At
10 PM Munro left his apartment and headed to the tube station.
Nothing to do with the morning rush nor the groups that returned from
work in the afternoon; he walked slowly, enjoying the fresh air and
showing a discreet interest in the few neighbours he came across.
The
image he was displaying right then didn't match his clear lack of
inhibition when he went out to the balcony every day: hair tied up,
hand in his pockets, hat pulled down to his eyes, long-sleeved
t-shirt and sweatshirt, jeans and dunk trainers. In the past he used
to carry his backpack with the clothes he'd need, but Toller seemed
to have fun playing to dress dolls with him, so he could afford going
through life travelling light.
He
went down the stairs, validated his card and continued his way down
to the platform. Then he awaited in the quietest area and when his
train arrived he picked the emptiest carriage and stood in a corner,
despite the numerous free seats.
The
tube made him feel rather uncomfortable. He had thought more than
once about getting a job and buy a moped not to be dependant on
public transport, but it was a delicate subject and Owen used to
raise objections. His wealthy lover would of course offer himself to
drive him in his car every time he could, or pay for his transport
one way or another, but Mìcheal didn't want to hear about it. He
already depended on him too much to even consider remotely possible
quietening the wails of his wounded pride... So he'd use the tube,
always avoiding the peak hours, always away from people, always
trying to pass unnoticed. He was the idiot wearing long sleeves at
all times of the year, including those summer days in which the heat
was so incredible that the carriages would turn into rolling ovens. A
complicated situation not to attract attention, but he'd have to keep
enduring it for the time being.
He
remembered what he had done since Owen had cast that sharp gaze on
him. He had gone fencing, as promised, and had assured his instructor
he wouldn't skip more classes; he had had his first decent meal in
days; he had tidied the house... he had behaved like a responsible
adult whom wouldn't have to be taken care of. But now he was on his
way to his favourite place, the only space where he could strip body
and soul in front of all that people without fear of touch and pain,
and feel the looks and the admiration, and the desire. He'd always be
out of their hands' reach, but their eyes... the physical contact in
their caresses could almost be felt. Almost.
Twenty-five
minutes and a change later he reached his destination.
The
Under 111 club, property of C.C. Toller, one of Faulkner's clients.
Toller, who only allowed a few people to call him by his initials -he
knew too well they used to call him like that behind his back, and
much worse things as well-, and whose real name was known by many
less, was an entrepreneur of renown in the music world. He also had a
stake in Finisatron, the music company, and even in a well-known gay
club and a gay porn films production company, as Toller had never
hidden his lack of interest in the opposite gender. His activities
concerning this branch weren't public domain, but there were gossips
about his interest in his young actors' careers, specially off set.
But
the club was the apple of his eyes, the place that had helped him to
add noughts to his bank account. He'd visit it almost every day and
personally run it; the sharpness he had always displayed picking
renowned artists and promoting unknown ones hadn't abandoned him.
Its
name had been traditionally controversial. Some said it pretended to
be Fahrenheit, a trident or even the number of lovers Toller had
enjoyed until its opening; but upon further interrogation the
entrepreneur wouldn't say a word, he'd only snigger. As he had
discovered the existence of the club Faulkner had done his utmost to
approach him and investigate him, because that number had a very
specific meaning for his kind. He couldn't find anything suspicious,
but managed to get Toller's attention, and the promising twenty-five
years old lawyer started to work with him. The businessman trusted
his own experience enough as to afford not being so demanding with
it; what he was looking for in the ones around him was talent, youth,
energy and attractiveness... and Owen Faulkner didn't lack of any of
those qualities. As for the lawyer, that had been a great year for
him: he had got his first important client and Mìcheal.
As
he found himself in front of the wide facade, with the big white
metal and neon sign, the young man smiled, calmly smoked a cigarette
and walked to the side road. Sometimes he'd indulge in crossing the
doors of the main entrance, but only when they were empty, and then
there was a group of idle people in front of them. The guard
recognised him and let him pass, after warning him Toller wanted to
chat with him.
