The Dark Collector (4 page)

“I guess I didn’t really answer your question, but owning things is the easiest way to describe what I do.” He presses his thumb against my lower lip, using enough pressure to make it sting against my teeth. Such an odd caress: oddly rough, oddly dominant, just odd, but it feels good, makes me feel like he’s maybe owning
me
. I raise my eyes to meet his gaze and his thumb presses harder, hard enough to force its way between my lips so his thumbnail taps my teeth. “Come with me.”

I follow him back to his bedroom, wondering what that was about even as I feel my lip plumping and swelling where his caress bruised me. He might not be a sadist, but I
am
at least a little bit a masochist. I liked that rough touch, and it made me hum with the craving for
more.
When we get to the bedroom, I kneel for him again, hands behind my back.

“No, pet, on the bed. On your back, please.” He gestures toward the bed, and I lie across it, watching him, but trying to make it look like I’m not. I don’t think he’s fooled, because he’s smiling when he lies down beside me, as nude as I am. “You were very patient while I wrote my thank you notes. I think you deserve a reward.”

He slides a hand down my chest, pinching at my nipples. I arch into his hand, closing my eyes and letting myself feel that hum of energy I associate with submission. When his teeth come down on my shoulder, more a suck than a bite, I arch into those too.

“You like to be marked,” he observes after a moment.

I nod, and he rewards me with a harder bite, this time just above my left nipple. I can’t help the groan that escapes, and he bites just a little harder.

“He did that, didn’t he? Kuyper?”

I nod again. “Yes, Sir. He liked to see his marks on me. He liked to paint me that way, and photograph me that way. And I liked it too because it meant he was proud of me. Proud enough to mark me.”

“You’re beautiful, pet. Any man would be proud to mark you.”

No.
I shake my head.

“You don’t believe me? Do you think I’m lying?” There’s a harsh note to his voice now.

“No, Sir. I think you don’t know me. You don’t see me, not the way I am every day.”
You will though, when you get those negatives. You’ll see all of me. At my best, at my worst, you’ll see me stripped to the soul, and you’ll add me to your collection.

“I see you, pet. I think maybe you don’t see yourself.”

“I know who I am!” I’m surprised at my own voice, surprised at the tears in my eyes.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Jeffrey Kuyper’s muse. And his boy. His beloved. I’m
his.
”

“But he’s gone. And who are you, just you, just Ol—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Excuse me?”

“Please, Sir, don’t use my name, it’s not…” I don’t even know why, but I can’t have my name be part of this weekend, not when I don’t know his. It makes this transaction too real, too personal. It makes me more than the currency in the sale of a painting, and I can’t
be.

Something hardens in his face.

“Get up. Go into the bathroom and place your hands on the mirror—not the one over the sink, the full-length one.”

I don’t hesitate. This I can do. This is the transaction, this is me giving him my body—not myself.

The mirror is cold against my hands, and my palms leave sweaty prints when I place them just below shoulder height.

“Step back farther, but leave your hands there,” he calls from the other room.

The position makes my ass thrust out. God, please let him just fuck me. Get away from awkward conversation about existential shit that doesn’t matter. I was the conduit to the art, the muse. And now I can be the currency to purchase the painting, but please don’t make me have to confront being alone.

He comes and stands behind me. In the mirror, I can see he’s already wearing a condom, and his hand is slick with lube. Without warning, he plunges two fingers inside me. I slam my eyes shut because it
hurts,
but the pain is right because it’s not for me, it’s for the art—it’s currency. But it doesn’t feel like currency when he nuzzles my ear as he touches me. It feels like intimacy. He knows what he’s doing, stroking me soft, easing me open. A shiver down my spine as he massages me in just the right way. I push back against him, begging without words for more.

“Look in the mirror, pet.” His breath is warm and I shudder at the tenderness in his voice. He pegs my prostate with those two fingers and I groan at the sharp spike of pleasure.
So fucking good.

“Look in the mirror,” he demands again. “Look in the mirror, or I’ll fuck you with that cock ring on and not let you come.”

I drag my eyes open, see the wild, fey thing in the mirror staring back with heavy-lidded eyes, blown pupils eating most of the blue. Jeffrey’s boy. The muse.

