#to be honest i could have just put nine hu songs here and be perfectly fine with it

[es-imposible]

tagged by @veterveter, and couldn’t be happier, ‘cause i really love answering the questions about my weird music taste. so thank you, dear friend 🖤

(also thanks to spotify, because i couldn’t possibly remember what i’ve been listening to myself)

top 9 songs i’ve had on repeat recently

1. hollywood undead - ghost out

2. happoradio - che guevara

3. fall out boy - hold me tight or don’t

4. michael jackson - smooth criminal

5. panic! at the disco - vegas lights

6. najwa - bella ciao

7. imagine dragons - follow you

8. animal sun - girl in blue

9. филипп киркоров, maruv - komilfo

tagging @hemisphaeric, @visionsofllewyn and @myselfmysame.

[pengychan]

[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 8

Title: Mind the Gap Summary: Modern Day AU. Tired of Ernesto’s snide remarks, Imelda decides to put him in his place and her husband is more than happy to help. It was supposed to be a one-night deal. Things quickly get out of hand. [OT3, mostly porn and humor. Plenty of instances of Ernesto being Dramatic, Imelda getting Sick Of His Shit, and Héctor trying to be the peacekeeper. Don’t expect anything serious.] Pairings: Ernesto/Héctor/Imelda Rating: Explicit.

To see the version with art by Dara, check it out on Ao3.

Tag for all parts up so far.

A/N: Ernesto bit off more than he can chew. But then again he's been doing that since chapter one, let's be honest.

***

“The anniversary of your first date, are you serious?”

“Of course I am!”

“Who even keeps track of that crap?”

“I do!”

“Well, I don’t see you celebrating the anniversary of our first drink together!”

“I was fourteen, I got sick, and you laughed your ass off while I hurled my guts in the bushes.”

“Heh. Fun times.”

“I did not have fu--”

“Just try not to drink too much this evening, got to make a good impression. Put on your nice suit. We’re going at nine – bring the songbook, all right?”

“Ernesto, I told you, Imelda and I are going--”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of us possibly getting a proper contract with a record label! It’s a huge leap forward, Héctor - we can’t just let this chance pass us by!” Ernesto argues, and now there is an edge of real frustration in his voice. “It’s what we’ve been working for the past-- I didn’t even keep track of the years. Our dream, amigo!”

Héctor bites his lower lip, already feeling guilty – but of course, the guilt doubles when he pictures himself telling Imelda their date night is cancelled. Same old, same old – the crippling fear of disappointing either, or both at once. “What if I give you the songbook?” he suggests. “You’re Mr. Charisma – I’m sure you’ll be fine on your own.”

A scoff. “Of course I could-- that’s not the point! Why am I always the one putting in the effort here?”

“Qué?”

“You know what I mean! You write the songs, fine. You play and sing – fine. But every time we need to get in touch with the right people, and sell what we’ve got for what we’re worth, I am the one doing all the legwork!”

“I...” Héctor begins, only to pause, passing his cell phone to his other hand to gain a few moments. That is true: Ernesto is the one to get them most of the work, and thank God he does. Héctor is perfectly happy writing songs and playing at home, singing with Imelda as they twirl around her workshop or in the kitchen… but none of it would get him any money, none of it would pay any bills.

Where would he be without Ernesto by his side? Nowhere, that’s where. Probably still in Santa Cecilia, doing odd jobs. Without a family. Without Imelda – if Ernesto hadn’t convinced him to try their luck in Mexico City, they may have never met again there and clicked the way they had. He owes him everything, and he’s letting him down. Again.

When he shares such thoughts with Imelda – never all of it, of course; just musings on how he doesn’t feel he’s doing enough to work with Ernesto to build their success – she dismisses it all with a shrug,

“You write the songs,” she says. “Seems only fair he puts in the PR work.”

Maybe it is true, but still--

“Is Imelda there?” Ernesto’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and Héctor blinks.

“Huh?”

“Get your ridiculously big ears checked. I asked if Imelda is there.”

“She’s in the workshop.”

“Let me speak to her.”

“… Are you well?”

“If you can’t see reason, maybe she will. She’s more practical than you are when you get your head stuck in heart-shaped clouds. Let me speak to her,” Ernesto repeats. Héctor does as he says, walking in the workshop and handing his cell phone to Imelda with an apologetic look.

