what we want and cannot have

“Are you excited about your present?” Wout’s owner asks. He tilts his head towards Wout, eyes bright. Sometimes, he asks Wout questions without caring about the answer. This isn’t one of those times.

Wout plasters a smile onto his face. “You know I always love your presents,” he says. It’s close enough to the truth. Wout’s contract has changed hands many times over the years, and he’s been given a wide variety of gifts. This particular owner has been much more attentive towards Wout’s likes and dislikes. Wout almost never has to fake his appreciation.

He had the news sprung on him yesterday, right after his morning run. His owner was both fond of surprises and terrible at keeping secrets. The last twenty-four hours had been not enough time to emotionally prepare for this whole thing and more than enough time for Wout to get up in his own head about it.

“How long has it been since you last saw him?” His owner blinks at him. “Over a decade at least. You left the program so young.” Calling it leaving the program is a nicer euphemism than the one Wout would have used. Sold off before he could prove himself is more accurate, by far. There had always been questions about Wout’s potential due to his size, especially as the other riders around him got bigger and stronger. And that meant his team at the time was much more interested in offloading him onto the open market and eager private buyers rather than see if another cyclocross team wanted to put in an offer for his contract. He almost doesn’t blame them. The amount of money those buyers were willing to pay for a scrawny, undersized seventeen-year-old was absurd.

Wout still wishes he’d been able to keep cycling, especially when he gets to watch the races on the television. He gets an itch in his legs, a desire to hop on his trainer, to feel the push-pull of his pedals underneath his feet. He wants to be in the mud or on the road, to hear the screams and shouts of the crowd. He didn’t get very far in his career as a cyclocrosser. He still misses it every single day.

But he also knows this is just the cold reality of sports. He’d signed that decades-long contract, along with his parents, at the age of twelve for just the tiniest chance he would be able to compete at the elite level. He’d lost that bet, and this is just him paying it down.

“Yes,” Wout murmurs, “I haven’t talked with any of them in eleven years.” Not since he was seventeen. He just turned twenty-nine a month ago.

“You did some junior requests with him then, didn’t you? It was in your file.” His owner pets Wout’s hair and brushes back a lock that fell over his forehead.

“Yes,” Wout repeats, though he’s not sure how much he wants to admit right now. Mathieu had been his last request as a cyclist. After junior worlds, they had garnered a lot of Dutch and Belgian interest. Their mostly tame necking raised an uncomfortable amount of money, enough that even Mathieu’s father couldn’t ignore it. Mathieu’s contract had been owned by his father when they were kids, which meant he only took the most lucrative of requests. Wout’s team had far lower standards for him. Mathieu had gotten a bit embarrassed partway through their session for some reason, and Wout can still recall the soft, pink flush across Mathieu’s cheeks. Compared to some of the other requests Wout had taken at the time, it’s a pleasant memory.

His owner coos, “Oh, but you seem so nervous about it, dove.” A gleam in his eye says that he’s enjoying Wout’s discomfort. He is a sadist. All of Wout’s owners have been in one way or another.

“It’s just been a while, like you said.” Wout doesn’t mind that some of his uncertainty has come through. What he doesn’t want is to give away why. His owner likes to pretend Wout has never had a regret in his life. Wout tries to help him maintain the illusion.

They’ve just come home from a fancy dinner, and Wout is still dressed in one of the nicest suits in his collection. He feels all too aware of how long the intervening decade has been. Mathieu kept racing, both in CX and on the road. He’s going to be built like an elite cyclist. What will he think when he sees Wout like this? A pampered house pet trussed up in fussy clothing and jewelry. Wout fiddles with a bracelet around his wrist. “I know this request must have been expensive.”

Another pet of his hair as he’s led to his bedroom. “Oh, you have nothing to be worried about. It’s not like you have to race him!” His owner titters at his own joke.

Wout has to grit his teeth to keep his smile fixed to his face.

Mathieu is already waiting for them in the bedroom, dressed in his cycling kit, rainbow jersey and all. Wout wonders how many Euros that adds onto the cost of a request and if each win in his palmares adds more. Mathieu startles at their entrance, rising to his feet. As graceful as he looks on a bike, he seems awkward and ungainly here. His shoulders are too stiff, and his face doesn’t know what expression it wants to make. Wout remembers that from seventeen-year-old Mathieu, too. Wout had learned how to smile, how to force relaxation into his muscles, how to pretend to enjoy something, by the time he turned fifteen.