“Look how beautiful you are.” His fingers slip out of me and his cock is poised at my hole. “Look at yourself, pet. Look at that beautiful man, with the ring around his cock and his eyes black from desire. Look at
him
.”

I see him—
me,
a flush riding high on my chest as I grind my ass back, trying to take that thick cock.

He slides inside me, a quick, sharp sting that makes me gasp, then he sucks on the back of my neck and I relax into him, take his cock gratefully. I let my eyes drift closed.

“Open your eyes,” he orders, reaching around my body to stroke my cock with his lube-slick hand. His other hand slides up my body to pinch and pluck at my nipples and drag across them in a hard rub.

I watch. I watch him fuck me, and I try to detach, to not see that wild creature whining and groaning as he fucks and ruts but it’s me, and I’m whining and groaning because the things he’s doing feel so good, the hand on my chest, the other on my cock, and his cock driving into me from behind. Pleasure builds and builds, swelling inside me, but it can’t release because I’m still wearing the ring.

A whimper escapes me, then “Please, Sir.”

“You’re so fucking perfect, pet. Look at yourself; see who you are. See that wild, beautiful man in the mirror. That’s how I see you. That’s who you are to me.”

I groan, because I see myself now, and I see the longing, the need to be held, to be claimed. The hand on my cock fumbles, and he releases the cock ring. The rush of sensation makes my hands slide several inches down the mirror as he’s milking me again, fucking me and stroking me, and all the while keeping up a litany of praise for the beautiful man in the mirror who is somehow me.

“Please, Sir…” I whisper.

“What do you need?” His voice is thick with some emotion.

“
Own me.
”

His lips find the back of my neck and suck, hard. He’s marking me, and that’s it, that’s enough. I can’t keep my eyes open as my orgasm slams into me. My arms shake, and I collapse against the mirror, coming and crying,
again
. His arms hold me up and he’s still fucking, fucking, driving into me, until with a shout, he comes too, shuddering against me and inside me.

We lean against the mirror for a long, harried moment. Neither of us speaks as he eases himself out of me. He throws the condom away, then he turns me with gentle hands and pulls me into an embrace.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” He tilts my chin, forces me to meet his gaze.

I shake my head. “No, Sir.”

“Good. Clean up your mess and join me in bed.”

I groan, knowing full well what he means. My cock wants to get hard again at the very idea. He disappears into the other room, and I drop to my knees. I lick my come from the mirror, knowing my own taste and knowing he is giving me this task to bring me back to myself, to ground me. He knows he rattled me, and he’s giving me time to make my peace.

Is that what I’m doing? Making peace? I watch myself in the mirror as I lick the last few drops away. How long has it been since I’ve cared at all about the person I see in the mirror?
Lick.
Can the muse exist when the artist does not?
Lick.
How can this stranger, whose name I don’t even know, see me if I can’t? There’s no peace in this mirror, no answers, just my flushed face and my spunk. My shame and my pleasure. Once it’s cleaned of the evidence of both, I return to the bedroom. He told me to join him in bed, so I crawl in beside him when he lifts the covers for me.

“Are you tired?” he murmurs, drawing my back to his chest.

I nod.

“Nap with me.” He spoons me against him, but he doesn’t speak anymore. I take his suggestion, and I close my eyes and listen to his quiet breathing until I fall asleep.

****

I wake some hours later, alone in his big bed. I stretch under the luxurious sheets and I groan when I realize how sore I am. Sore from kneeling, sore from fucking, sore from crying. The good sore is the bite mark on my pec, and the hickey on the back of my neck. Those feel great. But I’m wary now, because the man who put them there didn’t do it to claim me. More like the opposite, and that scares the holy fuck out of me. He’s stuck his hands deep into parts of me I didn’t want free—they belonged to Jeffrey—and he’s shaking them loose, one by one, and giving them back to me.

I make my way out to the kitchen and find him there, putting away groceries. I move to help him.

“Hey, I didn’t want to wake you. Did you sleep well?” He hands me a trio of oranges and nods toward a fruit bowl on the table.

I put the oranges in the bowl and turn back to him. “Yes, Sir. Thank you.”

“Good. The food delivery came while you were gone. I told you we’d cook together tonight.” His smile seems almost shy, as if he isn’t the same man who fucked me to tears and then ordered me to lick my come off the mirror. But he is that man, and this soft, sated man too. Something about him looks different, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s shaved away the stubble. He looks much younger now. Softer. And his lips, God, they’re even sexier than they were before.

