If It Fornicates (A Market Garden Tale)

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “One.”

  Spencer came. Instantly. Like that single word had been the knife waiting to cut the tightly drawn rope, and now it had snapped, and his whole body lifted off the bed as jets of semen dotted the dark skin across his abs and chest.

  As soon as Spencer started to settle back onto the bed—and likely back into the present—Nick slowed his hand to a smooth stop. He released Spencer’s dick, and Spencer sighed. All the tension was gone now, every muscle trembling with the aftermath.

  Nick grabbed some tissues from the bedside table and cleaned off his hand. Then he took a few more and wiped the semen off Spencer’s skin. About that time, Spencer blinked a few times, and then looked at Nick.

  Nick discarded the tissues and reached for the handcuffs. “You remember what to do next, don’t you, Spencer?”

  “Yes. Yes. I remember.”

  “Good.” Nick released one of Spencer’s wrists, and the cuffs rattled as Spencer brought his arms back down. Spencer started to sit up, but Nick stopped him. “Not yet. I still have to take off the other cuff.”

  Spencer looked at his wrist, bewildered, like he didn’t even realize the metal bracelet was still attached.

  Nick took his hand. “You did very well.” He trailed his other hand from Spencer’s elbow down his forearm, inching towards the cuff. “You’re so obedient, Spencer.”

  Spencer shifted a little. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.” Still holding onto Spencer’s hand and lightly touching his forearm, Nick leaned in and kissed Spencer. He kept teasing Spencer’s arm with feather-light touches as he gently urged Spencer’s lips apart with his tongue. Nick was painfully hard now, anticipating the eager, enthusiastic blowjob that was only a command away, but he hid it from Spencer and just made out with him lazily, gently.

  He searched blindly for the cuff, and found it. Then the quick release. All he had to do was flick that switch, that tiny sliver of metal pressing into the pad of his thumb, and the cuff would come off, and then Spencer would be on his knees and sucking Nick’s cock.

  One motion. One command. And he knew Spencer was hyperaware of that too. Poised and ready to drop to his knees the instant he was both commanded and allowed. The kiss they shared intensified with each passing second, Nick’s pulse rising and his hand barely staying steady on the quick release switch as he and Spencer kissed, and he wasn’t sure how he was just as out of breath as Spencer now, but he was.

  He pressed the switch.

  The cuff loosened around Spencer’s wrist.

  A less obedient sub would’ve shaken off the cuff and dropped to the floor in an instant.

  Spencer didn’t move. When Nick broke the kiss, Spencer shuddered and whispered, “Please?”

  Nick kissed him once more. Then, “On your knees.”

  The speed with which Spencer went from sitting on the bed to kneeling on the floor almost made Nick come. As Spencer knelt and waited, Nick swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and lowered himself onto his feet. And still, Spencer didn’t move. He knew the command, knew what Nick wanted him to do, but he hadn’t been given permission yet.

  Nick touched Spencer’s face. For a moment, they just looked at each other. Sweating, out of breath, both shaking a little, they held each other’s gazes.

  Promise me you’ll think about doing something, giving something up so you can be happy.

  Spencer’s eyes were wide, a little wet from the intensity of everything they’d just done, and Nick swore they said, If you give something up, please don’t let it be me.

  Nick drew his hand back, gave the slightest nod, and Spencer didn’t hesitate—he opened his lips and took Nick’s cock as far as he could manage. Even more—and this part was oddly touching—he didn’t use his hands, kept his wrists crossed on his back. Like Nick had taught him on a different occasion, and the fact that he remembered thrilled Nick as much as the wetness and heat of Spencer’s mouth.

  He placed a hand on Spencer’s head, kept his gaze steady on his face; Spencer’s expression was blank and focused, every slide along Nick’s cock worshipful and loving. Spencer loved doing this, loved doing it for him, and Nick held tight onto his own control to enjoy this just for a little longer. Tongue, suction, the gorgeous man on his knees, utterly focused not on multimillion-pound deals and contracts, but on sucking Nick’s cock. He looked blissfully happy.

