tags: boot humping, orgasm denial, degradation, praise, dom/sub
You were just supposed to drop something off.
That’s what you told yourself when you lingered after the show- when the hallway outside the backstage room emptied out, when the noise faded into something distant and muffled. You had an excuse. A reason to knock.
The door had been half open.
The backstage room is a mess-clothes half-folded and scattered in piles, cables everywhere, stacks of boxes wherever they fit.
And Gerard is already inside-collapsed back on the singular open couch, head tipped slightly back, still half in whatever headspace the stage left him in.
“You’re still here?” he says.
You hover awkwardly near the door. “I- yeah. I was just-”
He watches you for a beat longer, then gestures vaguely around the room. “Come on in. Good luck finding a place to sit.”
There isn’t one, not really.
The couch is his. Every other surface is covered. You hesitate, glancing around like something might magically clear itself, but it doesn’t.
So you end up on the floor.
You lower yourself carefully, trying not to think about how close that puts you-how the couch is just above you, how he’s right there without even having to move.
You don’t mean to notice his foot, resting firmly beside your knee.
Close enough that if you leaned a little, you’d brush it. A heavy black boot, worn at the edges, planted steady against the floor like it’s not going anywhere.
You stare at it for a second too long.
The thought comes out of nowhere. Or maybe it doesn’t.
You shift slightly, trying to ignore it, but that only makes you more aware of how close you are-your knee almost brushing the side of his boot now, your hand resting just beside it on the floor.
You press your lips together.
Your face is already getting warm. You don’t even know why. It’s stupid.
You glance at it again. Your breath catches.
You straighten a little, like that’ll fix it, like that’ll make the thought go away.
It doesn’t. If anything, it gets worse.
Your fingers curl slightly against the floor, inching closer without meaning to. Not touching, just near it. Too near. You swallow hard.
Gerard’s watching you. Of course he is.
Your face burns immediately. "No."
He doesn’t look convinced.
His gaze flicks down, slow and deliberate, and you know he sees it. The way you’re sitting. How close you are. Where your attention keeps going. When he looks back at you, there’s something different in his expression.
"Yeah?" he says lightly. "You look a little distracted."
"I’m not," you insist too quickly.
That almost makes him smile.
You try to sit still. You really do.
But now that he’s noticed, it’s worse. Everything feels louder-your breathing, your pulse, the weight of that stupid thought pressing harder and harder the more you try to ignore it. Your knee shifts to the side. Your shoulder tightens. You can feel his attention on you now, and it's suffocating.
"You sure?" Gerard asks, quieter this time.
You shake your head. "I said I’m fine."
"What’re you looking at?"
Your face burns hotter. You look anywhere but at him, but that just makes it more obvious.
"You keep staring at my boot."
You freeze. There’s no point denying it. Your fingers curl tighter against the floor, your whole body going tense like if you just stay still enough maybe this will pass.
That’s not true, and he seems to know it.
"Try again," Gerard says, softer now.
You shake your head, feeling small and helpless. “It’s stupid.”
“Probably,” he agrees. “Still wanna hear it.”
Your eyes flick down again -just for a second- and that’s enough.
“…Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”
Your face feels like it’s on fire now.
“Just say it,” he adds, almost gently. “It’s already obvious.”
“I can’t. Its embarrassing. ”
He lets the silence stretch until it feels unbearable. Until you have no choice but to fill it.
“I just-” Your voice comes out thin. “I thought about-”
You stop again. You can’t look at him.
“About what?” he prompts, so patient.
“…About-” You swallow hard. “About using it.”
Your stomach flips violently. This is mean.
You shake your head immediately. “No. I can't”
“C’mon,” he murmurs, and now there’s that hint of teasing again, light but unmistakable. “You’ve gotten this far. Why stop now?”
You let out a shaky breath, almost a whine. “Gee... come on- ”
You stare at the floor, at his boot, at the space right beside it where your hand is already resting like you’ve been waiting for permission this whole time.
“I wanted to-” you start, then stop again, mortified. He doesn’t let you off the hook.
Your voice drops to almost nothing.
You feel it immediately-how exposed you are, how real it sounds out loud, how there’s no taking it back now. Your face burns so hot it almost hurts.
“I told you it was stupid,” you mumble quickly.
But he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t push you away.
“…That’s what you were thinking about?” Gerard says softly.
Your head snaps up. “What?”
He shrugs slightly, like it’s nothing. “You wanted to.”
Your breath stutters. “You’re not serious.”
You stay there, not moving, barely even breathing.
“Still staring? Lost the nerve now that you said it?” he says, voice low, teasing, just enough to make your chest tighten.
You freeze, face burning hot, trying to shake your head, trying to ignore the way your body betrays you.
“I said, still staring?” he repeats, sharper this time. “Or are you pretending you’re not imagining it?”
You whimper softly, a little sound you didn’t mean to make. He catches it instantly, and his grin grows wider.
“Mm. Thought so,” he murmurs, leaning forward just slightly, enough that you feel the weight of him without him touching. “Say it. Again.”
