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foucault was mad. he was madder than mad. he was so mad he made the mad hatter look joyful. how stupid could chomsky be?? clearly human nature was just a social construct. how could the younger man not see that? a knock at the door of the green room brought him back to reality.
“hello, mr foucault…?” it was the man himself, sounding as timid and shy as always. foucault adjusted his jacket for reasons he didn’t quite understand. “can i come in?”
you can do more than come in, foucault thought as he stood up, opened the door.
chomsky, rather sheepishly, flicked his gaze up to foucault and then immediately diverted it. foucault leaned against the doorframe, scrutinising chomsky’s facial expression.
« tu veux entrer ? » foucault asked. chomsky flicked his gaze up again, nodded.
« passe par ici, monsieur chomsky. » the younger man’s face coloured, just a little bit, at the honourific.
chomsky entered, and as foucault closed the door, the air became thick and hot and sticky and tepid.
“that was a really, really great debate, mr foucault, sir. i thought you brought up a lot of great points and even though i might not agree with them, i think you substantiated them well.” he extended his hand, expecting foucault to shake it. the older man simply looked at it and sat down, expecting chomsky to follow suit.
« malgré nos, euh, différences fondamentales, j’ai une montagne de respect pour toi, monsieur chomsky. » foucault flashed him a winning smile. the air felt even more oppressively torrid than before.
“mr foucault…” chomsky hesitated, eyes tracking the way foucault ran his hands up and down his thighs as he was listening. “i’ve heard a lot of rumours…”
foucault, seeming to intrinsically understand chomsky’s insinuation, nodded enthusiastically.
« il sont tous vrais, mon cher mec. je ne vois aucune raison de cacher mes goûts sexuels, » he allowed a mischievous smile to spread across his face. « pourquoi demandes-toi? tu veux que je te baise fort et brutalement? »
chomsky’s eyes flicked up to foucault’s, too embarrassed to say anything.
« ne me dis pas que tu es gêne à ce sujet, chérie… comme je l’ai dit, je n’ai aucune raison de me cacher, pourquoi devrais-tu le faire ? je pense qu’une bonne baise bien dure on aidera à régler nos différends n’est-ce pas ? chèrie ? »
chomsky looked at foucault imploringly, eyes gently twinkling like two jewels set into his face. foucault did his thinking face.
« ben ? » foucault enquired. chomsky felt his face heat up under the scrutiny of his gaze. he watched as foucault stood up slowly and walked over to his bag, opened it, took something out. chomsky craned his neck to see what it was; foucault must have detected this as he immediately hid it from view.
“whaddya got there, mr foucault, sir?” chomsky asked, his lilting tone only slightly betraying his apprehension.
« tu verras, chèrie. mais, d’abord, déshabille-toi pour moi. vas-y. » chomsky’s eye twitched a little as he stood up to remove his blazer, remove his tie, unbutton and remove his dress shirt, discard his belt, and take off his pants. left in his underwear, he flicked his gaze over to foucault.
« enlève aussi tes sous-vêtements aussi. » what?? how on earth could foucault tell that he still had his underwear on?? he begrudgingly complied. finally, foucault turned around and made his way towards chomsky.
his eyes drifted up to the older man, who was standing directly in front of him. with a collar in his hand. and a look of pure power painted across his face. chomsky gulped. there was something else, too. and a bottle. foucault set down the other items and squirted a bit of liquid into his hand.
chomsky sunk a little into the chair when he realised what the item was; a chastity cage. his face burned like a phosphorus fire and a small, involuntary whine left him.
foucault’s eyes flashed at his reaction as he reached down to grab the younger man’s dick. he arched away a little bit, a pretty blush set upon his cheeks. chomsky let out a pathetic whine as the older man’s hands grabbed at him.
« ne bande pas, chèrie. » he said. it was a warning, but he said it so sweetly that chomsky couldn’t help but smile. he knew what would happen if he did.
he finished fastening the metal cage and chomsky looked up at him, letting out a little whine at the look of power in his eyes… wow, maybe foucault was right about the embodiment of power.
« regarde toi !» foucault cooed, planting a soft kiss to chomsky’s forehead before leaning down to attach the collar.
chomsky, already shifting in discomfort and embarrassment, gave another little whine.
