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"Why did you do this? This wasn't about. . . like the rest. I'm not. . . " I'm not theirs. I'm yours. Thomas wanted to say it, but he didn't. Not right now. He was angry, hurt. He wanted to be let go.
The other man had been removed by his Master after his climax, so Marcus came into his field of vision then, sitting down on the now empty convex scallop of the carousel, sans dildo. Propping his hand just behind Thomas' head, he leaned down over him, so Thomas could see his Master's face. Only his Master's face. Marcus laid his hand on Thomas' cheek, thumb caressing the side of his nose.
"It's different now with us, isn't it?" Thomas managed. He was able to stretch out his fingers enough to grasp the cuff of Marcus' sleeve, capture it between two fingers in a tenuous hold, just a physical connection. "It was easier before, but it's like. . . we're deeper somehow now. "
His intuitive artist. Marcus didn't know how to answer him, how to say that yes, it was more intense. That bringing Thomas here had opened up scars much older than those Thomas had inflicted. That the cut of his leaving had severed stitches over ancient wounds Marcus thought he'd left behind.
Don't sacrifice my son on the altar of your demons. . .
"Come on. " Marcus reached over and removed the restraints on Thomas' neck and arms, the legs and hips. He wanted to touch him, but he didn't. He felt unclean. "You don't belong here. "
It was startling to realize that neither did he. Not anymore. Not while he was with Thomas.
Thomas rose. Swayed a little as blood rushed to his head, but still Marcus couldn't bring himself to reach out. It was Thomas who did, catching Marcus' shoulder before he could draw away. He curled a hand in Marcus' shirt lapel to steady himself.
"Is this what you want? What you like?" When Thomas said the words in an odd, soft voice, Marcus could see the weight he'd placed on his farm boy's heart. Thomas was obviously torn between what he subconsciously knew to be true about the two of them and his doubt of that truth. Doubt, because Marcus had betrayed Thomas' trust.
Betrayed what Marcus himself knew to be true about the two of them.
"No," Marcus said at last, making himself say that truth. "Not with you. " When he started to turn away, his slave tightened his grip, met his gaze. "Master.
It's okay. "
"No. No, it's not. " Marcus attempted a light tone, failed. "You mess me up, Thomas. In a lot of ways. "
A slow smile crossed Thomas' face, a surprising expression considering the gravity of the moment. "And you think my compass isn't spinning around like I'm in the Bermuda Triangle when I'm with you?" He took a breath. "If this is the kind of thing you want, I'll. . . figure it out. I'll do it. We'll do it. "
"No. " Marcus pried his touch off his shirtfront and held it upright between them, curled hand over curled hand, like two men taking a warriors' oath. "It's never going to be that way with us. Anything you say "stop" about, I respect. No apologies, no guilt on your part, no feeling like you've disappointed me. I want you to feel comfortable saying it. You want to get out of here now?"
When Thomas looked at him, something shifted in his eyes, something that made everything in Marcus go still. His grip increased around Marcus' hand.
"You said. . . "
"What, pet?"
"'Then I kissed every welt so he was begging for more. '" Thomas moved in, his hair brushing Marcus' temple. They were eye to eye, his lips so close, his body completely naked, pressing close to Marcus' fully clothed one. But it was his gaze where all his energy was concentrated, bringing fire into Marcus' chest at that searing look. "That's the room you set up, wasn't it?"
Marcus nodded, one slow movement.
"Then give me your pain, Master. I can bear it as long as I know your lips will touch every mark when you're done, signing it as your work. " They both knew there was more going on here, but Jesus. As usual it was Thomas who called it forth, gave it a name, restored the balance. And Marcus knew Thomas had no clue he had that gift. He wondered if any Master could deserve him, let alone one as despicable as himself.
* * * * *
The room he'd booked wasn't private. Three other couples were in there. Marcus was fine with that, though initially he would have preferred a room with just him and his slave. He ignored the sly voice that suggested his change of heart was to keep Thomas from making any more soul baring confessions that might drive him to his knees.
However, it was silent except for the short commands of Masters to their bound subs, the slap of weapons against flesh. One slave was bent double, wrists bound so he hugged his knees as his Master caned him. Another was over a spanking bench being paddled, his buttocks already a bright red. His grunts came through the ball gag strapped around his head.
Some Masters were like used car salesmen, loud, admonishing their subs as if for a performance. These three couples were quiet, simply giving Marcus a cursory look and a nod as he came into the door. They were into their own scenes, personal between their sub and them. Their presence was stimulating, but not intrusive.
Walking Thomas to the side of the room, Marcus straightened his arms above his head and locked him into a pair of manacles dropped from the ceiling. Marcus did the same to his ankles with a set bolted into the floor, using his knee instead of his voice to command Thomas to spread wide. The chains made a clanking sound.
There was a delicious shiver running through his slave's body now, Thomas responding as Marcus knew he would, making him want to snap and salivate like a wolf. Something was drawing tight, low in Marcus' belly, a feeling he hadn't ever experienced as a Dom before. He'd gotten hints of it before with Thomas, a vision of the places the feelings between them could take them both.
"Master. . . " Thomas' voice, almost a murmur, sending a ripple of response through Marcus' body. He leaned up against his now immobilized lover, pressing his hips against Thomas' bare backside. He stroked his arms, all the way up, and gripped his wrists just below the cuffs with his own hot palms, as if they were bound together. Two slaves to Fate, awaiting its lash.
Then he got hold of himself. Marcus dropped one hand to Thomas' jaw, holding him steady. "Don't move your lips," he commanded.
He brushed his lips over the firm mouth, the corners, tracing him with his tongue.
