A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (21 page)

“M-master? May I speak?” His teeth were nearly chattering.

Henry took the strop and felt its weight; he thought he
would have to use a light hand. “That depends on what you have to say.”

“Just my ass, Master,
please
. You might damage me
otherwise.”

Well, Henry certainly didn’t want to damage him! He just
wanted to play a little, and only as much as Martin liked. He stroked Martin’s
hair, tucked it behind his ear.

“That’s good advice,” Henry said softly. “I don’t want to
break something so valuable.” Not just valuable, but precious.

“Shall I get in position, Master?” Martin was eager, seeming
both aroused and apprehensive, which wasn’t a state that appealed to Henry
personally, but it obviously invigorated Martin.

In position
. Henry thought a moment and frowned.
“Have you done this before, slave?”

Martin blushed, which Henry thought made him look especially
lovable. “J-just with a hand, Master. Never with a strap.”

Henry made a conscious decision not to fret about who Martin
might have played spanking games with in the past. “All right. Undress me and
get in position, then.”

Together they got Henry undressed, clothes heaped on the
carpet. Martin was in a hurry, his movements frantic, and Henry thought the
whole process had taken less than twenty-six seconds.

Martin arranged himself bent over the edge of the bed, body
stretched across the mattress, feet apart on the carpet, pillows under his hips
for support. He had such a beautiful ass, white and round and smooth, and now
that Henry was admiring it anew, he was less sure he wanted to mark it with a
whip.

But Martin wanted it. He was visibly shaking, his breathing
fast as he arched his back and blatantly presented his ass to Henry. Henry
caressed its curves with his palm and gave it a brisk pat, the contact too
light to sting. Martin twisted his hips against the pillows and spread his feet
a little further apart.

“Are you prepared to be punished?” Henry asked, trying to
sound intimidating.
He
was less and less sure about this by the second,
and his erection flagged, drooping half-hard between his thighs. But he didn’t
want to disappoint Martin. “Do you remember your word?” he asked. “What you’re
going to say if I should stop?”

Martin turned to grin over his shoulder and he laughed as he
said, “Omnibus!” A fraction of a second later, he quickly added, “Master!”

Henry stalled, not eager to hit Martin at all. He doubled
the strop in his fist and trailed the loop across the mounds of Martin’s
cheeks, then up and down the cleft. He gave Martin an experimental tap with the
loop, scarcely more than a pat, but Martin reacted with force, drawing in a
sharp breath and letting out a quavering moan as he began to beg.

“
Please
, Master, please don’t hurt me. I’m sorry I—”

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Henry drew back his
arm and swung the unfolded length of the strop across the fullness of Martin’s
buttocks, not intending to hit hard, and was startled by the unexpectedly loud
slap of leather against flesh.

Martin yelped and his body jerked up rigidly before collapsing
back to the softness of the bed. His pale buttocks were dramatically marked
with livid pink blotches. Henry was shocked; he had not intended to hit so
hard! Martin’s trembling grew more pronounced. He looked back over his shoulder
at Henry, panting through parted lips.

“Sir,” he breathed. “
Master
. You should hit me
harder.”

“Harder?” Henry’s voice was strained, and he felt very
unsure of this suggestion. He stroked the pink marks on Martin’s ass with his
fingertips.

“I was
very
disobedient, Master. Teach me a lesson.”
He arched his back further still, making a very enticing picture.

Henry told himself not to be afraid, not to hesitate. He
could do it, he could do what Martin wanted. And if he did, then later he’d do
what
he
wanted.

“You were very disobedient,” he agreed. “Disrespectful and
defiant.”

Henry swung the strop against Martin’s ass with a little
force, a little intent, and it connected with a sharp smack. Martin’s white
cheeks quivered vulnerably with the impact and bloomed a fevered pink. Martin
let out a loud, surprised grunt and clutched at handfuls of the bedcover, his
knees buckling.

“Touching your pretty cock when you
know
it’s mine,
when you
know
you need my permission.”

Henry spanked him again, just a little harder, and Martin
gave a pained shout and squirmed against his pillows.

“Sir,” he said, “Master,
please
, I’m sorry, I’m so
sorry—”

“Willful,” Henry said, raising his arm again. “Useless.
Ganymede taught you nothing!” His arm came down in a graceful arc and Martin
sobbed when the strop met his flesh.