He tries to meet Mathieu’s eyes. Mathieu’s gaze flicks up to Wout’s face for a moment before skittering away. Does he remember Wout at all? It’s been so long. Wout wouldn’t blame him for forgetting just another boy he used to know.

And then Mathieu says, “Wout. It’s, uh, I’m glad to see you again.” His eyes seem to be stuck somewhere in the vicinity of Wout’s right shoulder.

“Hello, Mathieu,” Wout says, “It’s a pleasure to see you again, too.” The words come out rote and formal, more out of habit than genuine feeling. So Mathieu does remember him, at least in part. That doesn’t explain why Mathieu can’t look him in the face. Wout knows he didn’t grow up ugly, or people wouldn’t pay so much for his contract. He knows what he’s meant to be-- a decorative ex-athlete, a showpiece, an ostentatious display of wealth. Maybe it’s a kind of embarrassment on Mathieu’s part. He’s ashamed for Wout, to see how far their paths have diverged. Mathieu’s contract was sold to the team that would become Alpecin, and he might even hold some ownership stake in the team in trust. Wout knows he will come out of his contract wealthy in his own way, but without any of the same public glory to show for it.

“I’ll let the two of you catch up. Forgot the key in the other room, silly me,” Wout’s owner says. Wout has cufflinks that lock. Not anything that would physically restrain him, but he can’t take off his dress shirt without ripping the expensive fabric. And owners hate when Wout unintentionally damages expensive clothing.

With that, his owner sweeps out of the room, leaving Wout and Mathieu alone together.

For a moment, neither of them says anything. Wout looks at Mathieu while Mathieu stares a hole into the floor. They’re close enough Wout could reach out to touch Mathieu’s shoulder. He doesn’t.

Mathieu seems smaller in person. Wout has spent years watching Mathieu grow up on television. He’s seen Mathieu’s legs get longer, his shoulders get broader, his face sharpen from something “cute” into something “handsome” Compared to so many of the other cyclists, he looks massive. In this room, right now, Wout realizes Mathieu is actually shorter than him now --- and not that much broader either.

Wout clears his throat. “So,” he says. He tries to find a safe or reasonable topic. It feels ridiculous. Wout hasn’t been this awkward during a request for over a decade. Hell, even the last time, it hadn’t been anything special. Sure, Mathieu had been stiff and uncomfortable back then, too, but Wout had said something, done something, to get Mathieu to relax. He doesn’t remember what that was.

“So,” Mathieu repeats. He is taking deep, even breaths. He almost looks calm, except for a tension in his jaw he can’t seem to hide.

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember me,” Wout admits.

“Of course I remember you,” Mathieu says with surprising vehemence. He looks up for just a moment, meeting Wout’s gaze before looking away again. “It was-- you were better than a lot of the others who stayed.”

Wout wasn’t expecting the compliment. He doesn’t know what to say next.

“You’re also just-- you got taller.” Mathieu adds on. “I didn’t-- I wasn’t expecting that.” Wout’s size had always been a hotly discussed topic among his coaches. It feels like a cruel irony that he hit a growth spurt at the age of twenty, long after it could be of any use to him in cyclocross.

“So did you,” Wout says. He remembers the solid weight of seventeen-year-old Mathieu’s chest pressed against his own. He wonders what it will feel like now, with Mathieu bigger and stronger than he was. They’ll both find out soon enough, he supposes. With how much a world champion’s time must cost, Wout feels certain his owner won’t be satisfied with just their awkward attempt at conversation.

Wout wasn’t given much in the way of instruction for this meeting, though. His owner kept insisting that it was meant as a gift, that he should enjoy it. Wout hated handling requests without specific directions. He worked best when given parameters, so he knew how to meet them. He wasn’t good at reading anyone’s mind, and early on, right after he’d left cyclocross, he’d had an owner who expected him to be able to do so.

