“How are you doing?”
“Fine, sir.”
Oh, this is better than I’d hoped for. Some of the bottoms I know tell me this makes them feel delightfully submissive. Perhaps that’s how it’s affecting Hart. That usually comes hand in hand with making them feel intensely vulnerable as well, so I’ll need to keep that in mind. I’ll have to hold him carefully. Demonstrate his trust isn’t misplaced, and if he shows himself to me, I’ll treasure him.
“Fine?”
“Good, sir. It feels good.”
“Who’s making it feel that way?”
“You, sir.” He’s practically panting now and does that ever make me hard for him. “You’re making me feel good.”
Damn straight.
That’s when I choose to cover and slick a second finger to ease inside of him. He’s so slippery inside now that it’s not so difficult, but I still go slowly and add more lube because I’m not taking any chances. I want to earn his pleasure and, more importantly, his trust. He tenses slightly but not for long, especially when I murmur encouragement and kind words. Slutty for praise—I’ll have to remember that.
“It’s two, Hart. You can take it. Breathe for me.” I settle a hand on his lower back and feel for the expansion of his torso as he does as he’s been instructed. He loosens around my fingers, though he still feels wonderfully tight. He’s going to feel phenomenal on my cock.
After a few minutes during which he slips back to panting and clutching the linens, he begins to press back against me, and I take that as an invitation. I don’t always do three before I fuck someone, but with beginners, usually, yes. The third is the most work, but it somehow goes easier, likely because he’s horny as a sailor docking after a six-month voyage. Except he’s gone his whole life without feeling this, not six months.
“That feels good,” he volunteers, and the simple words swell my head and my heart. Gratitude, desire, trust. It’s all there in that most basic of sentiments.
I completely withdraw my fingers, stripping the cots off and discarding them on a tissue I’d left on the bedside table before taking up a condom and rolling it over my dick—so hard, it’s near to bursting. “Then this is going to feel even better.”
Before I penetrate him, I rub still more lube over the condom, because I wasn’t lying when I said you can never have enough lube. I wipe my hands off on a hand towel so I’ll be able to grip him while I press inside of him, and then it’s time. Resting a hand on his hip, I use a hand to help work my hardness inside of him. Mother of all things holy does he feel divine. Tight and hot and slick. I push gently and withdraw, going deeper with each tender thrust until I’m two-thirds of the way inside.
“All of you,” he pleads, his voice tense and desperate. “I want all of you now. Please. I’m ready, I swear, just…please fuck me.”
Though I don’t generally take kindly to orders, this is one I’m glad to follow. I dig my fingers into the flesh of his hips and push the rest of the way inside of him, not stopping until my hipbones are resting flush against his ass. If that’s not heaven, I’ll happily go to hell.
I have to grit my teeth against the urge to spill inside him already because this is his first time, not mine. When I’m firmly under control, I draw out and then fuck deeply back inside of him, enjoying the feel of him around me and the way he presses back. After a few more measured strokes, I change the angle and Hart cries out, much as I’d thought—had hoped—he would.
“Problem?”
“What the fuck was that?”
I press inside him again, hitting the same spot, and he bucks against me, all self-consciousness gone. “That?”
He gasps his response, all tight muscle and heat surrounding me. “Yeah, that.”
“That, my friend,” I say, punctuating with another thrust and driving a desperate gulp out of him, “is your prostate.”
“Fucking hell. No wonder they liked it.” The mention of previous partners doesn’t bother me, and bully for Allie for making his other lovers feel good. I’d like to say it’s a pity he’s never experienced it before now, but it delights me I get to have this first of his as well.
I keep rocking against the bundle of nerves until he’s outright panting and writhing beneath me, his pleasure driving him higher and higher until I’ve got him on the edge and I want to push him over. I’m not so far from the precipice myself.
“Are you going to come for me, Hart? I want you to come with me inside you.”
