by Aiden Bates
My cock leapt, and I arched my back as electric pleasure crackled over my nerves, stinging at the tip of my dick and winding a jagged path over my spine. As I writhed and struggled to contain my pleasure, he spit on his hand, and reached for my cock. A moment later I was in his grip, bucking against his fist on one end and his finger on the other, unable to escape either as they trapped me in a circuit of building pleasure. His burning hand glided over me, twisted over the head of my dick, slid down to the base to squeeze tight, and then stroke me again. Each time I thrust into his fist, his finger prodded my gland.
“I don’t have any lube,” he said calmly and quietly as I suffered between his hands, “but I do have a solution to that...”
The hand on my cock sped up gradually, and the insistence of his invading finger grew more acute. He pumped both rhythmically, following the movements of my body as they became more frantic, as I had to put a hand to my mouth first, and then a pillow, and then if I didn’t scream, I was going to explode, my insides liquefied—
And then I couldn’t breathe at all. He growled quietly, a sound of excitement and satisfaction, as my cock swelled in his fist and then gave forth a gush of cum onto my heaving belly and chest. I practically hyperventilated, my throat wide open to keep from howling, sucking in lungfuls of air like I had been drowning as the orgasm thundered through me, turned my bones to mush, my joints to jelly, my head to a thick cloud of pleasure that I couldn’t see or hear through. All that filled my ears was the pounding of my own heart and the quiet laughter that Nix made as he milked the last drops out of me and soothed my already aching prostate with that thick, expert finger.
And when I momentarily thought that perhaps this was what he had intended, and that he had sated his curiosity, I felt his fingers on my chest. I craned my neck, my eyes clearing somewhat, to see him gathering the seed that I had spilled on myself. There was quite a lot of it. It had been a while. He was meticulous, collecting it even as it began to drip down the side of my stomach. When he seemed to have collected enough, he used it to slick himself up.
“This okay?” he asked.
I didn’t understand why he was asking until he withdrew his finger from me and spit in his hand again, this time to add more lubrication.
My stomach fluttered. I realized he meant to fuck me with my own cum. It was new. That was about all I could say except that I briefly imagined him pushing inside me, feeling that slickness and knowing that it was me, that he had milked me for what he needed, and that my cock had barely begun to flag before it swelled again with excitement.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “That’s, ah... yeah.”
He grinned wide, and slipped his knees under mine, pulling my hips closer. With an expression of almost innocent curiosity, he studied my face as he found my hole, angled his cock toward it, and pushed slowly against what little resistance my body was prepared to give him.
“I can be a little aggressive,” he muttered as he worked the head of his cock against my hole, opening me a bit at a time. “Is that—”
“Yes,” I rasped, and reached to pull at his hips.
The pain was sharp, clarifying. I stretched for him as he pushed inside me, the muscles there rebelling at the sudden, commanding presence that pushed them aside. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, but the hurt mixed quickly with the thrum of pleasure as he filled me. I held my breath, riding the ache until it soothed away, and gave a trembling moan that was cut off when Nix put a hand to my mouth, covering it.
“Not a sound,” he breathed as he thrust into me, deeper, until I felt his knot push against my entrance. It blocked him from going further, though I almost pulled him deeper, just to know.
I had asked Vance once what it was like to be tied by a dragon. He had simply turned a remarkable shade of red and refused to answer.
But for the moment, I was content to feel Nix inside me, gliding easily into my depths and out again, each time his cock head grazing my aching prostate. Each time he pushed deep, the last inch or so he slammed into place, and it pushed against something mysterious that I had never reached on my own or with a partner. Each time, I let out a sharp grunt that he trapped with a hand that smelled like my cum, the scent filling my nose and somehow managing to make me almost delirious with the raw aggression of it.
He sped up gradually, finding a rhythm that he liked, and I clenched against him each time, tightening around him, gripping him, more and more needful with each impalement to feel him release inside me. His expression grew slowly more determined, his brows knitting, his lips working, the veins over his forehead showing themselves as they swelled. He pressed his hand down harder over my mouth, as his nostrils flared. Each breath he exhaled became almost like a furious bull, snorting and grunting as he pumped into me.
I knew it was time when he took his hand from my mouth, spit in it, and gripped my cock again. He worked me as furiously as he fucked me, one hand on my hips to pull me against him each time. The bed rocked. Flesh slapped against flesh. His knot slammed against my hole, again and again, swelling harder each time until his hand left my hip and found the back of my head. He pulled me up to straddle his waist, pressed his mouth to mine, and gave my cock a final expert twist.
I moaned around his tongue. I came again, pulsing with it, rocking and bucking against his cock. He gave a single, sharp gasp of what was almost shock. His breath filled my lungs. I gave it back. He fucked me twice more, his powerful hips hitting me hard enough to rattle my spine. Then a pulse of hot liquid burst into me. I felt each contraction at the root of his cock as it jettisoned his seed into my bowel, the thick tube of him swelling like a second heart as he emptied.
