Country Mouse

by Amy Lane

  A group of light brown leather couches were assembled around a fireplace in the middle of the room, a couple logs placed on what looked like a white marble block, surrounded on all sides by glass. The floor was sanded stone tiles, with rugs scattered here and there. A vast TV was on but muted, set to a business channel of some sort—stock prices scrolled incessantly below a talking head. The screen was the only movement in the place, which otherwise lay silent, even serene.

  Malcolm opened his jacket and draped it over a coat hanger, then hung it on a hook near the door. “Drink? I have water, wine, red and white, ginger beer, orange juice. Shopping gets here tomorrow.”

  “Orange juice, please.” Would that be seen as a lack of sophistication—or just as practical? Powering up for the workout ahead, right?

  Malcolm nodded and went to the small fridge, rooting around for a glass bottle of orange juice. He filled a tumbler about halfway, and Owen narrowed his eyes.

  “No alcohol,” he said sharply, and Malcolm looked at him in surprise.

  “Why else would you want orange juice?”

  He decided to try a different tack. “What else are you having for breakfast?”

  “Two energy drinks, one large coffee.” Malcolm frowned. “Protein shake on a gym day. I don’t really do breakfast, I have to be at my desk early.”

  So, at least for this man, the “full English” was a myth. “Well, no alcohol.”

  “Fine. Want orange juice with pulp when they deliver tomorrow? Might be enough time to change the order.”

  Which was the oddest way of asking him to stay around for breakfast.

  “Without is fine,” Owen said, throwing him a bone, “but if they have bagels and you don’t, I’d be interested.”

  “Done.” Malcolm walked to the desktop station in the far corner of the room and booted up. “Plain or everything?” he asked, and then looked a bit flustered.

  Owen found it charming. “Maybe something in between?” he suggested, keeping his face straight. “Like an onion bagel and a tomato?”

  “They have wholemeal, grain stuff, and cinnamon. There’s a bagel place near my office, though. Not sure they’re open on a Saturday, but I can jog past and check. I think I’ve seen cheese and onion there.”

  Owen walked toward him, where he stood fidgeting with the computer keyboard near his waist. “The orange juice is fine,” he said. “Whatever bagel you can order is fine. It was a metaphor, Malcolm. I’ve had a six course breakfast during Sunday brunch with less fiddling.”

  Malcolm looked up at him. “I’m just trying to—” He looked startled to see Owen so close.

  “Stall,” Owen finished for him. He watched curiously as Malcolm swallowed, some of the “good host” veneer chipping.

  “Be nice,” Malcolm corrected. “I’m trying to be nice.”

  “I thought you brought me here to fuck me, not feed me.”

  “I do both!” he protested.

  “Good,” Owen whispered. The man’s lips were lean, but sensual at the same time. Owen raised a tentative thumb and rubbed the bottom one gently.

  “I. Top.” Malcolm asserted, and Owen grinned. He popped his own thumb in his mouth and sucked on it, looking Malcolm in the eye as he hollowed his cheeks. Then he took his thumb and rubbed his own lower lip.

  “It’s not the same,” he murmured. Malcolm’s eyes seemed fixated on his lips, on his thumb and the gentle stroking.

  “Maybe you should let me do it,” Malcolm added with some spirit, and Owen stuck out his tongue and licked his lips, tracking where his thumb had just been.

  “Then maybe you should.”

  Malcolm rose up and seized the back of his head with an impatient, blunt hand and hauled him down for a kiss. Malcolm may have been shorter but he was damned strong, and the body pushing up against Owen was solid with muscle and smelled of expensive cologne—wood fragrance, tangible and real, even if the man wasn’t. Owen wrapped an arm around Malcolm’s waist, responded to the kiss that was equal parts dominant and exploring, and both parts turned him on.

  He was a little dizzy when Malcolm broke the contact just long enough to push him toward the couch, then urged him to sit down, no, spread out on the leather. The rich smell of the upholstery complemented Malcolm’s scent of sweat and sharp cologne as he pushed down on Owen, nearly keeping him trapped with his body. His kisses grew abruptly hungrier, demanding more. Owen grinned and began to open the buttons on Malcolm’s shirt, fiddly as they seemed. There was something to be said for a T-shirt and a pullover hoodie.