« penche-toi en arrière, » foucault demanded. « et assieds-toi droit. »
chomsky complied, eyes never wavering from foucault’s as he fixed the collar aroumd his neck. the long, leather leash trailed down his front and gently kissed his inner thigh. he squirmed a little, dick begging to get hard. chomsky bit his lip in frustration.
« pourquoi tu te tortilles, mon garçon ?» foucault said sweetly, as he gave a gentle tug of the leash, chomsky let out an involuntary whine. « qu’est-ce que ça fait ?»
“good,” chomsky said hoarsly. “good, sir.”
foucault gave him another sweet smile as his gaze drifted lightly over chomsky’s body.
« mon dieu, t’es magnefique comme ça. j’y ai pensé pendant le debat, tu sais. t’ètais si gentil; je voulais juste te corrompre, te mettre à genoux. tu faire pleurer. »
chomsky’s face heated up again at that. he opened his mouth to say something but foucault tugged the leash again, causing a strangled cry to leave him instead. he needed to get hard so badly it was embarrassing.
« viens ! » foucault demanded. chomsky got out of the chair and started to walk but foucault pulled sharply on the leash again, hard enough to topple the younger man. « à quattre pattes, mon dieu. les bons animaux de compagnie ne marchent pas sur deux pattes comme les gens. t’as compris ? »
chomsky looked up at foucault through his brows and bit his lip and nodded.
“yes.”
foucault slapped him across the face.
“yes, sir.” chomsky whispered. the older man leaned down to his level and pressed a hot, opened mouth kiss onto his collarbone.
« bon garçon. est-ce que tu vas te mettre à quatre pattes pour moi, chèrie ?»
chomsky furrowed his brows together as foucault stood up and backed away, arms folded and eyes dark. he was straining through his pants. the younger complied.
“what is power, sir?” chomsky enquired, slowly crawling over to where foucault stood.
« le pouvoir… c’est ni agence ni structure. il imprègne la société ; chaque institution, chaque relationship est dictée par le pouvoir, » when foucault said ‘relationship’, his eyes travelled lazily down chomsky’s body, lingering on his neck. « putain… » he mused.
chomsky flicked his gaze up at foucault, eyes twinkling.
“yeah?” chomsky dared. the other man’s eyes flashed as he pressed his boot to the younger’s chest and pushed him onto his back. he wanted so badly to get hard it was physically painful
« retourne-toi. » foucault demanded. chomsky gave him a curious look. « fais-le, putain… » to punctuate his point foucault tugged on the leash.
chomsky moved onto his stomach, feeling a bit silly and a lot awkward. then, he rolled onto his back again, looking foucault dead in the eye.
« bon garçon, » he praised. « bon, bon, petit garçon. tu veux un récompense ?»
unexpectedly, chomsky shakes his head earnestly, gets back up on his knees.
“please hurt me, mr foucault. please, it’s what i deserve…”
foucault’s eye twitched and slowly undid his belt.
« viens-ici et penche-toi, salope. » foucault patted his lap. chomsky’s dick wanted so badly to get hard at the insult he felt a tear kiss his cheek. the younger man complied and laid himself across the older man’s lap. foucault raised the belt and brought it down upon chomsky’s ass, relishing the girlish whine that left his lips.
« stupide salope, » another spanking.
« putain de pute idiote, tu penses que tu es plus intelligente que moi ? meilleur que moi? » another spank, this time across the back of chomsky’s thighs. his dick was leaking precum now and foucault could feel it staining his slacks.
« tu te trompes. tu n'es qu'un petit garçon stupide dont le cerveau est plein de crasse. regarde toi. putain de pathétique, pleurnichant et dribblant sur mes genoux, » chomsky began to cry again, salty tears spilling down his cheeks.
« putain de dégoûtant. je sais à quel point tu as besoin de bander, noam. attends juste que j'enlève cette putain de cage, » another spank, this time with foucault’s own hand. he gripped chomsky’s left ass cheek and relished the pathetic whimper that spilled from his lips.
« tu souhaiteres ne jamais venir ici. et puis, je te baiserai si fort que tu oublieras comment respirer et que tu tomberas mort sur mon sol comme un putain de chien, » foucault tugged on the leash for emphasis.
