by Wayward Ink
Jackson nodded and gathered the toys before heading upstairs, leaving the door open behind him in a silent invitation for Paul to follow, if he was so inclined.
DESPITE HIS EXPERIENCE, Jackson realized he was nervous. What was it about this evening that made him insecure? Was it the novelty of the deal? Was it the taste of the forbidden when playing with someone else’s boy? Was it Michael himself? Or the couple together? He was here for only one night. Why did that thought make him so uncomfortable? He’d been used before, and he had used others in his life. That was a truth most honest people could relate to. So why was it so different now? Why did this particular scene and sub have him in so many knots?
As he climbed the stairs, he turned over in his mind all the possibilities of how the night might go. What he could try, what he could do. He didn’t know much about Michael’s preferences—only what he had guessed from examining the toy chest and that which he second-guessed twice before reaching the play room. What if Michael was into harder stuff than Jackson thought? What if he was really into bondage? He had known guys who couldn’t live without it. Was Michael like that? What if he was into humiliation? That was a big no-no with Jackson, and he mentally kicked himself for not insisting on finding out more. He might not be able to offer Michael everything he hoped for that night, but at least he knew that, no matter what, Michael would be safe in his hands.
Jackson paused on the threshold, taking in the sight in front of him. Michael did make for quite a sight. The man was naked as instructed, hands crossed behind his back, feet apart, quietly waiting for him. Michael’s gaze flicked over to him, but as soon as their eyes met, Michael’s head dropped, staring at the floor, the slight jerk signaling his nervousness.
Jackson toed his shoes away, his eyes glued to Michael’s silhouette. The room was a simple one, the floor covered in thick carpet and the walls sound proofed. It was sparsely furnished, with a narrow table in one corner, a bondage horse in the middle, and a Saint Andrew’s cross on the far side. There was no bed, as he never did any fucking here. This was for play and play alone. And Michael fit perfectly in here.
Michael was tall, on the skinny side, his stomach hollow. Jackson knew Michael was an EMT, and the stress of the job was clearly written on him. He was in his late twenties, but he looked mid-thirties. However, that did not spoil his appearance. If anything, it made him look wise and weathered.
“Wonderful.”
The ghost of a smile tugged Michael’s lips at the praise, but he did not change his stance. Jackson walked up to the table and put the toys down, before going back to Michael. He circled him slowly and brushed the tips of his fingers across the expanse of Michael’s shoulders, enjoying the way Michael’s skin pebbled in goose bumps, how he trembled beneath the touch. Whatever misgivings Jackson might have had about this night flew out the window with that simple caress.
He heard Paul shuffle into the room, but Jackson ignored him. He was not important. Not anymore. Nothing mattered but the naked man in front of him. Michael jumped, acknowledging his partner’s presence, but did not look his way.
With his eyes on Michael’s face, Jackson let his hand wander. He brushed the soft skin of the underarm, running his fingers up the side of the chest, stopping to trace the line below the left pec. Michael shuddered, his lips parting slightly, but still no sound came.
Just because it was there and Jackson wanted to, he caught Michael’s left nipple between his fingers and squeezed. Hard. It pebbled in the hold, and Jackson upped the pressure, keeping a close watch on his partner’s face. Blood rose to Michael’s cheeks and he swayed on his feet. Jackson waited for him to pull back, to withdraw from the pain, like almost anyone would have. Instead, he pushed against the hold, as if asking for more. So Jackson obliged. With each squeeze, each bite of nails through the skin, Michael leaned in closer and closer. His lashes fluttered, his lips slacked, a look of pleasure spreading across his face.
“You like that, don’t you?”
Michael nodded, his green gaze meeting Jackson’s.
“I didn’t hear you.”
When the answer delayed, Jackson twisted. There was no gentleness in the motion, and Jackson knew it had a lot of bite. The warmth in Michael’s eyes disappeared, replaced by awareness and, perhaps, a little uncertainty. To Jackson, it felt as if he had awakened Michael from a sleep and pulled him hard into reality. It had been necessary. He wanted feedback from his partner, and that had been the best way to get it. And the most appealing to his sadistic side.
