Charles' nostrils flared as he turned his head to look and saw what John was doing. For a moment he was silent, just listening to John and staring into the lens, his dark eyes a little wide. "I see it." He said finally. He was completely exposed, with his jeans and boxers shoved down to his socks, his shirt gone, and he shuddered to think of how pale his skin would look on tape later - oh, there was tape. A record of his shame and his exposure, his weakness. It was unbelievably arousing. His lips parted, his mouth suddenly dry, and he strained to follow John with his eyes until it became impossible, and then he let his head drop forward. "Fuck, John." He muttered. "Come on-" John pulled him back and his knees bumped against the washer. "Fuck, John." He groaned, tilting his head back.
"I see it." Charles repeated, his back arching as John touched him. "Please, please, please." He said, begging a little, "More, harder, pain, please?" Pain had been his punishment for existing for as long as he could remember, and it was the only way that he knew how to feel vindicated for existing in the lie that was him.