The
Under 111 was a music club with different spaces, its several
thousands of square metres divided among three floors. The ground
floor, accessed through the main entrance, was a huge concert hall
with a big stage at the back, three bars, Dj booth, dressing rooms
and a small press room. The latest hits of the moment, rock, pop,
indies and anything that would get the owner's attention, were played
those nights when there were no concerts scheduled.
To
the left there was an access to an inner terrace, and a metal
staircase led to the first floor, to a venue occupying two thirds of
it, with two bars and also Dj booth and dressing rooms. It was the
space for techno and electronic and the decoration, projection
screens and lights were enough to turn anyone epileptic. The rest of
the floor was occupied by a smaller space where concerts and
performances of many different styles were held.
A
new metal staircase between both led to the upper floor, to another
terrace to the right, then a room to celebrate parties and private
events, and finally Toller's own dominions. In front of them there
was a huge, restricted access lift.
It
was still early and there wasn't many people, so Munro enjoyed the
pleasure of walking upstairs to Toller's office instead of using the
lift. Yet he pulled his hood up; unexpectedly bumping into people
wasn't infrequent. The guard in front of the door imagined at once
who that visitor pulling his hood down would be, and he knew he was
right the moment he saw the blond ponytail. He kept his distance and
let him pass, greeting him with a small bow of his head.
Toller
was glued to his iPhone
as
usual, but he smiled and pointed at one of the flashy purple couches
that decorated his office. Munro's eyes wandered through the room;
collecting homo-erotic art was one of the businessman's hobbies, and
he'd often find a new piece on display in the showcases and shelves.
On the back wall there was a picture of two sailors pulling a rope
while not wearing much that he was sure he hadn't seen before.
Nothing too scandalous; Owen had confided him the really pornographic
pieces were stored in the bottom private room and his house. Why
would Owen ever get into the bottom private room was a question that
had crossed Munro's mind; the bothered lawyer, reading his thoughts,
had answered his relationship with Toller was strictly professional.
Then he had added, sighing, that he had even stopped the harassment
to get laid with him once he had discovered how good he could be in
his job. Barely a year...
C.C.
Toller was a man around fifty that had been celebrating his
forty-five b-day for years. As he kept himself in good shape and his
hair was thick and bright black (thanks to dye) his claim could fool
anyone. His father had been a North American soldier posted to a
military base whose intelligent, almond-shaped dark eyes he had got.
The colour, at least, had been one hundred per cent genetic; the
intelligence was a trait he had put a great effort in developing as
well.
His
father had also been responsible of choosing the baby's name: Cassius
Caesar. It was slightly
extravagant
even for the environments he used to frequent. That's why he used his
initials and wouldn't grant many the freedom to call him C.C..
Faulkner was one of the few fortunate; as for Munro, he'd stick to
his surname with relief.
Toller,
proud as he was of the acquisition his young and handsome lawyer had
been, had felt more than satisfied of patronising and spoiling his
even younger and handsome lover. He never turned his nose up at
surrounding himself with male beauties and those two were a more than
remarkable couple. Faulkner spent two years making up his mind to
introduce Mìcheal to his client and etch on his mind the fact that
the boy was totally off-limits. Still he would have never done it the
latter hadn't threatened him with committing a folly if he insisted
on keeping him like a prisoner among his apartment, the gym and the
fencing classes. The club had become a refuge for listening to music
and dancing, and there he had the chance of doing it safe from the
crowd.
That
peculiarity of Munro surprised Toller: his complete horror and
rejection to be touched. Faulkner had explained him it was an extreme
case of haphephobia, and any contact was enough for his mental
condition to cause him genuine physical pain. The businessman
couldn't help but wonder how came his lover was able to lay his hands
on him; but he had witnessed the incident of someone holding his
hand, and the boy's suffering had seemed very real to him, so he
hadn't insisted on the question. It was a pity, though, as touching a
wonder like that and even going further mere contact would have been
delightful... But business was business and sacrifices had to be
made. He made do with dressing him, giving him free access to every
area of the club, enjoying his movements while he danced and assuring
him his money wasn't accepted there, nor his friends'. His friend,
to be precise, for he only seemed to have one: that glasses guy who
drowned in his own saliva when he looked at him... and also at the
rest of males with good arses, it had to be said.