I’m almost certain there’s little in this world that would give me more satisfaction than the feeling of Hart pulsing around my dick. When his muscles start to contract around me, god, am I right. I hold out for as long as I can to prove to myself I’m able to, and when I feel as if I’ve waited long enough, I let go. And go and go, my fingers digging into his flesh. I make a guttural sound in my throat that could’ve come from an animal instead of a man.
It’s possible fucking Hart is a greater pleasure than him sucking me off, and that’s saying something.
I brush my lips against the rise of bone at the juncture of neck and spine and lick some of the sweat that’s gathered there as well. He smells of exertion and sex, and I wish I could save the sheets to smell when I’m having a shitty day to remind myself of the good things in this world. Like Hart and how fucking amazing he is, how goddamn good he feels.
As much as I’d like to stay inside of him, breathing him in and caressing and teasing him until we both get hard and I can fuck him all over again, I shouldn’t. He’s probably feeling good now, but soon enough—and certainly by tomorrow—he’ll be feeling sore, perhaps a bit abused. I should get him into the bath.
Chapter Fourteen
‡
The rest of our trip is uneventful. I take Hart to see the sights when I’m not with Kenji and Kass, and after I’m done with them, I take Allie to bed. He’s a delight to fuck and a joy to top. No bad habits to break and no fear because no one’s ever done this before. He has nothing to be scared of. Apprehensive sometimes, certainly—he wasn’t so sure about the evil stick, and with a name like that, how can you blame him?—but not afraid. The most deeply ingrained fear I see in my clients comes when they’ve done something before and it went badly.
The things he’s afraid of, and rightly so, are things I’d never do to him. In fact, they’re things I’d actively keep him from. I’ve planned tonight carefully because I knew I’d want to beat the living crap out of someone after dealing with Kenji for the last time. That man knows how to press my buttons, and he did today, displaying Kass’s body modifications in their full glory and engaging in some serious humiliation play while I was there.
I’m a bit wary of permanent body mods, especially knowing he hasn’t kept a slave for more than three years—though if anyone’s got a shot, it’s Kass. I’m wary of them anyway, because even things I think are going to last forever…haven’t. I don’t want anyone to wake up with regrets, especially not in the form of things they can’t change or escape.
I’m back now, to someone who I get to control, who I get to do as I please with. Knowing he’ll get a break soon because we’re headed back to San Francisco tomorrow, I won’t hesitate to go hard on him. We haven’t discussed what’s going to happen when we get back, and part of me fears this is my last hurrah with him. We’ve made no promises, and it’s possible we’re in Wonderland and once we crawl out of the rabbit hole, he won’t want to see me anymore.
It’s happened before.
People decide they don’t need what I can offer them. Sometimes they’re right, and I wish them all the best. Sometimes they’re wrong and want back in. I welcome them with open arms. Sometimes they’re wrong, but they’re stuck. I do what I can, but sometimes there’s nothing I can do to overwhelm the bitterness of choices they’ve made, oaths they’ve pledged. I’d never give up on anyone, but sometimes it hurts them too much so I fade away.
I’m hoping against hope Hart will want more. That he’ll want sips or even gulps of what he�
�s only gotten a taste of. That he’ll want to get drunk on submission and pain, and he’ll want me to be his dealer and his chaperone all at once. I’d be delighted.
The suite is quiet when I open the door, the sun streaming mercilessly through the wide-open drapes.
“Hart?”
No answer. I stroll around, even though I know I’m not going to find him. That’s one thing I like about Hart. He takes up space. He doesn’t make excuses for being where he is and doesn’t try to hide. Perhaps it comes from being in the military; he never wants to feel so hemmed in again, but if you give him boundaries, he’ll knock right up against them and not even be sorry.
No Hart in the bedroom or in the bath. I even check out on the balcony, but all I find is the sweltering heat of the day and too much bright light. When I go back inside, I notice a slip of paper on the dining table.
Gone to the gym. Back soon.