“Ernesto,” he says, and she raises an eyebrow at him before she takes the phone.

“Imelda speaking. Are you chickening out for Thursday? Not that surprising, truth be tol--” she trails off, and blinks as Ernesto starts speaking at the other side of the line. Her eyebrows go up almost to her hairline, and she glances at Héctor, but she listens quite intently, hardly interrupting. The anger Héctor feared fails to make an appearance.

“I see? What record label again? Oh. Yes, I think I heard of it. That’s… good,” she finally says, sounding mildly impressed. “Not bad at a-- when? Tonight? Short notice, that. We’re taken tonig-- oh. Of course he told you.”

Under Héctor’s slightly anxious gaze, she taps her fingers on the bench and keeps listening. “Watch your mouth there, you’re on thin ice,” she warns, and gives a faint smile. “That’s better. All, right, I guess… Yes. I see. No-- wait a minute there, I’m loaning you my husband-- why on Earth would I dogsit for you?” Imelda listens again, and sighs. “If you walk them first and if you can guarantee I won’t spend the night trying to clean up after some mess on my carpets. All right, give me a moment.”

Imelda covers the receiver, and looks at Héctor. “Do you want to go?”

Well, he’s not precisely dying to, but… “I think I ought to,” he admits. “But our date--”

“We’ll catch up. This is important for you, too,” she says, practical as always, and Héctor smiles. Relief is like a weight lifted from his chest.

“Te amo.”

“Lo sé.” Imelda blows him a kiss, and brings the phone back to her ear. “All right, he’ll be there. Yes, the songbook – I’ll remind him. Don’t make him drink too much. Yes, you would – come on, we go way back.” She rolls her eyes, but her lips curl in a smile. “So… you’re confirming all will go ahead on Thursday. Hu-uh. We’ll see about that,” she adds, smile widening, and ends the call. “Believe it or not, he actually got you two a great chance for a contract. You’d be loco not to be there.”

Héctor smiles. “Oh, but you do make me un poco loco,” he says, gaining himself a tap on the nose.

“Good thing I’m here to bring you back down to Earth,” she mutters. “Come, we’re going out.”

“Are we?”

“We’ve got a date, remember? Since you’re taken this evening, it will have to be now.”

“What about those shoes?” Héctor asks, glancing at the workbench, but Imelda grabs his chin, turning his head back towards her.

“I’ll finish this evening, when we’ll both be in business,” she says, and smiles. “Ice cream?”

He smiles. “I wouldn’t mind eating mud, as long as you’re in the picture.”

“I know. I did get you to eat mud before.”

“I was four. And those mud cakes looked far to good,” Héctor points out, gaining himself a laugh and a kiss. They go out, have ice cream, and it is a lovely date – just the two of them, and the feeling of not being good enough doesn’t resurface once throughout it.

***

“Maybe they’re already there.”

“We’re forty minutes early, Ernesto.”

“Right, right,” Ernesto mutters, tapping his fingers on the car’s wheel. By some miracle, they were able to find a parking spot right across the cantina. All right, he had to steal it under the nose of another driver who’d yelled something about their family lines from mamá’s side that somehow involved goats, but he has no regrets. It isn’t the right time or place to be playing Mr. Nice Guy. “We should walk in at about the same time, no? So that we don��t seem desperate but also don’t make them wait.”

“… You’re overthinking this.”

“Someone has to, given that it’s the chance of a lifetime,” Ernesto grumbles, but the shove he gives Hector is lighthearted enough. His friend laughs.

“Relax, I’m sure we’ll be fine. And if it doesn’t go through--”

“It must.”

“-- There will be other chances, amigo,” Héctor adds, and Ernesto makes a face.

“Chances are scarcer than you think, and I’m not getting any younger.”

“… You’re not even thirty yet.”

“I will be next month, and I’m not famous yet,” he points out. They have a reasonably good following, and they make reasonably good money, but it’s not the fame he dreamed of, the fame he wants – must – achieve. The kind where people recognize you in the streets, and admire you and love you, and the whole world becomes your family – one that will never turn its back to you.

Héctor may have found his comfortable spot in life, one he’d be happy to settle in, but Ernesto has not. He needs more, and will not stop until he has it.

“We still have time,” Héctor is saying, and something about the good-natured patience in his tone grates his nerves.

