Fetish

He's at the door again. He finds himself here whenever he is home for too long. He's moved on, he really really really has.

Except, he hasn't. He still dreams about her, the curves of her flesh especially.

His most recent paramour has a shape like her, fuller and heavier. He'd avoided anyone who looked like her for A very long time. Unlike his other loves, he had no interest in pursuing a copycat. They wouldn't be as similar as he wished anyway. She, and her tastes, were singular.

He likes the new one. He really likes her, but sometimes the weight of her in his hands, a peaked nipple against his palate, the reverb of her bum when he smacks it, it's all a little too much like the girl he can't forget. It shocked him the first time he closed his eyes in pleasure and saw her instead of the woman he was actually inside of. He had not thought of them as similar at all. They looked different, they sounded different, the nip of their cunt was not remotely the same. But, He finds himself closing his eyes and pretending that in the place of blonde hair, there is raven fringe obscuring demanding eyes. A different accent, more clipped than slurred and higher pitched. More and more he can't shake it. The other night, their last together for a while, with Him flying far far away and her staying in lala land, he felt like a cad. He hated that feeling, like he was using people. They were in a relationship and he was mentally elsewhere with someone else while he was loving her goodbye. Harry was afraid she would feel the lack of connection, know he was only half there. he was slightly offended she hadn't. But, instead she seemed to be turned on by his rougher touch, more detached and selfish style.

It stuck with him the whole flight home. Harry was recriminating himself for most of the 11 hours. It felt familiar, like those months after her, where he had chased after anything that made him hard, egged on by bad influences, and took advantage of the attention he was shown. He didn't like that feeling. He found himself scrubbing his skin in the shower afterwards, and was still unsatisfied. Partially because his mother's disappointment was ringing in his ears, but, mostly because no matter how many he hooked up with, what they did, for how long, it was empty and he wasn't getting what he needed.

What he needed was to not be in charge. To escape the pressures around him. To give that over to someone else. With the girls, fans, groupies, no matter what, he was still the one with the power. They were there at his whim, his edict. They signed on the dotted line for the chance to be near him. He didn't want to be adored, sometimes he wanted to be used.

Harry stayed away for the first week he was in London, minding his own business. Nick even said her name, and though his dick jumped a little, he got his little soldier in line and kept his interest surface level. He'd learned to not give Nick a bone, he'd had a field day when Harry was an eager 19year pup sniffing after her.

This afternoon was the last straw. He'd finally gotten around to unpacking his bags. His assistant always offered to do it for him, but that felt intrusive. Harry was aware that she knew his waist size, that his suits had cock pockets, and his inhaler was sometimes just to get him through a tough performance. He hadn't had an attack in years. She also bought his mother's Xmas gifts, for God's sakes, but he just couldn't let her unpack his dirty pants on top of that all. He needed a little privacy, even from her.

He'd pulled out the belts he had acquired for his shows, he'd lost weight and had to buy them. He was really missing Mark Jarvis and SRah's kitchen, touring was rigorous. When he made it to the cubby where he kept his leather goods, his hand glanced upon it while he was making room. When he pulled it out his face reddened and dick hardened.

When they had suggested he wear it in the shoot, he had almost declined. Not because it didn't fit him, his image, but that it fit him to well. Those parts of his personality that no one saw. Everyone loved his charisma, but they didn't realize that he just was reading them and mirroring their body language back to them. Giving a submissive display, like she'd taught him, so everyone thought they were a king in his presence. Or a queen.

His queen. He sniffed the rich leather and thought of other aromas he was used to being coupled with it. The tang of nervous sweat and burning cinnamon candles, her favorite, the smell of salt sea, her desire, and the smell of her breath when she leaned close to give a directive. The lingering scent of the coffee she loved, tiny hint of vanilla, and the perfume he associated with her. It always surprised harry she liked to smell of flowers. Had he been asked to guess he would have though she favored sandalwood and rich spice.

The collection of smells was redolent of missed chances and youthful vigor. he could see himself asking permission and forgiveness all at once. Evocative and heavy, he found himself opening the collar and slipping it on.

When she opened the door, she didn't ask questions. He answered them all with his attire.

Daisy thought he suited up nicely.