Plaid Nights Anthology

by Torquere Press LLC

  WW groans above me. “I won’t last long if you keep doing that.”

  Opening my mouth wider, I begin to seal his length with my heat, applying suction with every inch I cover. WW thickens under my ministrations, instantly becoming steel-hard. When he hits the back of my throat, he gently guides me out, using my hair as a handle.

  Knowing what he wants, I surrender my control and let him fuck my mouth. It’s not long before he gasps and I know he’s on the verge of coming. We’ve done this dance so often I recognize every shudder and moan. Could predict what he wants from every line of his body, while his eyes burn like a constant inferno, wild and untamed.

  WW begins to pull out, but I grab his hand. He relaxes, sighing as I take the thick spray of his load down my throat, not spilling a drop.

  When clarity returns to WW’s eyes, he looks fondly down at me and utters the two words I’ve always longed to hear. “Good boy.”

  How two simple words can contain a fount of meaning I’ve never known, but once uttered, they fill me with pride. I stand, take a washcloth and clean up WW while he decides what he wants next. He surprises me by grabbing my shoulders and resting his forehead against mine.

  “How shall I take you?”

  “I can choose?” I ask warily, blinking when he kisses the side of my jaw. Then, he nibbles and sucks his way down the side of my neck. The strange tenderness unsettles me and I can’t help but ask, “Did something happen today? I mean. I know the gist of it. Historians call the Battle of Stirling Bridge a turning point. Talk to me.”

  “Little poet, my beautiful boy,” WW murmurs. He lowers his head to take one of my nipples. I groan when he sinks his teeth, and the sensitive flesh hardens under his care. “Do you feel it, the change in the wind? I fear for the future so much.”

  I thought I knew WW, the man underneath his armor, but this vulnerability is a new side to him I’ve never seen before. He leaves his teeth mark on my other nipple, and his hand snakes between our bodies to reach for my cock.

  “Do you want me to tell you what happens? You—” WW presses a finger to my lips and I fall silent.

  “I do not want to hear your predictions, Magnus. Not tonight. I fear I’m beginning to believe you, as far-fetched as your stories are.” As with his sudden gentleness, there’s something in his tone I can’t place.

  Pregnant silence fills the darkened room. The only sounds come from my mouth. WW wrangles cries from me as his talented fingers move up and down, alternating between fast and steady, nearly pushing me to the brink, but always pulling back. I know what he wants to hear, but I continue to look at him beneath my lashes, panting.

  Suddenly, it’s clear to me what he’s hinting at. Will this be the last time we meet under the cover of dark, like a pair of secret young lovers finally found out?

  “Please,” I whisper when the pressure begins to drive me insane. He grins like a Cheshire cat, and I wonder if he knows I’ve finally pieced the puzzle together. “May I come, Sir?”

  “Let me hear you beg once more.”

  “Please, Sir. Please”

  “Come all over my hand like a good boy.”

  I shudder, and the waves of pleasure overwhelm me to the point I would have stumbled if not for WW’s strong and steady hands. Head reeling, I bury my face into his shoulder, and lick and taste the salt of his skin. When I feel my razor-sharp incisors unsheathe, I almost panic.

  WW lets out a sound of surprise. A trail of blood leaks from a tiny cut caught from my teeth. I want to pull back. Need to keep my distance, but I remain rooted, transfixed to the spot as the coppery scent of his rich blood reaches my nostrils. My tongue flicks, out of reflex, catching the droplets, and I shudder as the rich taste explodes on my tongue.

  “Magnus,” WW says in a firm voice. “Eyes on me.”

  But my eyes are drawn to the rich crimson elixir unearthed by accident. It would be so easy to wrap my supernatural strength around him, to sink my canines into his tender flesh and drink. It would be hardly any effort to watch his sun-kissed skin turn chalk white before tearing open my own wrist to feed him the poison running through my veins.

  For a fraction of a second, that version of the future is all I can picture. To never see suffering etch so painfully on WW’s face as his limbs are forcefully stretched. To never hear his bones crunch, or the defiant sound of his voice echoing through the execution square as he wastes his last breath on one single word that he fights so hard for even as his entrails pool out of his gutted body like the grotesque tentacles of an octopus.