  Nick gritted his teeth at a clever slide of Spencer’s tongue over the head of his dick, his own control brittle now. He didn’t like denying himself any more than anybody else would, though he sometimes let it deliberately build.

  He urged Spencer’s head forward, and was rewarded with Spencer swallowing him all the way down. The workings of his muscles against the invasion did it. Two, three, four deep strokes right down Spencer’s throat, and orgasm hit him. He pulled back, though it cost him, and managed to come against Spencer’s face and neck rather than down his throat. Spencer looked up at him as Nick pumped his own cock, milking himself through the orgasm and painting Spencer’s skin.

  “I want . . . to feel you inside me next . . . next time,” Spencer said, gently, softly, a polite request rather than bargaining.

  Nick nodded, breathless, teeth gritted. He touched Spencer’s face, traced a drop of his own semen down towards the corner of Spencer’s mouth. “Can’t wait.”

  Spencer smiled at him, making no movement to clean himself. Nick reached for one of the towels, used the corner of it to wipe his semen off Spencer’s skin, then put the towel down.

  “Thank you,” Spencer said.

  Nick bent down and kissed him again. “Come up into the bed.”

  Spencer rose on legs that weren’t quite steady and did as he was told. Nick joined him. Nick wrapped his arm around Spencer’s shoulders, and Spencer rested his head on Nick’s chest.

  The night didn’t feel like it was over yet. There was some conversation or . . . or something that still needed to happen. Something that needed to be said or done. But the smouldering afterglow didn’t invite much in the way of conversation; lying together like this in warm, blissful silence was the only thing they could do now. It was the only thing Nick wanted to do. Cuddling used to make him stir crazy. It bored him, just lying there and doing nothing.

  But he wasn’t bored now. And whatever needed to be said would still be there in the morning.

  When he pulled an all-nighter with a client, Nick usually woke up drained but ready to make a professional, businesslike, and quick—he hoped—escape with money in his pocket. Some clients liked keeping him around for a little while. Now and then, they negotiated one last go-round between coffee and Nick’s cab. Usually, though, he’d exhausted the fuck out of them, and they had just enough energy left to pay him and send him on his way.

  Which was part of the reason mornings with Spencer never got old. Even when Spencer had just been a client—and maybe that should’ve been Nick’s first clue that things were changing between them—the mornings had been low-key. Relaxing. Hell, they’d been enjoyable. And especially since they’d moved beyond rentboy/john, sometimes they lounged around in the mornings, especially if Spencer didn’t have to go off to work at some early hour. Or they’d shower together. If Nick woke up first and got into the shower, he’d invariably be towelling off when he smelled the delicious fragrance of whatever Spencer was cooking for breakfast down the hall.

  This morning was no different. They’d separated during the night, as they often did, but as Nick stirred, and a moment later Spencer did too, they gravitated towards each other again. Nick wrapped his arm around Spencer like he had last night. Spencer slung his arm lazily across Nick’s stomach.

  “So we have all day.” Nick kissed Spencer’s forehead. “Question is, what do we do with it?”

  “Hmm. I guess your arm would get tired if you beat me all day.”

  Nick laughed. “Yes. Yes, it would.”

  Spencer chuckled. “Well, what do you think about going out?”

  “Out?” Nick looked down a
t him. “Like, out where?”

  “Don’t know.” Spencer lifted his shoulder in a sleepy shrug. “Go into the city. Get something to eat. I think the Tate has an Impressionist exhibit right now.”

  They were really doing this? An actual . . . date?

  “You sure you don’t mind being out in public with me?” Nick immediately wanted to take it back; he didn’t like the insecurity that had crept into his tone. He cleared his throat. “I mean, my clients are out there.”

  Spencer pushed himself up onto his elbow and met Nick’s eyes. “Most of them would be discreet, wouldn’t they?”

  “True.” Nick shrugged. “Most people don’t like advertising the fact that they’ve rented someone like me.” He reached up and touched Spencer’s face. “But they might recognize me.”