  But he wasn’t complaining, because the chest he bared held all the promises that the suit had made. Gym bunny, clearly, chest hair trimmed but not waxed. He paused, then reached up to Malcolm’s face to remove his glasses. Malcolm jerked back and took them off himself, then lifted a hand to rub his eyes as he adjusted to the new visuals.

  “How strong are they?”

  “Strong enough to be annoying as fuck.” Malcolm reached over to the coffee table and placed them down, then went back to Owen’s neck, his sucking kisses interspersed with gentle bites that promised so much more and made Owen’s skin tingle. “Help me get your top off.”

  Owen pushed up and pulled his T-shirt and hoodie over his head, trapped for a moment in the sleeves, and of course Malcolm seized the opportunity, pushing his arms back over his head and down onto the couch, the sweatshirt acting as a restraint and a blindfold.

  Without warning, Malcolm’s teeth were on his left nipple.

  “Ow,” he protested, but together with that hand on his cock in his trousers, the pinching bite felt damn good.

  “Ow?” Malcolm breathed, his breath tickling Owen’s nipple. “Does that mean stop?”

  “Hamburger means stop,” Owen panted. “But suck it . . . harder . . .” The pressure from Malcolm’s mouth increased, and Owen bucked his hips, thrusting his cock against Malcolm’s hard grip. Harder . . . harder . . . oh . . . yes . . . right there . . .

  He didn’t come, but something in him stretched taut, relaxed, and suddenly he was there, in the moment, intensely aroused but building, building, as Malcolm bit his nipple again, then moved his mouth to the other one, first biting, as if to make a point, then sucking on the nub. Malcolm’s hand released his package and instead rested flat on his naked stomach, the touch firm enough to make him aware of his breath and his arousal at the same time.

  “Keep your arms up there, eyes closed,” Malcolm murmured, his breath chilling Owen’s wet nipple.

  Owen nodded and relaxed a bit more, signaling he’d play along, and Malcolm shifted his weight to pull the top off Owen’s arms, hesitating for a moment as if to check Owen was playing along. “I’ll blindfold you,” he said calmly, stretching further to reach something behind the couch.

  The movement brought Malcolm’s cloth-trapped cock close to Owen’s face. Malcolm reached for Owen’s mouth then, stopping him from taking that covered cock, and brushed Owen’s pursed lips with two fingers. Malcolm opened his fly and worked his trousers off his hips. Owen stole a glance at Malcolm’s package, tempted to push forward and tease him.

  Malcolm’s cock was a decent length, and thick, erect enough for his foreskin to have disappeared. Owen gave in to temptation, closed his eyes and stuck his tongue out, arching his neck until he made contact. A shudder went through Malcolm’s body, and he thrust his cock toward Owen’s waiting mouth and then jerked back.

  “Not fair,” he ground out, and then a length of cloth was wrapped around Owen’s eyes but not yanked tight.

  “I want to taste,” Owen said, and Malcolm’s exasperated grunt actually made him shiver. Malcolm’s frustration was . . . cute. Charming. Whatever. It put a hell of a charge under his skin.

  “I thought what you wanted was to be blindfolded,” Malcolm muttered, sliding down Owen’s body, his cock staying in contact the whole time. Owen didn’t have a lot of chest hair, but he wondered if what he did have was rasping along the underside of that wonderful cock. The crown had been broad, he thoug
ht, shuddering, wide enough to be uncomfortable in his mouth. Oh, yeah—what would that wide head do in his ass?

  “Whatever,” he said and grinned. But just as he was about to open his eyes, the cloth tightened over them, shutting off even the occasional stolen glimpse.

  “Well, no reason not to blindfold you. No way I know of—or would use—to disable your sense of taste.” Malcolm chuckled and aligned his body with Owen’s so their cocks lined up. He rolled his hips, pushing against Owen’s belly. “Handcuffs? Bondage tape? You could still try to blow me tied up.” The “try to” was a clear challenge.

  “Mmm . . .” Owen opened his eyes under the blindfold. “I can still tell the light is on,” he said experimentally. “Can we kill the lights?”

  “Who are you? Cecil B. De-bloody-Mille?”

  “It’s your fantasy, Owen. Have whatever you want, Owen,” he mimicked, hoping his British accent wasn’t too craptastic. “But the one thing I ask for . . .”

  “Imposes on me too!” Malcolm sounded young, and put out, and Owen kept his smile to himself.