A
His first initial pokes at me. I’m not sure how to feel. He’s given me his name but not really, and now it feels as though he’s taunting me with what I can’t have. I don’t like to be toyed with. Too many things have been always out of my grasp, and I don’t have patience for being fucked with. Allie’s not like that, though. He doesn’t play those kinds of mind games, and I shouldn’t pin that on him. I’ve spent too much time with Kenji, that’s all.
Walking over to the bar, I consider my options and opt for…nothing. I shouldn’t drink if I’m going to play with Hart, and I am. So orange juice, it is.
While I drink, I set out the things I’ll need. Another benefit to traveling on a private plane is to be able to pack whatever the hell you feel like and not worry about giving some poor TSA employee a heart attack when they search your bag, as they inevitably will if you’ve got it jam-packed with sex toys.
I’d packed a relatively modest toy bag on the scale of things, but it’s a decent sampling. I could give him a choice—there are several things we haven’t made use of—but in this, I’ll call the shots. This is something I care about, that I want badly, and I doubt he’ll refuse me. So I set out the tools of my trade, admiring their craftsmanship and re-familiarizing myself with the feel and the balance. They’re exquisitely made and comfortably worn in; it’s pleasurable to handle them. These are my personal toys, not to be played with by clients. I like to keep a few things to myself.
Four floggers side by side on the expanse of the bed, and I can’t wait for Hart’s reaction.
I don’t have to wait long—he’s back within the half-hour it takes me to pour myself another glass of juice and triage the day’s emails. Most to Matthew to deal with and a few I’ll respond to after I’ve finished with Hart. He’ll be sure to sleep heavily after I’m through with him. He sleeps with the abandon of a child, limbs sprawled and restless. Does he not know what to do with so much space in a bed? The thought tugs at the corners of my mouth.
Don’t worry about it. You’ve done what you can for the past several days, and if you don’t completely fuck this up, you’ll have a say in his life for a lot longer. Don’t think about him squashed into the backseat of his truck. Don’t.
Hart walks in, dripping with exertion, sweat soaking through his clinging T-shirt in patches and his shaved head gleaming with it. He looks energized, though, not exhausted. Maybe he’s saving that for me, and he won’t be sorry.
Though I could stare at him all day and I’d like to strip him down and have at him right on the couch, I don’t. Instead, I look back at my phone and issue his instructions without meeting his gaze.
“Shower. Be on your knees with your fingers laced at the back of your neck at the foot of the bed in ten minutes. Don’t make me wait or you’ll be sorry.”
His automatic and enunciated response of “yes, sir” makes me hide a smile. Hart, you’re a pleasure.
*
Sure enough, when I walk into the bedroom precisely ten minutes later, there he is, as I directed him to be. The thrill of having a man like that on his knees pulses through my veins. It’s heady and sexy as hell. He’s attractive when he’s standing, but on his knees, he’s a work of art. The way the muscles flex across his back and shoulders, the tight curve of his round ass… I have to mentally rein myself in so I don’t go charging over there and fuck him where he is.
It might be fun to force him to stay still and, if he were more experienced, slide a hook into his ass and bind it to his hands where they’re clutched together behind his neck. I can imagine the strain starting to show, how he’d shift and then regret it. Another time. For now, I have different magic to work. Without saying a word, I walk over and pick up the suede flogger and inspect it while in his field of vision.
This play is for his benefit—I’ve already checked it over and I know Matthew would have as well as he packed my things—but I want to give Allie time to consider it. Think about what I might do with it. Imagine how it’s going to feel. He’s not as cerebral as some of the bottoms I’ve played with—thank goodness for that because they can drive themselves crazy before I can even get a crack—but he does pay attention. I can tell by the slight turn of his head he’s trying to get a better look. I’ll give him one.
I lay the flogger down in front of him, draping the falls over the duvet so they’re spread out. It’s of moderate density because I haven’t quite figured out how Allie feels about thud and sting. A useful bit of information to have. Perhaps this exercise will answer some questions.
“Have you ever seen a flogger, Hart?”
“No, sir.”
There’s a note of misgiving in his voice, and I bet I can guess why.
