by Jack L. Pyke
Martin’s head dipped for a moment, hands gripping at the edge of the table, just running with the offer of attention, and again that jolt came with Logan’s cock. He started playing with his own cock just before Martin took his hand via the belt, to the top of the table leg.
“Would you ride me, Mart?”
The gaze that met his in that moment was so dark. “Ride this?” Logan’s cock was fisted and twisted so gently. Then the warmth of a breath again brushed Logan’s lips, and Logan met the demand for entry with his own tongue.
“Need lube,” whispered Martin. “Any suggestions?”
Fuck. Logan thought quickly. He’d been in the bathroom... “Box in the hall, might be something in there. There’s also one there from the kitchen....”
“Play for me, please,” said Martin, a hand brushing Logan’s cheek. But Logan was already there, his hand stroking his cock again, long, slow... needing that sweet mouth or damn sexier ass on his cock.
The sound of boxes being opened came through from the hall, the question of how the sealant was easily sliced open not really filtering through as he fisted the head of his cock, sometimes slipping a thumb over the slit.
The only thing to cool him down was the touch that now ran down his outer thigh.
“You look good there,” murmured Martin, a blush touching Logan’s cheek. A few items were placed down by Logan’s feet, but Martin’s lick at his cock disturbed any thoughts of life beyond that. Logan pushed his cock back, pulling down on the foreskin to encourage Martin to swirl his tongue around it. And Martin was there a second later. Logan eased his head up a little, watching that tongue play as he slowly fisted his own cock, loving how Martin would catch foreskin between his teeth.
“Fuck,” he groaned, hips again shifting up. Martin brushed a hand across his abs, almost willing to sink lower but loving his own tease. Coveralls were still bunched at his hips, showing just a touch of his ass and Logan briefly closed his eyes. “What did you find?” he hissed behind his teeth. “Please tell me you found something.”
“Just a touch of coconut oil, a johnny from your jacket, some...”
“Coconut oil?” Logan lifted his head again. Martin tugged at Logan’s jeans to get access to his balls, and Logan had to stop play as Martin kissed at each one, then took the first into his mouth. “Christ, Mart.”
A hand replaced the massage of his left ball, a little rough, a little distracted. “Hm,” said Martin. “Good lube substitute. Also great around the kitchen.... A high constitution of saturated fats makes it withstand high cooking temperatures. Makes it good for sautéing, roasting, baking...”
“You like to cook as well as fuck, Martin?” Logan offered a smile.
Martin didn’t answer, just paused. A shiver came, then a look, such a playful fucking look.
Martin straddled him on the table, ass finding the perfect seat in Logan’s crotch. It left Logan’s cock open for playing, and Logan hitched his hips up, nearly taking Martin up with him. Long dark hair fell across grey eyes, and in the dim light, it shaped his face, almost offering the perfect hoodie to hide everything apart from pale-moon lips.
“I might have lied a little.” Martin licked at the blood coating his fingertips. “I might have lied a lot.”
Blood? Where the fuck had the blood come from? Logan’s stomach twisted with the lowering of Martin’s tone, the red-rose tint to pale-moon lips.
Martin slipped a knife out from the back of his coveralls. “Cut myself a little. Can’t decide yet whether it was accident or...” He grinned, licking the blade. “Thrill.”
Stupid. So stupid. The strap around his wrist felt tight. But it was only one hand, and he could hit with the other—
Martin slammed the blade down, catching the loose skin between Logan’s thumb and finger and pinning his free hand to the table.
“Might have been thrill,” he said distractedly as Logan cried out, “Fuck, fuck.” Tugs came on the tethered hand, Logan’s terror over tearing his hand to shreds forcing his other to be still.
And for his efforts, Martin’s hand met his throat, choking off his cries. “Shush, shush,” whispered Martin. “You said control was mine.” Blood trickled into the polished wood of the table, and Martin reached down between them, gripping Logan’s cock, before he eased down and licked around the blade, where steel dug into skin. The next kiss he was forced to taste came with a coppery hint. His own.
