smutstravaganza

Even closer close-ups of the last panel

He pulls anxiously at his shirt, feeling the odd rub of the cotton against the layer of latex underneath. It's easier to get dressed at home than at the club, with how long it takes to get into the damn gimp suit, but it means taking the SPT all the way to the club already sweating in the unbreathable layers. The terror that someone will know beats through him: an awkward, thrilling paranoia that feeds his patron as much as it discomfits him.

Jon adjusts his shirt cuff for the umpteenth time, stopping only when Martin's fingers press gently over his.

"No one can see," Martin murmurs. He smiles, soft encouragement and glittering enjoyment all at once. It's alright for him, of course–he's wearing a normal t-shirt and trousers under his leather jacket, and he won't change much even at their destination.

Of course, Jon looks normal on the surface, too– button-down shirt, slacks, collar buttoned to hide the latex that comes up to his neck–but surely people can just tell, by the way he's sitting or the sweat beading down his face or–

Martin picks up his hand and kisses the tips of his fingers. Jon winces at the almost inaudible squeak of the latex, and then again at the subtle glances they receive for their innocent PDA.

"We could–" Martin begins, in a gentle tone of voice Jon knows all too well. We could go back. It's okay if it's too much for you. You're dealing with so much. You're just a sad little wet sack of a man who can't handle being in crowds. Okay, so Martin never says that last bit, but Jon certainly feels it every time he has to cut their dates short, or calls Martin to pick him up from errands that should be simple. He shakes his head.

"No, it's fine," he says, his voice steady and dry and not at all betraying how fast his heart is beating. "I'm just warm."

Martin raises his eyebrows but doesn't speak his disbelief, which Jon is grateful for. He's not trying to be convincing to Martin, anyway. He's convincing the other people on the subway who might be watching, who might be wondering, who seem to care only for their own business but who could be subtly judging him, and–

It's their stop. Jon doesn't stand until the doors are squeaking and other people are standing. He can feel the sweat pooling, awful, under his hair on the back of his neck and soaking through his collar. He ignores Martin's offered hand because he just needs to get out of the station, and away from all of these eyes.

If he takes Martin's hand they'll look, and they'll wonder, and they'll guess because why would the two of them be getting off here if not for the club two streets down? Why would two men who seem to have nothing in common, one in leather, for godssake, be so physically close unless–?

Jon gulps down the cool night air as soon as they emerge from the escalator. It's not exactly fresh, but it seems like there's more of it, at least. The breeze doesn't penetrate the latex, but it at least cools his face.

"Hey," Martin says, taking his elbow. Jon lets him, this time. "Are you alright?"

Jon nods. It's doing something to him–the anxiety, the pressure of being noticed, the relief of escape, all bound up in the tightness of latex against his skin. He takes a few breaths, as deep as he can make them. His head swims. Martin smiles again.

"Already, hm?" he says, and he sounds pleased and amused.

Jon nods, and then says, "yes," because he needs to make sure he can still speak. He can. It's a bit of a relief. Martin's smile doesn't widen, exactly, but there's a change in it nonetheless. Jon suppresses a shiver.

"Come on, then," Martin invites, and Jon catches up to him with another thrill of fear that's a lot closer to excitement.

There's a couple people queuing outside the nondescript door that leads into the club, but Martin flashes a membership card and they're waved in. Jon volunteers, sometimes–it was an easier welcome to the club than play–and Martin has started to, as well. As expected, Martin is already friendlier with the staff than Jon is.

Jon had teased him about it–an avatar of the Lonely, making easy friends–until Martin pointed out that he'd been friendly with the Institute staff, too, and that hadn't stopped him from being marked. Furthermore, Martin said, if Jon was jealous enough to be making comments he could put some effort into actually making friends instead of complaining–and unfortunately that was too close to the truth for Jon to have any properly sniping comebacks.

Now, there's an instant comfort that comes from entering the dim-lit club. A reception desk blocks entrance to the narrow hallway that funnels guests to the lockers and playrooms, but already Jon is feeling more conspicuous for the button-down than the latex underneath. He refused to dress up the first time he agreed to come with Martin, and spent the whole time feeling obvious and painfully vanilla. There's a satisfying anonymity in the black latex, skintight though it is.

They make awkward small talk with the receptionist–another volunteer, like most of the "staff"--before finally being ushered back to the lockers. Jon strips off his street clothes with relief and tucks them away, while Martin simply takes off his shirt under the jacket and changes to shorts instead of trousers. He unzips his duffel and hands Jon a folded, latex hood.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks, his brown eyes warm and solemn. Jon takes the hood. He can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

"I'm sure," he says. He wants to put it on right away. He wants to leave.

"Your hands are shaking," Martin observes.

"So they are."

"If you want to wait–"

"Martin."

"Okay, okay! Just checking!" Martin raises his hands in surrender. "Gloves, too?"

Jon nods. His palms are sweating, which will make putting the fingerless gloves on a pain, but just thinking about it makes him feel lightheaded with want.

"Okay," Martin says, and his voice has taken on the breathy, excited quality that tells Jon that yes, that feeling is an altered state of awareness. He's already slipping under, and Martin can tell. "Let's go over things. You won't be able to see with the hood on, but you'll be able to talk."

Jon nods, forces himself to speak.

"Right," he says.

"You'll be able to hear me, but it'll be muffled. If I need to get your attention, I'll tap three times on your arm, like this." Martin demonstrates with two fingers, each tap firm and deliberate. Jon closes his eyes automatically, as if it will feel different if he can't see. The air feels much thicker, all of a sudden.

"Got it," he says. It's the right thing to say, and he feels a small sense of satisfaction that he knows this. He can't make mistakes in this conversation; or at least he has no urge to say any of the wrong things.

"If it's too much, I need you to let me know right away. The hood will take a couple moments to unlace, and it's better to be cautious. You don't want to panic in this. And there will be plenty of time to experiment, okay?" Martin fixes Jon with a firm look, warm brown irises taking on an iced chill like permafrost. "Don't push it, Jon. I know you."

"I won't," Jon says, and winces when Martin doubles down on his glare. "Really! I don't want to push things too far. I promise I won't–not on purpose, at least."

"Okay," Martin says grudgingly. He leans in and presses a kiss to Jon's mouth, startling him. Jon catches himself in time to kiss Martin back, and Martin responds at once, holding his head to kiss him deeper. There's a strange sterility to it, the latex keeping away Martin's body heat, but it still makes Jon feel dizzy. He lets out a shaky exhale when Martin pulls away.

"Anything else you want to go over?" Martin asks, leaning their foreheads together and keeping his hand on the back of Jon's.