« c'est pourquoi tu portes ce collier. putain de salope dégoûtante et sale, » another spank. « gémissant et pleurnichant et fuyant juste à cause d'une fessée bien méritée. attends. putain, attends. »
chomsky’s cheeks were stained with tears and his ass was stained red as his body was wracked with sobs. why was foucault being ao mean to him? and more importantly, why was he enjoying it so much? his dick was so engorged it was almost purple and popping through the gaps in the metal like a bag of onions. begging to get hard.
“please, mr foucault, i- i’m sorry! i don’t know what i did wrong, but-.”
« ferme ta geule. »
foucault flipped the younger man over and pinned him to the couch, whispering endless apologies against his bruised and battered skin. he kissed chomsky softly, hand coming down to cup his jaw and remove his collar to kiss down his neck.
« j’suis vraiment désolé, chèrie… tellement, tellement désolé… papa a été trop dur avec ça, hmm? j’suis désolé, petit garçon… mais, papa a un cadeau spécial pour son petit garçon, tu le veux? hmm? dis-moi a quel point tu le veux, chérie. » indicating what the gift could be, foucault’s hands licked down chomsky’s hips to where the cage sat. he feigned a gasp at how hard the younger man was.
« oh, non, noamie… on dirait que quelqu’un a apprécié sa punition, est-ce pas? je me demande qui se passerait si j’enlevais ça, hmm? voyons… »
foucault’s nimble fingers began to undo the cage and chomsky began to understand what would happen. his eyes flashed in fear as he reached down to try and prevent the inevitable but foucault was too far gone. he removed the cage with lightning speed and watched with delight as chomsky’s dick sprung up and out so outrageously it almost deserved a cartoonish ‘boing’.
chomsky wanted to melt into the couch in horror, face seeping into the fabric as he burned so brightly he almost glowed.
« pourquoi est-tu si bande, noamie? » foucault enquired, his hot breath fanning over chomsky’s tip and causing him to whine and buck his hips. and then foucault wrapped his hand around the base, giving chomsky a simultaneously evil and sexy expression that confused him.
« es-tu prêt, cherie? »
chomsky was so sensitive he could merely whine and buck his hips in response.
« oh, tu le veux? hmm? »
the younger man nodded and whined, eyes already teary with overstimulation. foucault gave him a sweet smile as he leaned down to give the tip of chomsky’s achingly hard dick a few sweet kitten licks.
“fuck!” chomsky covered his face with his hands. “oh, mr foucault.”
« oui? tu l’aime? » chomsky nodded and whined again, almost forgetting the pain he had been put through to get here
“oh, god…” the younger man cried out, bucking his hips again when foucault wrapped his lips around the swollen tip. “f-FUCK!”
foucault looked up at chomsky through his lashes. how beautiful he was… glasses slightly askew on his faceand a little fogged up from the deep blush emanating from his face which seemed so strong and pervasive across the whole of his face that chomsky might as well have been glowing incandescently with red light. he was biting his lip, slightly crooked teeth sinking into the flesh there, futilely preventing wanton whines and whimpers from dribbling from them. his eyes were closed, almost screwed shut, and all of a sudden his jaw went slack as his mouth hung open pathetically.
“wait- wait, mr foucault-!” chomsky all of a sudden cried out, eyes flying open as he sat up, panicked and flustered. “slow down, fuck…!” he cried out again and fell back against the couch. foucault couldn’t help but mentally remark on how sensitive the man was. he supposed that that was what happened when you touch somebody and they’re wearing a chastity cage…
chomsky, overcome by shudders, was beyond embarrassed by how stupid he had become in the pursuit of nirvana. and with foucault of all people; the inventor of biopolitics. god, he needed to come so badly he wanted to tear his hair out.
judging by the obscene twitches from chomsky’s dick, the younger man was closer than the hit 2004 film AND the nine inch nails song combined. foucault looked at the younger man and smiled as he removed his mouth from chomsky’s dick.
chomsky’s eye twitched as a salty tear carved its way down his cheek.
“please…” he wailed, bucking his hips up again, desperate for friction.
« s’il te plaît… quoi ?» foucault smiled at chomsky again. « vas-y, dis-moi… »
chomsky opened his mouth to reply but a cry sounded from him instead.
« utilise tes mots, putain… »
chomsky sat up, nose red and eyes puffy, looking altogether sheepish.
