by anneinchicago
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From somewhere in the darkness came the sound of labored breathing and the cold, metallic rattle of chains.

"Lights, one quarter."

Now one could see a bent knee, a long length of tensely drawn thigh, flashes of tantalizing gold in the room's sudden brightness. The man's head was bowed, the spine curved and outlined in weals of tender red, a remembrance of what can happen when irresistible leather strives to conquer immovable will.

"Lights, one-third."

The sweet, broad curve of the man's hips were now revealed, each bracketed in rapidly darkening purple, each a singular reminder of how, earlier, fingers had gripped far too tightly, far too eagerly. A circlet of scarlet drops ringed the proudly-held throat and one could see where the shoulders had been suckled raw.

"Lights, one half."

The man's lips, parted, kiss-swollen and crimson from use could now be seen. Dark hair hung in a sweat-beaded curtain across one cheek, half-obscuring the faint handprint that ghosted there,

"Harry . . ." The words a command. "Look at me."

Harry's head lifted, his eyes impossibly dark with both passion and defiance. "Tom . . ." he said, his answer a challenge and a submission, an acceptance as well as a denial. "Tom," he said again.

The bed creaked.

Harry closed his eyes, and waited.

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End