by Amy Lane
“Keep your eyes closed,” Malcolm said softly, and Owen wondered if Malcolm was playing up his accent deliberately for his sake or whether he just heard it more when he was so focused.
“I’ll just get rid of the shirt,” Owen said.
“I do like you restrained,” Malcolm said, now from very close. “Might use silk rope though. Tangled T-shirt is less sexy.”
He owned a whole pile of soft ropes, from almost-thread to thick rope that could have lifted an anchor. Owen had found them by accident in one of the fitted wardrobes.
“No ties,” Owen muttered. “I trust you, you trust me not to . . . oh God.”
Malcolm had parted his cheeks again and traced, very delicately, the cold ice rod from the top of his crease to the bottom of his balls, and lower, down the shivering, pulsing length of his cock.
He felt a puff of breath against his ass-cheek, which was his only warning before Malcolm’s warm tongue followed the path of the ice, stopping when it would have been too awkward to follow the trail of water down Owen’s cock. And then, just when he was relaxed again, there it was, the thrill of cold, tracing down, gently, gently, probing, retreating . . . Owen gasped into his biceps again, and Malcolm pushed a little harder.
“Don’t bite back on it,” Malcolm purred, and Owen would have place money on Malcolm’s cock being hard and his little pink nipples being at diamond peaks through the trimmed fur on his chest. He sounded like sex, and like Owen’s aroused groans would get him off all by itself.
Malcolm’s tongue was there again, warming, and Owen gasped with need.
“Malcolm?”
“Hmm . . .” Oh, he thrust it inside a little, and Owen shuddered.
“You, uhm, wouldn’t want to touch my cock a little, would you?”
“No,” Malcolm said, his voice muffled by Owen’s flesh.
“Why no-ot?” Owen’s voice pitched up and cracked.
“Because then you’d . . .” A huff against his wet hole and a little shove of the ice thing that made Owen’s legs all shaky and weak. “Get more,” another little thrust, “than I’m getting.”
“No fair,” Owen murmured.
“Well, you can always bargain.” Fingernail traced down between Owen’s ass cheeks, scratchy, then Malcolm used the finger to press against his dam. Fuck. Owen needed to expend some real energy to focus.
“What do you wa-ant?” But then, he knew that. Malcolm always liked control—especially in this mood, that mind-fucking mood that he got and which would forever be linked in Owen’s mind with the taste of vodka and the feel of Malcolm’s strong finger in his mouth.
“I want . . .” Malcolm paused and shoved the ice thing up a little further. Owen groaned, and Malcolm chuckled. “To tie,” shove. Oh God . . . it had a rounded head, and although maybe only an inch was wedged up, the cold was aching, radiating out, tantalizing and hurting both. “You up,” Malcolm finished, shoving another two inches of ice into Owen’s body.
Owen screamed, his stomach knotting from the tension of pleasure and pain, his body shuddering from the cold that started at his asshole and pushed its way through to his very vitals. His knees buckled and his chest alone held him up on the couch, and his cock smacked him angrily in the thigh, begging him for a touch, a stroke, a puff of air, anything.
“No,” he whispered, not wanting to give in.
“So be it,” Malcolm whispered back, and shoved the ice dildo further.
Owen screamed again. But he didn’t say “hamburger.”
“Thing is, Owen”—and now Malcolm ran a big, warm hand down Owen’s naked back, and the hand felt so warm because other parts of Owen were so, so cold—“this turns me on, too.”
“Ha!” Owen cried, feeling a little triumph to warm him when the ice was making him shake. “That means . . .” he shuddered, “you’re getting enough out of this to touch my goddamned cock.”
“But you like me enjoying myself.” Malcolm sounded too goddamned rational for a guy sticking a frozen dildo into his boyfriend’s ass. With that voice, he could have auditioned for the gay American—oh well, British, then—Psycho.
“You want to enjoy yourself? Let me suck you off,” Owen said. The vision of Malcolm, red, engorged, shiny with pre-cum, warmed him. Having it in his mouth? Ah . . . might even help warm him against what his psycho boyfriend was doing to all points south.
“No,” Malcolm retorted, and his voice edged up. No longer calm and rational, it had the ring of arousal in it.
