A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (38 page)

The weight of Martin’s body was so familiar, so reassuring,
so arousing. They were still fully dressed, and Henry willed his clothes to
disappear, for their naked skins to be pressed together. He thought he should
undress Martin, thought Martin might appreciate it if he showed willingness to
do everything for Martin that Martin had ever done for him. He was about to
slip a hand in between their bodies to work on the placket of Martin’s
trousers, but Martin got there first, quickly unbuttoning Henry and then
himself.

Martin moved to sit astride Henry’s body, knees pressing
into his sides, and unbuttoned his waistcoat. “I’m a little in the mood now,”
he said with a smile. “If you’ll really go through with it.”

“I’ll go through with it,” Henry promised. He had an idea,
though. “There's just one thing I want, Martin, if it's all right.”

“What's that, Henry?”

“Keep the tie on, and the collar…the whole shirt, I guess.
So your mark is covered.”

There was a long silence. Martin’s face crumpled. “Oh…” he
said softly. “Oh, Henry. Do you really want that?”

“What did I say wrong?” Henry hated that he couldn’t seem to
stop making mistakes.

“You don’t want to look up and see a
slave
fucking
you.” Martin sounded terribly hurt, terribly sad. “But that’s what I am, Sir.
I’m a slave.”

“That’s not what you are to me,” Henry insisted. “Martin,
you’re…you’re the love of my life, you have to know that.”

“But if I wasn’t a slave, we would never have met. Because
of that, I’m glad I’m a slave, and you should be, too. I don’t see the use of
pretending I’m something else.”

But Henry wanted to pretend, just a little drunken fantasy.
“I just wanted to picture what it would have been like if you were free, too. A
boy without a mark. A boy who chose me for himself. I want us to live like
you’re free, Martin, from now on.”

Martin shook his head and sat back on his heels, creating
distance. “I don’t want to do it, Sir. I’m not ashamed of who I am. I won’t
fuck you if I have to cover my mark.”

“You’re serious?”

“Completely serious, Sir. If you want me to make love to
you, it has to be as your slave.”

Henry thought about it a moment. It was just a fantasy, and
the reality of Martin was so good. Sharing this experience with Martin was more
important than any notion about neckties. “It was just an idea,” he offered
shyly, somewhat embarrassed. “You don’t have to do it, Martin. I shouldn’t have
asked.”

“Thank you.” Martin moved to kneel at Henry’s hip. “Take off
your clothes.”

Henry handed his collar and cuffs to Martin, who placed them
on the nightstand. He shrugged off his braces and pulled his shirt over his head,
followed by his undershirt. He shucked his trousers and drawers, peeled off his
socks, and stretched out naked on the coverlet, shivering a little though the
air in the room was warm and close.

Once Henry was naked, Martin positioned himself between Henry’s
legs and bent over him. “If I’m going to fuck you, Henry, you have to promise
to let me do what I want, all right?”

“A-all right,” Henry agreed, somewhat apprehensively. “What
is it you’re going to do?”

“Only good things. Don’t worry.” He bent and kissed Henry
lingeringly, then sat back on his heels and shrugged off his waistcoat and
braces.

When he leaned over Henry again, Henry rose up to meet him,
lifting his head to kiss Martin's lips, his jaw, the side of his neck, the
juncture where the shirt collar met the thin, hot skin of his throat. He made a
fist in Martin's short hair and pulled him down into a bruising kiss. Martin
was disheveled but still mostly dressed, and Henry felt deliciously exposed
lying naked beneath him. Martin reached between their bodies and drew his cock
out of his open trousers, then took Henry's hand and pulled it into contact
with his flesh; Henry felt the length of him, hard and thrumming, velvet skin.
Martin’s cock seemed bigger than usual somehow; Henry worried that this was
going to hurt.