Mathieu says, “So, what next?” Apparently, he wasn’t given anything more than Wout.

Wout opens his mouth to respond when his owner comes back into the room. The key glints in one hand as he looks the two of them over. He seems amused by their continued awkwardness, which is better than the alternative. “Still catching up, I see,” he says.

He makes a gesture with his hands, and Wout obediently shrugs out of his suit jacket, folding it up and placing it on a chair, before holding out his wrists.

Wout’s owner unlocks the cuffs with a practiced efficiency. Mathieu watches them. His expression is carefully neutral. Wout wonders what he sees. The cufflinks are expensive, high-fashion, statement pieces, probably not uncommon in the spaces where he’s had to hobnob with wealthy sponsors, but not worn by anyone he would know in his day-to-day. The sight highlights how their lives have diverged. Maybe Wout looks like someone Mathieu could have been. But no, with Mathieu’s lineage, there’s no way he would have been allowed to suffer Wout’s fate. Mathieu’s brother, whose achievements paled in comparison to Mathieu’s, retired a few years ago to a cozy position within the team, to serve out the rest of his contract writing out boring training plans or maybe becoming a swannie, handing out bottles and massages.

“Thank you,” Wout murmurs. He keeps his eyes downcast because he knows it shows off his eyelashes, and his owner likes to see them.

“Of course, dove,” his owner says. He cups Wout’s cheek with one hand and undoes the buttons of Wout’s dress shirt with the other.

“I know you said you didn’t want anything in particular,” Wout says as the dress shirt gets peeled off his body, “but if there’s anything you can think of…”

His owner shushes him and says, “This isn’t about me. You know I love spoiling you.” His fingers linger on the collar around Wout’s neck. That had been given to Wout as a surprise gift for his last birthday. It’s not common for slaves to have them these days. They’re considered a bit ostentatious, a bit old-fashioned. But among a certain class of people, a certain class of slaves, they’re considered a status symbol, something an owner would only buy a treasured companion. Wout had been appropriately fawning over his gift, as was expected of him.

When Wout glances at Mathieu, he’s looking up at the ceiling. Wout thinks maybe he might be blushing, but maybe that’s a trick of the light. He doesn’t seem like he has any useful input on the matter either, so it’s going to be up to Wout.

He reaches out to touch Mathieu’s shoulder. Mathieu lets out a soft, stuttered breath. Wout can feel the tension thrumming through his body. He’d been this tense the last time, too. Wout racks his brain, trying to dig up the specifics of the memory. Maybe they’d just started kissing, and that had helped give the both of them something to do. His other hand comes up to cup the back of Mathieu’s neck, where the hair has grown out a bit during the off-season.

Mathieu finally meets Wout’s eyes. Wout smiles a bit, just a small quirk of his lips. To his surprise, Mathieu smiles back. It’s not a smooth, easy smile, but Wout will take what he can get. He goes slowly, telegraphing his moves, so Mathieu can’t get spooked and ruin the mood. He leans in. Their lips brush. Gentle at first, then deeper. Mathieu relaxes in fractions. Wout doesn’t dare loosen his grip, just in case Mathieu panics partway through. It’s never pleasant when that happens.

Their chests press together. The lycra of Mathieu’s jersey is slick against Wout’s bare skin. Wout still has his own kit, so it doesn’t quite trigger a sense memory. He only ever wears it on the trainer. He’s not allowed to ride outside, hasn’t been for years. Wout lets the hand on Mathieu’s shoulder drift down his back, smoothing over the material until it finds the base of his spine.

Mathieu makes a soft, aborted noise. Maybe a moan or a gasp. Wout draws back. Mathieu’s eyes are softer now, half-lidded. He licks his lips. He says, “You’re wearing different lip balm.” His voice is quiet, with a raspy undertone. Wout has no idea what lip balm he was wearing that last time. It had been winter, so he must have put some on before he met up with Mathieu. He doesn’t know how to react to Mathieu remembering it.

Wout feels an uncomfortable tug at that reminder of his younger self, that boy who had felt so confident his second place finish at Worlds meant his future in the sport was secure. He spares a glance over at his owner to make sure he’s pleased and not getting impatient. The smile on his owner’s face is still amused and indulgent. Their hesitations haven’t worn out their welcomes yet. Wout reaches for the zipper of Mathieu’s jersey next, pulling it down and open, just to get things moving.