“I found a white hair, Héctor!” he blurts out, causing him to blink, staring at his hair.

“Oh? I never noticed--”

“… Not on the head.”

“Ah.” There is a moment of silence before Héctor starts snickering, and soon enough so is Ernesto, leaning back against the driver’s set. They snicker and snicker like idiots, and when it finally dies down Héctor checks his watch.

“If it helps you relax we do, in theory, have enough time for a hand job,” he mutters, reaching to place a hand on Ernesto’s thigh. “So I can check out your white hair of doom.”

“Pfft. Hands off,” Ernesto mutters, trying to ignore the sense of heat in the pit of his stomach, and slaps Héctor’s hand off. “We must make a good impression, and we don’t want to make a mess of ourselves.”

A sigh. “Fair enough. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Good. Don’t mess this up for us, and I promise I’ll give you the best blowjob of your life.”

Héctor grins. “I’ll remind you once we’re back. Don’t worry, it will be all right. They like our music, and as soon as they have taken a look at the new ones in my songbook--” he starts, only to trail off with a sudden look of dread, hands patting at his coat’s pockets. “… Uh-oh.”

Oh, Christ. “Héctor. You do have the songbook, right?”

“Well. Do you mean right now, or--”

“For fuck’s sake – you had one thing to remember!” Ernesto growls, dread turning into frustration, and he turns the key in the car’s ignition. “All right-- if we go fast and ignore a few red lights, we might be able to make it home by-- what’s so funny?” he snaps when Héctor laughs. And laughs. And laughs.

And holds up a very familiar red songbook.

“Hahahah! Your face-- you should have seen your face!”

With a groan, Ernesto turns off the engine and lets himself drop back against his seat. “Pinche cabrón,” he mutters, heart still stuck somewhere in his throat. “I’m going to fucking kill you someday.”

Héctor laughs again, and clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. “Language, Ernestito. Language.”

“You can forget that blowjob,” Ernesto grumbles, and gets a pat on the shoulder.

“You should relax,” Héctor says. “Come on, let’s get in and have a drink. I’m sure this… Antonio?”

“Armando Abascal. Please don’t call him the wrong name.”

“This Alejandro Pascal--”

“Pendejo.”

“-- Won’t be offended if we have a drink while we wait,” Héctor finishes, and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Come on, stop worrying. I’m sure it will be fine.” He meets Ernesto’s scowl with a grin. “I feel it in my bones. All will go well.”

***

“I take it the meeting went well.”

“Pretty well. We won’t know-- ay, sí, like that-- for sure until next month, once the board has met, but-- ah!-- he was… impressed,” Héctor gasps out, smiling at her. His face is all sweaty and he’s leaning back on the couch, shirt open and trousers to his ankles, with one had in Ernesto’s hair. He pulls it lightly. “Told you not to worry, didn’t I?”

On the floor in front of him, Ernesto hums around his cock before he resumes bobbing his head, a little faster now. Imelda chuckles, and sits on the couch next to Héctor, giving him a deep kiss.

"I knew you’d do well,” she murmurs, pulling back just a little and cupping his cheek. His arm slips around her waist. “No one in their right mind would pass up the chance to have you under contract, mi amor.”

“ Mmfph.”

“... And him too, I guess,” Imelda mutters, smiling a little. As annoyed as she still is at him, seeing him pleasure Héctor like that does something to mellow her. She has to admit he’s not bad company… as long as his mouth is otherwise  occupied. Not a bad sight either, with his lips stretching over Héctor’s cock, his cheeks hollowing as he bobs his head.

It feels almost wrong to admit he’s good at anything – he’s not bad at all with the guitar, a good singer and an excellent dancer, though hell will freeze over before she says as much – but if the look on Héctor’s face is anything to go by, he’s got a real talent for blowjobs, too.

“Ah, damn-- I might-- not be able to hold back much… longer,” her husband gasps, and Imelda leans in to kiss him again, whispering against his mouth.

“Let go. He’ll swallow,” she says. Her hand sneaks down Héctor’s chest, over his thigh and then on his hand, resting on Ernesto’s head. Her own fingers slip in his hair; it isn’t as soft as Héctor’s, but not unpleasant to the touch whenever it’s not coated with... whatever gels he keeps putting on it. “Won’t you?”