“Are you scared?” Martin whispered in Henry’s ear, and
something amused in his tone suggested that he wouldn’t mind if Henry was a
little frightened. Martin moved his hips and the rough drag of the wool of his
trousers over Henry’s sensitive cockhead was almost painful. Henry drew in a
sharp breath and Martin laughed close by Henry’s ear, Henry feeling the
reverberations in his gut, at the root of his cock. “I'll try not to hurt you,
I promise.”

He bent to kiss Henry's neck, to bite at the pulse while
Henry arched and moaned. He rolled Henry's nipple between his fingertips and
Henry cried out and shuddered. “You're so sensitive right now. You don’t always
feel it this much.” Martin pinched Henry's nipples, one and then the other,
back and forth. Henry's cock lurched toward vertical, then bobbed back down to
hover above his belly. Fluid collected under the head and Martin ran his finger
through the slick, painting it on Henry's nipple and bending his head to lick
it clean as Henry whimpered and gasped. Martin kissed his way across Henry's
chest, down over his ticklish ribs to the lean flat of his belly and licked his
way lower. Henry lifted his hips, impatient for Martin's mouth to reach his
cock, but Martin put a hand on his hip and pushed him back down to the bed.
“Wait, Henry. Let me do it.”

Martin sat back on his heels and Henry could see that he was
fully erect, his cock pushing out of his trousers, his shirttail untucked,
braces hanging around his hips. He was breathing hard, nearly as hard as Henry,
but he seemed calm nonetheless. He leaned forward, braced on his hand, and dug
in the drawer of the nightstand for the oil bottle. He gave Henry's prick a
couple of loose strokes, took the stopper out of the bottle, and wet his
fingers. “Knees up. Spread your legs.”

Henry drew his knees toward his chest, legs apart, and felt
his face go hot with delicious shame. When he had let Martin touch his asshole
before, he’d acted like a ninny, scared and panicking, but he wouldn’t do that
now. He’d agreed that Martin could do whatever he wanted, and if Martin was
going to fuck him, then certainly Henry couldn’t object to a finger.

Martin brushed his fingertips just lightly over Henry’s
hole. His touch was light, teasing, almost annoying in its noncommittal
quality. It felt good, chills upon chills, and Henry moved his hips in hopes of
more decisive contact, but Martin continued with the airy, glancing touches.
While he tormented Henry with these feathery approximations, he bent and very
deliberately licked up the slick puddle that had collected under the head of
Henry's cock, which tickled yet also ratcheted up Henry's arousal.

Martin paused again to put more oil on his fingers and now
began to gently massage the tight muscle, pushing the tip of his finger inside.
He bent and took the head of Henry's prick into his mouth and sucked. Moaning,
Henry arched up into the wet heat of Martin's lips and tongue, but Martin held
him down firmly, left hand on the back of Henry's thigh, the fingers of his
right hand still circling Henry's asshole. Martin was sucking him with short,
greedy pulls that made him pant and squirm. Martin’s fingertip was slipping
just inside, then out again; inside, then further in. Henry was so overwhelmed
by the sensations coming from all sides that he was late to realize that
Martin's finger was pressed fully in, all the way inside his body, stroking the
inner wall.

“Tell me if it's too much for you.” Martin bent again to
tenderly lick the head of Henry's cock while gently probing his ass. Henry felt
Martin's finger moving, concentrating pressure in such a way that there was a
feeling, intense and urgent, like he might come, and the feeling built and
built…and then it stilled, ceased. Martin slowly withdrew his finger and sat
back on his heels.

Henry whimpered at the withdrawal of the finger, and he
blushed at his own brazen need.

Martin smiled at him. “Does it feel good?” He poured more
oil on his hand.

“Yes,” Henry managed in a hoarse whisper. “It feels good.”

“I'm going to put in another finger, Henry. You're doing so
well.”