Mathieu’s chest is as smooth and hairless as Wout’s own, and Wout wonders if he likes it better that way. Wout’s various owners have had varying strictness about the amount of body hair he’d been allowed to have. This particular owner only cares about the most visible stuff: chest, arms, and legs.

Wout can feel how Mathieu tenses up with the brush of Wout’s hands across his shoulders and collarbones. He brings Mathieu closer again, kissing him again. He relaxed when Wout tried this earlier. Wout hopes it will help Mathieu shake off some of his discomfort or this might become a really unpleasant request for both of them.

This time, Mathieu leans into it before their lips even touch. Maybe he realized that he needs to pretend to be into this. Not every request requires it, but Wout’s owner always seems happier when Wout puts on a smile and moans for the audience. His owner went through the effort to get Mathieu in particular, which means he wants them to play into the narrative tonight. Childhood sweethearts reunited, maybe, even though Wout and Mathieu barely ever spoke outside the usual platitudes at the starting line or waiting for a podium.

Wout does his best to lose himself in the kiss. Mathieu isn’t a bad kisser once he gets into it. His lips part at the first touch of Wout’s tongue. Wout licks inside his mouth, which tastes faintly of mint, like he brushed his teeth or chewed some gum before showing up. Wout feels oddly touched by that. Not all of his requests have made the effort before.

He slides the straps of Mathieu’s bibs off his shoulders. It’s been so long since he did this for anyone else, and yet, the stretch and pull of the fabric under his hands feels comfortable and familiar. Before he’d been sold off to be a house slave, his requests had nearly entirely been with other cyclists, boys and girls who were in their full kit more often than not. He wonders if that’s still true for Mathieu, or if once he came of age, his requests have been more varied. He’s here with Wout, after all.

Mathieu lets the straps fall around his waist, then he wraps his arms around Wout. His large hands settle on Wout’s back, the palms pressed flat against Wout’s spine. The motion brings their bodies closer. With it, Wout can feel that Mathieu is already hard. Wout’s arousal has been banked underneath the nerves and uncertainty, but with the solid proof of Mathieu’s interest, some small, anxious part of him relaxes. He can work with this.

Mathieu’s teeth find Wout’s lower lip, biting down. He’d done that the last time, too, Wout remembers. The sting of pain draws a moan from Wout’s chest. He’s always liked that extra edge to his sex, and it’s made him a valuable commodity among a certain cachet of people who are willing to pay handsomely for that in a companion slave. After watching Mathieu on his bike, Wout thinks he maybe understands it, too.

He tests that theory by digging his fingertips into the meat of Mathieu’s shoulder blades, hard enough to leave bruises. No lasting damage, is the usual rule for these sorts of requests. Mathieu probably also has a rider for anything that could hinder his athletic performance during the season. Not that it matters, really. Wout is all too familiar with the many and varied ways in which pain can be inflicted temporarily, in a way where no complaint will be taken seriously.

In response, Mathieu bites down harder. Not enough to draw blood, but enough Wout can feel little sparks shooting up and down his nerves. But even with the retaliation, Mathieu’s cock jerks in his bibs as Wout scrapes his nails over the bruises he’s left on Mathieu’s back. He’s due for a manicure soon, and so they drag and dig into Mathieu’s flesh.

“Fuck,” Mathieu hisses into Wout’s mouth. He pulls back, and now he’s capable of meeting Wout’s eyes. His breath is heavy. His pupils are blown wide, only the tiniest slit of blue still visible. Wout resists the urge to stare him down and bare his teeth. This isn’t actually a competition.

It hadn’t been like this last time. When Wout was still cycling, what happened on the bike rarely affected what happened during requests or vice versa. And yet, he sees Mathieu now, stripped of his rainbow jersey, his erection lurid and obvious through the thin lycra of his white bibs, and Wout wants to mess him up. He wants to test his older, taller, stronger body against Mathieu’s own. On a cyclocross field, Mathieu would smoke him in about five seconds flat. But this isn’t a cyclocross field, and bedrooms have been Wout’s domain for over a decade.