  I see us instead, skating through the night like pale flickering shadows, restless and thirsty. Hungry for the life we’ve left behind, the mortal life—the gift I’ve stolen from him.

  “Magnus.” WW tugs my hair sharply. The pain distracts me from the blood, helps me to focus, and to will the blood thirst away. The agony must have been reflected on my face because WW catches my bottom lip and bites down hard on it.

  “Let me chase that sadness away,” he says after releasing my lips. “Go on, lie on the bed. On your back, if you please.”

  My cock twitches between my legs and my hunger is replaced with a different kind. I eagerly comply, crawling into the bed. WW wipes away the blood from his neck with indifference before moving to the dresser beside the bed. He picks up the coils of rope, a smile lighting the corner of his lips. I let out a pathetic mewl when he reaches for my right wrist and begins making knots.

  After making sure the restraints are secure, he moves to my ankles. I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s easy for me to get free, or to remind him he doesn’t need to waste his time making sure my blood circulation is not cut off.

  Vampires may have sacrificed part of our souls in exchange for eternity and damnation, and our hearts have ceased to beat, but I like to think I’m still capable of emotion. Desire certainly, obsession undeniably, love—or hopefully the illusion of it.

  Still, the illusion of being utterly helpless to WW’s whims is a heady concoction. He walks around my bound form, eying me. Sweat breaks out from my pale skin, and shivers run up and down me even before he touches me.

  He bends over his discarded clothing and picks up a something from the puddle I didn’t see before. Long, thin, black, bound to sting and tease. A riding crop. A sigh, hopeful and longing, pours out of me when he experimentally smacks the crop against his hand.

  “Start counting, boy. We’ll begin with twenty.” The crop whistles through the air, and even after centuries of begging powerful men to dominate me, it doesn’t fail to make my body jump.

  Each careful strike makes me spill more pleas, relaxes every tense muscle in my body. Sir layers my thighs with a crisscross of welts, leaves a few over my chest and stiffening cock. I heal abnormally fast and the marks will fade come daylight, but even when they’re gone, I’d remember the ache.

  I nearly come without permission on the tenth smack, but I hold myself back, gritting my teeth.

  “Good boy,” WW says with approval and both my cheeks flush crimson.

  WW dispenses with the crop, and his fingers curl around my length. My shaft is aching, begging for release.

  “You may come, beautiful boy.” His words are enough to trigger my orgasm.

  Gasping, I writhe in my restrains. Waves of pleasure thrum through my entire body as I empty my load. Vaguely I feel WW coming back with a washcloth and cleaning me.

  Pain becomes a fleeting afterthought and my mind is about to enter a state of euphoria, but Sir is far from done. He walks to the edge of the bed and loosens the restrains over my ankles. Then he picks up a bottle of oil from the dresser.

  Protection has never been an issue between us. Vampires, like most supernatural beings, cannot catch anything, and WW has been with no one else except his wife. I was the first man he sampled, and he confessed I would be the last. He learned fast, Sir WW. I recognized the dark desires lurking inside him he was so terrified of, and taught him not to be afraid of them because in another time and place,
it was simply an alternative and acceptable lifestyle.

  I gasp when the fresh sting of my welted flesh collides with WW’s body. He drapes himself over me like a blanket of warmth—mortal flesh pulsing with so much blood and life. Life I envied and wanted, but knew I couldn’t take. Tasting it through the salt of his skin was enough.

  “Beautiful boy, tell me. Do you feel how ready I am for you?” WW whispers against my ear, grinding his body against mine—chest, stomach and erection.

  “Sir, please. You’ve tormented me long enough.”

  “Tell me,” he coaxes, voice firm.

  “Please. I need you inside me. Ride me hard,” I whisper. In the dark, his eyes glitter with need, a raging hunger like my own blood thirst.

