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Gimp	By : Cyndiana Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1594 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Rammstein. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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TITLE: Gimp
AUTHOR: Cyndiana
ARCHIVE: A Feather in the Blood (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/afeatherintheblood/)
RATING: NC-17 for graphic depiction of M/M sexuality, and BDSM
PAIRING: Till/Flake
SYNOPSIS: Till and Flake share a beautiful moment of pleasure and pain…
AUTHOR’S NOTES: I was inspired to write this after reading multiple interviews with Flake telling that he likes pain, and not to mention the many, MANY times he’s been subjected to it at Till’s hand. ;)
DISCLAIMER: A work of fiction. Not a statement of fact. Not for profit.

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He is beautiful…

Wrists bound by a chain that hangs from our ceiling…

His toes barely able to touch the floor.

The ball gag like an apple in his mouth.

He groans and shivers, on fire with lust and fear.

Fear, because he knows what I’m capable of.

Lust because he likes it.

The more it hurts, the more he feels he’s earned it.

Thus is life according to Flake Lorenz.

I run my nails over his sweaty, bare back.

He twitches nervously, trying to prepare himself mentally for what I might do to him.

I can see it in his eyes.

It’s as if he goes on auto pilot, and we can’t have that, so I land a blow across his firm ass cheeks.

His emerald eyes spark back into blazing, clear life.

I take out his favorite toy: our old, ever-faithful cat o’nine tails.

I remember when we first played with it.

It was backstage, after a show. I caught him running his fingers through the fronds covetously. Before long, it was leaving its crimson trademark over the skin of his ass and thighs, and he came with such passion and rapture, it brought him to his knees.

It was then, I knew his secret.

It was then, I knew he belonged to me.

And now, he smiles through the gag in fond recognition, as I draw it over the skin of his back, over his ass, snake it around his powerful thighs…

I land a few teasing lashes across his thighs, and he whimpers in frustration…

He wants more…

And more he shall have…

I wail on him mercilessly, and he screams aloud though his gag.

To an outsider, looking in, I was abusing him horribly.

But I know, as well as he knows, that I am giving him his greatest pleasure.

To most, their ecstasy is not complete until they come.

His is not complete until he bleeds.

Blood runs from the slim, angry wounds that lattice over his back.

I run my tongue over them, drinking him in, and gripping his cock, which is FURIOUSLY hard…

I reach for a new toy…one we haven’t used yet…

I lube it up, and slide it into him…a large, well-veined dildo…

I pump it hard in and out of him, and he screams out, delighting in the sensation.

I press it into him as deeply as it can go, and leave it there.

I know he can hear as I undo my belt buckle, and let my black leather belt fall to the floor.

I know he can hear as I take off my pants and underwear tossing them aside.

I know, because as I do each thing, he whimpers and mewls.

After lubing my own rigid cock, I slide it into him, on top of the dildo, stretching him to his limit.

I fuck him so hard, the slap of our bodies together is nearly earsplitting.

I take off my shirt, and rub my sweat-slicked chest against his slashes, which I know must be making them sting unbearably.

He curses me in muffled hisses through his gag.

He tightens his ass muscles, holding me tightly within him, and I call out his name as my balls clench, then release, and I come inside him, slamming as hard as I can manage.

I remove myself, and the dildo from within him, then proceed to offer him his own release.

However, I am too late, the evidence of his pleasure sprayed along our hardwood floor.

I smile, quite pleased with myself, and free him of his bonds, letting the gag fall to the floor.

He clings to me, his cheek pressed to mine, his sobs resonating in my ear as he bitterly weeps.

We kiss, tongues fighting in a dance of residual passion, and I wipe his tears away.

He lays in our bed, on his stomach, as I apply ointment to his wounds.

He’s thinking.

I can feel it.

“What is on your mind, Engel?” I ask.

“Is this love?”

“Does it feel like love?”

“It feels more like love than anything I’ve ever known.”

I say nothing more. I kiss the nape of his neck, and across his shoulder blades.

Sleep drags him under, and he fights it futily…

“Till, Ich lieb…..”

And he is asleep.

“I know…Ich liebe dich auch…” I softly whisper, running my hand over his sweat-soaked, golden brown hair, and snuggle against him, and surrender to my own sleep.
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