Wout dives in again. This time, Wout bites first. His teeth find the line of Mathieu’s jaw, and his hands find Mathieu’s ass. If Mathieu’s hair were longer, anywhere near the same length as Wout’s, he would tug at it, use it to force Mathieu’s head into position. Instead, Wout forces their hips together. Mathieu’s erection presses up against Wout’s thigh. It draws a noise from Mathieu’s throat, half-snarl, half-groan.

Mathieu fumbles with the clasp of Wout’s belt, then attacks the fly of Wout’s pants. His fingers are clumsy on the buttons, unpracticed. Wout’s had to undo those with his teeth before.

Wout follows that up by pushing Mathieu towards the bed. Mathieu doesn’t fight him on it. He did manage to get the fly open, at least, so Wout shoves the pants down and kicks them away, leaving him in his underwear.

When Wout looks up again, Mathieu is sitting on the bed, knees spread wide. Maybe it’s supposed to be an intimidation tactic with the way his long legs frame the obscene bulge of his hard cock. Wout lets him think it’s working as he looks his fill. Mathieu’s body is all long, lean muscle. They don’t have the sharp definition of a bodybuilder, carved through dehydration, but clean and functional. A pink flush has chased its way from Mathieu’s cheeks down to his chest. Wout had wondered how far down that flush went, back when he was seventeen. Now he knows. Mathieu has tan lines on his arms.

The sight of them fills Wout with a wave of nostalgia. He remembers those stark lines darkening his own skin after long days training on his bike, especially since he was more lax about sunscreen as a teenager. Lines like that would be considered unsightly now, unbecoming on a slave of his status.

Wout steps in closer and looms over Mathieu for a moment, enjoying the way Mathieu is forced to look up at him. Mathieu’s head tilts up. His lips are parted. He has the same cool, stubborn expression he wears in the starting row. He’s lost some of his shyness. Good.

He does blink in surprise when Wout drops to his knees. The carpet is plush underneath his shins for this exact reason. Mathieu just stares at him as Wout rolls the bibs down and off his narrow hips, leaving them as a puddle at his ankles.

Mathieu’s cock is hard and red, longer than Wout was expecting. He would have a good career as a porn star if it ever came down to it, and if he ever did become a house slave, it would be considered one of his best assets.

Mathieu raises an eyebrow in challenge, daring Wout to make the next move. Wout has no intention of backing down from it. He wraps his arms under Mathieu’s legs and grabs Mathieu’s ass. He lets saliva pool on his tongue before he spits, leaving a shining globule dripping down the flushed skin of Mathieu’s cock. Mathieu’s eyes are huge and round as he stares down at Wout between his legs. Then Wout leans forward and draws the tip into his mouth, his eyes never leaving Mathieu’s face.

Mathieu lets out a moan. His head tilts back. His eyes fall closed.

Wout should probably find this humiliating and degrading, but he’s always felt powerful when sucking cock. He likes the weight on his tongue, the stretch of his lips, the edge of discomfort, the way he can make his partner come apart under his mouth. He likes being good at it. His owners have liked it, too.

So does Mathieu, it seems, because his fingers sink into the bedsheets, and his breath speeds up. His glutes twitch underneath Wout’s hands itching to fuck forward in a way Wout won’t let him. “You’re so fucking--” he says. “I can’t believe your-- Fuck. Wout.”

Wout doesn’t smirk because his mouth is full, but he feels a swell of pride in his chest. Even if he won’t ever get to ride the cyclocross world championships at the elite level, he still has Mathieu fucking van der Poel at his mercy and moaning his name.

Speaking of Mathieu, one of his hands finds its way into Wout’s hair and the other finds its way to the collar around Wout’s neck. His fingers tighten like he thinks he can get away with tugging or forcing Wout’s head, like he thinks he owns him. Wout disabuses him of that notion by knocking his hands away and letting his teeth scrape against Mathieu’s sensitive skin. Mathieu groans. He doesn’t try that move again, and his cock hardens even further in Wout’s mouth, like maybe he is into the idea of Wout biting his dick off. Wout’s definitely blown guys like him before, and he keeps his teeth in the mix to make sure Mathieu doesn’t forget.