At the end of it, we were locked together, arms around each other, stinking of sex, breathing together, our bodies trembling as we struggled to stay upright, until finally he lowered me to the bed again, and laid his head on my chest. He remained inside me, his hips moving only a little bit to make short, slow thrusts into me, as if stopping would mean it was over.
I trailed my fingers over his shoulders, tangled them in his hair, and hovered in some middle place not unlike limbo, where all sensations were one prolonged note of feeling that simply lingered on with no urgency, no direction, no purpose.
And for the moment, I didn’t think about what would happen when he found out the truth. I didn’t think about anything. The two of us, like we were—we simply were.
That was good enough for now.
11
Nix
I hadn’t really meant for it to happen, but once the afterglow wore off and Mikhail and I parted and showered—several times, because one shower wouldn’t clear the scent enough that another dragon would miss it—and settled down with his notebook and Basri’s files... it was sort of like the whole event never occurred.
I didn’t know whether it was me or Mikhail that made the decision, but an hour after I had been buried inside him, the scent of sex clouding every other thought out of my brain, we sat business-like at the modest table at one end of the main room of my house as we sorted through the available information. “This was the first report,” I said, handing him Basri’s file marked ‘Yaren Forsyth’. “It was before we ever saw the spirit. Basri didn’t think anyone in the weyr would have murdered him.”
He took the file, opened it and laid it out in front of him, frowning at the pictures, nodding slowly as he flipped through the pages. “Says he’s got no known enemies, no recent conflicts,” he muttered before he looked up. “Was he connected to Rav in any way? There when it happened, or...?”
“No,” I said. “He was only a little older than me, he’d have been about seventeen when all that happened. Too young to fight. We don’t really reach reliable fighting capacity until around twenty to twenty-two. Later for some. I was only there for personal reasons.”
“What about Pendrig?” he asked. “Any connection to him?”
I sighed, sitting back in the chair. “Not really. Of course, we all know each other, but they weren’t cl
oser than anyone else. Not like Rezzek and I.”
“Rezzek,” he echoed. “Who is this?”
“A friend,” I said. “Since we were kids.”
“I have not met him,” he remarked.
For some reason, that made me just a hair uncomfortable. “Uh... well, there hasn’t been a reason or anything. I mean I haven’t avoided introducing you, it’s not—”
He shook his head, chuckling. “I am not criticizing, I am clarifying. Has he seen the poltergeist, has it attacked him or anything like this?”
“No,” I said, both relieved and almost disappointed. For a moment, I thought he’d been saying he wondered why I hadn’t introduced him. Did I want to? I told Rezzek everything. Would I tell him about this?
Mikhail didn’t notice my quandary, instead continuing to read the file. “I suppose,” he said, “that if Rav was executing a grudge, he would likely be angry with the entire community. He certainly had a vicious streak.”
I weighed those words for a long moment. “What makes you think that?”
He looked up, blinking, expressionless. “Clearly he was an evil man, capable of terrible things. I would say that enslaving a soul is vicious. This kind of person does not do things in half measures.”
Fair enough, I supposed. But he went quickly back to the file, finished it, scribbled a few side-notes in his book, and looked for the other one.
I fished Mellora Casey’s file from the stack for him and passed it along. This one he took a seemingly keener interest in. “One thing which has puzzled me,” he said, “is this incident. Mellora was possessed, then lit her house on fire. If this person, Rav or someone else, knows what they are doing, who they are dealing with, it seems an odd way to cause maximum damage. After all, she later shot herself. The possessing spirit could have walked her from room to room, dispatching her mate and two children. That would have ensured the maximum loss of life.”
The way he said it was almost academic, as if three people hadn’t been deeply traumatized by the event. “I’d say losing their house was still pretty damn painful, on top of losing Mellora. We’ve only just now finished clearing the wreckage, and it will be at least a month or more before something else is built that they can live in.”
“Of course,” he said, catching some whiff of the offense, casting me an apologetic look. “I did not mean to imply otherwise. I simply mean—while in each case, someone has been killed, this activity suggests that killing as many as possible is not the motive.”
I wasn’t sure how to process that. It did make sense, after a fashion, but... “Then why kill anyone at all?”
“Why does anyone kill?” he asked, waving his pen at the world around us. “Sometimes out of blind rage, sometimes from jealousy, sometimes for money or some other personal gain. Sometimes to hurt someone else, if a person is particularly cruel and without conscience.”
“Sometimes for survival,” I added.
He shrugged. “Survival is doubtful in this case.”
I folded my arms, and regarded him curiously. “Do they teach you mages detective work in the cabals?”
Mikhail shrugged. “It will sound somewhat macabre, but... were you to come to me to find a stolen object, I would be useless unless there was a spirit who witnessed the crime. When it comes to death, however?” He tapped the page in front of him with the pen. “Well, let us say that I have a particular affinity.”
“Right,” I breathed. “Death.”
He winced. “And also, I have talked with quite a few murder victims.”
“Can you do that here?” I wondered. “Can we just call up Yaren, Mellora, and Nissef, ask them why they might have been targeted?”
