, useless hope to lose. ironically, that bloody, broken, hangnail of a thing carmy has in his brain is the exact thing that gives him some value in parisa's eyes, and yet, value is the one thing she can't offer him. the ouroboros of self-flagellation. )

Don't you want to apologize to me? For wasting my time, and my air. ( cruelty is a little addicting, she finds. she's been mean before, but not like this — poison comes easy to her, because it lives inside her, too, a snake with venom glands and fangs to pierce. the hand at his waist pops open the button of his jeans, palm sliding under his boxers to cup his cock, to feel it squirm and flinch and leak. she squeezes, meanly. ) For being a bad kisser with a small dick. Apologize.

[ The hand in his pants is exactly the right move; Carmy was just about to slip off to some elsewhere place where her words wouldn't hurt him anymore, more dissociation than subspace, and then suddenly there's a woman's fingers sliding over his sweaty, vulnerable skin. His dick is so fucking hard, trembles and weeps under her touch.

Not Carmy, though, whose tears are tightly turned off despite the absolute crushing inevitability of his failure. There's a brief flicker of his ego attempting to protect him before he just gives in and believes her completely, hungry for the devouring, for having all his worst fears about himself validated. He's nothing. He's useless. ]

I'm sorry.

[ As immediate as the way he'd raced down here. Still trying so painfully hard to please: it's real, though, he's breathless and strained with how humiliatingly real it is. Enough that he doesn't need a call and response of correction to say it properly. ]

I'm sorry for being a bad kisser with a- small dick.

[ Voice cracking on that second bit, pitching close to misery, even as the small dick in question pulses hard on the very same words. This hard, fat in her hand, it's more obviously only slightly below average, but like his height he's got a bit of a complex about it, grew up around too many rowdy guys. He has to close his eyes for a moment, flushed and ecstatic, his hands dropped useless at his sides as he stands in the public club and tries not to come too fast. ]

I...

[ Is he allowed speak anymore? He isn't sure, so he stutters like he's nine again, has to swallow it. ]

I can make it up to you.

[ He doesn't know how, but he can try. Maybe he'll earn her mercy - he doesn't otherwise expect it. ]

( men and their cocks. parisa knows it's a bit of prideful concession, an admittance that cuts a little deeper than skin, but the words give her goosebumps like a whisper trailing up her spine — someone cutting themselves down to size because she told them to is like bathing in the sun, like burning a candle in her cunt making everything warm and wet. power is this amorphous thing that exists in her, because she has it, she knows she has it, but she only has it because someone has given it to her, because people clock her societal value the first time they look at her. she's five feet of raw sexuality hiding a decomposing corpse inside, but she's never the strongest person in the room. at the very least, that honor belongs to whoever she opts to give her attention to.

not that carmy is walking like a tall man. he goes into that bad night with intention, pulled by the strings of his self worth, or lack thereof. he doesn't act like he's humoring parisa — in fact, he seems to believe it. yes, this pipsqueak in a short skirt with sex in her eyes owns me. i'm a worm.

that, more than anything, makes carmy parisa's new favorite person. )

It's okay.

( forgiven for all the sins of his shortcomings, which are numerous and vast, but not anything she's listed so far. that was bullying. the butter soft pad of her thumb rubs against his cockhead, complimented by the brief pain of her manicured nail across his slit. she draws her hand out and presses that thumb to his mouth — soft, pouty lips, an expression like a dog waiting to be put down. )

Yes, you will. We've got all night. ( promise — carmy's not going to hit and quit this one. she gives him a playful slap on the cheek. ) Come somewhere more private with me.

( parisa slips aside and makes a heading towards one of the curtained rooms for private entertaining. carmy will have to deal with his jeans himself. )

[ She puts her thumb to his lips and it tastes like his precum, a bloom of marine salts across his palate. He closes his lips around it for just a second, licks it clean, just because she wants him to. It doesn't matter that he doesn't really know her, she's everything and he's just Carmy.

