#@muse

"Where's me fucking phone, Alfie?"

"Jesus H. Christ, Tom, you trying to give me a coronary?"

"Give my fucking phone back or I'll give you more than that."

Alfie squints at the angry shadow looming over his lounger; even through flashing-white retinas he can tell Tommy's face is puce. The air, so recently tranquil, bristles with hostility as Tommy swipes droplets of chlorine from his body as if they were burning his skin.

Alfie knew this was gonna be hard, right? It's not like Tommy mis-sold himself; their very first meeting ended in a slew of creative insults and a life-time ban from Alfie's favourite coffee place. (Anyone who can get that worked up over a splash on their fucking suit clearly ain't the type who finds it easy to relax.) 

"You lost your mobile, treacle?"

"No. I have not fucking lost it. You paid someone to nick it while I was in the pool."

That's one of the problems with Tommy. He's a suspicious little prick. "You do know how preposterous that sounds, right?"

"Not half as preposterous as you look with those stupid fucking tattoos. Give my phone back. Now."

"How can I give it back if I don't know where it is?" (Not technically a lie. He paid the pool-boy to half-inch it, yes, but he has no idea of its location at this precise moment.) "Why don't you see this as an opportunity to leave your email alone for five minutes?"

Tommy looks fit to burst out of his very lovely skin.

"I hear the yoga teacher's excellent," Alfie continues. "Or you could book yourself a massage."

"I'm booking the next flight home unless my phone's back in fifteen minutes. I'm going to the room." Tommy flings his towel at Alfie, kicking up a flurry of sand as he storms towards the hotel. Fine then. Plan B it is.

He don't actually have a Plan B, as he follows Tommy at a safe distance, but he's always prided himself on a knack for improvisation. 

One feigned apology for phone-theft and a conciliatory hug later and Tommy is on his back, wrists cuffed through the headboard slats. His eyes are ablaze with fury but whatever he'd like to say comes out as a muffled growl. Turns out the belt from a towelling robe makes a very effective gag. (Alfie suspects that a lesser brand would have done the job just as well, but he doesn't miss the opportunity to point out its designer credentials.) 

Tying Tommy's legs is a little more problematic. Devoid of the speed of handcuffs and the element of surprise Alfie's forced to wait a while for the thrashing to subside. Not that it takes too long; a kilometre in the pool has rather sapped Tommy's strength. 

"Should've had more than egg whites for breakfast," Alfie says, tying a second towelling belt around Tommy's left ankle. He pulls it up to the headboard, through the slats behind Tommy's head, and out again to be fastened around the other ankle. He ignores the furious glare — it's hard to take anyone seriously with their feet either side of their ears.  He likes Tommy bent like this: with his legs splayed and his vulnerable bits exposed, like an upended turtle stuck on its back. If turtles wore very expensive swimming trunks.

"Now then, let's start again," Alfie says, sitting on his heels. "This is called a holiday. We came here to unwind. Clearly you need a little more help with that than even I anticipated." He wanders into the bathroom to find everything he needs, giving Tommy a moment to adjust to his predicament. May as well get used to it. He's gonna be there a while.

"Now," Alfie says, returning with a pair of scissors. He knee-walks onto the bed whilst snipping at the air. "I wouldn't move if I were you, wouldn't want me to nick anything vital." He proceeds to carefully cut a line up the side of Tommy's trunks. "No need to look so incensed, love, they're only polyester." 

*

Alfie fucks him for forty minutes, through sweat and sand and suncream, till Tommy is shaking his head side to side and sounding a lot more high-pitched. He seems a little chastened (not quite repentant yet, but he'll get there, given time).

"Your own fault, sweetheart. If you hadn't've flicked that towel at me there wouldn't be so much sand. Didn't have to be this way."

Alfie likes it this way. Likes making Tommy so exquisitely sore he can't think about anything else.

"And there's no point shaking your head like that. You know how to make this stop."

If Tommy were to bang his head three times on the pillow, Alfie would back off and untie him immediately. He knows Tommy won't, but he pauses to be sure. The little brat enjoys pretending to hate it far too much.

"Hmm, thought not," he says with a wicked grin. "Gonna fuck you till you're so used you can't sit down at dinner." Alfie comes a few thrusts later, with that very thought in his head — Tommy lowering himself gingerly into a chair in front of the other diners. He lets his orgasm take him, closes his eyes and fucks in hard and shudders to a finish. When he opens his eyes again Tommy looks fucking smug, or as smug as is achievable in such a submissive position. 

