On His Knees

by Adira August

  by

  Adira August

  Copyright © 2016 Adira August

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either wholly sprung from the author’s

  imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Fiction - short story - M-M erotica

  ***

  For everyone

  who’s BTDT

  Prologue

  There's not enough hot water on the fucking planet.

  The scalding water cascaded over his bent head and the panther tattoo across his shoulders to snake in thick rivulets along the rigid muscles and valleys of his back and buttocks. He didn't need to see the sharp-shadowed outlines on his body to know his muscles remained taut, the ligaments and tendons stretched. And no amount of time under the shower was going to change that. Not after today's scene.

  Detective Sergeant Hunter Dane didn't usually dwell on crime scenes. Investigating them was his job, but he left them behind when he went home. At a scene, he engaged his intellect and accessed his instincts while keeping sentiment at bay. In the scene but not of the scene. His mantra - a paraphrase of a paraphrase from Scripture. Something else he didn’t dwell on, anymore.

  But sometimes the data clanged against his senses and echoed suffering in the blood-scented air. Every fact pooled in his gut, settled in his bones and snaked around his spine. He knew that if not exorcised, they'd claw at his insides until his stomach bled, his heart stuttered or his mind imploded.

  Fuck it.

  He banged a fist against on the valve handle. The water cut off abruptly, leaving him shrouded in a blanket of warm fog.

  Scene and Not Heard

  In lower downtown Denver, two blocks off the once-trendy remnants of urban renewal, sat a red brick, apartments-over-businesses building common at the turn of the century before this one.

  It housed a barber shop, a used bookstore, a private insurance agent and a small family restaurant open for breakfast and lunch. All closed by 6pm.

  Behind the building, dumpsters lined the alley, a barrier between private parking and public thruway. Against the building, a modern but not incongruous structure - a wooden staircase to an upper deck.

  Symbolic rather than obstructive, a rusty chain hung between the newel posts over the bottom step. It unlatched easily with one hand. There was no guard in front of the simple door at the top of the stairs. Or at any of the three other doors spaced along the deck that stretched the length of the building.

  At night, light glowed from one or another of the upper windows, behind crooked blinds, drawn curtains or a pulled shade.

  But those windows were backed by a shallow box built to conceal the interior, the lights mounted inside controlled by a timer. And the folks that sat at the tables and chairs scattered along the deck, smoking and talking, were not residents. They were members of Scene and Not Heard, the most discreet BDSM club between Kansas City and Salt Lake.

  Costumes were not encouraged but not forbidden, though some were banned from the deck. Dues were not prohibitive, but discouraged dilettantes or those who didn't need the highest degrees of discretion. Cops played for free at S&H. As did EMTs and firefighters. When the occasional emergency arose and the resources of the city would otherwise respond, these members’ discrete service more than paid their dues.

  Hunter

  I stopped a few feet inside the club entrance to let my eyes adjust to the dim light. The music soothed and buoyed ... Purcell, Palestrina, Pla. Chez sometimes added Puccini for spice. Chez Cannon, the owner/manager, was mildly, and oddly, OCD.

  The sweet music and comforting familiarity of moans and laughs, cries and pleas drifted over me. I was aware of eyes on me from nearby tables. That was familiar, too. I’d been a photographer’s model since I was eighteen. Thick brown hair contrasted with pale gray eyes, strong, regular features, a rangy well-muscled body - it all paid my way through college. Though my face was often obscured depending on my state of undress.

  But it did make it tough when I hit the street and was dismissed as all face and no balls. My second week we covered a no-knock entry at a biker club. While I was hanging on to a Glock still in the hands of a guy twice my girth so he wouldn’t shoot any of us with it, his friend took a bike chain to my back. Ripped right through my uniform shirt into my flesh. By the time they got him off me, there was an impressive amount of blood.

  The scars weren’t photogenic. Dwight, my photographer, knew a guy who knew a tattoo guy. Another biker. Different club. But he was a true artist. Pantera negra, as he named the tat he designed for me, covered all my scars. And was hella photogenic. Image is everything.