Owen grunted and bore down on the dildo, accepting a little more because he knew it would turn Malcolm on, and then pressed his advantage.
“I’d lick it first,” he offered, keeping his own voice breathy, with a moan at the end. “And then I’d take it . . . augh, you bastard! Into my mouth and flirt with the edge of my . . . oh damn, teeth!” As he’d been talking, Malcolm had plied that thing expertly, pulling it out a little, thrusting it back in. Owen was shuddering, his ass aching from the cold, his cock aching from lack of attention. Maybe Malcolm was wise not to put his thickened erection near Owen’s mouth. He was getting cranky enough to bite.
“Nah-uh.” The edge of Malcolm’s desire was still there, but so was an edge of humor that told Owen he really was wise. “I’m thinking my cock gets nowhere near your mouth in this mood. Try again.”
Owen squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fight against the pain. Then he opened his mouth, wide, and danced his tongue over his lips, and then flattened it for a moment, suggestively. “C’mon, Malcolm. You want to tie me up. Don’t you trust me?”
“I do,” Malcolm said, without enough hesitation to make that his honest reply. “But it’s completely different if you actually cannot move. Different chemistry altogether.” He leaned down and kissed Owen’s thigh. “I wouldn’t ask anything of you that I wouldn’t give.” Damn, out came the emotional blackmail on top of the physical and sexual torture. “I’ll make it worth your while. One of your kinks next, whatever that is.” Now the blank check. Well, crap.
“I don’t have any kinks,” Owen lied. And squirmed, too.
“Well-dressed Brits is technically a kink,” Malcolm asserted with roughly two tons of smugness in his compact frame.
“God, can we negotiate later?” Owen pleaded. “My ass aches, my cock is begging for it, and, and what I want, what I really want, is you.”
“Oh fuck,” Malcolm whispered, nuzzling the crease of Owen’s thigh by his balls. “Talk about kinks. How do you know my most secret ones?”
“Power-tripping? Not exactly a secret.”
Malcolm’s laugh was strangled, and he didn’t answer. Instead, Owen felt a powerful charge of wet heat as Malcolm’s mouth engulfed his cock.
Oh God, it figured Malcolm would use sex to get out of talking about feelings, but Owen couldn’t argue, not now, not when he was bottoming out in Malcolm’s throat and Malcolm’s fist was wrapped tightly around his base. But Owen did have one rational thought, one requirement in sex—maybe it was his kink after all.
Reciprocation.
“God, Malcolm,” he gasped, “let me taste you.”
Malcolm pulled off his dick just long enough to steer Owen around the couch to the front, and place him on his back—careful of the ice in his ass—with his legs spread. Malcolm jumped on top of him so energetically the whole couch bounced, and they moved into a 69 position that allowed Owen access to his dick and balls. Malcolm took Owen’s cock deep again, sliding two fingers past the melting ice dildo. They felt not much warmer than the ice, but at least—thank God—those bony digits were no colder.
Owen knew the last word on the matter hadn’t been spoken. Malcolm was nothing if not persistent when he wanted something, and Owen tied up was something he most definitely wanted, but now . . . oh yes! Malcolm was hot and hard in his mouth, and Owen lifted his neck and took him deeper, swallowing for all he was worth. The bitter salt of his pre-cum slid down the rough of his tongue and Owen swallowed that too. Heat . . . glorious, glorious heat filled him with his lo
ver’s flesh in his mouth, and Owen took as much of it down his gullet as he could to counteract the achingly arousing chill up his ass.
Malcolm moaned around Owen’s cock, the vibrations resonating in the pit of Owen’s stomach, and Owen moaned back. God, that sturdy, muscled body was on top of his, and his mouth could suck a marble through a straw and Owen was going to come, oh he was, without having this fat, throbbing thing in his mouth buried where he wanted it most.
Owen pulled back enough to let Malcolm’s cock smack him wet on the cheek, and begged some more. “Malcolm,” he panted.
“Mmm?” Malcolm swallowed Owen to the root, and Owen howled.
“What say you fuck . . . fuck me now, before I come?”
“Your arse is going to be so cold, I’ll last forever,” Malcolm warned, though Owen could tell he was interested.