Wout figures Mathieu deserves a reward for not pushing his luck. He loosens his throat and takes Mathieu’s cock all the way to the hilt. Mathieu shaves or waxes his pubes, so he’s hairless where Wout’s nose brushes against his groin. Mathieu curses loudly at that. “How the fuck are you so--” His voice is breathy, and he’s panting like he’s just soloed fifty kilometers to the finish line. Wout curls his tongue up in a way that’s always earned him rave reviews. He wants to feel Mathieu come apart for him, because of him. Mathieu may be able to shut down attack after attack on the road with ease, but he has no defenses against this.

“I’m going to--” Mathieu hisses out. His legs go taut and rigid over Wout’s arms. His ass clenches and releases in Wout’s hands.

He looks up to Mathieu’s face. There’s something beautiful about the raw desperation written across it. He doesn’t let up for a moment. He can pull this orgasm out of Mathieu. He wants to see it. He draws his head back, then pushes forward again, hollowing out his cheeks as he sucks.

True to his word, it doesn’t take long. Mathieu comes with a deep groan. The salty taste of his semen floods Wout’s mouth. Wout sits back on his heels, victory heavy in his chest. Mathieu looks at Wout with half-lidded eyes. He looks wrecked already, with his skin flushed, his mouth wet, his expression dazed. Wout wants to wreck him more.

Mathieu doesn’t move when Wout stands up. He’s still basking in the afterglow. That was one way to get him to relax; all the tension in his shoulders from earlier is now gone. Wout cups Mathieu’s chin and tilts his head upwards, so Wout can bend over to kiss him. Mathieu leans into it, lazy and eager for mere touch. He makes a small noise of protest when Wout pushes his own come back into his mouth, but he doesn’t resist. He takes what Wout gives him, swallowing it down.

Mathieu’s hands grab hold of Wout’s hips drawing him closer. His fingers curl into the waistband of Wout’s underwear and tugs them down, freeing Wout’s erection. Wout’s banked arousal flares to life again. Whatever else, Mathieu wants him, even after he’s gotten off. That’s a heady, powerful thought.

Wout pulls back from the kiss, so he can shed his underwear and kick them aside. Mathieu watches him with an intent look on his face and licks his lips.

Mathieu asks, “Now what?”

It goes against his usual instincts, but Wout doesn’t sneak a glance at his owner for his next cue. This is Wout’s gift, after all. He’s allowed to be greedy, and he’s going to take advantage of it. “Now,” he says, “I’m going to fuck you.”

Mathieu sucks in a sharp breath at the sound of it, but he doesn’t protest. In fact, he licks his lips again, leaving them shiny and wet in the bedroom light. It’s a pretty sight. Wout almost considers changing the plan and fucking his face instead. “Okay,” Mathieu says. His voice is raspy, like he’s the one who just had a cock shoved down his throat.

Wout fishes through the drawers of the bedside table for the usual bottle of lube. He finds it, pops the cap open, and slicks up his fingers. Of his requests that involve anal sex, it’s evenly split between the times when Wout gets fucked and the times he fucks someone else. The ratios had definitely been skewed in the direction of getting fucked when he was smaller, but then he’d grown up tall and athletic, and the nature of the requests he handled shifted.

So he’s pretty well-practiced at this whole thing when he slides his fingers into Mathieu, who has laid back on the bed with his legs spread. Wout doesn’t meet much, if any, resistance. Mathieu is still loose-limbed and relaxed after his orgasm. Wout’s other hand finds Mathieu’s thigh for leverage, and he feels the solid density of the muscle there. Wout still has time in the gym. His own legs aren’t weak, but they haven’t been built and honed for a singular purpose like Mathieu’s. An awful sort of envy snakes through his lungs and up into his throat. He wants--

He pushes the thought aside. When things get bad for him, it’s easier to focus on the task in front of him. He’s going to fuck Mathieu. The rest of it is just a distraction.

Wout squeezes out another dollop of tube so that he can slick up his cock. Part of the standard agreement for requests is a recent STD test, and Wout’s owner has a thing for bodily fluids. They do have condoms somewhere. They just never use them.