“
Please
, Master, please give me another chance, I’ll
serve you so well…”

Henry was listening for ‘omnibus,’ was expecting ‘omnibus,’
but Martin only moaned and sobbed and writhed with his ass in the air while
Henry wielded the strop. His skin was vividly pink, alarmingly pink, and Henry
was sure he would bruise. As much as Martin was obviously enjoying this game,
after nine strokes Henry could take no more of it. Leaving these kinds of marks
on his beautiful boy was too much for him. Hitting was too much for him.

Henry tossed the strop onto the bed, then stood behind
Martin, between his feet, and gently caressed his buttocks. Martin hissed at
the contact with his punished flesh and turned to look at him.

“Master? I didn’t say omnibus.”

“I did,” Henry said. “I said it for you.” Martin’s cheeks
were hot against his palms.

“I can take more, Sir,” Martin insisted, sounding slightly
admonishing.

“I can’t,” Henry admitted. “I don’t think I like hitting
you.”

“This is just playing, Sir,” Martin said.

“It still hurts you,” Henry pointed out. “It still leaves
marks.”

“I’ll be fine, Sir,” Martin assured him. He twisted around
to reach back to squeeze Henry’s wrist.

“Does it hurt?” Henry asked, knowing that it did. He kept
petting Martin’s tender cheeks, soothing them. He parted them gently and looked
down with fondness on Martin’s hole, thankful it was too well-protected to have
been stung by the strop.

“It burns a little, Sir, but not too much. It’s fine,
really.”

Henry knew he would not be convinced, no matter what Martin
told him. He said nothing in reply, but knelt and licked the pucker between the
flaming cheeks. He had done what Martin wanted, and now he would please
himself. Martin whimpered and wriggled under Henry’s tongue, spreading his legs
further apart.

“Sir, Sir…” Martin moaned.

Henry lifted his face from between Martin’s buttocks. “No
more sirs. No more game, all right? Just you and me.” He licked the blotchy red
skin of Martin’s left buttock, wanting to offer soothing tenderness, and then
did the same on the right while Martin purred and moaned and pushed back
against the pressure from his mouth.

“It feels good,” Martin said dreamily, reaching back to
tousle Henry’s hair. “Lick my hole some more, Henry, please.”

“Someday I want to lick you until you come,” Henry told him.
It was a goal of his, one of very few.

Martin laughed and arched his back. “I don’t know if I
can
from just that,” he said. “I think I would have by now if I could. But I
certainly won’t stop you from trying!”

Henry laughed and kissed Martin’s tailbone then licked
between his cheeks. Tasting the musk of Martin’s body, the salt of his skin,
and feeling the muscles tense and clench against his tongue while Martin moaned
and squirmed, was almost unbearably arousing. He touched his swollen cock, just
his fingers wrapped around it, the merest gesture of a stroke. He squeezed a
handful of Martin’s ass with his free hand and pierced Martin’s hole with a
thrust of his tongue as Martin ground down desperately against the pillows,
seeking friction in their softness. Henry wanted nothing more than to be with
him, to be in him.

“Stay like this.” Henry got abruptly to his feet and lunged
for the nightstand drawer, returning with the oil bottle.

“Henry, Henry…” Martin humped at the pillows and whimpered,
murmuring Henry’s name.

Henry pushed two oiled fingers into Martin’s ass and bent
them to hook against his sensitive gland. Martin moved back against Henry’s
hand, leisurely fucking himself on Henry’s fingers as he made little cat cries.
He made a most erotic picture, mesmerizing, but Henry needed to be a bigger
part of it. He regretfully withdrew his fingers and Martin protested their
absence with a fretful moan. Henry quickly oiled his cock and parted Martin’s
buttocks, then pushed inside with a long, steady thrust.

Henry took his cue from the way Martin had moved with
Henry’s fingers in his body and fucked him at a slower pace. He squeezed
Martin’s buttocks, careful to avoid the angry pink marks left by the strop.
Martin whimpered with his thrusts and squirmed to get Henry deeper inside.
Martin felt so good, so perfect, close and hot and plush, and his ass clutched
at Henry’s cock as Henry pulled back and then pushed in again, back and in.

Martin moaned against the bedcover, his hair obscuring his
face, and Henry wanted to see him, wanted to see his handsome face and pretty
cock; Henry wanted to see him come.