“Let’s stop . . . negotiating!” Owen begged, halfway driven up the wall already by Malcolm’s games. They were usually fun (okay, almost always fun), but now he had much more pressing concerns. He let out a sound halfway between need and shock when Malcolm swallowed him down again, deeply, sucking as if his life depended on it, and Owen came so hard and fast it surprised even him.
Malcolm normally didn’t pull off immediately; he usually let Owen come slowly down, but not this time. Just as Owen was beginning to gather his thoughts beyond the initial “What the fuck?” Malcolm again shifted on the wide couch, flipped around him, and got on top.
Owen’s mind was still blurry from his orgasm, and he was cold, but when Malcolm pushed inside, the aftershocks suddenly gained a completely different quality. Not unpleasant—Owen wasn’t the kind of guy to knock off a partner fucking him the moment he’d come, but there was a decided edge of power in this as Malcolm held him down and thrust completely inside.
“Augh, God.” Owen couldn’t seem to stop shaking, and Malcolm pulled back and slammed into him again.
“Sorry, dammit,” Malcolm gasped above him. His eyes were squeezed shut and his expression was contorted into something bordering on pain. “God, Owen, just . . .” He slammed forward again, the smack of his thighs bouncing off of Owen’s ass filling the room. “Just fucking needed . . .”
Owen disregarded the imaginary ropes he’d allowed Malcolm to bind him with and reached up, rubbing Malcolm’s chest through the trimmed thatch of fur on it and tweaking his nipples hard, just like Malcolm needed it in this mood. Malcolm didn’t like to admit he needed, but he did, and when he gave in and needed Owen, Owen was all about giving this man what he could.
Malcolm gritted his teeth—against the cold, or possibly something more, and there was no art in this, no refinement, just a heartfelt animal fuck, and Owen knew he was doing it fast before it got too uncomfortable for Owen.
“The things you do to me,” Malcolm whispered, his breathing almost louder than the words. “What you . . . make me feel. Damn.”
“Ah . . . oh Jesus! Malcolm, do you think it’s different for me?”
Malcolm’s eyes opened wide, surprised and bulging, and then his hips jerked spasmodically. “No! Not yet . . .” But it was too late, and obviously even out of Malcolm’s control, because he let loose an inarticulate sound and fell forward into Owen’s arms and came, his semen pumping hotly into Owen’s cold bowels because, once again, they’d forgotten the fucking condom.
Malcolm’s sweaty, stubbly face rubbed against Owen’s cheek. “I fucking love you, you know that?”
Owen laughed helplessly, and felt something burning behind his eyes. “God, I hope so, Malcolm. I stayed here because I love you too.”
Malcolm laughed into the hollow of Owen’s shoulder, the spasms making him jerk inside Owen, even as his cock was shrinking in aftermath. His laughter wasn’t as happy, though. Owen could hear the keen of hysteria in it.
“Good,” Malcolm breathed, obviously trying to still the laughter. “Good. I’m glad you feel that way. Do you think maybe we want to get tested, since we apparently love each other enough to forget the fucking condom?”
Owen heard that for what it was. Self-recrimination. Yes, Malcolm, you forgot the condom because you’re not used to being human yet. It’s okay. I forgive you.
With one hand he stroked Malcolm’s sweaty black curls back from his brow, and with the other, he gentled the hair down the back of his neck.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, kissing Malcolm on the temple. “That’s probably a good idea. But it doesn’t change the fact that I love you back, right? Forgetting the condom isn’t going to kill that.” Malcolm’s shoulders shook. “Just so you know,” he whispered, feeling unaccountably young, when he’d never felt young or out of his league in his life.
“Won’t kill a thing.” Malcolm pulled away just a little, sliding out of him and then rolling over, offering Owen the place on his shoulder. “We just have to work on it. We’ll make it work.”
He’d likely almost said “I’ll make it work,” because even Malcolm had to be aware that the biggest obstacles were in his thick head, but this sounded like he’d work on it, and that was plenty enough for Owen.
This place looked decidedly dodgy. It wasn’t quite the kind of neighborhood where Malcolm expected to be knifed for his BlackBerry (did anybody steal those anymore?), but he left it in his pocket anyway.