  Tonight, I'd dressed with unconscious care for what I wouldn't admit to myself I was about to do. The well-worn black cargos that clung to my ass were loose in the crotch, neither restrictive nor protective. A heathered taupe v-neck tee almost covered the sinuous black tail on my left biceps and the paw clawing into my right. A wide leather belt adorned with a seven-ring Gates of Hell - status of the evening.

  I wasn’t surprised when a tight body in pink ruffles under a long fall of shining brown hair rose from a booth, attention on me. Intention, as well. Her friend put out a hand, pulled her down, whispered something. Pinky dropped her gaze to my belt and resumed her seat, disappointed.

  She was new. Another night and I might have let her slide down my body right in the entrance. Gotten her off the first time in the booth. Or not gotten her off at all until she'd proved how much she wanted to please me and done it. Some other night.

  Tonight, I wasn't looking for a pink, frilly sub. Once inside, I’d known what I was looking for. The realization shallowed my breathing.

  I was looking for Cam. Camden Caulfield Snow. Earner of five Gold and two Silver winter Olympic medals, his classic blond beauty graced a billion drink cups and a thousand Tumblr blogs - a Norse god in the guise of unpretentious youth.

  My second epiphany of the night was how desperately I needed the man I’d avoided for so long to be here. I’d been with all these other Doms. Most more than once. But after today, I needed Cam.

  If he was here, he'd be holding court near enough to watch the entrance. The "holding court" was not intentional. Cam was simply not arrogant or vain enough to believe he deserved a fandom. He was, in spite of his ridiculous name for a winter sport Olympian, modest, self-effacing, open. A gentle soul morphed with a supremely competitive, athletically gifted, Alpha male.

  Only his steel blue eyes gave evidence of the Dom who took whomever he wished whatever way he wanted, with a look and a nod.

  Except for me.

  An early summer evening. Making my way to the door with one of the club’s boozeless Bloody Marys to find a deck chair and keep an eye on who came up the stairs. Decide what I wanted after sunset.

  The door opened before I could touch it. He paused, backlit by the setting sun. Golden. Glowing. Idealized male beauty wrapped in an invisible cloak of incredible power. He was so careless of it. He scanned me and grinned. As if the sight of me delighted him. No one grinned here. Not with genuine pleasure.

  He passed close to me, still scanning. It was the kind of moment that called for locked gazes and hardening cocks. Instead, he happily looked me over like I was a pastry display and he was deciding which succulent treat to select.

  He was all of twenty-one. Fresh from deep powder and Olympic triumph. Exuding health and vitality and bonhomie and danger.

  I wanted to give him everything, simply because he existed. And looked at me.

  He reached out and put a hand on the side of my neck, his thumb skating lightly along my jawline and down, across my larynx. My insides turned to water.

  Don't pick m
e. Please.

  His eyes narrowed a little as if he'd heard. His hand tightened - scarcely, definitely - and withdrew.

  "Kneel for me when you’re ready," he said. And was gone.

  For two years his sporadic appearances were cause for club-wide celebration. He quickly acquired his own mythos. Cam demanded all. No negotiations. No safewords. Not compliance nor submission. He accepted only perfect surrender.

  It was why we'd never been together. I was often hungry for the screaming release only another man was strong enough to bring me, the safety of control that excited and humiliated me, the pain I feared and longed for. But I knew what I wanted and how I wanted it. I wanted nothing more. And even though I'd had cocks in my mouth and floggers on my back and ropes across my chest, I was an anal virgin. Hard limit.

  Cam was limitless.

  We’d never spoken. But when he was in the club, I'd find his weighted gaze on me when I entered, and pass his table with my head turned away.

  It was like wading through a forcefield.

  I found him tonight, as always, already aware of me - waiting for me to find him. Surrounded by men and a few women. Gently smiling.

  This time, I didn't look away.