There is a muffled groan, almost covered by Héctor’s gasps, and Imelda pulls away from his mouth to lower her head on his thigh, her lips only centimeters away from Ernesto’s ear. “To the last drop,” she whispers. A moan and Ernesto’s head jerks forward, swallowing Héctor’s cock down to the base, cheeks hollowing and lips stretching, nose buried in his pubic hair. Imelda reaches beneath Héctor’s lifted thigh, cups his testicles and gives one single, gentle squeeze.

“Ay-- madre de Dios--!” Héctor chokes out, and his hips rise and fall in a few jerky motions, causing Ernesto to grunt – but not to pull back, on no. He doesn’t do that until Héctor has collapsed against the couch, hair disheveled and mouth hanging open, legs twitching; only then does Ernesto lift his head, letting his softening cock slip out of his mouth. He looks up, breathing fast, and wipes his lips with the back of his hand before smirking.

“Good, huh?” he asks, and looks at Imelda; his expression turns, if possible, even more smug. “Would you like to be next?”

That gets Imelda to raise a skeptical eyebrow. Last time he tried to eat her out at Héctor’s suggestion, he’d sucked – and not in the good way. It was painfully obvious he’d never in his life given a woman oral sex: it was dull at best and annoying at worst, with his tongue just all over the place as he lapped at random. In the end, she had to tell him to quit embarrassing himself and let Héctor do it properly.

“Wasn’t last time enough?”

“Don’t I get a rematch?” he challenges. Héctor’s arms lace themselves around her waist, and he nuzzles her neck.

“Let him give it a try,” he says. “If it’s still that bad, I’ll take over.”

“You know I can hear you, right?” Ernesto says drily while Imelda gets rid of her underwear, pulls her skirt up to her waist, and leans back against Héctor’s chest – legs spread and sex exposed, already wet.

“You know that wasn’t you, so don’t start,” Imelda says when Ernesto slips a finger inside, and he rolls his eyes – but, instead of giving some kind of remark, he just buries his face between her legs, closes his lips around her clit, and sucks.

“Ah--!” Imelda lets out a startled gasp, and her hips twitch at the sudden pleasure. She reaches to grasp Héctor’s hands around her, hard. All right, so that is a pretty good start, if she says so herself. There is surprise and maybe some annoyance – he wasn’t supposed to be good, what happened? - but it is mostly drowned out in pleasure while Ernesto presses his tongue against her clit, circling it, and slips a second finger in her at the same time, pressing down just in all the right spots.

“Shh, relax,” Héctor murmurs against her temple, kissing her hair. “Just enjoy.”

“Did you--?” Imelda manages, turning to press her face against his neck. Did you teach him, she means to ask, and he understands immediately.

“Just gave a few pointers,” Héctor replies, and he does sound surprised himself. There is a chuckle, the lightest scrape of teeth across her folds – he’s keeping them open with his thumbsd now, giving him full access – before Ernesto pulls back. The sudden lack of sensation in her sex – the lack of contact, of heat – nearly makes her whine. Her legs twitch and she almost, almost wraps them around Ernesto’s shoulders to pull him closer and make him continue.

And thank God she was able to hold back, or he’d never let her live it down.

“Oh, I got someone to show me the ropes,” he says, twisting his fingers briefly. “As it turns out there are better ways to teach a skill than calling someone a mindless hoover, would you believe it?”

He says that with such a supremely offended tone that Imelda can’t help herself: she burst laughing, causing Héctor to snicker and Ernesto to huff.

“What’s so funny now?” he demands to know.

Imelda glances down. He’s looking up at her in clear confusion from between her spread legs, and she smiles. He does look better like this, with his hair disheveled and the smugness gone from his features. “Not half bad, but wait until I come to brag,” she says. Somewhere in the back of her mind, there is something stirring at the thought he went to another woman to learn - that he has been doing this to someone else. It is none of her business, of course, and the sensation doesn’t quite border into annoyance, so he does her best to ignore it.

What he does and who he beds when not with her and Héctor is, after all, not her problem.

Unaware of her thoughts, Ernesto grins. “Not a long wait, then,” he says, and his tongue is on her the next moment-- in her-- and a finger is pressing firmly against her clit, making small circular movements. Soon enough he’s eating her out as though he’s been starving for the taste of her. It doesn’t drive her up the wall the way Héctor could, because he doesn’t known nearly as well what truly makes her lose control, but it is good.