“Use your words.”
The command was accompanied by a sharp pinch. Annoyance flashed over Michael’s features, confirming Jackson’s suspicion that the man wasn’t much of a pain slut. He let it down a notch and repeated his question.
“Y-y-y-y… yes, Sir.” Michael sounded a bit hollow, a bit breathless, but present.
Jackson gave the same treatment to the other nipple, making sure to alternate between the two. The moan that escaped Michael’s lips after a particularly sharp round was music to Jackson’s ear.
“That’s it. That’s a good boy.”
Michael’s eyes closed at the praise, a fresh shudder coursing through his body, spine arching, head falling back. Jackson retreated a step, raking his gaze down Michael’s body, fingers itching to touch, to feel. The skin was the color of milk chocolate, and to Jackson’s surprise, there wasn’t much hair to be seen. Soft swirls surrounded the nipples and a fine trail divided the man’s abdomen and pointed down to his crotch. His cock, half erect, stood up from a dark mat of curls. His thighs were almost as bare, with only the calves covered in a thicker mass.
Jackson walked back to the table where he had left the toys and perused the array, unsure what to use. Finally, he extracted the blindfold and went back to his play partner. Running the soft fabric between his hands, Jackson stopped in front of Michael. Gently, he used his crooked finger to raise Michael’s face and looked him in the eye, holding up the blindfold.
Michael’s gaze flickered toward the toy. He swallowed audibly.
“Are you sure you want this?”
Michael glanced at the blindfold, before turning back to Jackson. “This, Sir?”
“This. You and me. This whole deal.”
A smile spread across Michael’s face, lighting him up and softening his features. If Jackson had retained any lingering misgivings, they were gone now.
“Yes, Sir.” There was no wavering, no uncertainty in Michael’s voice.
“Are you sure? We can call this off, if you want.”
“No, Sir. I want this.”
“Very well. Turn around.”
Feeling the break was over, Michael complied immediately, his movements sure and graceful. Reaching around him, Jackson set the blindfold in place, secured behind Michael’s head. He swiftly checked the tightness, careful not to hurt his partner. He let his hand trail down Michael’s back. A shiver shot down Jackson’s body as Michael trembled beneath his touch. Because he couldn’t help himself, Jackson followed the caress with a brush of his lips.
Craving the contact, the reactions to feed his own need, Jackson moved closer, until he was almost flush against Michael, and explored his body, every ridge and every crevice. He used everything he had—his fingers, his breath, his clothes—to elicit a reaction. Under the gentle assault, Michael shivered and swayed. Jackson brushed against Michael’s back, the touch soft as a caress meant to increase awareness and sensitivity, and, judging by the muffled sound coming from Michael, he succeeded. His own blood ran hotter through his veins, and his cock had swollen behind the fly of his pants. He could feel Paul’s eyes on them—on him—its weight heightening his own awareness.
Tearing himself away from Michael, Jackson went back to the table to pick the next item. But what should it be? Impact? He looked back at Michael, taking in every little detail of his posture and appearance. That skin would mark so easily. A few bites of the flogger and there would be fading white lashes over that back and those thighs.<
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Or should he go for sensory play? Hot and cold, soft and rough. Jackson bet they would all elicit a strong reaction out of Michael.
Or bondage? As he picked up the cuffs, Jackson remembered the worn rope in the toy chest in the kitchen, and he knew that would be one of Michael’s favorites. Too bad it wasn’t one of his own. He’d rather have a sub in mental bondage than physical restraints, though there were a lot of guys who preferred it the other way around. Jackson weighed the leather in his palms, picturing it gracing Michael’s wrists, and decided against it.
Instead, he picked up the flogger and walked back to his partner. Michael was waiting patiently in the same spot, his head held high, his cock still half-mast. His legs were slightly apart and his hands behind his back, his posture—while the perfect picture of submission—gave him an air of dignity that Jackson found extremely appealing. So much so, he wanted to see more, to know more.