  “Well, if we’re going to be doing this,” Spencer said, pausing to kiss Nick’s palm, “then people will see us out and about. They’ll have to get used to it, and so will we.”

  Nick couldn’t find his breath. Of course they were dating, and Spencer had never judged him for being what he was, but his unflinching acceptance that people ought to just get used to seeing them together was . . . unexpected.

  “Are you sure?” he asked softly. “I mean, I’d love to, but . . .” He raised his eyebrows. “You’re really okay with us being out together in public?”

  “Of course.” Spencer smiled. “You’re my boyfriend. I’m not going to hide you.”

  Nick swallowed. “Okay, then. What do you have in mind?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Spencer shrugged. “Lunch and a visit to the Tate?”

  Nick chewed on the idea for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. Let’s go.”

  They got up and showered. Not together, or they’d never get anywhere except back into the bedroom. After they’d dressed—so domestic, keeping clothes at Spencer’s house like he’d started doing recently—they had some coffee and a light breakfast, and then headed out into the city. In public. Together.

  Spencer took him to a small brasserie in Soho for lunch, tucked away and not overrun by tourists, even on a Saturday, and it all felt so normal. But in a good way, not a boring one. In fact, he got a kick out of flirting in public with Spencer, easily the best-looking guy around, and hitting the submissive button every now and then. He’d give Spencer an order where other boyfriends would have phrased things as a request, and he loved how Spencer responded immediately. He especially loved how Spencer would not just obey, but give him one of those sexy looks that promised submission and acceptance and scorching sex when they returned.

  From there, they took the Tube to Southwark and walked to the imposing brick mountain of the former power station that now housed the Tate. He hadn’t known that Spencer was into art, though his house certainly suggested that he appreciated good design. Nick had been to too many clients’ houses to assume that gayness came with inbuilt good taste.

  Wandering through the collection, it struck him that Spencer was pretty well-rounded as a human being. Many finance guys in the City only cared about art when they knew the price tag, as an investment, or as something to go with the couch. Spencer, on the other hand, could easily hold his own in a conversation about Expressionism, for example, and as a bonus, managed to not sound like a pretentious arsehole the way so many other people did when discussing art.

  They discovered a new acquisition, too: a cycle of three WWI paintings by Johan Brasche, recently donated by an Anonymous. The first one was clearly a bit of a rip-off of a much better Brücke painting and brought back Franz Marc’s Fighting Forms—though this was whimsically called Les Amoureux, The Lovers. Spencer remarked that love and war were possibly quite a bit too close for comfort at times. The two other paintings, however, revealed an artist who’d discovered his own language. The palette was drab and murky, and in a nightmarish WWI landscape lay a man drowned—dead, anyway—in a pool in a bomb crater, just the line of a helmet or head, shoulders, and a back visible, but all identifying marks and colours and shapes made anonymous and meaningless by mud.

  Le Baigneur. The Bather.

  Nick reached for Spencer’s hand, and Spencer squeezed back. Whenever Nick felt that he was cruel and got a kick out of suffering, art like this reminded him of the real horrors of life and humanity. It had absolutely helped to keep himself sane when he’d doubted a great deal of what he wanted, or that it was right to want these things.

  “Before we go through the Impressionists,” Spencer said at the end of the exhibit, “I could do with another coffee. Café’s on the top floor.”

  Touted as one of the most family friendly places to eat, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that there were families, some quite loud and happy, which usually irritated Nick. It wasn’t that he was antisocial, it was just that he normally preferred to have his caffeine surrounded by quiet. But with Spencer, he didn’t really mind a great many things that would normally have made him turn around and walk back out.

  As they took places near the windows, he made eye contact with a man—good-looking, dark-haired, expensive watch—who was there with a woman and children Nick assumed were his family. Ice water ran down his back. A client. The man froze too, gaze darting to Spencer, back to Nick.