All pressure was still on Logan’s throat, forcing him to gasp and struggle for breath, and Martin heated up, fisting Logan’s cock. “Like my control?”
The grip switched from Logan’s throat to the top of his scalp as he started to see shadows fade into black. Head forced to look down, he saw Martin was lost to his rutting, hips dipping and shifting in time with the rough grip fisting Logan’s cock. Coveralls had slipped off his ass, exposing his hips, the hardness of his cock as it dampened his lower abs. He looked ready to come, yet not willing to in the same twisted hitch of breathing.
A lick came at Logan’s jaw, then Martin caught both of their cocks together and fucked into his hand, still keeping the friction and blood flowing in Logan’s.
“You sick fuck,” whispered Martin, nipping at his jaw. “Nobody offers to be bound like a hog on their first fuck.” He forced Logan to look down again and Logan groaned, gurgling something incoherent as he choked a tear. The movement had put pressure on his hand, causing it to throb and bleed more. “And you’re still fucking hard. Impressive,” added Martin.
He was still hard, and Logan cried disgust at his body’s reaction.
Martin dipped his hips one more time, groaning. “Fuck. Any wonder why I play when you fucks enjoy it? I mean, I’m doing my bit for society here.”
He sat up a moment later, tugging Logan’s cock back with him and slip-sliding his hand down and around his length.
“So, question: why are you so eager to act the fuck whore and keep Jacky boy here, hm?” He smiled. “You expecting company? Somebody let you know I was here? Did someone say they were gonna come here and sort me?” He fisted another length down Logan’s cock and Logan cried out in fear, most in bubbling sickness. “Please tell me I’ll have more to play with soon?”
“Stop... please.”
“Safe word,” said Martin, reaching for something by Logan’s feet. “You never called it.”
“I don’t fucking know what you’re talking about.”
A chuckle, a play of hand, this time at Martin’s cock. “No?” In the dim light of the doorway, a glint caught something metallic. The ragged edges belonged to the teeth you’d find inside the likes of cooking foil cartons. It would cut a straight hole through the sheet, but if it caught a finger then—
“Fuck,” cried Logan. Martin dragged it down, cutting from navel to pubic hairline.
“Fuck is too much of a generalisation,” mumbled Martin. “You could use it in a number of contexts, like expressing defiance: fuck you, annoyance: fuck off: disbelief: fuck no, not to mention the want and need: fuck yes.... So how about we start at A and work your way to Z to find something that’s unique to you? We’re bound to find a safe word somewhere in there.”
“You fuck. You sick fucking fuck,” cried Logan, neck muscles straining.
Martin shifted the foil cutter to Logan’s hip. It rested for a moment on a mirror of the position of Martin’s scar, then, looking more like he was drawing bow across violin—he sliced skin, all finished as he held his bow out and closed his eyes for the roar of encore. That wasn’t enough to create bone-deep cuts, just enough to offer paper-cut offerings on skin.
“Bastard—you bastard.”
“Yeah.” Head still tilted back and eyes closed, Martin smiled. “But you like it.” A hand ran down Logan’s shaft, forcing Logan to hiss and bow his body off the table, lifting Martin slightly. “See?”
He groaned as the foil cutter was given a resting place, the bloodstained teeth looking sated for a while, then Martin picked up a bottle of something.
“Le
mon juice.” He even held it up for Logan to inspect. Logan writhed beneath him, seeing him flick the lid off the bottle. Martin held the lemon juice close to the wound on his hip—then tipped two small drops of liquid onto the cut.
His cry hit the dining room, extending beyond into the hall, to fill up the house, but something darker burned beneath it.
“Yeah, there we go, there we go.” Martin came down close, lip-to-lip close, a hand now around Logan’s throat. “Yeah, you’re beginning to feel just a little stupid for allowing me in, but there’s a sweeter part that... needs me in.” Martin rutted once, sliding cock against cock. Work coveralls slipped off his ass a little more and Logan groaned. “Go on. Tell me no.” A lick came at Logan’s throat. “Please.”
