Island of Icarus (8 page)

“I need you to promise me something,” I said to Marcus that night. “If you are to work on your wings, I need you to promise you won’t pick up anything heavier than a book from your shelves, and to use common sense for everything else.”

“I’ve been a real pain, haven’t I?” he asked. I could not disagree, so I wisely said nothing at all. He gave me a sheepish apology and a promise to behave, then warned me, “I
will
put you to work. I did not build that arm for nothing, after all.”

And put me to work he did. The next morning, and for every day following, I became his arms. I pulled stacks of books from the shelves, cooked food as he worked, rooted through crates of metal parts, and held the wings up in every possible position while Marcus regarded them with pursed lips. Together we studied the bone structure of his dissected birds, noting the shape of the tiny wishbones. His design for the new parts went through several revisions. The question of which material to use posed the greatest question. He hadn’t any metal beams in his collection of the correct length or thickness, so after several days of our searching through the trees and foliage, he settled on a kind of sturdy, but flexible, wood. I was the one who wielded the axe and the knife, chopping branches, stripping leaves, and bowing the naked wood to test its limits, but I did not mind. It made me feel competent and useful and kept Marcus out of trouble.

We dragged several promising specimens back to the workshop, where Marcus showed me how to clear away the bark and make the first shaping cuts with the knife. My first attempts were crude but encouraging.

I found myself learning handy skills unfamiliar to me until then. Despite the hungry glow in his eyes and his expressively gesturing hand, Marcus proved a patient teacher. And, somewhat to my surprise, I proved an able student. I found the activities stimulating to both body and mind, and the dark cloud of homesickness lifted from me.

For the majority of my life I had focused on intellectual pursuits. Even as a boy, I took to reading while the other children played games in the street, or I went searching through my mother’s garden for interesting insects and weeds. I had rarely tried tasks that used my hands’ dexterity rather than mental dexterity.

We made the wood slender and curved like a bird’s wishbone. It took several tries, as either the wood grain was wrong, or the piece fractured as we worked it, or it did not fit between the sockets that Marcus had fashioned on the wings to receive it.

One afternoon, we found the perfect fit—a supple young branch that yielded under the knife like soft soap. We bent it like a bow to fit into the wing’s slots. It gave easily, and sprang back readily. I stepped back from the wings, which were on the floor for this occasion, and wiped sweat from my brow. My arms were sore, but pleasantly so. I was happy with how my body had begun to grow trim and well-toned.

Marcus stood with me to admire the wings, which suddenly seemed quite graceful with the addition of the furcula, as if they might glide right off the floor of the workshop. He knelt and ran both hands over the smooth wood. By that time, his wound had healed to a pink slash and was well on its way to forming a scar. His clavicle, though not strong enough to support heavy weight, had healed well enough that he could move his arm without pain and perform gentle tasks.

“It will fly now,” said Marcus. He ran a thumb over the slick brass shoulders of the wings and fondled the leather harness. “We should take her on a test run. A test flight.” His face, which he turned to me, was illuminated with a bright inner light.

“Hold on, now!” I said, gesturing for him to slow down. “Remember that arm. It’s barely healed! All it needs is the slightest bit of trauma to refracture. What if you’re in the air when it does?”

He sighed and appeared to deflate. “You’re right. I was getting carried away. We can’t just send her up into the air, anyway. We’ll need to find the proper place to launch her. Proper wind, proper setting. And then, of course, this collarbone of mine. You’re right.”

The next week was spent healing, cleaning, organizing, and writing. We spent great lengths of time together without speaking, only being in each other’s presence. I felt that we had reached some deeper level of understanding, one that transcended words. It was a trust born out of working together, out of learning each other’s habits and movements.

Our time together passed like a pleasant dream. I enjoyed it, but worried that I would eventually have to wake up from it to my life in London once more. I would have to return to the social masquerade, the dirty streets, and the dismal weather. Sometimes, my gaze fell on Marcus, and the idea of leaving him made my thoughts freeze. I could not imagine a world without him. Yet, neither could I imagine a life without the city I had always known.

One afternoon, as we sat together in the lake, I asked, “What do you plan to do? Now that your wings are complete.”

“Well, they haven’t been flown yet, but after they have?” He paused to consider my question. At length, he shook his head and said, “I’m not sure. I have no other ‘pet’ projects. Not yet, in any case,” he added, dryly. “I suppose I could compile my notes and experiences with flight into a publishable manuscript.” He tilted his head toward me. “I am sure you could do the same for your adventures on this island.”