Mathieu blinks his eyes open as Wout leans over him. Wout has no idea what the expression on his face means. It isn’t one Wout has ever seen him wear during a race. Mathieu often seems so remote and untouchable through the barrier of a screen. This version seems softer, younger, more like the boy Wout knew than the man he’s become.

Wout kisses him again. He doesn’t want to see it anymore, and he doesn’t have to when he crushes his lips against Mathieu’s. Mathieu takes it, leans into it, and even spreads his legs wider for Wout to settle himself between them. He bites at Wout’s bottom lip, sinking his teeth in a similar challenge to earlier. It provokes the same reaction this time. Wout wants to meet it, wants to exceed it. Not just this time, but every one of them. Anything Mathieu can offer.

The thought still feels like a splinter lodged in Wout’s chest. He pulls back, standing up. Mathieu makes a protesting grunt. His hands grab for Wout’s shoulders, but Wout shakes him off. “Turn over,” he says.

Mathieu blinks up at him, eyes wide. Wout stares him down. For a moment, he thinks Mathieu might fight him on this, even though he has seemed content to follow Wout’s lead so far. And then Mathieu obeys, rolling over onto his front. Wout admires the dips and planes of his broad back. He thinks about sending Mathieu back to his team with teeth marks all over it. That probably isn’t a breach of contract. Mathieu likes it, after all. That’s defense enough.

Instead, Wout grips Mathieu’s hips, pulling him up so that he’s resting on his knees and elbows. His cock hangs limp and spent between his legs, but it does twitch as Wout climbs up onto the bed, lining up their hips and nudging himself against Mathieu’s ass. Wout doubts Mathieu’s refractory period is up to the task, and he doesn’t really care. He was nice and gave Mathieu an orgasm already. Now it’s his turn.

Wout tries to bite back a groan at the first press of his cock into Mathieu. He’s tight, tighter than Wout was expecting, and he’s hot inside, a fucking inferno. Mathieu shivers with the intrusion. He pushes back to meet Wout’s thrust.

Mathieu’s body is beautiful beneath him, especially when Wout starts to fuck him in earnest. Maybe it’s the continuing afterglow, but Mathieu is pliant and eager, like maybe he was made just for this. Wout wonders how many others have had him bent over and gagging for cock. Enough, probably. It’d make him very popular.

Wout doesn’t want to dwell on that, though. He squeezes his eyes shut and folds over Mathieu’s back, so he can tuck his nose into the nape of Mathieu’s neck. It’s probably a trick of his brain, but he almost believes he can smell the muddy Belgian fields of his youth --- after a rainstorm, when the air feels light and clean and beautiful. Maybe after riding over them for so long, Mathieu has started to carry them with him.

Wout finds his rhythm, each snap of his hips punching a gasp from Mathieu’s lips. Sometimes, when he can let his mind wander there, fucking reminds Wout of cycling --- and not in the “like riding a bike” joking way. Power and pleasure and pain intertwined in a heady cocktail.

This is his body doing what it’s been made to do, shaped for. This is as close as he can get these days to remembering the wind on his face, the ground underneath his tires, the adrenaline buzzing through his system.

Mathieu matches him. His body moves in sync with Wout’s, thrust for thrust. Wout doesn’t know if it’s just because Mathieu’s just that experienced from handling his own requests or if it’s some instinct they had both developed over years of cyclocross training, a give and take they learned by heart. Either way, Wout thinks maybe he loves Mathieu in this moment, just a little bit.

When Wout comes, he lets out a moan. He doesn’t try to swallow it down.

After he catches his breath, he pulls out, letting one hand drift down the sheen of sweat coating Mathieu’s back. Mathieu shivers at the touch and even whines at the sudden emptiness. He turns and meets Wout’s eyes. Some of Wout’s come leaks out onto the sheets. Wout feels like maybe he should say something. The words stick like phlegm in his throat.

A round of applause shakes them both out of the moment. Wout’s owner stands up and walks over. A handful of discarded tissues and Wout’s underwear left behind on a side table are the only sign he even got off on any of this. His clothes are otherwise pristine. “Bravo,” he says. He cups Wout’s cheek in one hand and smiles with amused benevolence. “You were lovely as always, dove.” His eyes flick briefly towards Mathieu before addressing him. “You can use the shower across the hall.”

