Queermance Anthology, Volume 2

by Queermance Anthology- Volume 2 [MM-FF] (retail) (epub)

  Marcus drew his coat closer around himself demurely, despite the fact that he looked not at all demure. The parts of him still visible outside the coat were all creamy and sparkling, along the long lines of lusciousness that were his hands and neck and ankles.

  They reached their little Clare Street flat 15 minutes later, and Marcus walked slowly ahead, up the stairs to their first floor door. He swayed; he rolled his hips and his long coat followed the movement beneath.

  Half way up the stairs, he let the coat slither from his shoulders, down his back, over his arse to the floor, so that Trent, ascending slowly behind him, could watch that sway unimpeded.

  Trent knew that Marcus had heard his sharp intake of breath, then his almost-panting, then trying not to pant. The final long breathy moan was the closest he’d come to speech in 15 minutes.

  Trent stumbled into the flat after Marcus, who turned elegantly in the living room to face him. Trent slammed the door shut and then leaned on it, so he could keep looking without having to remember how to stand at the same time.

  Marcus Darrow knew that Trent Springfield loved him. He knew that Trent would love him when he was old and lined and grey and no longer beautiful. After all, during the last year, Trent had loved him even through the peak of anxiety attacks over his art, foul tempered with disappointments, mean-mouthed with stress, throwing up and weeping from exhaustion and the flu.

  So Marcus knew that this reaction - a Trent who was speechless with desire on seeing him decked out in silver and crystals and high heels and little red knickers - did not negate any of the love that came before; nor any of the love that would follow.

  It was just that Trent had never seen Marcus dressed up like a birthday present before.

  Marcus thought that it had been a fine idea to help Madeleine out with that catwalk parade, not only for the sake of his old art school friend - but because rendering Trent Springfield so hard, so brain-blank with want was an excellent idea. One of the best ideas Marcus had ever had.

  Marcus stood in the centre of their little flat, one hip jutting out to emphasise the general lusciousness of his hips, and spread his arms wide. He ducked his head low and looked up through his mascaraed lashes.

  ‘Happy birthday, Trent, my gorgeous boy. Would you care to open your gift?’

  Trent’s reply was a guttural, wanton growl. It was a straightening of the shoulder, a stepping away from the door and a prowling - he was goddamn prowling - towards his shiny, glittery, peacock of a lover; eyes riveted not to the beautiful body, but to his bright blue eyes.

  Yes, his eyes - because Trent loved Marcus - whether peacock pretty or grouchy from overwork or gross with the Man Flu from Hell.

  And Trent realised now that Marcus hadn’t shunted his birthday aside at all; he had, in fact, dressed up just for him.

  Trent wanted to open his present very much; very, very much. He wanted this gift every day; not just on his birthday, but every single day. Because this gift of loving someone extraordinary and being loved by him in return was not a once a year treat. And even though still incapable of speech, or even of much thought, Trent’s mind knew that this gift of joy and excess and wonder came in a Marcus package.

  It was exactly what he’d always longed for. In the right here and now though, it was Trent’s body that knew how to best appreciate this present. It did. Oh yes, it did. And that was slowly, with care, with exquisite gentle timing. Because some things must not ever, ever be rushed.

  So it was with slow deliberation, and that soft growl, Trent hovered his hands above Marcus’s skin and traced every line without touching. Heat radiated from his palms to the glittering skin; from that lush body to Trent’s fingertips. Trent leaned close and breathed, inhaling the heady scent of Marcus; exhaling the warm scent of Trent.

  Marcus stood in his heels, hands splayed, and shivered as Trent breathed over every inch of him; held his warm hands over every part of him; radiating heat, desire, love. He quivered as Trent’s tongue flickered, barely touching, as he tasted the Marcus-ness that radiated from the decorated body.

  Trent took off his jacket and his shirt. He took off his shoes and socks; his trousers and pants. Bare naked, he stood close, eyes closed. He was just tall enough that his nose and mouth were close against Marcus’s throat. He tilted his head up, closer to Marcus’s pulse point.

  He breathed in Marcus; breathed out Trent.