Your throat tightens. “Say… what?” you whisper.
“You know, don't play dumb.” he says, and now there’s no softness. His tone pins you, and it makes your knees quake. “Say you want it. Say you want to hump my boot.”
"You’re gonna say it,” he insists, voice sharp now, “Or I’ll start guessing. And I promise, I’ll make it worse for you.”
You flush, hands clenching the carpeted floor. “…I… I want to,” you stutter, barely above a whisper, eyes squeezed shut. “I… want to hump it. Please.”
His laugh is low, teasing, full of that edge that makes your chest tighten even more. “Finally. Took you long enough. Thought you were going to be stubborn.”
He shifts just enough-his foot planting a little more firmly, a little closer to you. You already know you’re going to do it. You hesitate for one more second -just one- then shift closer, your movement slow, almost cautious as you position yourself, body reacting even as your mind screams that this is humiliating. Your hands find his leg automatically, gripping lightly for balance as you adjust.
Your hands are shaking slightly as you finally press closer, settling awkwardly at first, like you don’t quite know how to start now that you’ve committed.
There’s a beat. You start to move, rocking your hips against the tough leather. The friction hits you immediately, your breath catching hard, your grip tightening as your whole body reacts faster than your mind can keep up.
“Still think it was stupid?” Gerard murmurs, a hint of that teasing tone again.
You shake your head quickly, breath shaky. “I-I did-”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
That only makes it worse.
You don’t stop. You can’t.
The second movements come easier, less hesitant. Your body already chasing the feeling, leaning into it without waiting for permission this time. Your breathing turns uneven almost immediately.
You’re pathetic,” he murmurs, voice low, amused. “I could make you stop any second. But look at you, can’t even keep your hands to yourself.”
Your grip tightens again, fingers bunching into his pant leg as your movements turn uneven- less controlled every second he lets you keep going. You feel yourself slick, hot and dripping. Your breathing is too loud now, too obvious, but you don’t even try to hide it anymore.
You whimper again, hips rocking, jerking forward, unable to hold still. Your body betrays you further, and you can feel yourself soaking through the fabric of your jeans. You can’t stop the ragged little noises slipping out, can’t stop your hips from rocking faster, from following some instinct you don’t even recognize anymore. Every sound, every desperate whimper is feeding him-feeding this, feeding the way he smiles like he owns you completely.
“Can’t control yourself at all, can you?” he teases, voice low, cutting. “All wet for a boot and me just watching.”
You can’t answer. Your entire body is ragged, trembling, flustered, heat rolling through you. You rock closer, hips jerking against your own will, unable to stop yourself. You can feel it building, impossibly tight, every nerve screaming for release, and your breath comes in short, broken gasps.
“You’re so close,” he murmurs, smirk sharp, eyes glinting. “Look at you… utterly fucked up over this. You like it too much, don’t you?”
“…I do…” you gasp, voice ragged, “…I… I need it…”
“Need it?” His laugh is low, teasing, cruel. “You think you get to have it?”
You whine, head dropping closer to the floor, hips rocking frantically, pleading. “…Please…”
“Oh, no, no, no,” he says, cutting you off, voice sharp, smirk cruel. “You’re not allowed. Not yet.”
Before you can react, his foot moves. Slowly. Tauntingly. He pulls it up from under you. resting it on the seat of the couch. You whine, rocking uselessly on instinct, trying to chase it, desperate to reach it- but it’s gone. Just out of reach.
He smirks, leaning forward just slightly, eyes dark, sharp. "All trembling, all desperate, and you can’t even handle it on your own. Come on. Tell me why you need it so badly."
“…I—I can’t… I need it… so badly… please… I’m… I’m desperate… I can’t… I’m… yours… please…” you gasp, voice breaking, shaking, clinging, lost.
He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “…That’s more like it.” The boot slides back between your legs. Your hands clutch at his leg again instinctively, hips rocking frantically, desperate beyond thought.
“…I-ahh-” you cry out, body quaking, ragged, completely at the mercy of the sensation. “…I’m-”
“Shhh,” he murmurs softly, smirk cruel, voice low. “Go on. Don’t stop. That’s it.”
You lose it. Every little shred of control evaporates as your body trembles violently, whimpers spilling uncontrollably, breath ragged, hips jerking around the boot. Pleasure overwhelms you, finally letting yourself fall fully into it, every last bit of tension exploding into release. You slump against him, chest heaving, shivering, still shaking and flushed, trying to catch your breath.
Your gaze flicks up to him, and instinctively, you move closer, unable to resist the pull. There's enough room to crawl closer, to climb up. Your hands shake as you reach for him, dragging yourself onto the couch beside him, and then you slide carefully into his lap. Your forehead presses to his chest for a moment, hips still twitching slightly as you settle, and he doesn’t move you.
Somewhere beneath the exhaustion there’s a strange warmth, a little thrill of safety in his cruel control. You can’t help the small, broken laugh that slips out. The backstage room is noisy, cluttered, chaotic-but in this little space, with him, it’s quiet. Safe. Messy. Perfect.