“Write?” I asked, dubiously. “Perhaps… I hadn’t given it much thought.”

“Are you jesting?” He laughed. “It’s all you do!”

I stopped for a moment to think, then grinned. “You’re right.”

On many days, Marcus went out to the beach simply to stand and lift a wetted finger into the air. He explained that he was observing which times during the day provided the best wind conditions.

“You are going to launch on the beach?” I asked. “Have you no better place to test this? Perhaps somewhere with a less fickle wind?”

“No,” said Marcus, shaking his head. “This entire island is a forest. This is the only place suitable to take off. The trees are still some way off, and I’ve the ocean to fall into in the other direction.”

“Delightful.” I eyed the waves. I did not savor the thought of having to swim out on another rescue.

He seemed to read my neutral look. “It will be fine. After all, I have you.” He patted me on the backside.

“Yes, and that’s what I’m afraid of,” I said dryly.

How I loved that dangerous smile he sent me!

I suppose I had no need for concern, as persistent rain kept him inside. When it was clear, the wind was hard and unforgiving. The days streamed by like the rivulets of rain that snaked over the bedroom window—running, winding, aimless. We played dice and cards by lamplight and shared stories as we lounged together.

“You are so marvelous,” he said to me, smiling. We were facing each other in bed with our legs intertwined while he caressed my chest, my abdomen, my face, my arms. I had begun to visibly regain my shape again. My stomach had lost its softness and my arms were well-defined. Marcus seemed pleased with the transformation, for his fingers lingered over the firm, flat plane of my stomach and over the swell of my biceps. I soaked in his attention, memorizing the feel of his fingers on my skin and cataloguing the planes of his face. I wished to remember us just as we were, always.

Lingering memories of London haunted the edge of my thoughts, but I pushed them aside and grinned. “All of me? You seem to be ignoring a spot.”

“No,” he said. “I am merely saving the best for last.” His fingers trailed down my chest and over my thigh, which he stroked slowly. I shivered and began to grow hard.

“You’re teasing me,” I said after a moment of delicious torture. His fingers lingered only inches from my groin.

“No, I am perfectly serious. I think you are marvelous. Every inch of you. Especially,” he added, “your cock.” At that, his hand brushed over my growing erection. He massaged me until I was completely firm and watched with devilish delight as my head rolled back and I made a noise of pleasure.

He turned in bed and showed me with his mouth just how marvelous he thought I was, first kissing down the length of my shaft and then licking his way back up to the head. His mouth slid down over me, and he sucked exquisitely while his hands gripped the soft meat of my arse.

His own member tantalized me from inches away. Though it had taken me days to take him into my mouth for the first time, I was shy no longer. I had, in fact, grown addicted to the taste of his flesh and to his deep groans as I drew my teeth up the velvet length of his cock. Now I licked the head where it quivered in front of me, and he flexed his hips forward. I drew him fully into my mouth.

His moan shot straight to my groin like lightning. He quickened his rhythm until I groaned around his cock and came. The orgasm washed across me in a shuddering wave, and I groaned again in both ecstasy and in dismay. It had happened so very quickly. Marcus was still hard inside my mouth, but presently he drew away, leaving me hungry for him. Then, he was leaning over me on all fours, his eyes lustrous. He paused there for a moment, looking into me. In a low voice, he said, “I want you, Jon. I want you so very, very badly. Will you let me?”

I was confused at first. Then suddenly, I knew what he was asking for. “Go gently,” I said, uncertain at the prospect, but trusting in him. I had gone that way in Cara once—the back way, because she had asked me to. I had enjoyed it then, but I had not been on the receiving end.

“Are you sure?” Marcus asked, and suddenly I could see concern and desire warring in his eyes.

With a surge of force, I flipped him over and sat atop him. “You had better take me before I change my mind,” I said, and began to lower my face to kiss him.

I had not made it to his lips before Marcus flung me off of him and onto my stomach. My cheek pressed into the covers. The bed dipped as he shifted and slung his leg over to straddle me. I bucked against him, but he shoved my hips down with his, causing my cock to grind against the bed. Thrills of sensation shivered down my thighs. I struggled briefly, but he planted his hand between my shoulder blades and then caught my wrists one by one, pinning my arms. In seconds, he had anchored me firmly in a prone position. “Quick enough?” he asked, leaning his weight forward and off my hips. As he did, he slipped his feet under my legs and swept them open. Cool air wafted against my thighs. I’d never felt so open and…vulnerable. My skin tightened and my pulse raced as I anticipated his next action.

