Rough Canvas (8 page)

But this moment had nothing to do with any of that. It was raw, primitive, and

would have been as appropriate in the forest outside, perhaps more. Which made him imagine Marcus as a lion, hunting Thomas down, fighting with him, taking him down.

Marcus withdrew, drawing a quiet moan from Thomas. He was so close to orgasm

he knew he would have come without the restraint.

“Up on your knees. Ass on your heels.”

As he obeyed, Marcus inserted a lubricated dildo into him Thomas hadn’t even

seen him bring out. It was a good size, filling him tight. “Jesus…” It whistled out between his clenched teeth, and Marcus’ sexy low laugh made Thomas want to do all sorts of dark, deadly things.

“Now sit back on your heels, holding that in.”

Thomas wondered if a person could die from withheld release, for if it was possible he was going to have a meltdown. Only Marcus could do this to him, take him beyond thought or reason, desiring only to release, to please his Master. In the nastier, more insecure moments, he’d wondered if it was just the advantage a slick New Yorker had over a country boy with little experience, but he’d held his own.

From the first time Thomas had seen him, he hadn’t known who or what Marcus

was, just that he wanted him. Wanted to be his. And the fact Thomas had thought of it that way should have given him a clue to the hidden craving in his own makeup. An unexpected sexual preference. Preference. There was a grimly amusing word. As if any need this elemental was a choice. Just as Marcus had always said.

As Marcus trailed his fingers along Thomas’ shoulder, the blindfold loosened and fell away. “Hands behind your back now, pet. Lace your fingers and let me see you pull your shoulders back.”

Oh God. The position squeezed his buttocks together more tightly, stretched his cock up in the restraint as if he were some sort of overly endowed fertility god. He couldn’t see him yet, but Thomas could feel Marcus looking.

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He imagined it, Marcus’ eyes lingering on his cock, his lashes fanning his cheeks, his eyes just hints of emerald in the dim light. He was in the cave of a dragon, a wild animal in truth, waiting to be devoured. Wanting to be consumed and not caring. Just wanting to feel the hot breath wash over his skin, the hunger pressing him down.

The dragon moved around him, bringing dangerous grace into his vision as he

crossed the floor, circled the couch to go into the kitchen. Marcus went behind the counter island and Thomas heard running water, then Marcus returned with a basin of water, washcloth and soap. He set them down on the coffee table, three feet in front of Thomas.

Standing there, tall and naked, he wet the cloth and began to clean his own genitals.

Slowly, working the soap up and down his shaft, under the broad ridge of the head, cleaning the slit, then putting the cloth back into the basin to rinse it, wring it out again and wipe away the soap with more water.

Now Thomas knew for sure he was just going to die of need, right here. The ache in his gut was as excruciating as the chronic pains he’d been feeling for the past six months, only he wanted this ache. It was like a knot drawing tighter and tighter, but when it released, oh God, it was going to feel so fucking good.

Marcus’ hand touched Thomas’ jaw, his thumb at the corner of his lips. Somehow

he’d been so overwhelmed he’d closed his eyes. But when he opened them, Marcus was putting the blindfold back on. His expression was focused, intent, his mouth a firm line.

No give. No mercy.

“Take my cock and suck it back to life. Then I’m going to fuck you again. When

you’ve made me come three times in your ass and three times in your mouth, when your jaw is aching and your ass feels like I’ve given you an enema with Tabasco sauce, then I’ll let you come. But not a minute before. And when you do come, it’s going to be the best and worst orgasm you’ve ever had.”

Beneath the blindfold, Thomas squeezed his eyes shut again, a shudder running

through him. Okay, Marcus was pissed. Seriously pissed with him. But he’d do it. He could torture him three times that number of times, and he’d still do what he had to do, though his cock throbbed so hard now he made sounds of growling need in his throat as Marcus fisted a handful of his hair and began to roughly fuck his mouth. Thomas still reveled in it, in serving his Master, clutching at that sense of completeness he hadn’t had in over a year.

He’d forgotten that Marcus never lost control. Even if he was pissed, he never lost sight of the ultimate goal. As he worked his cock back up to a full erection, night closed in. After spilling his seed down Thomas’ throat, he switched positions, removing the dildo and taking Thomas’ ass, pushing him to the floor again, until he snarled his release and Thomas’ body shuddered in an agony of need.