  ‘You,’ Trent whispered, as though it had taken him this last 20 minutes of exploration to find words and remember how to string them together, ‘are so lovely.’

  ‘Trent.’ An exhale back.

  ‘I. Want. You. Now. Always.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The index and middle fingers of Trent’s left hand caressed the front of Marcus’s G-string, down the elegant line of his swelling cock; then underneath, to brush against Marcus’s scrotum. Slowly, Trent dipped those two fingers under the edge of the red silk, to brush against the hot skin beneath. The silk became too tight.

  Trent just brushed - up and down, up and down - the shaft of Marcus’s cock, the edge of his sac. Contact between their bodies was only at that point: the tips of Trent’s two fingers; the line of Marcus’ concealed skin.

  Trent stood on his toes and pressed his lips to the underside of Marcus’ jaw; his lover moaned breathily and tilted his chin down so their lips met.

  The soft kiss began with lips, warm and dry, and then a tiny slide of tongue, and then lips parting and tongues meeting; and still the kiss was slow and delicate and sweet.

  And then it wasn’t sweet. Then it was open mouths pressing together, tongues sliding wetly together, and moans and sighs captured in the heat between them.

  Trent’s fingers continued their tiny, careful caress, and then hooked into the red silk, wriggled underneath where the triangle of cloth became the string; the line that disappeared into Marcus’s cleft.

  ‘Tear them,’ breathed Marcus, and licked the moisture at the corner of Trent’s eye that might have been the faintest bead of perspiration but wasn’t.

  Trent didn’t; not right away. Instead he ran his fingers up Marcus’s cleft, the string of the knickers against his knuckles. He ran his fingers against the soft skin, the heat, the pucker of an entrance that, Trent knew, had been made clean and perfect for this. His hand followed the curve up to the dip of his sacrum, and it was only then that he took the fine string of those panties-for-men and with a sharp twist, broke the cloth.

  Trent dragged his warm hand over Marcus’s hip, holding onto the string, peeling it away, until Marcus was revealed, his cock hard and upright, and wet.

  Trent dropped the ruined G-string on the floor and cupped Marcus’s balls in the palm of his hand. He fondled them softly and leaned close to lick and suckle Marcus’s left nipple; then his right.

  Marcus moaned and rolled his hips to push himself into Trent’s hand. His breath hitched.

  ‘Trent.’

  ‘Turn, you gorgeous thing. You beautiful, beautiful man.’

  Trent figured Marcus had intended to make him work harder for this, but he did as he was told and turned as though mesmerised. He held on to the edge of the table, bent from the hips and spread his legs.

  Trent knelt behind, kissed first one cheek of Marcus’s bare behind, then the other. He caressed the rise of that skin, from the top of his arse to the crease of the thigh.

  Slowly, because bliss should not be rushed, Trent rested his palms on each plump cheek; pressed his thumbs close to the crease; spread that lovely bottom and breathed into the pink smooth skin.

  Marcus whimpered, leaned over and spread his legs further, jutting out his arse.

  And Trent pressed his mouth to the crease and kissed. Spread those cheeks further and pushed his face closer and flicked his tongue against the tight skin. Curled his tongue into firmness and pushed that firmness into the warm, clean pucker of flesh. And again. And again.

  Marcus keened softly.

  Trent kissed, then licked with the flat of his ton
gue. Then curled his tongue and pushed into Marcus’s body, tasting musk, tasting sex, tasting Marcus. His hands were curved around Marcus’s backside, holding him open, and Marcus wriggled and pushed back in tiny movements, wanting more, wanting this.

  Trent licked a long line, up from Marcus’s sac to the base of his spine. Three times, and then he pressed his cheek to Marcus’s luscious arse and kissed the soft flesh; smiled against it.

  Trent raised those two explorer fingers and slid them into Marcus’s cleft, following the trail blazed by his tongue. Down again. Pausing at the damp pucker of Marcus’s entrance and circling the muscle lazily.

  He kept his fingers moving there as he slowly stood up and kissed the skin on either side of Marcus’s crystal-encrusted spine. All the way up to the nape of Marcus’s neck, fingers and lips moving constantly.