“On your back,” he said, pulling his cock out.

Martin rolled off the pillows onto his back and immediately
winced, drawing his knees up sharply toward his chest.

Belatedly, Henry remembered Martin’s abused cheeks. “Are you
okay? Are you hurt?”

Martin shook his head. “Just a little tender. Don’t worry,
Henry, I like it.” He hitched his knees higher, turning his burgeoning bruises
up toward the ceiling.

Henry did not understand Martin’s enjoyment of discomforts
but he believed Martin was telling the truth.

It was even better to fuck Martin face to face, watching
expressions play across his features like clouds scudding across blue sky: pure
focus, a hint of suffering, erotic wonderment. It still amazed Henry that sex
was so complex, so faceted; that things which felt so good were also
unbearable; that a lover could be motivated by the tenderest brutality, the
overwhelming desire to see one’s beloved come helplessly apart.

Martin held onto the backs of his knees, his body in a tight
curl. Henry was careful to stop short of slamming his hips against Martin’s
tender ass, but when he got lost in sensation and forgot to restrain himself,
banging deep into Martin with a meaty smack, Martin gave a loud, shuddering
moan and begged, “Henry, do it again!”

Henry hesitated only a moment before setting about pounding
Martin hard, Martin yelping and jerking under him with each impact, pain
flickering across his handsome face. To Henry’s immense pleasure, Martin’s
cries rose higher, his body stilled, and he arched his back and came in hard
spurts without touching his cock. Full of a sense of accomplishment and feeling
irrevocably in love, Henry came, too, in a wash of white flame. He sprawled
dazed on top of Martin’s body catching his breath.

“Henry? Will you get off of me?” Martin pushed at Henry’s
chest. “I want to roll over.”

Henry rolled off of him and laughed. “Does your ass hurt?”

Martin rolled onto his belly at Henry’s side, propped up on
his elbows. “Well, it does. It burns and it’s tender. But it’s okay,” he
assured him. “I wanted it, after all.”

“What is it you like about things that hurt?” Henry was
genuinely curious.

Martin thought about this a moment, head cocked. “Hmm, I
think it’s that they’re…intense. There are a lot of sensations involved with
both pain and pleasure, after all. I guess I’m a bit of a masochist.”

“A what?”

“A masochist. It just means someone who likes pain. It’s a
word from a dirty book.”

“It’s hard for me to do some of the things you want.” Henry
was reluctant to admit this, but it was true: he didn’t want to hurt Martin.

“You won’t really hurt me, though,” Martin said cheerfully,
full of confidence, and Henry wanted to argue that he
might
whether he
meant to or not. He wanted to argue that Martin wasn’t invincible, wasn’t made
of iron. He wanted to argue that Martin was careless with himself. But he
didn’t want to spoil their post-coital reverie with an argument, so he said
nothing more about pain or limits.

Henry shifted to lay on his back and scooted up to stretch
across the bed. “Come lie on top of me,” he suggested, reaching for Martin.

“On top of you?” But Martin was already crawling across the
bed, stretching out on top of Henry, matching up at ribs and hips, finding
places for his limbs, and pushing his face against Henry’s neck.

Henry stroked Martin’s back. He felt better, calmer, less
nervous. He liked Martin’s weight pushing him deeper into the softness of the
bed. He felt a thrilling rush of panic heat his body as he imagined Martin on
top of him, between his legs, penetrating him, and he shuddered pleasurably.

“Henry? Are you cold?”

“Hmm? No, not at all.”

Martin took this opportunity to extricate himself from
Henry’s embrace. “There’s spunk all over both of us,” he said, swiping at the
front of his body with a look of distaste. He turned and headed for the
bathroom.

“You know, you don’t need to be in such a hurry to clean
up,” Henry called to him. Why was it so difficult to convince Martin to stay
with him, basking in the afterglow even a few minutes longer?

Martin came back with the basin and an I-know-best
expression. “Let me do it this way, please.”

Sighing, Henry let Martin wash his cock without further
protest.

At Henry’s request, Martin played his violin, the difficult
piece, the partita. He sat cross-legged naked on the bed, wincing a little as
he folded his legs, violin tucked beneath his chin and bow at the ready. He
glanced at Henry and smiled.