'My
dearest Mìcheal,' greeted Toller after he hung up, 'such a great
pleasure, as always.'
The
club owner approached him and made as if to slap his shoulder,
although he didn't touch him. The young man could stand contact
through his clothes; it was the direct exposure to other people's
skin what made him react. In any case he had already learnt to feel
comfortable with that man's proximity. He stared intensely, but well,
it was a free world. On the other hand he found very curious his way
of speaking, so camp and sickly sweet. He suspected it was just a
mask, a play to the gallery, and his behaviour was much more natural
in private. Anyway it was useless to think about it. He'd never see
him in private.
'You
look fabulous, and am not telling you anything new. Your man, is he
back from Sweden? His assistant told me some kind of story when I
called two days ago, and then I realised it had to do with one of the
company boys. They dress him in clothes fished from a trash container
and allow him to spend a fortnight without washing those tangled
locks we'll call hair cause they grow on top of his head... and what
do they expect? He's bound to behave like trash. And understand me,
sweetheart: I'm not against him behaving as he pleases... as long as
he does it without being caught.'
Mìcheal
managed to slip two words in and confirmed he was indeed back.
'Thank
goodness! I have a question to make I am super-worried about... But
let's stop talking about boring work.' Let's?
'The
clothes I picked for you are in that bag on the chair, gorgeous. I'll
go down and have a look later, but first I have to talk with that
Heracles of a lover you have. See you later, Mìcheal.'
The
young man thanked him and grabbed the bag as his companion turned his
attention back to the phone. Then he walked downstairs to one of the
dressing rooms of the techno venue and changed. Toller had chosen a
sleeveless black sweatshirt with a big silver star on the chest, that
the zipper would divide into two identical parts; black trousers that
sexily cling to his waist and legs, and trainers like the ones he was
wearing but same colour as the rest of the clothes, displaying silver
stars at both sides.
People
was starting to fill the hall. Munro slipped towards the restricted
access to the upper walkway, greeted one of the female dancers with a
smile and walked to his small platform, suspended upon the crowd.
When the night were at its peak the platform would dramatically stand
out, lit by those frenzied lights, and he and the rest of the dancers
would be clearly visible in the middle of that human tide, but
completely inaccessible.
That
was the wonderful, blessed reason why Mìcheal loved the place: he
could dance freely among hundreds of people, and safely.
The
lights went off and the Dj mix started to sound across the hall. The
fast beating of the drum machine reverberated along the walls and the
floor; the vibrations climbed through every sole and the electric
impulse went up their spinal cords and expanded inside their
stomachs, beating to the rhythm of their hearts. The platforms were
lit and Munro and the rest of the dancers started to draw attention.
His
muscles might not be as bulky as his companions', but his body was
beautiful. He had been dancing for barely a year but he possessed
great hearing and sense of rhythm, and the gym and practice had
provided him with dexterity and agility. When he shook his hips and
arch his back many eyes would be fixed on him and thirstily drink
each and all of his movements. Certainly only one person could touch
him; Mìcheal would get his revenge up there, all those nights,
seducing many women and enough men with the sensuality yelled by the
undulations of his figure.
At
some time every night the young blond would always get rid of his
top. His hands would move to the zipper and slowly pull it down, and
the garment would fly to the walkway, revealing the lines of his
pectorals and abdominals, glistening with sweat. It was then when
Faulkner's fears used to materialise, because it wasn't rare that the
swinging of his hips made his trousers slip down and reveal his fancy
underwear. He wasn't aware of it, but even this gesture had its
admirers, struggling to make out if the black of its elastic waist
was plain or decorated with some flashy embroidery. Once they had
satisfied their curiosity those gazes would continue their travel
North or South, depending on their preferences.
The
young man's mind used to drown into the beat, disconnect from his
surroundings. He didn't even think of smoking. It wasn't the kind of
music he used to listen in the privacy of his home but it was what he
needed, the electric current that started that beauty making machine.