“This isn’t the same as what they used to use for courts-martial. I’m not saying it won’t hurt, but it’s not going to scar and it would be quite difficult for me to do any real damage with this. You’re supposed to enjoy it.”
I wouldn’t take a cat to him. He doesn’t seem prone to keloids, but I’m not going to take the chance. I can find other ways to hurt him that can’t leave that kind of evidence behind. Besides, the historical and cultural implications are enough to make my blood run cold. No way in hell would I whip my black lover, at least not without talking about it first, nor would I ever call him my slave. A million times no.
While the thoughts have been racing around my head at a gazillion miles per hour, he seems less troubled but still doubtful. His forehead wrinkles with suspicion to an extent that’s comical, but I keep a straight face. “You’re telling me I’m going to enjoy getting beaten?”
“I’m fairly confident, yes.”
His eyes narrow, and he cocks his head, still keeping his fingers laced. “What makes you think so?”
I reach over to stroke the soft falls. Suede. It’s one of my favorites.
“Have you enjoyed everything else we’ve done?”
The way his jaw flexes is lovely, and I wait for him to say it. I want him to say it. “I have, sir.”
“Then I’m giving it a far better than even chance you’re going to enjoy me flogging you. Enough that I’m willing to give it a shot. Are you?”
His gaze has been drawn to my fingers where they’re entwined with the soft falls of the flogger, and he watches them. It’s a few seconds of my heart beating hard in my chest, pounding out a rhythm of say yes, say yes, say yes before he replies.
“Yes, sir.”
I don’t hesitate, taking up the flogger and using it to direct him toward a wall. Hotel rooms are notorious for their lack of attachment points, but there’s a reason I like this one and stay here whenever I’m in town. Sturdy light fixtures.
There are already cuffs dangling from chains attached to said convenient fixtures, and I tuck the flogger under my arm before ordering him to raise his. It’s intoxicating to buckle his wrists into the lined cuffs, control all that power he could use against me but he’s going to use to withstand what I do to him. Fuck all does that get me hard.
Judging by the way his cock is thickening, he feels the same way.
When he’s
been secured, I stand close behind him, letting him feel the clothes I’m still wearing, not to mention the hardness of my erection. I want him to know having him like this turns me on. I want him to be proud of submitting, to find dignity in it.
I give him my standard beginner spiel, regulating my voice so it stays low but firm, meant to inspire confidence. All while letting the tails of the flogger caress his back and his arm. We go over his safewords, and I tell him how important it is to keep breathing and to not lock his knees. I remind him it’s his responsibility to be honest with me and the only reason I’ll be unhappy is if he doesn’t tell the truth.
By the time I’m done, he seems calm but eager, and I give myself a mental high-five. I’ll have to be on the ball because he’s brand-new to this, but I wasn’t lying when I said I thought he’d enjoy it.
I step back from him, trailing a hand so he knows I’m leaving and haven’t gone far, and then I use the flogger to trace over his shoulders and back. The broadness of my canvas is enthralling, and I’m going to paint every square inch of it with sensation.
Drawing back, I grip the comfortable handle and find the right turn of wrist to bring the flogger down lightly on his back. He tenses slightly, but there’s no reaction otherwise, so I do it again and again, working my way up slowly until his muscles gather and flex, telling me he’s feeling it more now.
So I take the opportunity to check in, sliding up behind him, wrapping the flogger around so the hilt is against the side of his neck and the falls flow down his back. I can feel the climbing heat of his beaten skin though my clothes and his shallow breathing. When I hold him tight against me, he automatically starts to breathe as I am, picking up my exaggerated breaths with no prompting.
My chin hooks neatly over his shoulder, and I rest my other hand at his hip, pulling him flush against me before I start to speak. Softly—so softly he has to concentrate to hear me because I want him focused on me and nothing else—I talk to him. Tell him how beautifully he’s doing and how gorgeous he looks.
The Cartographer (The Compass series Book 6) Page 13