“As a last resort,” he said cautiously, laying the pen down. “It would be traumatic for them. If they do not linger already—and, if they did, I would know by now, and Gabby would have met them—then they have passed on to whatever place awaits them on the other side. Bringing someone back from the true afterlife is harmful to them. It is not to be done more than perhaps once, in extreme cases.”
Perhaps that was another misconception I had. “I thought summoning the dead was kind of the whole point of necromancy.”
“Our magic is more about the interaction of life and death as a whole, and the many stages and levels which compose both. The connections between them.” He looked down at the file, and pursed his lips, considering. At length he looked up again. “Mellora’s husband. Was he involved with the hunt for Pendrig and Rav?”
My chest tightened some. “Keelan,” I said. “I... believe he might have been, yes. Pop rounded up a posse, essentially. And, come to think of it, Yaren’s oldest brother was there as well.”
“And Nissef?” he asked.
I put a hand to my forehead. “Shit. Yeah, Nissef’s mother was definitely there. Areela McClain, she’s a council member.”
Mikhail closed his eyes, his lips thinning as if it pained him to find this all out. He drummed his fingers on the file as he opened his eyes again. “So, that is likely the motive then,” he said. “Not simply to kill people. Once a person dies, pain... doesn’t exactly go away, but it changes. It is less. Rav’s goal is not to kill the people responsible—at least not initially. It is to hurt them badly. To make them suffer.”
“You’ve decided he’s responsible?” I wondered.
He leaned heavily on the table, his head hanging as if he were exhausted all over again. “I think... that from what you have described, he sounds like the kind of person who enjoys inflicting pain. And when he feels he is owed, perhaps he chooses the most agonizing vengeance he can think of.”
“You got all that from my story?” I didn’t know if I thought he was bullshitting me, or if he was some kind of genius. “It sounds more personal. Like you know him.”
“His type,” Mikhail muttered. “I know his type, is all.”
He pushed the files away, and rubbed his face with both hands before he dropped them to the table again. “I need to know who else was involved in the round-up. Your father, Nissef’s mother, Mellora’s husband, Yaren’s older brother. You, of course, as well. Who else?”
“There were seven of us,” I said. “Vilar, another council member, was there—” my chest constricted, and my stomach dropped. “And Rezzek’s uncle, Tolman. He never mated, never took an interest in anyone, really—Rezzek is as close as he’s got to a son.”
“And Vilar?” he asked. “Who does he have who would be precious to him?”
“Vilar... he’s got a mate, Markol—human—and they’ve got three girls, adopted,” I said. “You think they’re targets.”
He nodded, and stood, gathering the files and stacking them again. “I should place additional protections, just to be safe. What about you and your father?”
I frowned. “What about us?”
“Who else do you have?” I asked. “What would be the person you could lose that would hurt you the most? Your father?”
“No,” I said, a little too quickly. “I mean... it would pain me, obviously, but... Rezzek is my best friend. My brother, practically. For Pop? I don’t really know. He’s already lost Pendrig, and my mother before that... he doesn’t have anyone left.”
“No one but you,” Mikhail suggested.
I looked away from him so that he didn’t see the moment of pain that I had to tamp down inside. “He wouldn’t be as broken up about it as you might think. Pendrig was the one that it hurt to lose. I’ve been a poor substitute ever since.”
“I am sorry for that,” he said. He’d moved closer, and I hadn’t noticed.
I gave him an unconcerned sort of frown. “Nah. It doesn’t get to me like it used to.”
He studied my face in silence, and then put a hand on my arm. “I know what it is like for the person you most idolize to have nothing but contempt for you, and to not know why. It is not a pain that a person gets used to.”
My throat ached, and I very nearly felt my eyes begin to burn. But long practice had helped me master the
skill of swallowing the lump and banishing the burn with a deep breath. “I never idolized him. Not like he wanted. So, it’s not really the same.”
When I saw the reaction in his face, I knew that I’d probably done damage to whatever it was we had, if we had anything. He was stiff, controlled. He’d opened up, and I had closed myself off in response, and it looked very much like he sensed that. Maybe I wasn’t as skilled at hiding it as I thought.
I almost took it back, opened that old wound to pour out what was beneath it in front of him. Maybe it would have felt better. Maybe there was something festering there that I had ignored for a long time.
I didn’t get the chance, though. He dropped his hand from my arm and turned to gather his jacket and his messenger bag. “We should not delay,” he said. “Think about your father, on what would be your target, if you wished to hurt him most deeply. But for now, let us visit your council member and ensure that his children are safe. Then we will see to Rezzek.” He ducked his head under the strap of his bag, and turned to me as he adjusted it. “If you do not mind introducing us, that is.”
Huh. Maybe I had read his earlier comment right. I only nodded, and pushed my feet into my sneakers to follow him out of the house and into the evening, pondering that, and what my father could possibly lose that would compare to losing a wife, a brother, a favorite nephew, a mother—all of the people hurt so far had family that they were deeply committed to. Easy targets, I supposed.
But Pop?
He’d already lost the most precious things in his life. And I definitely didn’t make the list.
12