The building was old, run-down brick from a time when this might have been a respectable place—oh, when the Romans had still been around—or maybe a Victorian workhouse where the plebs did something useful and were tightly controlled, which, to Malcolm’s mind, just showed that the old Victorians hadn’t messed around with ASBOs and similar soft-handed nonsense.
The place was big enough to house ten businesses, and apparently they had all co-opped to hire their very own IT guy: Owen.
Who was currently trotting up the decrepit staircase, mysterious black messenger bag over his shoulder, without having noticed Malcolm.
“Can I help you?”
Malcolm looked up to see a receptionist in the tiny foyer, standing behind what looked like a booth for a carnival ticket taker. Some of the original wallpaper was preserved behind her, burgundy with black velveteen leaves set in relief, and was just baroque enough for Malcolm to reassess the original use of this building after all. It had obviously been a brothel.
“Uhm,” he said, looking at her hesitantly. If this place had been a brothel, she could have applied for that particular job. She was young—as young as Owen, which was saying something—and had wide brown eyes with thick brown lashes. She was wearing a bright pink sundress, since it was unseasonably warm for September, and her enormous breasts were in danger of adding vast acres of orange-colored flesh to the pink landscape.
She probably had an IQ of two-hundred-and-fifty, but he wasn’t going to notice any of that, now was he? All he was going to notice were those inviting breasts, and the fact that Owen was quite cheerfully bi, when Malcolm had lied about that to the world just like he’d lied about always wanting to fucking top.
“Are you looking for something?” she prodded, and he swallowed hard on his irritation (jealousy) and pissed in his corner.
“Yes, uhm,” he looked at the nameplate on the ancient wooden partition desk, “Wendy, I’m here to see my boyfriend—you just hired him, he’s—”
“Owen!” she lit up joyfully. “And you must be Malcolm. Oh, he’s told us all about you. Yes, he just went upstairs to the adoption agency.” She lowered her head conspiratorially. “They actually need his services more than anyone else in the place, you know. But they’re such lovely people, the rest of the co-op pitched in some of their share. And he’s such a sweetie. He’s already revamped my entire system here, just this morning. I can keep track of my calls, and which business needs what, and play solitaire without nobody seeing me—he’s lovely.”
Malcolm struggled for a moment against an acid retort, and then struggled against smacking her hand and telling her to keep her fingers off his man, and then struggled to remember what he was going to say in the first place
.
“He is,” he stammered. “Where is he going again?”
“The adoption agency,” she said cheerfully. “They do all these background checks and deal with all these lawyers and such.” She shuddered. “The lawyers are horrid.” She smiled at him again, all teeth. “But you’re much nicer’n them. It’s probably ’cause you’re a pouf right?”
Just why on earth would anybody want to adopt kids when the curse didn’t happen on its own account? Right. He wasn’t here for that—or for starting a fight with Ms. Redoubtable Rack—but to pick up his guy. And see where he worked. Yeah, that most of all. Another client drinks thing he’d bowed out of on pain of death or serious damage to his career and intra-departmental relationships which ran on lapdance clubs and alcohol haze.
“Yeah, all gay guys have really good hygiene and are nice,” he said between gritted teeth. “And the Paris Hiltons of the world can pick a gay buddy up with her Christian Lobotomy shoes.” He should really stop now. “Which floor are the kid kennels?”
“Why would Paris Hilton want a poofter? Isn’t she homo-erotic or something?”
Malcolm closed his eyes and opened them, and for just a moment pretended to be Owen. “She wouldn’t, dear,” he said through shallow breaths. “I was joking. Which floor is Owen on again?”
“Oooh, yeah. I was having such a lovely chat I almost forgot.” She giggled, and Malcolm wondered if his ears were bleeding yet. “Up the staircase to the third floor, they take up the entire left half. Happy Endings Little People’s Club.” She giggled again. “Isn’t that the cutest?”
Five thousand really dirty images flooded Malcolm’s brain, many of them involving short, hairy men with gigantic peen, and he had to close his eyes in order to answer her.
“It’s adorable,” he said, and then sighted his way up the stairs and a break for it. He’d never look at anyone under 5’2” the same way again. “Thanks for your help.” And with that he escaped up the staircase, hoping with every footfall that he didn’t crash through the porous wooden structure that a drugged-up building inspector must have claimed would continue to serve as the main stairwell even five hundred years after having been installed.