Wout tries not to visibly flinch at the curt dismissal. It’s rare for his owner to be so rude to his requests. He prides himself on his kindness, and he’s usually indulgent with the partners he procures for Wout, letting them cuddle or exchange numbers or just generally recover before being sent to the guest shower. Something about this request has displeased him enough that he’s not bothering with basic politeness, and Wout doesn’t know what.

Mathieu stands. He’s taller than Wout’s owner, which Wout didn’t expect for some reason. He collects his bibs and jersey off the floor. It’s a bit funny, seeing him hold the crumpled white fabric in the general vicinity of his crotch as if he has any modesty to preserve with anyone in this room. He also seems to pick up on the absurdity and lets his hands fall to his sides.

Wout’s going to have his own shower in the attached ensuite. His owner will probably join him. He always enjoys running his hands over Wout’s body, mapping out the shape and weight of his property.

Mathieu starts walking towards the bedroom door. He doesn’t have to worry about any of the house slaves seeing him in the hallway. It’s nothing they haven’t seen before. On his way out, he stops by where Wout’s standing. Mathieu looks at Wout. He takes a deep, even breath. “Do you-- if you have-- we could go for a coffee ride sometime. If you want.” He addresses this to Wout, not to Wout’s owner.

Wout is so startled, he doesn’t know how to react at first. Mathieu’s eyes are clear, and his expression is intent, maybe also a hint of softness to it. The offer seems genuine enough. It could be that Mathieu puts out the offer to every cyclist he fucks, but even then it’s touching to know Mathieu still thinks of Wout that way. He lets himself imagine it: pulling on his own kit, clipping into his pedals, following Mathieu’s wheel through the countryside to see all the routes he likes, the cafes he visits. It’s a nice fantasy. Wout can add it to his rotation.

He blinks away the image and focuses again on Mathieu’s expectant gaze. He licks his lips, ready to give his answer, but his owner answers for him. “No,” he says, firm and cold. That tone of voice always makes Wout draw himself into perfect posture, all too aware of what’s coming next. At least it’s aimed at Mathieu and not Wout this time. “He won’t be going on any coffee rides.” His owner, already close, slides two fingers underneath the leather of Wout’s collar, giving it a yank and forcing Wout’s head down. He brushes a light, sweet kiss against Wout’s check. Then he smiles at Mathieu, sharp and poisonous. “You should go take that shower. I know how messy requests can get.” He puts a snide little emphasis on the word requests to remind Mathieu that for all his extra freedoms out in public, he’s under contract, too.

Wout watches Mathieu’s back as he leaves. The bruises he left on Mathieu’s shoulders are starting to purple. He’ll carry that reminder of Wout for a few days. Wout likes that. Mathieu will probably forget the rest of this soon enough. He has other, more important, things to worry about.

Wout’s owner lets go of the collar and strokes Wout’s neck. His smile has lost its edge and only gentle affection remains. “I knew you’d enjoy your present, dove,” he says, voice soft. “I really have spoiled you rotten.”

“Thank you,” Wout murmurs. “You know me better than I know myself. That was really nice.” This is part of the script. His owner puts him through requests, and Wout thanks him for the privilege of being used.

The hand on Wout’s neck pauses, clamping down in an unconscious movement. His owner frowns. “No more cyclists, though,” he says, more to himself than to Wout. “They get you too emotional.”

Wout had a feeling he would never see Mathieu again, but hearing the confirmation stings more than he thought it would. “Of course,” he says. He tries to fix a happy smile onto his face.

“Oh, don’t pout like that,” his owner chides. “There’s a nice striker who is oh-so popular these days. Can’t score for his life, but I’m told his mouth is worth it. Wouldn’t that be nice, dove? You do love a footballer.” He kisses Wout’s forehead and pats Wout’s cheek. He’s generally touchy with Wout, but it feels a bit excessive right now, like he needs to remind himself that Wout is still here.

Wout takes a breath. In all honesty, he couldn’t care less about this other guy, but this, too, has a script. “You know I always love your presents,” he says and kisses his owner back.