Toller never deprived himself of paying a visit to the walkway and
feast his eyes on his moves on the platform. Officially he was taking
care of Faulkner's merchandise
to
remain intact; extra-officially he enjoyed the boy the only way he
could. He wouldn't deny he had had some men as attractive as him
during his life; he wouldn't deny either Munro possessed the charm of
the forbidden.
That
night the blond didn't take a break until late. He grabbed his new
sweatshirt, walked to the dressing rooms and wiped his sweat, and
then simply soaked the nape of his neck with a bottle of water. He
ran his fingers through his wet hair and upon turning to the door he
found one of the female dancers cheekily looking at him, a smile on
her seductive red lips. He supposed she was new, as he had never seen
her before. She was wearing an eye-catching strass top and really
short shorts.
'Hey
handsome, got a fag?'
'Sure.'
He placed the packet and the lighter on the table so that she could
help herself.
'Mind
if I bring it back later?' she said, referring to the lighter. 'Or
better, come to have one with me.'
'I
have to go back to...' mechanically answered Munro. It was just an
instant; it looked as if he thought twice and changed his mind.
'Sure, why not.'
Her
smile became broader. They went upstairs to the terrace and leaned on
the handrail; he offered her fire and lit one for himself. It was a
bit chilly but the cigarette was comforting.
'I
don't know if going out after so much sweating is a good idea... By
the way, Olivia. You?'
'Mìcheal.'
'Mìcheal...
how cute. Irish?'
'Scottish,
actually.'
'And
tell me, Scottish boy, have you been dancing here for long?'
'Just
from time to time. Let's say I'm friends with a friend of the owner
and...'
'Ah,
right.' Her smile froze. 'You bat for the same team.'
'What?'
'What,
that I am wasting my time. That you aren't into girls.'
'I
don't know if I am into girls; never been with one.'
She
looked at him, surprised, but recovered part of her aplomb. That
didn't sound so unpromising...
'At
this point you should know if you're interested in girls, don't you
think, Scottish boy? I already had the hunch you swung that way;
you're too handsome and brash enough picking your clothes.'
'Brash?'
'What
I mean is nice pants.'
'Thanks.'
He took a deep drag and looked ahead before he spoke again. 'I'd like
to return the compliment and say nice knickers but you aren't wearing
any.'
Munro
got startled by his own boldness. What was he thinking? But it was
too late, the words had left his mouth. And the girl's one, by the
way, was wide open... No; definitely, that didn't sound so
unpromising...
'Fancy
that...' she managed to say. 'How can you be so sure?'
'Cause
that thing you're wearing is so small it's impossible to fit anything
else inside there...'
He
turned and looked at her again, with interest. She looked back.
The
young man wondered why was he playing along with her. She was right,
after all: the girl didn't even attract him. And it wasn't only her,
it had been a long time since he eyed up anyone. He tried not to look
twice at people since it was meaningless to feel interested in
something he couldn't have. He had learnt it the hard way... And yet
he had never tried to touch a girl. His brain was cherishing the idea
so intensely that it made him feel uncomfortable and eager at the
same time. What if his condition was only provoked by men? After all
Faulkner had never been jealous when women paid him attention; only
men would receive that warning look that used to be so efficient,
because Owen never gave the impression he was joking. No, he didn't
believe he was into girls, but it was worth to try if... He displayed
a seductive expression and approached her even more. Unexpectedly,
so-called Olivia placed her free hand on his bare side, right on top
of his hip.
Enough
months had passed since the last time, but his body hadn't forgotten.
The pain...
The
pain of being touched was like an ice burn. It wouldn't make him jump
right away, his nerve endings would take their time to transmit the
information to his brain; but once the sensation settled there there
was nothing that could stop it. It'd go down his spinal cord, linger
in his stomach and entrails and leave a trail of frozen needles
behind. That was, at least, the only way he had to describe it... And
the worst was that it would remain there, increasing little by little
if the contact persisted but piercing him anyway even if the invading
skin or hair moved away. No matter how fast he'd stand back, no
matter how much he'd yell in his mind, begging his brain 'stop it,
the contact is broken, I won't do it any more'... The breath that was
taken away from him was never given back too fast. He doubled up,
holding his stomach.