I
really
want to kiss him.
He’s not your lover. This is a transaction.
I look down at the floor.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, Sir.”

“Good. Can you get some carrots out of the bottom drawer of the fridge and peel them? Two or three should be enough, I think. The peeler is in the first drawer to the right of the sink.”

No orders, just a request. I gather the carrots and start peeling.

“Sir?”

“Mmm?” He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a cutting board. He sets up on the counter next to me, grabbing some herbs off the plants hanging in the window. As he begins chopping, the scent wafts around the two of us working side by side.

“Why aren’t you ordering me to peel these?” I hold up a carrot.

“Because cooking isn’t part of our arrangement. It’s just…” He shrugs. “Fun.”

Oh.

“Okay. But eating…I mean, you’ve been feeding me.” I blush. I like being fed from his hands. It feels good, playful.

“That’s different. That’s me taking care of you. You need that, don’t you?” His expression is so earnest, I can’t help but smile.

“I like that. I just…this is different.” I gesture between us and a carrot peel goes flying and lands on his shirt. Embarrassed, I reach for it, but he just shrugs and flicks it into the sink.

“I wanted you to spend the weekend here. I didn’t want to keep you chained to my bed all weekend. And topping you constantly, while it’s a hell of a lot of fun, isn’t really practical when we aren’t in bed, you know?” He stops chopping. “I will if you want me to. I just, I don’t know. You seem like your life might be short on camaraderie lately. If you’d rather I say ‘Pet, peel those carrots,’ in my biggest, baddest Dom voice, I will.”

I grin over at him. “Okay, no topping me in the kitchen. I can live with that.” Oh,
shit.
That sounds like I’m making
plans.
“I mean, I just meant…”

“I know what you meant.
Peel those carrots.
” But he says it in a cheesy fake-deep voice that makes us both laugh. And then I guess there isn’t really anything else to say because we both fall silent, peeling and chopping.

That night, he doesn’t fuck me again. Instead, he drags me up against his body and holds me close, his hands rubbing soothing circles on my back and belly. At first the caresses seem
too
familiar, too much like a lover, but after the last twenty-four hours, I’m too exhausted to protest this intimacy. I let myself be lulled to sleep.

****

Sunday morning I wake up to a hand on my cock and a heavy erection riding the crease of my ass. It feels good so I roll with it, thrusting my hips and squeezing my ass cheeks to give him some friction.

“So, good, pet.” He groans against my ear, and I thrust a little harder. His hand tightens on my cock and speeds from something sweet and lazy to a fast, urgent search for release.

“You can fuck me,” I gasp, half into the pillow, so it comes out a garbled mess.

“Unh.” He grunts, stops thrusting against me, and breathes heavily against my ear for a moment. Then he’s up and over me, digging in a drawer and rolling me onto my back.

“Lift your knees,” he orders, and I hug them to my chest. He looks at my ass and groans, this sort of raspy groan. “God, you’re fucking hot.” He puts on the condom with lightning speed and dumps some lube in his palm. A few strokes of his dick, then he’s sliding two fingers into me. “I can’t wait.” He gives me an apologetic look as he slides them right back out and lines himself up.

It’s incredibly arousing how desperate he seems to be to get inside me. It goes a long way towards forgiving that lack of prep, and I like my sex a little rough anyway, so I arch my back and push into him as he sets a driving pace.

“Jerk yourself,” he demands.

It’s frantic, almost frightening, how quickly the heat builds between us, his hands on my hips holding me in place for his wild fucking, and then he shouts and shudders and he’s coming.

Still moving inside me, he presses his face to my shoulder and bites, hard, as he groans through the aftershocks. With his teeth on my skin like that, I come too, clutching him hard as I gasp out some inarticulate noise.

He lifts his head and seizes my face with one hand, pulling me into a sloppy, desperate kiss. It’s hot, crazy hot, his tongue sliding into my mouth and his hands still on my body, and before I know it, I’m kissing him back and wondering why the hell we waited until Sunday to do this. The kiss is starting to turn me on again, even though I just fucking came. He gives one last thrust into my body and then pulls out and breaks the kiss.