  Then the man’s wife glanced over her shoulder, probably wondering what had caught her husband’s eye. To Nick’s horror, as soon as she saw them, she smiled and started in their direction. His heart stopped. This . . . wasn’t good.

  “Spencer?” she said as she approached the table. “Is that you?”

  Spencer turned towards her and jumped. “Linda? Long time, no see.” He stood, embraced her gently, and then looked past her and must have seen her husband, because his posture suddenly reflected the oh fuck twisting in Nick’s gut.

  The husband strolled towards them, hands in his pockets and a weird look on his face. Not quite a smirk, not quite a scowl. A little bit smug and a little bit sheepish? God, he was tough to read.

  When he’s dressed anyway, Nick thought.

  “And who’s your friend?” the oblivious woman asked, turning towards Nick.

  Spencer glanced at Nick, then cleared his throat. “This is Nick.” Pause. Swallow. Heartbeat. “My boyfriend.”

  The husband stopped so suddenly his shoe squeaked on the floor. “Your boyfriend?”

  Nick eyed him coolly. Yeah? What of it? But secretly, he was just as stunned. Had Spencer really just outed himself?

  “Oh.” Linda seemed startled by the introduction, but either recovered quickly or was just damned good at faking it, and extended her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Nick.”

  Nick smiled. “You too.” As he shook her hand, multiple thick rings cool against his fingers, he glanced at her husband, who’d paled. Oh don’t look so disgusted, you prick. You’ve taken my dick up your arse.

  Linda released Nick’s hand and stood beside her husband as Spencer made introductions, offering up only the man’s name—Glenn—but no further details about how they knew each other. Since Glenn had come into the Garden with Percy, the same guy who’d brought Spencer in the first time, it was a safe bet they ran in the same professional circles.

  After some brief small talk, Linda said, “Well, this was certainly a surprise. And Spencer, we haven’t seen you in ages. You really must come to dinner again soon.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow.

  Spencer didn’t look at him. “I’d like that very much. Anyway, I won’t keep you.” He nodded towards the couple’s children—three boys, none older than ten—sitting at a table across the room. “Tell them I said hello.”

  Why not have them come over here and say hello? Nick thought. Oh. Right. Boyfriend.

  The pair offered thin smiles, and then returned to their children. As they left, Spencer sat across from Nick again, releasing a breath as he dropped into the chair.

  A waiter appeared and explained the daily specials. While they sounded good, Nick wasn’t hungry anymore, and Spencer didn’t order any food, either.

&
nbsp; “Friends of yours?” Nick asked.

  “He and I work together.” Spencer gave him a puzzled look. “Why? Do you know them?” Before Nick could even answer, the pieces must have fallen into place, because Spencer’s eyes widened and his spine straightened. “Oh.”

  Nick dropped his gaze, thumbing the tiny vase in the middle of the table that held a single flower. “I think he recognized me too.”

  “Well, you’re a difficult man to forget, Nick.”

  He met Spencer’s eyes, and couldn’t help chuckling. “Glad I made an impression.”

  Spencer smiled. He glanced at the couple again, then shook his head. “Well, I wonder if the entire office will know I’m gay by the time I get back to work on Tuesday.”

  “You could blackmail him,” Nick said, only half-joking. “He outs you, you out him.”

  Spencer laughed and clamped down on it when the waiter returned to set two coffees in front of them. “Nah. I think it’s time this cat came out of the bag anyway.” He gave the waiter a nod of thanks.

  “They . . . the people you work with, they really don’t know?”

  Spencer shook his head. “No. And I’m . . . I’m not even sure why I told them just now.” He looked Nick in the eye. “Just didn’t seem right to introduce you any other way.”

  Nick swallowed. “Even if it meant outing yourself?”

  Spencer nodded.

  Nick wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, seeking the warmth in the ceramic mug. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “What else would I do?” Spencer asked softly. “I’m not ashamed of you. Why should I pretend to be?”

  God. Spencer really did know how to get Nick right in the soft parts.

  All Nick could offer as a response was a whispered, “Thank you.”