The
girl wasn't having the time of her life either. Brushing that skin
was like receiving an electric shock from someone else, something she
had heard about but had never experienced before. She removed her
hand, as fast as a spring.
'What
are you doing, Mick?'
Mìcheal
couldn't even turn to the voice; Olivia could, and faced that tall,
attractive guy wearing that grey suit who ignored her, walked towards
the blond and held his waist, forcing him to straighten up. Then he
took him away from there. She threw her unfinished cigarette away and
ran downstairs. Weirdos...
***
'Ah...
O-Owen, ple-please... don't... ugh... touch mine... please...'
The
huge bed was the only unusual thing in his apartment among the fairly
Spartan furniture. Its base was very firm and the headboard was made
of metal bars, and it was perfect to move roughly and to practise
certain little
games.
It'd
normally be padded handcuffs, but that night it had been leather; a
long string of leather straps attached to the wristbands with metal
carabiners. He didn't like to use them because they'd leave bruises
if he pulled too much, but he wasn't in a very good mood. And when he
wasn't in a very good mood he wouldn't be averse to leave a couple of
marks.
Mìcheal
lay on his stomach, his face buried in the mattress. Faulkner had
violently pulled back his hips and slightly raised them, leaving his
arms tightly stretched at both sides of his head. His fingers grasped
the leather strings that restrained him, his knuckles as white as a
bone. The lawyer raised his left hand to stick his into his mouth and
prevent him from talking, and the saliva that threatened with
overflowing soaked them. When he noticed his tongue twirling around
them he pressed harder; only inarticulate whimpers could cross those
lips.
He
had placed himself between his legs after spreading them rudely with
his knees, and had dived very deep inside him. He had always been
well endowed, but three years of sex had chiselled the shape of his
tool inside the young man, in his mouth and between his buttocks. The
fingers of his free hand were digging into the exposed side of his
partner's groin, very close to his swollen and wet penis but without
touching it. They left deep prints on the flesh that softly yielded
to the pressure.
His
cock, buried to the hilt, suddenly left the tunnel that it had just
forced open until the slippery head came outside the narrow walls,
and then penetrated again like a ram, with a sound like the crack of
a whip. Mìcheal whined again. Owen noticed out of the corner of his
eye how the skin of his butt cheeks turned red; his fingers
unconsciously tightened their grasp, painting white circles on the
pink surface.
'I
told you to come back early and I have to go...' whiplash; new
whimper; 'to pick you up and I find you trying to touch...' new
whiplash, and again that sound so strangely satisfactory to his ears;
'one of those sluts up. I don't know what disappoints me more, either
you trying to cheat...' another blow; Faulkner continued his speech
like that, and with each pause his weapon would sharply pierce him;
'on me, or you being so stupid. If you like pain so much... there's
no need to look for it outside home...'
Exposed
to the air, the lube started to lose efficiency, but the lawyer
didn't bother to replace it. The onslaughts continued until the
youngest man's brain started to send him confused messages where
delight and agony were inseparably mixed. More than anything, he
wanted to come, but that ruthless hand wasn't delivering a single
caress, and that way of fucking him would only bring him to the edge
without offering the last push. He tried to shift so that he could
rub his crotch against the mattress, but Faulkner held him firmly in
that position.
'What
do you want a girl for, Mick? I don't think... you could even get it
up. After all this time you know I'm... what you need.' He clenched
his teeth, because it was starting to be unpleasant for him as well.
'Is this what you want?'
The
fingers closed around the blond's glans, who started to shiver and
breath noisily. And right when he was about to shoot the hand moved
to the base of his stiff member and pressed hard, interrupting his
orgasm. Mìcheal almost snivelled: it was the second time he has done
it that night. He knew too well his body, he could read his moans,
his jolts. The brown-haired man remained still inside of him, and
once he had judged his penis was back to its state of painful
excitement, he resealed it and moved his hand away. He also stuck his
finger out of his mouth, leaving a trickle of sticky saliva behind
that slipped down the young man's chin. The wrists pulled hard,
trying to be free. He shook his hips, but the body seizing him was
too strong. He panted, desperate.