  The heat of Trent’s own erection pulsed against the back of Marcus’ thighs, then against the sensitive flesh of his sensitised arse.

  ‘Trent-‘

  ‘So. Very. Lovely.’

  Trent used his warm, careful hands to turn Marcus. Marcus moaned as Trent’s fingers withdrew from their dizzying attentions to his entrance; then again as Trent captured his mouth in a long, slow kiss, tongue exploring his mouth deeply.

  Trent bent his head again, to kiss Marcus’s jaw, this throat, his Adam’s apple, the hollow at the base of his throat. One nipple then the other. Marcus was leaning against the table, legs spread still, barely holding himself upright on those heels. And then one of Trent’s hands was on the small of his back, holding him up; the other on his balls and cock, fondling, stroking.

  Trent breathed unintelligible words over Marcus’s ribs, his navel, the crystal swirls rising from his pubic mound, and his cock, before Trent’s mouth closed over the heat and hardness of his prick. Sucked. Licked. Sucked again.

  When Trent’s mouth left him, left his cock wet and slick, Marcus looked helpless - with want, with arousal, with ‘for fuck’s sake don’t stop’.

  ‘On the table,’ Trent murmured, as his hands slid under Marcus’ thighs and lifted. Marcus spread his legs still further as Trent - incredibly strong, powerfully sexily strong Trent - lifted him and to seat his arse right on the edge of the table.

  ‘Want you. Always.’

  ‘Always,’ agreed Marcus.

  Trent, now between those long bejewelled legs, began kissing Marcus again; kissing him thoroughly with absolute devotion; his lips and tongue and teeth all part of the wonderful process. Then his hands returned to the play; lifting Marcus’s thighs, to wrap them around his own hips.

  One warm hand was rolling the nub of Marcus’s left nipple between dextrous fingers; the other hand was stroking Marcus’s cock, dipping down to hold and roll his sac, up again along the shaft, thumb stroking over the crown to spread the wetness.

  Trent reached for the lube, amused there was a bottle in reach on the table; vaguely aware there may have been bottles in reach of every likely surface in the living room. Marcus had clearly been planning for something this evening.

  Marcus flinched at the shock of cold gel on his arse, then moved in response to the warmth of Trent rubbing it in, over, around, in, in. ‘Trent-‘

  ‘Ready for me, beautiful?’

  Marcus sigh-moaned and thrust his hips towards Trent. Trent kissed his mouth, then helped Marcus to lie back. He placed his strong hands on Marcus’s hips and dragged him forward; arranged Marcus’s still-shod feet, his smooth legs, over his shoulders. He turned his head to kiss one calf, then the other.

  Trent stroked his own cock once. Twice. Held himself, positioned himself; he put his hands back onto those sparkling hips and drew Marcus close and against, while he pushed against and in.

  Marcus thrust his hips and gasped at the thrill of being entered at last.

  Trent groaned at the blissful sensation of entering. He curled his hands around Marcus’s hips more tightly, and pulled with his hands as he pushed with his pelvis, until he was seated fully inside Marcus’s body.

  Then his placed his hands on the top of Marcus’s thighs and began to thrust.

  When Marcus opened his amazing blue eyes, the irises large and black with desire, Trent knew his own gaze returned the same passion.

  Marcus pressed his calves to Trent’s shoulder and spread his legs wider still, and he thrust his hips against the ones that thrust into him. And, like Trent, he seemed to have forgotten all his words too as between them there was just breathing and moaning and inarticulate declarations. And all the while the bangles at Marcus’ wrists jingled and tinkled and sang a silvery cacophony of bliss.

  Trent’s hands slid from Marcus’s thighs, over his hips, over his waist, curved under his ribs to feel the muscles of the back that flexed on the table. Then he ran his hands down again, revelling in the sensation of that movement; all of that lovely movement as Marcus engaged his whole body in the act of being fucked, and Trent rolled his hips, let his hands roam, tensed his legs and engaged his whole body in the act of fucking.