  WW pulls my legs over his shoulders and uncorks the bottle of oil. He dips his finger into the bottle, dribbles a generous amount down my crack. WW isn’t a brute—he takes his time, tormenting me, teasing my rim with his fingers before sliding one in. He likes hearing me moan and beg as he puts a second in and begins scissoring me for his access.

  By the times he deems me ready, I’m panting, gasping like an animal in heat.

  “Fuck me, please.”

  “Such crude words, boy,” WW says, but a wicked smile spreads on his lips. He nudges his lubricated tip to my opening, and I groan. WW works his way slowly in, and the slight pain quickly disappears once he pushes his cock head past the thick ring of muscle. I breathe easy, keeping my gaze on him.

  Some nights, I like WW taking me on all fours. That way, I don’t need to see the intense expression on his face. To look upon his fierce beautiful look of possession would only weaken my resolve. Tonight though, I welcome an intimate and vulnerable position.

  WW groans, sinking in hilt deep. His fingers dig into the flesh of my hips, and I hope they leave bruises. I like wearing his marks.

  “So tight.” WW growls, and the sound sends jolts right to my chest and thickening dick. He begins to move, this time to a fast and rough rhythm, exactly the way I like it. The bed vibrates under the force of his thrusts. Groans spill shamelessly from my throat as he hammers his way inside me, deep and deeper.

  WW changes the angle of his thrust and hits my sweet spot. I gasp out loud, eyes widening, hands twisting at the ropes. He goes for my prostate repeatedly, driving me mad, pushing me to the edge. WW reaches out for my rock hard cock, and pumps in time with his fucking.

  He grunts and I know he’s close.

  “Let me hear you cry out my name again,” WW commands, pinching my tip, and it’s enough to make my body heave out one last shudder. Head reeling, I scream out his name as strings of cum coat his chest and ribs.

  “Good boy,” he says with panting breaths. It doesn’t take long for him to finish.

  Gripping my legs hard, he lets out a triumphant groan and fills my hole with his warm load.

  WW gets off me, and kisses me on the lips. I smile back at him like a poor besotted lovesick idiot, but I don’t care. He cleans both of us up before untying me. Free of the ropes, I contently curl to my side, sighing. It’s not long before Sir slides next to me in bed, spooning his body close. He runs his fingers through my sweat-soaked hair, and kisses the nape of my neck.

  I almost let sleep take me, but I remember the little telltale signs. WW’s sorrow. His reluctance. The ominous feel in the air. It seems unfair this will be our last night together, but I’ve lived too long to throw a tantrum. A phantom hand squeezes painfully at my non-beating heart. My soul is screeching in torment. Still, I keep my lips closed. I’m glad WW doesn’t see the sorrow on my face.

  “Magnus,” he whispers my name in the dark. Grabbing my shoulders, he turns me so I’m facing him and I’m glad my neutral expression is back in place. WW says nothing for a moment, before finally saying, “Tomorrow?”

  He blinks in surprise when I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him on the lips.

  “Tomorrow night,” I agree wholeheartedly.

  The End

  Feumaidh Mi Ruith

  by Missouri Dalton

  Stealing from Marcas wasn’t a plan, but now all Cary can do is run.

  “Oy, ye wee ratten! Get yer arse back here!”

  Ignoring for the moment the garbled Scottish shouting, I ran away with my prize as fast as my legs would carry me. I had to admit, the more he shouted, the more colorful the insults got. When he switched to Gaelic, it was all just noise to me. It did sound dire, though.

  I had to get out of sight before he managed to get himself loose—otherwise I’d no chance at all. He was a fast bastard for as big as he was, and I preferred not to let him carry out the dozen odd threats he’d spouted that I could understand, let alone whatever else he’d said that I couldn’t.

  Other than the running for my life, it was a fine day. The sun was out, the clouds were scarce, and it seemed Edinburgh was going to have a rain-free morning. Soon as I made it to the hotel and had my suitcase, I’d hail a cab and be gone before Marcas could catch up. I’d be free and clear and about ten thousand pounds richer. Maybe twelve thousand, depending on who I could get to fence it. The book was worth more than that, but it wasn’t as though I could go to a reputable book dealer with it.