  “Then we don’t have to do this,” he said, reaching for the blindfold.

  Malcolm’s hands clasped his wrists, probably harder than Malcolm had intended. “Don’t bloody move,” he snarled, and then got up—probably naked, cock bobbing, which was wonderful to imagine—and disappeared.

  The light coming through the fabric grid of the blindfold went away, and he was abruptly, completely immersed in black. His lips came up in a half smile, and he stretched, his jeans making a sliding sound on the smooth leather. He clasped his hands above his head and shuddered, alone and almost naked in a stranger’s dark.

  “No bondage tape,” he said thoughtfully, “but if you don’t mind, for a moment, I might pretend there is.”

  Malcolm’s hands touched his calves, then, and the grip became firmer, removing his socks. Then fingers slid up his legs and removed his boxers, baring him to the skin on the leather. “I can see just enough in the light from outside,” Malcolm whispered. “Stay still.” The couch cushion dipped when Malcolm shifted his weight, and seemed to be to his left. “Now, where will I touch you, and with what?” Voice low, seductive, betraying that Malcolm had found his stride again and was back to enjoying himself. Default smugness engaged.

  Owen jerked when he felt a gentle wet pressure around his cock, and the breath and swirl of tongue gave away what Malcolm was doing. The wet warm pressure intensified as Malcolm sucked him in, then pulled back and blew on the wetness he’d left behind. Then he moved away.

  The next thing that touched Owen was flat, hard, and really fucking cold, nearly searing his nipples.

  “That would be a knife blade from the fridge,” Malcolm whispered.

  Owen clenched his ass cheeks together and moaned. “Wasn’t expecting that in the dark,” he murmured. Then, “Oh God . . .” because that frigid pressure moved to his other nipple and he was shivering and painfully aroused at the same time. “Oh . . .”

  Malcolm left the knife lying on Owen’s nipple and moved back to his cock, only this time—

  “Oh you bastard!” The knife wasn’t the only thing Malcolm had gotten from the fridge, and the heat of his mouth was tempered with a burning cold as he pressed an ice cube along the length of Owen’s shaft with his tongue.

  Owen’s nipple was on fire, burning with the freezing metal, and his nerve receptors were swimming in delicious confusion from the heat and pressure and cold on his cock. He wasn’t near coming, not even close, but God, he had never been so aroused.

  And Malcolm gave him no respite, either, now seriously working his cock with his mouth and tongue (no hands, though), the ice cube keeping him too cold, the pressure and friction not nearly enough to set him off.

  The wet sounds around his cock, every small swallow, every breath was hyper-real behind the blindfold, and he found himself breathing and gasping almost in step with Malcolm, who had a wicked way of guessing exactly what Owen wanted to feel and then almost delivering it.

  Only when the ice cube had melted away and Malcolm’s mouth was beginning to warm up did the bastard bend down lower to suck on his balls, and Owen writhed at the touch of a mouth still cold enough for his balls to contemplate a retreat back into his body.

  “Ah, that’s beautiful,” Malcolm said against the inside of his thigh, and added a bite that, while near-painful, seemed less intense than the touch from the ice cube. “I’d warm you up with a cane now . . .” Intonation lifting at the end, turning the remark into a question.

  “Your hands, you bastard,” Owen panted. “You want to make my ass red, you’d better feel the sting on your own skin.”

  Malcolm hissed. “My God, you’re pushy.” But he was panting too, and Owen could feel the writhing of his body on the couch. He either liked the idea or liked Owen’s participation. Something was turning his key. “Any other requests?”

  “I don’t know— oh God!” Malcolm had brushed an ice-cold finger across his taint, teasing his anus. “It’s my fantasy. I’ll— oh!” That icy fingertip barely, barely penetrated, and then retreated.

  “Cane,” Malcolm breathed against his thigh. “Along your arse, your thighs, your back. That’s what I want. But you’re right—it is your fantasy.” He shifted weight, then leaned over Owen and kissed him again, mouth still tasting of the ice cube somehow, promising more of the same, or a variation thereof. His cock, still hard, pushed against Owen’s flank for a few moments.

  Malcolm reached up and held Owen’s wrists, pressed them against the cushion. “I’m actually pretty good with the cane, believe it or not.” He chuckled, warm breath ghosting over Owen’s face. “Follow my lead. Lie across my lap.”