He will be insufferably smug over it, no doubt, so Imelda figures she may as well let herself enjoy it. And she does, gasping and trembling, leaning back against Héctor while he whispers in her ear, kisses her neck, fondles her breasts. Orgams hits her like a wave, and she clings to her husband’s arms while her hips shudder, buckling against Ernesto’s face as he reaches beneath her, gripping her ass and lifting her up against his mouth. She knows better than to fight the tide, and so she does not - although she does muffle her moan against Héctor’s neck.

When she comes down from her high, Héctor’s mouth against her temple murmuring how beautiful she is, how much he adores her, Imelda feels too sated to be really bothered by Ernesto’s smug expression as he stands and looks down at her. He looks all the world like he’s scored some great victory, but her mind is somewhere where annoyance cannot reach, it seems. Imelda hardly notices the smirk: all she focuses on are her juices glistening on his face.

“Well?” Ernesto is saying, and she finds herself smirking back between pants.

“It’s nice to see… you can improve, after all,” she says, and lets go of Héctor’s arms with one hand to reach up and grasp Ernesto’s hair, pulling his face closer. He winces, taken aback, but doesn’t try to pull back. Her smile widens at his confusion. “You could use some more practice.”

Ernesto scowls. “Can you just admit it was good?” he very nearly whines.

“It was.” She lets go of his hair, and runs her hand down his cheek. “But it can be better.”

“And how?”

“... Do you want us to tell you, or you’d rather we show you?” she asks, letting her hand slips off his cheek in what’s almost a caress. “On Thursday, maybe. If you’re good.”

Oh, there is something there for a moment - a flicker of huger, naked desire in the midst of apprehension for what awaits him in two days’ time - but in the end, he hides it all and nods.

“On Thursday,” he says, and he almost manages to keep his voice firm.

***

“You will not speak unless spoken to.”

“… Right.”

“Repeat.”

“Come on, I got it--”

Whack.

“Ow!”

“ Repeat.”

Somewhere on his right, he hears Héctor snickering. How can anyone find it in himself to be amused with a collar around his neck, he has no idea – but at the moment, his attention is entirely taken by Imelda. With her hair tied back and the jacket, she looks all the world like a teacher.

Except that his teachers back in school were more likely to carry around a stick then a riding crop, were usually well above the age of fifty and, did not, with one memorable exception, wear high-heeled, thigh-high black leather boots.

Plus, while some of them were a complete pain in the ass when it came to detention, Ernesto honestly cannot recall any of them ever using him as a footstool, least of all while he was naked from waist down. He glowers at her for a moment, but she returns his glare with steely eyes. There is a challenge in them, he can read it clear as day.

If you don’t think you can handle it, you can say the safeword. Come on. Go ahead.

You wish, Ernesto thinks, but bites back the retort. “… I will not speak unless spoken to,” he grits out. Imelda nods in approval, idly scratching Héctor under the chin with her free hand, and her gaze stays fixed on him. Her eyes look somewhat darer, more heated, the pupils wide. She shifts her feet just a little, and Ernesto can feel the hardness of the heel pressing against his spine. “You will do as I say.”

“I will do as you say,” Ernesto repeats, not quite as grudgingly, because hell knows how distracting she is. He briefly catches a glimpse of the look Héctor is giving him – I know, right? – before Imelda speaks again. She is holding the rod again, and letting the tip trail down his lower back, brushing just barely over the crack of his ass. There is a shudder he is unable to suppress entirely. If it makes her feel smug, she doesn’t show it and he is inwardly… well. Not grateful, but something not too far away either

“In my absence, you’ll to as he says,” she adds, running a hand through Héctor’s hair. He grins at him, and Ernesto swallows. He’s been on his hands and knees for a few minutes now, and they have seen like this before, but somehow he just now starts to feel truly exposed in a way that is both exciting and somewhat frightening.

“I’ll do as he says,” he manages. Heat is pooling in his groin and it must show, because the next moment Imelda’s legs shift and one booted foot is beneath him, pressing his half-hard cock up against his belly. It makes him shudder.

“And do you know, why that is?” Imelda is saying, brushing the boot against his cock a few more time while the rod traces his ass. He shakes his head.