  I made it back to the hotel without any trailing threats of injury, so Marcas must not yet have gotten free of the handcuffs. It was a shame we’d had to part on such poor terms. I’d been hoping he’d still be asleep when I left him. Less unpleasantness. Oh well. I tossed my phone in a bin I passed on the street after wiping off my prints. Couldn’t leave any connection back to myself.

  I fetched my bag from the hotel’s coat check and caught a black cab from the line waiting outside.

  “Airport,” I said, sliding into the back.

  “Alrighty-then.” The driver nodded sharply and we were off on the usual manic route. Edinburgh cabbies were a force of nature. But I made it the airport alive, got through security without so much as a side-long glance, and was aboard my plane with time to spare. Only amateurs and narcissists ride first class, my mum used to say. So I had a seat in economy, aisle adjacent, under one of my many false identities. One should never have anything with their own name on it—that was rule number one.

  Rule number two was generally about not letting your mark get too close to you, and I’d failed miserably at that this time round. Nothing to do about it now. I’d never see Marcas again, and that was that. I had the book, I’d get the money, and I’d pay off that teensy debt I owed to Mackerel Jack, be free and clear at last.

  I had just settled into my seat when a flight attendant appeared at my elbow with a strange expression on her face. My hackles rose. This was not good.

  “Sir, there’s a gentleman at the front of the plane. He says he found your phone.”

  “Ah, I’ll just go up and get it, then.” I stood up. I didn’t pause to grab my bag, sure someone would come for it before too long. Past the first class curtain, standing at the front of the plane and looking a bit pinched, was Marcas McLean. The tall Scot’s brow was furrowed, his sharp sea-green eyes narrowed as he stared me down. Sure, the broad shoulders, the large hands, and a face that would shame Bernini were all wonderful, but I was also mortally aware that the man could snap me like a twig. How did he find me? When I wanted to hide, I hid. It was my talent. Which made up for my deficits in other areas.

  I was fast, that was really all I had going for me in the physical arena. Well, I was also fairly acrobatic, but that would not help me if Marcas pinned me to the ground and started beating me to death.

  He looked like he dressed in a hurry, his dark curls were all over the place, but that wasn’t what caught my attention about what he was wearing. No. That honor belonged to the badge clipped to his belt. It was gold with thick black letters that spelled out Interpol. Oh, fuck. It occurred to me, when I was standing fifteen feet in front of him, that while I might have simply sprung on an opportunity presented when I spotted his first edition copy of Treasure Island, if he was Interpol, then he’d been—
watching me. Like on purpose.

  I wondered if it was typical of Interpol officers to fuck their marks.

  I suppose I could ask him, so long as I survived.

  “Mr. Jones,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ll be missing yer flight.”

  “I thought as much.”

  He slipped off his jacket and pulled me out of sight of the passengers before handcuffing me, arms in front, and folding the jacket over my arms.

  “Come on then.”

  I guess I didn’t run fast enough.

  ***

  He put me in the back of his car, a black Benz with tinted windows with the child locks engaged. He was gentle enough, even buckling me into the seat before closing the door. I heard him get into the trunk, but I couldn’t see out the back window. I hazarded he’d taken possession of my suitcase. Finally, he climbed into the driver’s seat and we were off. He was silent. The radio was off, and I couldn’t help wondering what would happen next. I hadn’t realized I was a big enough fish to get Interpol involved. I rarely stole anything worth more than a few thousand pounds—Treasure Island had been a fluke.

  Maybe I was just really bad at picking dates? Had I been so blinded by lust I hadn’t noticed he was a cop? If so, I was going to have to lay off the sex for a while. Clearly my dick was overriding my finer senses.

  When the car stopped, I wasn’t sure where we were. I wasn’t sure where the nearest Interpol office was, or if there was one in Edinburgh. The drive hadn’t been all that long though.

  Marcas got out of the car, got into the trunk again, and then opened my door. He had my suitcase all right. I took a quick look around, recognizing the old gray stone buildings around us—I’d been here not that long ago. He’d brought me back to his flat. Maybe he was going to kill me.

  Or I was a paranoid idiot.