“I want you to count.”
The flogger snapped, biting into Michael’s ass. As Jackson had expected, the skin whitened where the suede connected. Michael jumped, rising on the balls of his feet at the impact, but his voice didn’t waver.
“One.”
The next blow was aimed at the other cheek. Michael jerked, but only slightly this time.
“Two.”
The blows kept coming down, none of them landing in the same place. The skin whitened, then reddened as blood ran closer to the surface. The counting went on, punctuating each bite of the flogger. Jackson made sure to catch the back and the thighs, not only the ass. Michael jumped and rose when the intensity spiked, and his voice took on a dreamy quality, his breaths becoming deeper, slower. Michael’s cock was rock hard, giving little throbs with every hit of the flogger. Yet the counting never faltered.
Jackson adjusted himself as he circled Michael, swinging the flogger in his hand. There was no pattern to the blows, but he was ever so careful of where the cords landed. His hands itched to direct the hits toward that beautiful cock, to see it whiten under the stress, but Jackson stopped himself from doing so. He didn’t think Michael would go for it, and that alone was enough to curb his own excitement at the image. But he did run his palm over the length of that dick, enjoying the smoothness of the skin. Jackson rubbed the head, spreading the moisture around. Michael gasped and leaned into the touch. His lips parted, making him look vulnerable.
Unable to stop himself, Jackson leaned in and tasted Michael’s mouth. The lips softened and opened beneath his,, giving him access. Taking advantage of the silent invitation, he explored Michael’s mouth. The kiss itself was strange. Unfamiliar. He could taste the coffee Michael had drunk before, mixed with Michael’s own particular flavor. The shaft in his hand gave a little jerk, more pre-come oozing from the tip. However, despite his obvious arousal, Michael remained still, waiting.
With a final brush of his lips, Jackson pulled back. He gave one deep stroke before moving up to the nipple and twisted it hard between his fingers. Michael yelped at the suddenness and took an involuntary step back.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Jackson listened carefully for any inflections in his partner’s voice that might denote severe discomfort, or any sign of something being wrong, but there were none.
“Give me your hand.”
Without hesitation, Michael lifted his right hand toward Jackson, palm up. The obedience, the trust he offered Jackson, a mere stranger, made Jackson even more excited. Possibilities, toys, and positions coursed through his mind, inflaming his imagination and his senses. Somehow he knew he could do anything with and to Michael. Any fantasy, no matter how intense or extreme. And that was a heady feeling. A dangerous one.
Jackson shook off the thoughts, took Michael’s hand in his, and tugged him forward. “Come with me.”
Aware of the blindfold, Jackson guided Michael using both his body and his words, and Michael followed him trustingly. Jackson took him to the edge of the bondage horse across the room and helped him straddle it. Guiding him, he had Michael spread out on top of the horse, legs parted and arms linked below the belly of the bench, his dick and balls exposed. His cock rubbed against the leather without being caught between himself and the horse, each move he made offering enough friction to arouse but not enough to get him off. There were shackles dangling from each of the feet, but Jackson ignored them.
“So beautiful. You look so hot spread out like this.”
Michael groaned and shifted, the position exposing him even more.
Breathing deep, Jackson fought for control. It would be so easy to take Michael, to fuck him senseless. He could lose himself in it, getting them both off. That would be so easy. And it would deprive them both of most of the fun. So he breathed and pushed back the desire.
Jackson browsed the items and picked up the candle. It would hurt even more now, with the skin sensitized by the flogger, but it would push Michael higher and faster than the leather. He carried it over to the bench and lit it, holding it straight, allowing hot wax to gather.
“I want you to tell me if it gets too much.”
It wasn’t in the rules, but at that point it didn’t matter.
Michael paused before confirming. “Yes.”
The insolence, though probably unintentional, had to be punished. Jackson poured whatever wax had pooled at the base of the wick. Michael jumped, his back arching, a hiss escaping his lips.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Sir.” His voice hitched, the thermal shock taking its toll.