Logan was lost to the sting on his hip, the contrast of pain and the thrill his cock got from being rubbed... rutted against... how it drove heat into Martin. And anger settled deep, how Martin had exposed his stupidity, but also how the heat in Martin said he needed to feed his own sickness now, to fuck.
Logan twisted close to Martin’s ear. “It’ll get to you some day,” he whispered.
Martin stopped for a minute, his breathing heavy, heated, then he pulled back, gripping under Logan’s ass and tugging his jeans and boxers down enough to expose his hole. As he took time to slip a condom on, he smiled down at Logan. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Logan grunted as his legs were shunted to the side, then cried out as lemon juice dripped onto his hole.
“Ooh.” Martin winced, looking down as he rubbed his tip against it, his grip on Logan’s leg ensuring he stayed still. “Sweet.”
Logan squirmed, crying out. He knew the sting that would come with his fucking; he’d used ginger on women, had even taken some himself, but this....
The tip punched through and Martin dropped his head to his chest before pulling back and forcing his way back in. He didn’t stop until he hit root deep, giving a cry out, and gripping at Logan’s cock and making him cry out too.
Logan froze his breath, expecting hard... fast... brutal.... But the look lowering Martin’s gaze called slow, deep, casual, because time and control were all his now. It made it worse for Logan’s fight against enjoying it, needing, loving the creeping need for control. Martin kept one arm behind him as he fucked, keeping balance as sweat found a way down his pecs, to the flat of his stomach. All controlled effort, shared kink, but one that cried out just how sick Logan was for wanting to come.
He cried it a moment later, with Martin barely given time to settle his pace, then Logan twisted his head away as Martin took as long as he needed to cry out his own. It seemed to last a lifetime.
Logan opened his eyes to find Martin over him, hands steadying him either side as he shivered out the last ounces of come. Only as the come stopped spilling, Martin didn’t stop shivering.
Pain throbbed from Logan’s ass and hand. In the heat he’d pulled his hand free from the knife that pinned him down. Head down, Martin blindly found it and a thud was heard as he tugged the knife free from the wood.
In the light of the doorway, it was twisted this way... that.
Logan cried out, barely noticing as Martin sliced it lightly across his own abs. It caught Logan’s ass cheek a little, but it seemed more of a distracted cut. Martin yelped, and a heavier shivering took over, then Martin jolted, enough to knock the lemon juice off the table. He kept the knife as he hit the floor a second later, then scrambled back against the wall.
Martin cried out a name soon after as he sliced over his own abs, and Logan swore it was, “Jack.” Followed soon after by Gray’s.
Chapter 17
Left in Hell
“I th-thought this place was on the buyer’s market?” Jan leaned forward to look out of the Mercedes window. The rain had helped steam up the view, so Jan added a wipe of sleeve over window screen to get a better look outside. His attention lay on Keal’s front door. “And if so... who the hell’s car is that? And why are all the lights still on?” Gray flicked a look at him.
They’d pulled up on the driveway in pretty much the same spot that Gray had taken over seven months ago. Brennan and Carr had been with him, alongside with them a few CID and MI5 operatives. Jan had stayed mostly in the Mercedes back then; Gray forcing the issue, considering Jan had stumbled away from Vince’s hold just an hour earlier and hadn’t looked able to string thought together let alone force one foot in front of the other. He’d seen enough and Gray hadn’t wanted to add to his nightmares. Only Jan had followed him in.
Business had mixed with extreme pleasure back then, but Gray had still reined in his method, giving Keal a quick exit.
Now only one car, except his, sat on the courtyard, and as nothing had been seen on the run up to Keal’s house, Martin’s hijacked car had been dumped. Gray had a feeling it wouldn’t be far from the perimeter. Martin was still working on their being security back by the main gates.
“You don’t have to go in there,” said Gray, switching off the lights.
Jan was itching distractedly at his arm. When he looked at Gray, he stopped, but a shivering seemed to take over. “You sure? No abstract digs on missing a... a few balls if I stay here?” The reply worried Gray. Jan had never asked for an out before. But then this wasn’t a place to revisit, not for such a soft-hearted soul.