'Please,
Owen... let me... ah... come... I can't any more...'
'Sure,
Mick. But first...' the lawyer's fingers pierced his buttock,
kneading it, exposing even more an opening that was already full of
him, 'you'll have to promise me you'll never try to touch anyone else
but me. ' He pushed even harder, although there was no way that thing
could go deeper in. The blond bit his lip as he noticed that big
frame completely lying on top of him, those lips pronouncing clearly
besides his ear, 'Promise me, Mick.'
'I...
I promise, Owen, won't try again, but...'
'And
now, beg me. Beg of me what do you want me to do with you.' The
fingers brushed his testicles and the base of his member, yet too
slightly to make it pleasurable. 'Beg me.'
'I
beg you... make me come... please...'
Faulkner's
teeth close around the lobe of his ear but didn't make it bleed. His
left hand, still moist with his saliva, went up and held the tied
one, while his right softly surrounded his erection. Mìcheal tried
to thrust inside it, but it was difficult with that heavy muscular
tower trapping him. The lawyer resumed his ramming, faster this time.
He was almost there as well, even more when he heard the high-pitched
moans coming out of those sensual lips. He didn't want him to climax
first; he kept his fingers relaxed around his member as he went in
and out, increasing the pace, until he shot his load of sperm inside
him with a burning sigh that bathed the blond. While that cock still
pumped inside his tight walls the hand held more firmly the young
man's one and rubbed it intensely, from the base to the crack of its
end, squeezing the last drop of pre-cum. Mìcheal stifled a cry, and
the yearned for orgasm shook him, violently landing on his stomach as
his partner's thumb still stroked both halves of his swollen head; he
couldn't stop moaning and shivering during the long seconds his
pleasure lasted.
The
throbbing stopped, and Faulkner slowly removed his hand. His lover's
body was limp, powerless; the tied hands no longer grabbed the
leather but hung down still. It looked like he had been rendered to
an exhausted little bird fighting to bring some air to his lungs...
The older man kissed his neck while gently pulling it off and went on
his knees, taking a wire from the table to open the springs of the
carabiners. Then the mobile rang.
It
wasn't his work mobile, he took good care of muting it while they
were in bed. It was the other one, the mobile he could never afford
to disconnect. Mìcheal knew he'd have to answer, but still he
released his wrists before doing it, barely brushing them with his
lips upon removing the leather wristbands, and kissing him.
'Yes?
Jaleesa?'
Jaleesa
was Faulkner's assistant, but also one of them. It was very rare
they'd use that line outside the Marked Days. Nevertheless the young
blond managed to sit up, reached for a box of tissues and then walked
slowly to the window, dying for a cig.
The
fresh night air nicely bathed his temples, covered in sweat. Mìcheal
leaned on the sill and enjoyed the truce although his legs were still
shaky.
He
himself wasn't able to understand why he liked that. Owen had never
been a bad lover; he had nobody to compare with, but if coming like a
beast again and again was a signal they were doing you good, then he
had always been done really good.
But
as time went by, pleasure had stopped being enough. It was always
there, but it would cause him anxiety, restlessness; the feeling of
being in a cage with the door open... and his eyes that would always
escape to the inviting opening, wondering if he should try to cross
it. He didn't know how to explain it, except that it made him feel
guilty, debtor of a price he'd have to pay sooner or later.
The
pain, the bindings and the tiredness had a curious effect on him.
They excited him and at the same time gave him a paradoxical peace of
mind that soft mattresses and caresses couldn't procure him. He'd
look at the door of the cage and see it closed, no chance of
escaping, and that would comfort him. He was where he should be; pain
was real, a firm, secure anchor. Pain would blow out the need to
think.
Owen
had refused at start. He wasn't into that kind of things. All he
wanted was being on top of him, inside of him, in his own intense but
uncomplicated way. Tying him to the bed? To the shower? What kind of
psychopath did he think he was? Although Mìcheal had insisted so
much that he had finally given up. Like a game, the first times;
barely some silk handkerchiefs softly surrounding his wrists; a bit
rougher movements as he penetrated him; seldom a bite on some
discreet part...