Jackson circled him, trailing his free hand down Michael’s back. Michael shivered under the caress, his skin breaking out in goosebumps.
“So beautiful.”
Jackson dribbled more wax, making sure to spread the drops over a large portion of his partner’s shoulders. Michael squirmed but did not try to get away. In fact, he positioned himself higher on the horse. Jackson dribbled more wax, covering the lower back and the ass cheeks.
“Oh.”
“Stay still.”
“Y-y-y… yes, Sir.”
“Count,” Jackson demanded and poured some more.
“One.”
Each dribble was followed by a caress, each caress by a dribble. Michael squirmed and shifted, unable to remain still, his voice breaking. Michael’s cock throbbed furiously, his balls drew tight against the base. Jackson circled him, pouring and keeping a careful eye on him, his own erection pulsing. He could smell Michael’s sweat, his arousal. At one point, Michael’s coherence disappeared, leaving him unable to continue the count.
Jackson paused, assessing his condition. “Michael?”
“Keep going.” Paul’s voice was just a coarse whisper; but having forgotten about the his presence in the room, it startled Jackson, pulling him from the spell the session had induced. Michael, on the other hand, showed no sign of having heard it.
“Keep going. He’s almost there.”
There. Jackson knew what that meant. That subspace that most people called flying. But Jackson couldn’t take Paul’s word, even though he knew Paul wouldn’t hurt his lover or let someone else hurt him. Jackson turned back to his sub, gauging his reactions, because, then and there, Michael was his to care for. Michael’s breathing was even, though a bit shallow, and he shifted on the horse as if he couldn’t control his own body.
Tentatively, Jackson let a few more drops fall, making sure to reach an area already covered in dried wax, knowing it would sting less. Michael groaned, rubbing his face against the headrest.
“That’s it. That’s a good boy.”
Michael offered a moan in response; though Jackson wasn’t sure how well Michael could understand him now.
He poured again and again, extending the area. Michael twitched and twisted, rubbing himself against the leather, and with each powerful jerk, Jackson regretted not tying him up in the beginning. But Michael remained on the horse, his hands linked together beneath it, his legs firmly apart. Jackson’s breath caught
at the beauty of the moment. There was such gentleness and so much happiness reflected on Michael’s face, it tugged at Jackson’s heart.
The shuffle of steps heading for the door told Jackson that he was now alone with Michael. Time stretched on and the candle burned down almost to the base. Jackson could pinpoint the exact moment when Michael slipped through the subspace. He wasn’t completely gone—of that Jackson was sure. Michael let out a long sigh, his body relaxing, his muscles twitching. Ever so carefully, Jackson removed the blindfold so he could see his eyes and increased the time between pours, alternating it with long caresses, letting Michael ride out the sensations. Eventually, he extinguished the candle and settled for just caressing his sub.
Michael relaxed completely, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“That’s it. There you go.”
Michael’s eyes fluttered open and, to Jackson’s surprise, they searched for him, not Paul. “Thank you.”
Jackson helped Michael down and took him in his arms. He carefully lowered them to the ground and held Michael tight. Michael shivered in his arms, the come-down intense. Jackson gathered him closer, whispering senseless things in Michael’s ear. He didn’t know how long it took for Michael to settle, but Jackson enjoyed every second. To have Michael in his arms like this, to know he had brought him there. There was a feeling of possessiveness, of ownership, he hadn’t experienced before.
Playing with a strange Dom with no safe word had required a great deal of courage and trust, and Michael had handled it much better than Jackson had expected. The play hadn’t been particularly intense physically, but the mental toll was high.
Jackson held Michael close, brushing his lips against Michael’s hair in a comforting manner. The tremble evened out, Michael’s eyes opened again, and he settled better against Jackson’s chest. He raised his head, eyes languid, lips parted.
“Thank you.”
“You said that before.” Jackson couldn’t help his smile. “But it was my pleasure.” He traced Michael’s cheek with the back of his finger. “You are gorgeous.”