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“Please,” Sam begged, beyond caring about right or wrong or anything he should or shouldn’t want. He wanted this. He needed this. Every inch of him yearned for this. “Please, John, yes, fuck me. Please.”
“Yes,” John agreed, and came back to him, small bottle in hand. “I’m going to.”
The oil was unscented, slick, expensive. It left John’s fingers gleaming, left more wetness on Sam’s cock when John laughed and stroked him, experimentally. His prick dribbled need onto his stomach. John murmured, “So good, for me; you’ll get what you deserve, my love,” and pressed fingers to his hole, opening him.
The opening and caressing felt like a dream, like intoxication. John’s hand sparking wondrous radiant sensations. John’s voice telling him he was doing so well, he was so lovely, so ready. John’s gift, the cadence of words and melody, working on Sam everyplace else: a harpstring-pluck at his nipples, a line of drum-taps along his inner thighs, air like a kiss against his mouth. John moved the fingers inside him, crooking, searching; wild glowing ecstasy shivered through Sam’s body. He writhed helplessly.
One of his legs slipped, held in mid-air. “Oops,” John said, amusement threaded like flute-sparkles into his tone. “Lost some focus, there. You’re a bit distracting. Here, I’ve got you…” And the secret silk bonds gathered Sam up again and kept him in place, carrying him deeper into the rich flowing orchestra of sounds and touches and nearness.
John slid the fingers out, and moved—all at once, fluid, swift. His cock, large and blunt, pushed against Sam’s body. “Feel that? Me. About to fuck you.”
Sam moaned dazedly. He might’ve made words; they might’ve been yes, and want, and John’s name. He was made of want, liquid with it.
John pushed into him. And it was so much, so hard, so hot. John’s cock was the largest Sam had ever felt, or perhaps it only felt so because this was the most he had ever felt, also the largest, every need and surrender and impossible love he’d ever had all swept up and coming true.
He wanted to laugh, giddy, weightless, euphoric; he wanted to moan and sob and beg for John to fuck him harder, deeper, until he lost even the last tiny flashes of coherence. He wanted to come all over himself with John’s cock in him. His head rolled across the bed, side to side, until John murmured something and the tangle of restraints secured him there too, immobile. His cock was dripping all over his stomach, shining strands of silver. His hole felt so good, stretched wide around John’s girth. His body felt so good, each thrust plunging deep, breaking him into rainbow firework bursts.
“Sam,” John said, in a tone that suggested he’d maybe said it more than once. “Look at me. Look at me. Still here?”
Sam nodded, floating, serene among the fireworks.
“You look like you’re enjoying yourself.” John stopped moving, buried to the hilt in him; leaned forward, atop him. Kissed him, reverent but thorough, tongue caressing Sam’s mouth. “So am I.”
Sam mumbled John’s name, because it was the only word his brain remembered.
“Tied up in bed and all mine.” John balanced weight on one hand, used the other to stroke Sam’s face. His hair, too long, tumbled in an ink-black tempest. “And we’re going to do exactly what you pictured. Well. Maybe not exactly. Not your desk, not this time. But I am going to fuck you until you come all over yourself, not even a hand on your prick, because you love being used like this, by me—you love it so much that you’ll just come and come and make a mess of yourself, won’t you? So respectable, so proper, such a good man…when you and I both know you really need to be tied up and fucked by a thief, a bandit’s lover, everything I’ve been, and you want it all.” His hips moved, drew back, thrust. Hard. “Inside you.”
“Yes,” Sam pleaded, “yes, yes, yes—gods—John—please—I need—want—please make me, fuck me, make me yours, make me come—you’re so inside me, so deep, so big…” He was babbling, words just falling out, thoughts lost to the hard fast pounding of John’s cock into him. “Need…your cock, you…love you, love you, please…”
“Oh—” John’s eyes were so big, so blue, a little wet at the edges, as if the winter color had brought some rain. “Oh, Sam—” He shuddered, stiffened, tensed; his hips slammed forward, and Sam cried out because all the brightness was right there, overwhelming, shattering him into blissful pieces.
He knew he was coming, though he’d never felt like this before. His prick spilled release all over his stomach, his chest, in long spurts. His entire body shook, spasmed, rocked against the restraints, loved the feeling, and convulsed again, helplessly. He was sobbing with completion and gratitude and love, as John took him and filled him. The world blurred, a watercolor running and pooling. He felt all the wetness, the heat, the splashes of his own release, the tears at the edges of his eyes, the slickness of oil where John’s cock claimed his hole.
He heard John groan, and felt more thick sweet heat spread out inside him: John’s release, he understood dimly, John’s spend in him, because John liked him like this and wanted him and cared for him, giving him this, loving him.
He sobbed in thankfulness and pleasure, and felt his body clench, ripples and waves of light. He felt John petting him, talking to him, amid the ebb and flow and painting-hues all melting into each other.
He felt it, when John slid out of him, and when John used thumbs and a whisper of power to hold him open: watching that release drip and spill out of his stretched hole, over sensitive flesh, utterly debauched and scandalous and decadent. His body, surrendered so completely. Here for John to gaze at, ruined and sloppy with climax and oil.
His hole, his cock, twitched feebly. His head shivered with tiny silver bells.
“Oh, love,” John said, and the word wore layers and layers of emotion like instruments building a symphony, “oh, look at you…did you come again, just there? In your head, like that? Oh, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted, no one else was ever you, no one ever even came close. Always you, for me.” He said, or sang, something else: a line from an opera, maybe, not in English. The bonds around Sam eased, bringing his legs down to the bed; the wrapped-up tightness faded to nonexistence. John ran a hand over him: hip, stomach, chest, fingers tangling idly in the hair there.
Sam breathed out, found that he was breathing, found that he could focus a bit more. Anchored, with John petting him.
John had stretched out beside him, up against him, softening thick cock nudged against Sam’s leg. The petting continued, slow and soothing. “How’re you feeling? Good? You can just nod; I won’t make you talk. Or if you’re not—you can shake your head—but gods, I hope it was good. It was…so good, for me. Was it?”
Sam nodded, drowsy, safe.
“Good.” John pounced, kissed him, swift and sincere; sat back up. “So…did you notice that the bed’s not on the floor anymore?”
Sam blinked. Tried to process this assortment of words. Then tried to sit up. John’s hands guided him more upright, and kept hold while Sam peeked over the side.
Several inches of air between bed and floor returned his stare, with smugness.
He turned to stare at the love of his life. Who shrugged, one hand still touching Sam, the other performing a flawless who, me, thoroughly innocent here hand-to-heart gesture. “Don’t look at me. I need to use my voice, and you’re the kinetic talent. Although I’m extremely flattered by the compliment.”
“Oh my gods,” Sam despaired, and then, “Of course it was good, you needed to ask?” and then, “That’s never happened before!”