“Speak up.”

“No,” Ernesto says quickly, and dares peer up again. The pleased look is back on her face, and it’s a relief. He quickly tells himself it’s because he won’t be struck again.

“Because you have control over nothing, Ernesto,” she says. The words alone make him suddenly feel like he’s on fire, but then there is a sudden pressure against his cock from her booted foot, and Ernesto gasps.

“Ah, fu--”

Whack. The rod comes down across his ass, leaving a thin line of fire and tearing a cry from his throat. “AH!”

“You know what that was for,” Imelda says, her voice almost sweet. “Don’t you?”

“S-sí.”

“And what was it for?”

“I… misspoke.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“I-- no.”

“That,” Imelda says, running the rod down his back almost tenderly, “was not a question.”

Ernesto shuts his eyes, bracing himself for another blow, but none comes. She smiles at him – Christ, the way she smiles – and turns her attention on Héctor. She unclips the leash from the collar he’s wearing, runs a hand through his hair. “Mi amor.”

“Diosa,” he breathes, and for a moment they just stay still and say nothing more, gazing at each other in a way that makes Ernesto’s insides clench – with childish disgust, he will tell himself later, like he could ever hope to really fool himself into thinking what he felt was anything other than longing.

“… Get him ready,” she finally says, and gives him a kiss before standing, and looking down at Ernesto again. “One more thing,” she adds. She crouches, and lifts Ernesto’s chin with the tip of the rod. He stares at her with wide eyes, breathing already quickening, pulse racing. He is vaguely aware that this isn’t how he’d pictured himself reacting; he was supposed to resist, to make a point. But now… now he can’t even bring himself to remember what point he was supposed to make anymore. “Tonight, you’re ours," she says, and pulls the rod away.

Close to crying out for the sudden loss of contact – he’s already so painfully hard, he wants them, he wants so much and he wants it now – Ernesto chokes out, “I’m yours.”

He is rewarded with that pleased smile again, and the rod brushes over his throat in a caress before she stands. “Take off that undershirt and get down on your elbows. Forehead to the floor,” she orders, and he does; both actions make him feel even more exposed than before. “Now, mi amor. You have a minute,” she says, and he hears her heels clicking on the floor as she walks off – probably to get rid of the clothes. At least, Ernesto hopes it’s to get rid of that. He needs to see more of her skin than this.

“All right, amigo. Hope you’re ready.” Héctor’s voice reaches him as though from very far away, along with a pungent scent he recognizes immediately as that of fresh ginger. He peers up to see Héctor is holding it up in front of him: a peeled ginger root, carved to be roughly the size and shape of a cock. There is a notch near the widening base that, he was told, will keep it locked in place unless it’s pulled out.

He knows what is coming, they have talked it all through, but there is still a sense of utter unreality. Talking about figging and how it works is one thing; realizing your best friend is about to shove a ginger root up your ass is... quite another.

"Ready?” Héctor asks, brushing back his hair, and Ernesto finds it in himself to scoff.

“O-of course,” he mutters, and leans his forehead on the floor again. The tiles are cool against his heated skin. He stays still as Héctor gets behind him, running a hand down his back and gentle fingers down the welts that, he knows, Imelda’s blows must have raised. They seem to burn even more at the touch, no matter how delicate.

“You’ll have a lot more of these by the time we’re done,” he muses aloud, the leans down to brush his lips across his lower back, causing Ernesto to shiver. “But don’t worry, I’ll be taking good care of you.”

Then start now, Ernesto almost says, but the words never make it past his lis: the next moment Héctor is running the fresh ginger root down the crack of his ass, presses its tip against the hole, and starts pushing it in, slow and steady. Ernesto’s cock twitches and he bites his lower lip, but he doesn’t make a noise. He refuses to.

And at first, there doesn’t seem to be much to make any noise about. The root goes in smoothly enough, if slowly - lube would lessen the sensation, apparently, hence the extra care - and for a few moments that’s it. Ernesto is about to scoff and ask if that’s all, but Héctor places a hand on his ass and chuckles.

“Give it another few moments,” he says, and goes to sit on the bed in front of him. He’s wearing the high-heeled red boots Imelda apparently made specifically for him, and slides a foot beneath his chin to get him to look up at him. He’s grinning from ear to ear, the pendejo.