Time ceased, details blurred. There was only flesh meeting flesh, penetration,

burning. The blindfold removed again, Thomas watching with glazed, watering eyes as Marcus washed himself, that sensual torment of seeing the soap-and-water slicked 40

Rough Canvas

fingers moving over the cock that had been deep in both orifices of his body. Then his lips being stretched again. Rocking against that rubber phallus, holding it in with his heels. When Thomas couldn’t see, it was all intensified, the slide of Marcus’ body against his, every rough thrust, every light caress.

There was one blissful point when Marcus stopped deep inside of his ass and

pressed a kiss to the back of Thomas’ neck. It was possibly the most unbearable moment of all as Marcus slid an arm around his waist and held him, his palm over Thomas’

thundering heart, just before he came again.

He should have been keeping count, but he wasn’t. It all became about serving

Marcus until his Master was ready to have him do otherwise. It was all he was, all his mind wanted to be.

Once when Thomas was eight, he’d been dared to swim a hundred laps in the

community pool. He kept going and going and going. Someone stopped him by

reaching in and grabbing his arm, pulling him up. He’d been dazed, disoriented, because it had been all about proving he could keep going. The number was no longer important.

The blindfold was untied again. Marcus brought back the room, the features now

sharp-edged in their clarity. The book. The wineglass. The edges of the coffee table and frame of the picture over the fireplace. It was twilight outside. The room smelled of sweat and sex, old wood and lubricant which Marcus thankfully had started to use on the second penetration.

“Back on your heels, pet.” But this time Marcus didn’t put the dildo back in and Thomas was glad, because his ass was so sore. “Hands clasped together at your lower back again.”

The now constant quiver in Thomas’ muscles increased when he felt the pressure of velour cuffs being wrapped around his wrists and then ankles. Marcus hooked the two sets together, so he was completely helpless.

Then his Master went back to the sofa and sat. Thomas fastened hungry eyes on

him. Marcus’ chest was slick with sweat, hair damp. He’d been kind enough not to pull on his slacks and so he sat there completely naked. For the moment, his cock rested on his thigh and the nest of his testicles as he considered his slave. His green eyes were still that of a dragon’s, laced with fire and power, the simmering fierceness of his climaxes still in his face, the sensuous, taut set of his mouth.

Thomas’ attention lingered on the slope of his chest, the tapering to the stomach.

God, but it was mouthwatering terrain. No one could look at Marcus’ smoothly

muscled upper body and not want to take a hard, deep bite. Suck and lick him like an ice cream, like the curves of a creamy vanilla double scoop. The long thighs and narrow calves, all roped with the clean lines of a cyclist’s muscles, were equally tempting.

Even the graceful arches of his feet. Every inch of Marcus stirred Thomas, kept him hard, and he suspected the harness was going to leave a permanent collar imprint on the base of his cock. He didn’t like to think just how appropriate that was.

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Marcus reached for his wine, took a swallow. His hand rested on the chair arm, his palm on the upside down book. Thomas could imagine him picking it up, choosing to pass the next half hour in reading another chapter or two while his slave suffered watching, the hard-on making him dizzy as he contemplated the perfect beauty of his naked Master, hungered for his hands, his mouth. Any kind of attention at all.

Marcus was not in a mood to be that cruel anymore, however. Thank God. He rose, picked up a folded hand towel from the kitchen and came around the table. As he dropped to one knee before Thomas, Thomas’ shaking increased. Cupping his jaw,

Marcus framed his face, ran his thumbs over Thomas’ lips so that he parted them.

Thomas tried to catch a finger in his teeth.

“Sshh. Be still. Keep your eyes open.”

Did Marcus know how hard this part was for him? Had always been? Staring into

his Master’s face, seeing the way Marcus looked at him as he gently caressed his jaw, his forehead, touched the corners of his eyes, traced the line of his nose.

“So straight, pet. You’ve got such a patrician nose.”

It was a far different torment than all the rest, because it was the one Thomas hungered for most. Despite all the sweat-covered images that haunted him, these were the memories that plagued him most of all.

