Page 53 of Love Language

He moved to Marco’s rhythm, giving himself up, diving into the agony that Marco gifted him instead of pulling away.

It was glorious.

Marco took him deeper, and he swayed into him, thrusting with the little bit of space he had available and absorbing the agony.

Pleasure welled up inside him, an unaccountable feeling of bliss that filled him and poured out through him.

And then he was coming, shooting into the heat of Marco’s tight lips and stroking tongue. And it was magical. Impossible.

And Marco was holding him through it all, giving him this beautiful moment when everything was floaty and perfect and complete.

He felt his muscles starting to shake, his body exhausted and overwrought, just on the verge of being too sensitive.

Marco caressed him gently with his tongue, milking the last of his cum. His body ached and burned, but he was whole now, at peace. Done.

Only Marco didn’t stop.

Greg realized with startling clarity that this was what he meant.

With gentle lips and soft hands, he kept stroking Greg’s spent dick, mouthing it lovingly even as Greg tried to pull away.

He couldn’t do this. What he’d thought before was agony had nothing on this. This horrible, too-much feeling of oversensitivity, the throbbing in his balls no longer pleasure-pain, but searing pain.

“No,” he mouthed the word, testing it out. Because it wasn’t his safe word. Because Marco couldn’t hear it and would ignore it if he could. “Noooooooo,” he screamed.

He’d thought it was too much before, but it hadn’t been at all. He hadn’t known what too much could be.

It was wretched, his pleasure turning on him, betraying him.

For Marco. Because Marco was sucking so terribly gently on him, watching him with hungry eyes, waiting for him to cry.

Something broke inside of him, like a crack spreading through the thick ice, letting out the raging river below. It spilled over him. Drowning him. The shards of ice puncturing him from inside.

He sucked in gusts of air, lungs burning, mouth aching. He screamed and screamed, horrible wrenching sounds.

Until he realized that he was sobbing. The hot trails on his cheeks were tears.

He cried while Marco pulled off the clamps and pressed firm hands to his aching flesh.

He cried while Marco lowered him to his unsteady feet, removing the hook that had gone slack.

He cried while Marco opened the cuffs and gently chafed his wrists while he kept one steadying arm around his waist.

Somehow, Marco was bundling him into bed, pulling him to his chest, and all that time, great, wracking sobs shook loose from within him somewhere.

He felt small and lost, adrift in his own devastating howls.

And Marco was his anchor, his lighthouse.

He curled into him, soaking up his presence, pushing into him because even though their bodies were tangled together, he just couldn’t get close enough.

But Marco was here. Marco was holding him and keeping him safe and he could finally cry.

So, he let himself cry for Richard. For that horrible gaping hole in his chest where his Sir used to be. For all those nights he’d spent alone, his bed too empty, his life without meaning.

He cried for Richard’s smell just after a shower. He cried for the dreadful, wonderful anticipation of seeing a red shirt hanging on the closet door. He cried for Sir’s large hand petting his hair while he knelt on the floor. He cried for the rightness of making Sir’s tea in the morning, the comforting certainty of putting away his shoes just so.

And he cried for those early days when they had first met, dancing around each other and revealing their desires. He cried for their years together, when he knew every one of his Sir’s needs and wishes as intimately as his own. He cried for how they’d moved seamlessly together through life, each day a joyous dance.