“It should kick in just about now,” he says, just as a tingling sensation reaches Ernesto’s addled brain. And once the tingle starts, it doesn’t stay just that for long. It’s like tinders turning into a wildfire; suddenly it burns, and burns, and burns.

“A-ah-- shit--” Ernesto blurts out a few profanities, and clenches his hands into fists, bringing his head back down on the tiles – or rather, on Héctor’s boot. He instinctively clenches around the root, but it only makes the burning worse, so much so he cries out.

“No worries, It’s perfectly safe,” Héctor is saying in a somewhat sing-song voice, sounding like he’s having the time of his life. Ernesto takes a mental note to kick his ass at the first chance, possibly once his own has stopped feeling like someone shoved in a hot poker, and gives in to his next instinct – trying to push it out.

“You can’t get it out, but of course you’d try,” Imelda speaks up suddenly, and then her boot is resting against his ass, and something – the heel? – is pressing the ginger root deeper still. Ernesto hears her laughter over his own cry, and drops his head back down on the floor. “Didn’t you say you could take it?” Imelda muses aloud.

He can, of course, and he will. It is a relief, being able to think of it that way; it is purely a matter of pride now, of refusing to back down - not of arousal. Never mind he’d hard and panting and so, so desperate for more touch.

And he does get the touch, sort of; he feels the tip of the riding crop brushing up his spine and then back down, so slowly, raising goosebumps on his skin. He focuses on that, trying to ignore the burning sensation in his ass, the prickling in his eyes, the heat on his groin-- and, then, suddenly, the rod is lifted and comes back down, hard.

He knew it was coming, but nothing would have prepared him for the intense burning when he instinctively clenches his ass at the blow. It gets a choking gasp out of him, and something spills down his face, but Christ, he’s still so hard. The part of his mind still capable of rational thought registers a pause, with no blow following the first, and suddenly Héctor is crouching next to his head and brushing back his hair. “The safeword--” he begins, and Ernesto shakes his head.

“I’m fine,” he gasps. More, he thinks, but the plea doesn’t leave his lips. He refuses to acknowledge it, let alone to utter it. “I don’t need it.” Stop holding back.

“Yes, yes. But if it’s too much--”

“It’s not,” Ernesto snaps. It’s not enough.

“All right,” Héctor says, and next thing Ernesto knows the blows have resumed - whack, whack, whack - across his ass and thighs and lower back, and Héctor is pulling down his underwear with one hand, the other grasping his hair in a vicious grip. The tip of his cock is pressed against his lips, already wet, and Ernesto parts them to allow it in, let Héctor sink deep in his mouth, deep down his throat with a loud groan.

Well, not like he can say the safeword now, Ernesto thinks. Of course they agreed beforehand to other ways he can get them to stop immediately, but that’s a neglectable detail. His mind is a little too taken by the cock thrusting in and out of his mouth, the pull at his hair, the maddening burning sensation in his ass and where the blows have landed, how painfully hard he is.

Then the blows stop, the rod is thrown away - he hears it clatter somewhere on the floor - and he can’t hold back a whine in the back of his throat when the root is pulled, almost yanked out of him. The burn is still there but oh God, he feels so empty.

“Do you want it back?” The ginger is pressed back against him, barely slipping in before stopping. Ernesto whines again, trying to push back, to be stopped by Héctor’s grip in his hair. A sharp slap on his ass causes him to cry out around his dick, tears spilling down his cheeks.

“That was a question,” Imelda says coldly, and rakes her nails down his back, hard.

Héctor pulls back enough to slip out of Ernesto’s mouth, and he coughs, head spinning. “I-I…”

“Do you want it back in you, or not?”

Ernesto swallows. He longs for Héctor’s taste, he longs to be filled again, he needs to come and he knows what he must to. When he speaks, his voice is a weak croaking sound. “Y-yes.”

Her nails sink into the sensitive skin of his ass. “Beg.”

“Por favor,” he blurts out. Normally he would be so embarrassed - so ashamed - for giving in so easily, but right now he doesn't care. He needs more; shame can wait another day.

“Por favor what?”

“Put it back,” he chokes out, and sniffles, his chest seizing up in a sob. “Please.”