Marcus leaned in, fitted his mouth over Thomas’, his hand holding his jaw and

throat, controlling the moment, controlling everything even as Thomas shook as though he had an infectious fever. Marcus made an approving growl deep in his chest. With his hand he restrained the sudden fierce need Thomas felt to crush, tangle tongues like combatants. His Master kept it slow, steady, wet.

Marcus’ aroma was in his nose, the damp hair on Marcus’ forehead brushing his,

then his cheek and jaw.

When Marcus reached down and gripped him, Thomas groaned in his mouth and

Marcus answered with a quiet murmur of pleasure. The straps loosened, fell away. It was all Marcus’ fingers running over the cruelly chafed area, stroking up the length of Thomas, the sensitive underside, closing around him firmly, a sure knowledge of what would jack him off in no time. Damn if the bastard was able to set just the right rhythm while still keeping his mouth moving on Thomas’ in that erotic, slow swim of a kiss, tongues tangling, lips sliding and teeth gently nipping.

Thomas’ hips jerked and he yanked against the bonds on his wrists and ankles. Oh God…this was… He didn’t know how long it had taken to bring Marcus to climax six times, but all the images and remembered sensations slammed back into him,

assaulting him to mesh with the movement of Marcus’ hand.

“Master, I—”

“Another ten seconds. One…” Marcus’ tongue invaded, swept in, fucked his mouth

relentlessly now as Thomas made noises of wordless protest, begging. Marcus’ hand increased in strength on Thomas’ jaw as his grip down below did the same. “Two…”

He wasn’t going to make it.

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“You better make it, pet.” Menace, threat of more torture infused in the words like hot flame. Marcus’ thumb rubbed the tip, pressed against the underside of his cock.

Thomas arched up, his thigh muscles straining. “Oh God… Shit…”

“Wait.” Marcus snapped it once, reining him in like a stallion who’d had the bit ripped against his mouth. He couldn’t let go. Not until his Master said. Oh, but fucking hell, he was going to die. The world had slowed to a crawl, moving toward that

countdown.

Marcus’ hand left his jaw, found the towel. “Seven…eight…”

“Ten.”

He couldn’t help it. The climax exploded from him, so violently that he tried to buck, yank upward. With his hands bound to his ankles he lost his balance, falling forward, nothing to stop him except Marcus’ ready hand, sliding around his shoulders, holding him, his face pressed into the side of Marcus’ neck and bare shoulder.

Their knees became interlocking puzzle pieces, one of Marcus’ in between his legs, one on the outside, Marcus’ cock and balls brushing Thomas’ kneecap as he jerked and spewed against Marcus’ hand under the soft abrasion of the terry cloth he had cupped firmly over him with one deft hand.

It was a cleansing, a scalding of the nerves of his body from his brain to his cock and through all the limbs, leaving Thomas quivering like an oak after the furious passage of a violent tornado. He felt every point of contact between their bodies, not just the clasp of Marcus’ hand commanding his cock, but his cheek against his temple.

The still damp, amazingly semi-erect dick against his knee, the fingers around his neck, caressing the side of his throat, his pulse pounding beneath the pads of Marcus’

fingers. As Thomas tried to straighten, the world tilted as if he were a bug in a jar being tumbled by a cruelly curious child.

“Easy.” Marcus steadied him.

Acting on desire and instinct, Thomas shifted, inching backward a slight movement at a time, hobbling on his shins to the short range of the ankle cuffs. Then he pressed against Marcus’ touch, trusting him to balance him as he began to lean forward, down, down. He didn’t know if Marcus would permit it, but he did, his face a soft blur, then Thomas’ cheek was on Marcus’ knee and he was bent forward all the way, his back curved, legs folded under himself.

His belly pressed on his spent cock as he brought his lips to Marcus’ cock, brushed his cheek against his leg. Opened his mouth and drew him in, slow, savoring him, sucking him into the back of his throat.

“Jesus.” Marcus’ soft utterance was like a prayer. His hand splayed out on Thomas’

bare back, his other hand curling loosely over Thomas’ bound hands, holding the joining point of the cuffs. His fingers betrayed a slight quiver Thomas savored as much as the taste in his mouth. He began to suck slowly in an almost trancelike state, licking, working the organ he knew as well as his own, trying not to think if there were others that could share that distinction.