Then she's going, and he races to get himself all buttoned up again, doesn't look across at the bartender watching him knowingly. He's so hard from the waves of humiliation that he has to limp a little.

Carmy doesn't know shit about programming or the law, but it feels like he's found an exploit in his brain. A loophole, a way out of the Catch-22 of his trauma. The rules that say: Carmy doesn't deserve to experience pleasure, and if he does he has to stop before it gets taken away or twisted around on him, or disappoints him the way that every good thing disappoints him. Carmy is a piece of shit who ruins everything he touches, he's toxic fucking waste. But this isn't pleasure. It isn't a good time, right? It's humiliation and cruelty, the way he deserves. It's okay if his dick gets hard for that. Parisa can see what he is, and he doesn't have to worry about existing in the right way because there will never be a right way. He's already failed.

The private room has like, gear and shit, the kind that he's only seen in Twitter videos he bookmarked guiltily. He's watched a lot of weird porn on Twitter; his favourite is realistic medical play, disinterested doctors in latex gloves trying to work around the boner of some embarrassed patient. Giving clinical handjobs. But he wasn't lying that he knows was CBT is.

He hovers awkwardly, waiting to be told if he should stand or sit or kneel; take his clothes off or leave them on. ]

( one look over her shoulder — more like condemnation than consideration, a king turning her thumb downwards, off with his head. parisa idles in a way about the room like it belongs to her, knowing where to go to find what she needs. what she needs, as according to the inner workings of carmy's self-flagellating mind: latex gloves, a cock ring. she debates carmy's skin tone for a second before grabbing the gold. )

You have one rule. That's it. Even you can follow one rule, right?

( the gloves snap against her wrists as she pulls them on, stepping back up to him with a cocky twist to her mouth, pinching his chin. he really does have a pretty face — eyes so blue they're luminescent, mouth so pouty it's like it never smiled a day in its long, tiresome life, connected to a man you prefers slaps to kisses. )

You don't come until you beg for it. If I feel like making you feel good, I'll let you. ( pressure on his chin forces him to nod once, twice. ) "Yes, ma'am." Now open.

( she presses the cock ring into his mouth, left there like the bit on a tamed horse, which is not a completely inaccurate portrayal of this dynamic. parisa's own mind is full of thoughts of carmy on the blood red sheets, pale and perfect on the backdrop, covered in his own cummy humiliation, blushing, apologizing for fucking up. addictive. stepping back, she takes a seat on the cuck chair, crossing one long leg over the other, head tilted. )

Strip and kneel in front of me.

Yes ma'am.

[ Gold like his stupid little chain - unlike Richie, he doesn't actually wear a crucifix anymore, but it's still a heavy weight in his soul, the kind of upbringing that makes kneeling and penitence familiar. He tongues the silicone, tries not to think about where else a toy in the public kink club might have been. Nose wrinkling just a little.

He really, really wants to be good at this, though — to hold her attention for as long as she's give it to him, even if (especially if) it's demeaning. The fact that he has no idea what he's doing kind of only adds to it, Carmy's bratty arrogance only kicks in when he's confident. Right now he's out of his depth and she's the only guide he has.

He strips out of his tshirt, jeans, briefs, folds them all neatly, dick bobbing between his legs as he puts them down. Comes back and kneels for her, right in front of her dangling stiletto. Hands open palmed on his muscular thighs because he doesn't know what else to do with them. Like a horse he's fit and beautiful and mostly oblivious to it — he works out because he has to in order to survive his own thoughts, ans because it makes long hours in the kitchen easier.

He looks at her a little quizzically, anticipatory, but he still holds the cockring in his mouth, with his teeth at the moment, so he doesn't try to talk. Still, he's wondering why she needs the gloves, filthy possibilities playing through his mind like a porno on fast forward. ]

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cw: past self harm, past verbal abuse.

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