“No. No abstract digs. You stay here. Same as last time,” he said gently, looking over at the house as he pulled out his phone. “If anyone but me approaches, they aren’t friendly.”
“Including Jack?”
Gray didn’t answer that, and Jan looked away. Gray stroked at the back of his hand, then reached for the door. “Keys are in the ignition. If at any time you feel your safety’s breached, you go. Clear? If you see Jack on his own... you drive.”
“Clear,” said Jan, but his thinned voice was lost to whatever was going on away from Keal’s house. Before his look would have always been forward, hardly any pause. But now? His look cried Martin, but it came from the protection of a corner, where his hands still covered his head as Martin hit out.
“It’ll be okay,” he said, then reached a hand to the back of Jan’s neck and tugged him over for a kiss. “Stay here. Stay safe.”
He climbed out, making sure he slipped his leather gloves on from his pocket. Before he headed in, Gray gave the grounds a once-over, then locked the Mercedes door with his spare set of keys.
The For Sale sign had been taken down. Usually a prime location like this in London would be gone within weeks of being on the market, but this place came with history, not only in a culling sense, but also with Keal’s dealings with the sex trade industry. Nothing ever proven; his lawyers too well-paid to lose a client to the justice system. Witnesses always too young and too scared to testify.
Gray made it over to the BMW parked on the driveway, and the number plate trace confirmed the sinking feeling the make of car had given him.
Logan was here.
Gray wiped a hand over his mouth, looked at how interior lights lit up the darkness, then gently eased his firearm out of its holster before going over to the porch door. A twist of handle at the front door found the home unlocked, and Gray eased in. Visible through the small gap in the door, a few boxes played Jenga, their contents littering the floor. Gray slipped in farther, checking behind the door first, then noticing empty hall walls that lacked all the art he’d witnessed here seven months ago. Logan must have come over to wrap up a few loose ends.
The bang of pipes from the far end of the hall made him level his firearm in that direction. Someone tapped a very drunk Morse Code into the silent house, and at the back of the bangs and rattle came heavy snarls and grunts.
Gray shifted down the hall, double-checking his route. The lounge door stayed locked behind him, and the coat stand just opposite ensured it stayed that way as he jammed it beneath the handle. The access point for anyone who potentially hid inside was blocked, but a kick to the bottom of the stand made sure.
The banging agains
t pipes stopped, almost as if the pipe work had taken a breath and paused to listen, not expecting that its clattering should be met with an answer.
“MI5,” he called, and he didn’t like the quiet, how it listened. “Logan Keal, can you hear me?”
A muffled cry called yes along with heavier shuffling, like feet on polished wood. And to match it, the knocks and rattles on pipe-work started again.
“Gray?”
Jack’s call jolted him, and Gray made it into the dining room, flicking the light switch on to cast some light into the semi-lit room, but also to force anyone inside to look away from the glare.
The long dining table came into his line of sight first, not because of its unique oval design, but because of the half-naked man bound on top of it and the used condom and few splatters of dried come on the wood.
Gray stayed by the door for a moment. Logan’s clothes made a rubbish tip out of an otherwise spotless dining room, along with an empty tape gun. It looked the heavy duty sort used on a warehouse floor to bind storage boxes closed, yet now it taped both of Logan’s hands wide in sacrificial place on the mahogany surface of the table. A belt also covered one, suggesting the tape had come afterwards perhaps. But the blood trickling from the other hand...? He really needed to know how that had happened. Logan was caught crying out and blinking eyes furiously away from the onslaught of light, mouth was also taped shut, even though his heavy breathing threatened to dislodge some of the gagging. He was taller than Jack, not as tanned, but offering that same sort of extra-curricular delights, with grooves and ridges that years in the nightclub scene had given him. Sweat should have made the dinner date more tempting, but as Gray edged closer, the cuts and grazes that slipped down his chest, over his abs to mix with the polish on the table forced Gray still.
“Too late for sorry...” mumbled Jack.