  Cam stopped smiling. His eyes narrowed and slid down my pecs and abs like a strong warm palm. I felt myself opening to him, right there, half-blocking the way of people coming in behind me. My body turning more fully toward him, my arms falling loosely, palms up.

  His minions noticed his attention had lasered in on me. Cam's chin came up, his head back, his gaze not challenging, but direct. You know my terms.

  A frisson of fear spiked adrenaline through my body. My balls drew up, but my cock rolled over - I could still walk past him.

  We opened the door with a pry bar. Another bedroom. A single closet. A messy bed. Huge pictures on the wall, like rock band posters ...

  Cam relaxed into the curve of a horseshoe sofa, arms stretched along the back. Legs extended and crossed at the ankle. A relentless patience I was helpless to contend with.

  ... but these were pictures of screaming faces and ripped open bodies. He'd slept here; his victims' torment brought him peace.

  The club’s sounds subsided as those nearby became aware of the dynamic in play between Cam and myself. Anticipating. Hoping. Knowing he did what he wanted, where he wanted. In private or public. Merciless.

  He tilted his head. Well?

  The closet door squeaked as I pulled it open -

  The last thing I needed was mercy.

  I dropped to my knees.

  A Man at the Gate

  Hunter Dane went to his knees for me, Camden Snow stopped breathing for a moment. Everything else receded - the club, the music, the people. Only Hunter remained, bright in a nimbus of light, a single player on the stage of the world, waiting for his cue.

  The sight of him, straight and tall even now with his head bowed, made Cam so hard, so fast, he thought his cockhead would breach his zipper. Hunter was the one he watched for. Dark. Damaged. Sculpted. Haunting and haunted. He moved with the confident grace of a man not just fit, but field-tested.

  Cam longed to shatter him, so all his fiery molten interior exploded outward. He'd wanted it from that very first night, stunned by the depth of the dark man's raw need for his own obliteration. Cam knew instinctively how to get him there.

  Now, Hunter Dane waited on his knees and it was up to Cam to break him. At twenty-one, Cam had known how. But the time spent honing his skill and confirming his instincts on the cries and bodies of other men, gave him the experience to break the powerful Dane without crushing him.

  Hunter Dane was a control-freak among subs; his limits exact and inviolable. His obedience calculated to the millimeter. Hunter hid himself inside himself and used a Dom far more thoroughly than any Dom used him. And so, until tonight, he’d walked past Cam, knowing he brooked no boundaries.

  Why now? Cam scanned local news on his cell. House … torture killer … multiple victims … 10-12 years old - Jesus. His youngest sister was 11.

  He became aware of a bit of low laughter and a rising murmur around him. The crowd was restive - expectant. But Cam never hurried. Every man he took trusted him completely, and every one deserved the very best he could give them.

  For Hunter, complex and caged inside himself, Cam remained poised at the gate. Until he saw his path all the way to the finish, he wouldn't begin. The members looked back and forth from the dark figure on the floor to the blond sex god who seemed to be ignoring him for a more interesting text. A second low laugh reached him.

  Chez Cannon appeared from the back of the club. Cam gave a slight lift of his chin and Chez hurried to his table. He leaned over to hear Cam’s whispered instructions. Nodded he understood and moved off toward the play rooms.

  Cam stood up.

  Hunter

  I knelt in a pool of quiet, sound oddly distorted. The murmurs, moans and clinking of glasses muffled by the bodies of those standing around me. Too close to me. I pressed my hands flat against the outsides of my thighs so no one would see them shake.

  Please, come and get me. What if he didn't? What if he left me here all night? Left me to be a handy coat rack by the door? He could. I'd given him the right to humiliate me.

  I shut it all out. The chuntering of onlookers. The growing pain in my knees and thighs and the small of my back. Familiar. I breathed. Slowly. Fully. Eyes closed. A low laugh nearby brought me back. I wondered idly how long I'd been kneeling.