The bed rocked as Marcus leaned to the floor. He sat up with a bottle in his hand so that he was kneeling just behind me, his cock lying hard over my sacrum, teasing.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Olive oil,” he said, as he uncorked it. I was about to ask what it was for, but as he began to pour a thin stream of fluid onto his hand, I realized its purpose. Cara hadn’t needed lubrication because she had provided her own. Nervous sweat prickled on my forehead. What if I did not like it? Or worse, what if I disappointed him?

Marcus set the bottle down again and settled back onto his haunches. “Relax,” he said, stroking my backside, perhaps feeling the tension that now seized my muscles. “I will go slowly.” He pressed his knuckles into the flesh of my arse and worked them gently with the oil, kneading.

The sensation was disarming. “Oh, wow…” I groaned, my taut muscles melting. For a while he massaged me, nothing more. In fact, I had not even noticed that his fingers had worked closer and closer to my cleft until I was aware of a new movement his thumbs were making. They massaged me deeply in a circular motion, causing the flesh around my anus to rhythmically press and pull apart—a gently stimulating, tantalizing sensation. “You are absolutely devilish,” I murmured, and he chuckled behind me.

“No.
This
is devilish,” he said, and he stroked one of his thumbs lightly over the anus itself, almost as if the digit had simply slipped unintentionally. An instant ripple of pleasure traveled to my groin, and I gasped.

“Quite…” I agreed, and then I moaned as his thumb “slipped” again and again.

“All right so far?” he asked, humorously, while I writhed and gasped beneath him. “You wouldn’t mind if I did this?” He dipped his thumb lightly so that it slipped in and out, just the tip. I did not bother to answer him. A part of me balked at the sensation—the rectum was designed to let things out, not in—but it felt so very good. Instinctively I strained against his weight to raise my hips to him. The thumb went in again, this time deeper, and I could feel it inside of me now, gliding, twisting. It drew from me an animal sound I had never made before.

And then he was sliding it in and out of me slowly. I lay helpless and with eyes closed, gliding on that sensation, pleasure spreading through me, making my body limp and banishing any thoughts from my head.

“How do you feel?” he asked in a low voice, after what could have been a minute or an eternity.

“More,” was all I could say, and then he withdrew, and a thicker probe pushed into my rectum. I was not sure if he had pushed his cock into me or more fingers, but it felt wonderful. I buried my face in the linens. After a time, I felt him shift behind me.

He said, “Tell me if I need to stop.” And the fingers withdrew. He shifted to bring my legs together and straddled them. Then, I felt a wider, smoother pressure against my rectum and immediately knew that
this
was his cock. Then, he was pushing into me slowly. My flesh stretched open for him, welcoming at first, until a shooting pain caused me to cry out. He paused, and then the pressure came again before I could form words. Suddenly he was fully inside of me, filling me.

He paused there, just there, sheathed inside of me. It was too much and not enough. He lowered his body over me and I could feel his breath at my ear. Slowly, he began to draw in and out.

“How do you feel?” he whispered.

I could not find words with which to answer him, so I only groaned in response. All of my attention was focused on the feeling of him stroking me from the inside. I stood on a precipice, every one of my nerves waiting for the figurative leap. His breath puffed against my ear and he drew his tongue across its edge. At that moment, he plunged deeper into me.

We became animal things, rutting, grunting. The world became friction, flesh, sweat, breath. He sat up and placed his hands against my back, fingers flexing and then clenching. The bite of his nails merged with the pleasure that was growing inside of me. I began to move my hips in time with him. The bed rocked underneath us like a ship in a storm. A peal of thunder crashed outside, although I was only vaguely aware of it as a separate thing.

A fire grew deep in my pelvis and began to spread—a burning pressure that demanded to be released. I called out, loud and long, teeth gritting, as if the vocalization would bring me closer. Marcus chuffed above me. He rode me fast and hard, thighs slapping against me. The burning inside grew urgent.

“Do you like this?” he asked, and drew his tongue along my ear. “No woman can ever pleasure you like I can, Jonathan.”

“I—” I started, but then language was lost to me. Ecstasy swelled up and rolled over me like a great crashing wave. I arched and shuddered around Marcus. I was aware of him distantly, crying out. He fell across my back and stayed there, still now.

Damp, drained, and folded against Marcus, I began to drift to sleep, feeling closer to completion than I ever had. Marcus stirred. He kissed my neck and murmured, “Stay with me.”

I never wanted to leave.