“please, mr foucault… i need it so badly…”
foucault feigned confusion.
« ‘j’en ai besoin’… besoin de quoi? j’suis pas sûr de comprendre ce que tu veux dire…” a diabolical smirk crossed his features briefly.
chomsky quickly reached down to wrap a hand around his aching dick, eyes begging and lips pursed. even faster, foucault snatched both of his wrists and held them high above his head, pushing him onto his back again and pressing a searing kiss to his lips.
« comment oses-tu. » foucault growled, pulling away to pull his pants down with more speed than… something speedy.
delight lit up chomsky’s features as he looked at foucault expectantly.
« j’sais que que t’en as besoin… » he pressed another kiss to chomsky’s collarbone, biting down gently and sucking. « …alors je vais te le donner, t’inquiète pas… »
with that, foucault placed his hands on chomsky’s hips and gently aligned his tip with the younger’s entrance. the younger man whined.
“please…”
and with that, foucault gently pressed into chomsky with a low, earth-shattering groan.
chomsky gave a girlish whine and shrank into the couch while foucault dipped down to press a hot open mouthed kiss to the younger man’s neck.
« ça fait du bien? » foucault asked, a little breathily. chomsky had his eyes closed and seemed to be muttering some sort of mantra. « noamie? ça fait du bien, p’tit garçon? »
the younger man nodded a little.
“uh-huh…”
determined to conjure up more obscene noises from the younger man, foucault grabbed at his hips again and sped up and deepened his thrusts.
“i asked you a fucking question,” he said, for whatever reason choosing now to switch to english. “and i want an answer.”
chomsky’s eyes flew open at the increase in speed and he gave a pathetic mewl.
“you could- speak english the whole time??” he cried out, squeezing his eyes shut as he began to shake.
« oh… » foucault tutted in a disapproving way, whilst also conveniently avoiding the question. « tu veux déjà jouir? »
rolling his eyes brattily, chomsky bit back a whorish wail.
“not my fault…!”
foucault tutted again.
« c’est pas ta faute, hein? pas ta faute? » the older man wrapped his fingers around chomsky’s throat and pressed lightly, causing the younger to let out little whimpers as his thrusts increased. « c’est pas ta putain de faute? c’est qui alors? hmm? c’est qui, noamie? reponds-moi! »
chomsky shook his head and cried. he was trying to speak but every time he opened his mouth, little mewls and whimpers would escape instead.
« c’est pas ma faute, est-ce pas? tu ne rejettes pas la faute sur papa? » he demanded, relishing the way chomsky whined and wailed and sank further into the couch as he got closer.
finally, the younger man gave a loud yelp as his hips began to buck, tears streaming down his face and glasses askew.
come spurted all on chomsky’s stomach and he froze for a little bit, eyes glazed with tears as a hot blush spread all over his face and collarbone.
foucault continued to thrust until he pulled out and spurted long thick ropes onto the couch, accompanied by a long, loud groan. chomsky cast a horrified look to the substance, before foucault leaned down to press a sweet kiss to the younger man’s ear before whispering,
“clean it up.”
chomsky nodded obediently and reached off to the side of the couch, absentmindedly searching for a tissue before foucault stopped him with a condescending laugh.
« non, chèrie… » he said, an amused and imploring glint in his eye.
chomsky shook his head.
“no, no… i can’t.”
something flashed in foucault’s eyes; something so intangible and frightening it made chomsky give another little cry.
« oui, tu peux, » the older man said firmly. chomsky hesitantly nodded and leaned down to lap up foucault’s come, cringing a little. « bon garçon… bon animaux de compagnie… »
when he was finished, chomsky looked up at foucault with big, doe eyes like he was going to cry.
« t’as fait du si bon travail pour moi, chèrie… t’as été si bon. merci, p’tit… » the older man whispered, kissing all of chomsky’s wounds gently. « j’suis désolé, bébé. papa peut-il t’apporter quelque chose? »
chomsky shook his head a little timidly.
« laisse-moi au moins te raccompagner à ta voiture, chèrie, c’est pas un problème… » foucault pressed a gentle kiss to chomsky’s lips, and the younger nodded.
“that would be nice… so i guess the rumours are true… right?”
foucault laughed and shook his head.
« oh, chèrie… c’était moi quand j’étais gentil… »