"S'pose you think this is over, hmm? Think you can clench your pert little backside and make me come and that'll be it for the day?" He sits back and aims a good hard slap at Tommy's upturned arse. "I've got bad news for you, sweetheart." He slaps the other cheek. "I've brought the strap-on with me." He presses a kiss to Tommy’s forehead and heaves himself from the bed. "Just gonna clean up a little. You wait here a minute." 

He returns with a bath-brush in hand, and strokes the bristles down Tommy's thigh, tutting and shaking his head in a mock disappointment. "I think someone needs a little help with his priorities. Twenty should do it, what do you think?" He doesn't give Tommy time to respond before he starts in with the back of the brush — every swat delivered hard and fast to show that he means business.  

He watches the shock on Tommy's face morph into what might be the first shreds of contrition. "Good," he says, when he's finished. "Think we might be getting somewhere." He loosens Tommy's drool-soaked gag, and pulls it down to his chin.

"Fuck you," Tommy rasps. "Give my phone back." 

Alfie sighs heavily. Clearly there's bugger-all chance of any more sunbathing today. "You see that there's low blood-sugar, petal. Always makes you stroppy."

He makes his way to the mini-bar and finds a can of coke, together with a bendy straw. You really do get what you pay for, this hotel's thought of everything.

"Here, drink up," he says, sitting himself on the bed and pointing the straw towards Tommy's mouth.

Tommy turns his head away, so Alfie takes a sip himself. "Guess I'll ring room service then. Get one of them lads in the Hawaiian shirts to bring up something more substantial. Course I'll have to tip him well to cover the embarrassment of seeing you trussed up like a Christmas turkey waiting to be stuffed." He reaches over to the bedside table and retrieves the in-room menu. "What'll it be? Club sandwich?" He raises his eyebrows at Tommy and profers the coke can once more. 

"Cunt," Tommy croaks, but he must be truly parched because he takes the straw between his lips and finishes most of the can.

Over the course of the next four hours Alfie fucks him properly senseless. With the strap-on and then with his cock again, and then with both side by side. He spanks Tommy in between fuckings, till the poor little love's eyes shine and spill and he struggles charmingly. "S'all for your own good, sweetheart. You need to learn to switch the fuck off."

By the time Alfie's done, Tommy's pink all over and docile as a lamb — he don't seem to care what day it is, let alone where his phone might be. Released from his binds, he curls into Alfie and buries his face out of sight. 

Alfie holds him like that for a long while, stroking his shoulder, kissing the top of his hair, until the silence gets disturbing. He wants to revert to type and fill the air with words, but it ain't always the best tactic, so he distracts himself by taking Tommy's hand and sucking each finger in turn, from the tip to the furthest knuckle. Tommy lets him, that's the strangest thing, doesn't push or pull at Alfie's lips, just nestles ever closer until it must be hard to breathe.

He insists they go out for dinner; he's hungry again, despite the breakfast, which means that deep-down Tommy must be absolutely famished. Their table is on the sand, at the far end of the restaurant (although far from turning him on, Tommy's obvious discomfort at sitting down fills Alfie with unease). Confronted with the menu, Tommy seems vaguely confused, so much so that Alfie ends up ordering for them both — steak, medium rare — but draws the line at cutting it up when Tommy just stares at his plate. 

"On second thoughts," Alfie tells the waiter, "we'll have these boxed and taken to our room."

"Is everything alright, sir?" the young lad asks.

"I'm not sure," Alfie replies. "We're feeling a little out of sorts."

He wouldn't want Tommy like this all the time, sleepy-eyed and meek, but he does like the way their legs are pressed firmly together under the table. He likes that when he holds out his hand, Tommy takes it without suspicion, letting himself be led through the hotel and back to the safety of their room. He likes that he can undress Tommy, tuck him carefully under the sheets, and feed him cubes of soft red-meat till he's too tired to even chew. He likes the relief on Tommy's face, the dark space between his lips, the way the frown lifts from his brow as he settles into a dream. And he loves the way Tommy stays asleep till gone nine the following morning. How he flushes pink and lowers his eyes when he catches Alfie staring. 

Alfie tips his chin up, gently, and kisses him on the lips. "What am I gonna do with you?" he says with a smile.

"Anything you like," Tommy whispers, and immediately burrows in.

"That so, treacle?"

"Hmm."