Later
on the young man had demanded more. And it had been easier and easier
for his lover to play along, specially those days, like the current,
in which he managed to drive him mad. Not that he did it on purpose,
but he welcomed them because he would enjoy the consequences. At the
end of the day they'd make him suffer the remorse of seeing Owen
deep into his own guilt... It was a strange circle, and somehow
sickly.
Yet
there were two things he'd never tolerate: he'd never use dildos -he
said he considered himself armed enough to please him- and would
never leave very visible marks; he alleged it would be like tempting
fate, keeping in mind how much Mìcheal showed off his shirtless
chest.
'When
will you stop smoking, Mick?' The lawyer had hung up and silently
walked towards him. Now he was looking at him with disapproval.
'What
difference does it make?' answered the youngest; and then he added
after a deep draw, 'It isn't as if cancer is going to kill me, right,
Owen?'
'It
makes a difference for me, cause my tongue also goes into that mouth
of yours.'
'What
did Jaleesa want?' interrupted him the blond to avoid a discussion.
'Oh,
that; it seems one of the Greys was stalking Davenport's house. I'm
afraid our next target is no more a secret, and I'll have to watch
him closely until he ripens or I'll risk losing him. As things stand
now I can't afford that.'
'How's
that Davenport?'
'You'll
see him this Saturday,' answered the lawyer with tense voice.
'Ah...
aye...'
A
sparkle of excitement lit Munro's eyes up. Saturday, the next Marked
Day, in which Faulkner would let him go out with him for the first
time... He inhaled with relish, anxious, until his companion grabbed
his cigarette, crushed it against the glass and wrapped his arms
around his waist.
'Stop
it, Mick, I am not done with you... I hope we won't suffer more
interruptions, so what do you think? Shall we start round two?' He
pushed his face against his neck and nibbled it. The young man
grumbled quietly, with a smile.
'What
do you have in mind? Tying my wrists to my ankles? A good gag and a
blindfold? Did you finally find a dildo bigger than your d...?'
He
didn't let him finish; carrying him on his shoulder, he dropped him
on the bed and jumped on top, an intense stare in his eyes.
'We'll
make love, plainly and simply, Mick. Nothing more, nothing less.' His
index finger pressed the lips that were about to complain. 'And you
will like it. But first... we'll have to wake up your little friend,
looks like he's drowsy...'
His
mouth took over the finger, kissing and licking this pink arches. He
went down his chin, along his neck, stopping on his notch, then
following the path between his pectorals to his navel. There he
lingered for a long time before taking possession of his shaved
pubis. Walking his tongue along the smooth, hairless skin of his
body, including the hollows of his armpits, was something that drove
him crazy. Depilation
wasn't
Mìcheal's favourite word, but still he put up with it. It had
positive consequences after all...
Owen
avoided his member, playfully, and went for his testicles, kissing,
caressing and nibbling them before giving his attention to that
dozing little
friend.
He slid his tongue along the underside to the furrow where the
opening was hiding and licked it. It had that flavour that excited
him so much, that reminded him he had already made him come and
pushed him to go back for more... He made the soft flesh disappear
inside his mouth.
The
young man looked down at the brown-haired head that bobbed on his
crotch. He noticed his breath accelerating; it was stirring, true,
but a little extra was never unwelcome... He stretched his arms until
he touched the hanging leather strings, grabbed them tightly and
wrapped them around his wrists, using them to thrust himself into
that masterful mouth. Oh...
oh, yeah... I'm ready again...
Faulkner
stopped at once and looked up at his partner's hands, frowning upon
seeing them again in that position. He pulled until he released them,
trapped them on the blond halo around Mìcheal's face and their
fingers intertwined. The youngest man dared to fix his aquamarine
eyes on the bright grey of the hypnotising gaze that studied his
features; he spread his legs and embraced his muscular hips.
Young
Munro didn't cheat again. His arms slipped along his lover's sides
and stroked his wide back. His indexes traced the lines of the
perfectly symmetrical scars Faulkner had at both sides of his
shoulder blades.