  Malcolm took his wrists with one hand and his shoulder with the other, firmly guiding him into position across Malcolm’s lap. His erection, between Malcolm’s open legs, found no friction or purchase, and that open sensation alone was enough to make him flex his hips. Malcolm moved something, then Owen felt a big pillow pushed beneath his head and chest.

  He very nearly relaxed in that position, wrists now crossed at his back. He hoped for more stimulation, but suspected Malcolm would make him work for that. Or at least withhold it for a while longer.

  Malcolm ran a soothing hand along his back, up to his neck, fingers carding evenly though his hair, fingernails scritching his scalp, before he stroked down again, the sure, firm touch of a masseur, then down his back, the small of his back, to his ass, and back up again, soothing, relaxing. He couldn’t quite believe it would be that easy, and a gradual tension built up that was more anticipation than arousal, but fuelled his need, too.

  The hand lifted away, and he expected it would land on his ass with an almighty smack. But it didn’t. He jerked when Malcolm simply slid two fingers in his crack, spit-wet, and began to rub, then circle his anus. “Want something in there? Something nice and big?”

  He pushed against Malcolm’s fingers and shuddered when one slid in. “I could always use something nice and big in there,” he breathed, “but I’m pretty sure your cock’s not what you meant.”

  Malcolm chuckled and his hand left Owen’s backside. There was a sliding sound, wood on wood, like a drawer being opened, and then both of his hands disappeared. Owen recognized the sound of a tearing condom wrapper and the snick of a cap of lubricant, and then something cool and hard was prodding at his entrance. Owen shuddered and relaxed, welcoming this touch in the dark.

  Malcolm was torturous, sliding it slowly . . . slowly . . . slowly . . . and then he stopped, Owen’s ass stretched around the widest part of the plug, and rubbed. Owen started to shudder, his body fighting the urge to push against it, to expel it, and shivering with the sensation . . . Oh God, the burn, the ultimate mix of pleasure/pain, lodged in his ass.

  “You want something, maybe?” Malcolm asked, all of that smug self-assurance back in his voice.

  “No,” Owen said through a tight throat. “I’m fine. Amazing, in fact. I half expected the plug to be
made of ice.”

  Malcolm chuckled, that massaging hand rubbing on his backside, soothing, gentling—but Owen’s shudders were getting harder, and he choked back a groan. “I have a mold for that, you know, but no time to prepare.”

  “Sorry . . . to cramp . . . your style,” Owen panted, squirming in an agony of pleasure.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing you want?” Malcolm taunted, and then, before Owen could answer, his hand fell across Owen’s flank with a practiced snap. Dull red flame burst to life, throbbing briskly out from Malcolm’s first blow.

  Owen groaned, his ass clenching at the invasive pressure, his cock, rigid and erect in the space between Malcolm’s knees, thrusting for something, anything, any sort of friction to relieve its seeking need.

  “It’s okay to ask, you know?” Malcolm mused, smug, but there was also an odd warmth to his voice. Not as warm as Owen’s skin when another slap hit his ass, just enough to make him jerk and clench again, glad for every bit of support, from Malcolm’s strong legs to the cushion and the floor. “But yeah, I did consider using a metal dildo from the fridge too. Great big head. Personally, I love it.”

  The whole thing was just to rile him, that conversational chatter. But just as he was allowing Malcolm’s smugness to get to him, another slap hit him right where the first one had landed.

  Owen let out a moan then, even though he was trying to hold back. It all seemed so easy for Malcolm. Feed a date, fuck a date, forget a date. But Owen was fascinated. It was like one of those two-sided puzzles. On one side was a sex robot, a cold, impersonal wielder of cane and crop and dildo (he hadn’t said crop, but Owen figured). The other was . . . well, he looked the same, but instead of the mask of live-steel perfection Malcolm had worn while bossing around the poor Soho bartender, he had the humanity of a man ordering his lover breakfast.

  So who was it currently—slap!—warming Owen’s ass? Smack! Oh God, that one had brushed the plug, and a breathless whine started to issue from his throat. He whimpered, wanting that plug (Oh God) deep inside him, wanting the shaking orgasm that was threatening to erupt, crashing down over his cock and ass and vitals like a tidal wave—but not wanting to let Malcolm stop touching him.