Imelda shoves the root back in him roughly, a hand suddenly tightening around his cock and giving it a squeeze, and that’s all it takes. Climax is like a blow, and the cry that leaves him fades into a sob, which he muffles against Héctor’s stomach. He slumps down, or at least so he thinks, because everything spins and suddenly he’s on his back, staring up as Héctor and Imelda tower over him. Héctor is still hard, a big stupid smile on his face, and Imelda looks impassable as always, holding up a pair of handcuffs.

“We’re not done yet,” she says, but there is a pause - a chance for him to say it is enough.

Ah, but is it?

Shuddering, lightheaded from his orgasm, ass and back on fire, Ernesto licks his lips and says nothing. Imelda smiles, and nudges at him with one booted foot. “Get up. On the bed.”

He does, barely able to stand on shaky limbs that feel like jelly. He’s turned on his back, cuffed to the bedpost; then Héctor is coating himself in lube, Imelda lowers herself on his face, and what follows is a whirlwind of pain and pleasure, moans and pleas, cold lubricant and heated skin. He loses himself to it. Imelda was right - tonight, he has no control. He gave it up willngly. 

And he’s not scared.

***

“Now that wasn’t bad at all, was it, amigo? Just relax,” Héctor is saying, the first words his mind can truly register once he comes down from the high of another orgasm. The handcuffs are off, and his friend is massaging his wrists to restore circulation.

Ernesto can hardly feel his hands, and they will probably feel like pins and needles later, but he doesn’t care. He hums, face burrowed in the pillow, as Héctor lets go of his hand and speaks again. “I’ll get you something for those welts. And the bite marks. And… everything else.”

Ah, yes. those. Ernesto had forgotten about it all; the sting seems so very, very far away. He just nods and leans his head back down on the pillow, heart hammering in his chest and breathing fast. He hears footsteps, a drawer being opened and he knows Héctor must be getting some salve - but what does grab his attention is something else entirely: absence.

Imelda is not in the room anymore.

Somehow, that stings more than anything else did throughout the whole evening. Even as Héctor returns to the bed and starts spreading salve over his backside, Ernesto finds he cannot even enjoy the soothing coolness. He scowls and struggles to lift himself on his elbows.

“Where--” he starts, only to shut his mouth when there are more steps, Imelda’s own. He lets himself drop back - he won’t look at her now, he suddenly feels something will break if he does, he has never felt more fragile in his life - and shuts his eyes, trying to pretend he never looked around for her in the first place, expecting some sort of mockery.

“How are you?”

Her voice is quiet, and the mattress tips slightly as she sits right by his head. Eyes shut, Ernesto swallows before speaking. “Fine,” he rasps.

“Good,” Imelda is saying, and suddenly her hand is in his hair, brushing back the dishevelled locks. “You look fine, too,” she adds, a hint of humor in her voice that sounds nothing like mockery. All the retorts  he thought up seem to vanish in his mind, and Ernesto can only blink in surprise just as she lifts his head and lets him lean it back down on her lap.

She is still naked, her skin is so warm, and she doesn’t stop stroking his hair. Ernesto closes his eyes, and lets out a long sigh. Above him Héctor is still spreading soothing salve, massaging it into the reddened skin with light touches, occasionally pausing to place a kiss on a welt.

“I’d be careful not to sit around too much for the next couple of days,” he murmurs against his skin, and gives a small laugh. “But it was worth it, wasn’t it?”

He could deny it. He would, if not for the fact his eyelids feel so heavy, their touches so soothing. He is so tired, and sated, and he finds an argument is the last thing he wants. So he just nods, and leans his head into Imelda’s touch. She cradles his head, and her thumb brushes across his cheek before she leans in and places a kiss against his temple.

“I’m running you a warm bath. Think you can stand up in about twenty minutes?”

Of course, he should say. I don’t need your help, he should sneer. But he could melt there and then, so he doesn’t. “If you help,” he murmurs, and feels her smile against his skin.

“We will,” Héctor says. His hands go up and down his back in long, soothing strokes. “Stay for the night.”

“My dogs--”

“I’ll walk them and get them here, once we’re done with you,” he reassures him and really, that’s all it takes. Ernesto closes his eyes again, sated and boneless, and rests there under their touch, their scent in his nostrils and hushed words in his ears. All is right in the world.

For a time.

***

[Back to Part 7]