  Trent’s eyes fixed on his lover’s closed ones; on his open mouth; on the crystals in his ears and on his body; on the silver on his arms and wrists and fingers and waist and toes. He drank in the whole shining, sparkling, extravagant, gilded, silver-toned bracelet-jingling wonder of him. He pushed his cock deliciously into that delicious body, he slid out and in, feeling the heat of Marcus against his crown and shaft, against his balls, against his thighs and shoulders and chest and palms. He felt Marcus flex against him and open himself and dear god, oh god, oh god, the wonder of it, the perfection of it, the heat and excitement and lust and joy of it.

  He felt the tension in his lower back, in his feet and his pelvis and his balls and his cock, and one roaming hand wrapped around Marcus’s prick and stroked, and the other held to Marcus’s hip and pulled, and oh oh oh oh oh oh.

  Marcus arched and came, and he pushed down onto Trent’s cock and cried out, and ejaculated again; and Trent slapped into him, slammed into him, crying out, coming so hard; and a third time Marcus pulsed come over his own belly, into the crystals; and a fourth as Trent cried out again and thrust again, and then more slowly, and then more slowly still, until he stood panting, pressed in close to Marcus’s body, still inside him.

  Trent panted, and he grinned, and he leaned down to plant a hot kiss on Marcus’s sternum.

  Marcus’s chest heaved as he tried to regain his normal breathing. He slipped his calves off Trent’s shoulders and clamped them around Trent’s waist instead; briefly.

  Trent tilted his hips back, his spent prick sliding out of Marcus’s pliant body. He leaned over to kiss Marcus again and hold Marcus’s jaw in his steady hands.

  ‘Happy anniversary,’ Marcus murmured, obviously pleased he regained the ability to speak; especially words of more than two syllables.

  ‘It’s my birthday, you beautiful idiot.’

  ‘Anniversary, too,’ Marcus protested.

  Trent laughed; warm breath huffed out over Marcus’s lips. Marcus was right, of course. This was his first birthday as Marcus’s lover, but they’d been three years friends.

  And third anniversaries were crystal.

  ‘Marcus Darrow, you are a romantic,’ accused Trent, delighted.

  ‘Shhh,’ Marcus whispered, ‘don’t tell.’

  ‘Your secret is safe with me,’ Trent said, kissing him again.

  ‘Mmm.’ Marcus wound his long arms, his long legs, around Trent and hugged him close.

  Trent lipped at the rings on Marcus’s fingers. Kissed his arms, and his chest, and his shoulders and neck.

  ‘Happy birthday to me,’ he whispered against goosebumped skin.

  ‘I like your birthday,’ said Marcus, laughing low. ‘Let’s go to bed and celebrate it again.’

  Marcus wrapped his legs tight around Trent’s waist; Trent scooped his hands behind Marcus’ back and lifted him up. Marcus slid his arms around Trent’s neck as the bangles jingled, and the rings and armbands glinted in the light; and they kiss
ed like that, the tall slender man held easily in the arms and against the body of the stockier man of infinite patience and strength.

  And they went to bed, where they nuzzled and kissed until they were ready to celebrate again.

  It took them four days to get all the crystals out of the bed and they never did find one of the earrings. They returned most of the jewellery to Madeleine but one of the pieces they bought; the sleeping dragon had to be theirs forever.

  And Trent bought Marcus a whole range of pretty, silky lingerie, and spent many long hours dressing him up in them, and taking them off again.

  Every day - always - was a birthday; an anniversary; a celebration.

  Thank You

  The Queermance Festival organisers would like to thank this anthology’s Pozible supporters:

  Rebecca Dominguez

  Anony Mouse

  Renae Kaye

  Elena K

  Jacinta Richardson

  Our full ENCOUNTERS collection can be viewed at

  http://www.clandestinepress.com.au/encounters

  First published in eBook form by Clan Destine Press in 2015

  CDP Imprint: Clan Destine Encounters 2015

  PO Box 121, Bittern

  Victoria 3918 Australia

  Copyright �� Queermance 2015

  Authors retain individual copyright on their own stories.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (The Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of any book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or the body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-In-Publication data:

  Cameron, Lindy (editor)

  QUEERMANCE Vol 2

  ISBN 978-0-9942619-8-4

  Cover Design �� Jessica Fichera