  I felt him approach. Like the bow of a ship moving through deep water, he pressed the air. The toes of his gray suede athletic shoes came into view. He stopped, feet apart. One slightly ahead of the other. Braced. Combat stance.

  He laid a hand on the back of my neck. And, very slightly, pressed down. Heat flashed over my face. I bent. My forehead brushed his crotch as I descended. He was hard. He kept the pressure on my neck. I bent further. His hand left me, but he didn't tell me to stop. My forehead touched the floor between his feet, ass in the air.

  There was a rustling sigh from the crowd. Heat in my balls and a tingling played along my dick. Oh fuck, no.

  Cam stepped back. The better to display me, I supposed. But he dropped to his knees and leaned over, hand flat on the floor next to my head. He placed the other back on my neck and slid it slowly along my spine. His fingers slipped beneath my waistband, palm on my sacrum. Warm pressure. I lowered my butt to my feet.

  I was fetus-curled under his arm. His hand glided back up my spine, over my shoulder and down. Closed around my throat. My pulse thrummed against his thumb and fingers. He lowered himself until our heads were together. He was so close, I felt the heat from his clean-shaven cheek, caught the scent of body wash and fabric softener.

  His lips touched my ear. I shivered. A whisper, "I'm all there is."

  I went slack. My throat pressed against his palm. He held me up. Strong fingers combed through my hair. I wanted to flex into his touch like a cat, but he hadn't told me I could move.

  He sat back on his heels. Fingertips under my chin, he rose and brought me with him. Cam was maybe two inches shorter, but his presence dwarfed me. He fondled my balls through the soft, loose cloth of my cargoes. Eyes unwavering on mine. He tilted his head, fingers exploring. Weighing.

  My dick was like hot glass.

  The crowd shifted to get a better angle on the actions of his long fingers. They liked me, as much as a group of kink-seekers could. But they longed for my humiliation, as they would. The man with the gun. The man with authority - implicit, if not expressed. They yearned to see me grovel.

  As if he sensed my attention easing away from him, used two fingers to massage my perineum. My knees opened automatically. He clamped down, digging in around my testicles, half a millimeter from agony. I froze.

  The slightest shake of his head told me, You do nothing without my permission. As if he could hear the "yes, Sir" in my mind, his grip loosened and he continued his leisurely explorations. Massaging, stroking,
rolling.

  With his other hand he unbuckled my belt and lowered my zipper, carefully holding it away from me. Or trying to, as my erection shouldered through the opening. He stepped in and caught me, wrapping his hand, calloused by the torque of a million ski pole grips, around my shaft. Fingers tightened. Not tight enough. More powerful for that. I swallowed a moan.

  He flipped open my pants’ button and his fingers insinuated themselves under my sac. Two big hands surrounded me, fingers working me, to make me hot and tight and hard and wired. Eyes still on mine, he slid one foot back, pulled me off balance to not quite falling.

  His hands tightened. Held me steady by my throbbing shaft and a handful of testicles. OhGodI'mgonnafall -

  "Mouth on my shoulder."

  Gratefully, I bent my head. Cam's shoulder. Wide and deep. A solid ledge.

  His thumb skated over my slit, around my rim, slick with a gush of precum. The moan escaped this time.

  His mouth was at my ear again. I could feel his lips move and his tongue flicking me when he whispered. His warm breath scattered my thoughts.

  "Open your mouth."

  My lips parted and my teeth rested on the pristine white fabric of his dress shirt. Cam always wore a dress shirt and denims.

  "Wide. I want to hear you pant."

  Shit.

  My mouth opened over the curve of his shoulder. Teeth buried in fabric front and back, my tongue a quivering blob of soft muscle on his trapezius, the harsh sound of my breathing easily audible to the breathless, fascinated crowd. With every agonizingly delicious slide and squeeze of his hands, his shoulder became wetter. Hotter. There was no control; I could barely swallow.

  My arms hung useless. He hadn't told me to do anything with them. They blocked the view but also rested against his, felt every subtle movement and play of muscle as he tortured me.