Henry was grateful for the praise. Two fingers didn't sound
like so much, but it felt momentous in his body, thick and full. Martin's cock
would be bigger, which excited and frightened him in equal measure. Martin's
fingers located the sensitive spot again and this time stirred his senses until
he was nearly sobbing, hips jerking erratically, pushing his cock deeper into
Martin's throat. He was scared because he hadn't expected this, had expected
the physical feelings to be simpler and more straightforward. Instead, this was
nearly a spiritual experience, pagan and harsh, and he felt unprepared and
entirely dependent on Martin's goodwill, yet acutely aware he had abused it.

Little movements of Martin's fingertips, scarcely more than
pressure and then the lack of it, but Henry felt raw, flayed, incandescent.
This was not a sensation a gentleman would ever experience, and while that was
all the gentleman's loss, Henry was afraid. He'd already done so much that was
beyond the pale, yet this new act seemed of another order; he could not do it,
he could not go on.

He could not stop it. He was like a bug on a pin, squirming
on Martin's fingers, balancing on that precipitous edge, almost-orgasm roaring
in his blood. His cock jerked between Martin's teeth, throbbed against his
tongue. Martin lifted his head again and said, “Another finger, Henry. Last one
before I give you my cock,” and this time didn't pull his fingers out but just
poured more oil on his hand and slipped the ring finger in beside index and
middle. Henry groaned and arched up, up, his back cracking. Martin leaned over
him, kissed him hard, and Henry opened for him eagerly, imagining every opening
to his body pushed full of Martin, wanting that.

Martin sat back on his heels and moved his fingers inside
Henry's body and watched him shudder in response to what those fingers did.
Henry looked at him through a scrim of lust, his breathing ragged. He was never
going to be the same—and he hadn't even been fucked yet!

“I think you're ready.” Martin pulled his hand back from
Henry's body and Henry made a little bereft sound, which made Martin smile. He
knelt up and pushed his trousers and drawers down off his hips, sat back and
kicked them off his legs. He knelt up and looked down at Henry.

“Look at me.” He kept his eyes on Henry’s as he very
deliberately undid the knot of his tie and tugged it from beneath his collar,
letting the silk drop to the bed. He unbuttoned his collar, his cuffs, and then
the placket of his shirt. Even in the low light, Martin’s mark was very bright
against his pale skin. He pulled his shirt and undershirt off and tossed them
aside. His long, graceful fingers traced the edge of his mark. “This is who I
am, Henry. Martin from Ganymede. Am I good enough for you?”

Martin was too good for him, obviously, and Henry suspected
Martin knew it, but he would still expect an answer to his question.

“
Yes
,” Henry told him fervently. “Yes, you’re good
enough. You’re the best. You’re exactly what I want. I love you.”

Martin beamed at him and leaned over Henry to grab a pillow.
He poured oil in his hand and slicked his cock. “Hitch your knees up a bit
more.”

Henry did as he was told, and Martin wedged the pillow under
his ass. The air felt cool against the sensitized skin of his asshole. Martin
bent down, and Henry realized what he was about to do and tried to protest, to
stop him. “No, Martin, you can’t!”

“Whatever I want, Henry, remember? You promised.” He rubbed
the backs of Henry’s thighs reassuringly.

He had promised. Trembling, he tried to relax as Martin bent
and kissed his hole, deep and leisurely, his tongue sliding inside and then out
again, in and out, fucking him as if with a hot little flame. Shocked, Henry
cried out helplessly, his cock jerking with each thrust of Martin's tongue. The
pleasure was unexpected, so dirty and flagrant, hot and raw, and he was
exquisitely sensitive, each stroke of Martin’s tongue leaving him gasping.

“Please, Martin,” he begged. “
Please
, Martin!” Martin
shifted on his knees, lining himself up. Henry looked down his body, past his
own stiff prick to where Martin held his cock in readiness. “Please, Martin,”
he repeated.

Martin said nothing, but he smiled at Henry and leaned
forward, looming over him braced on one arm while using the other hand to press
the head of his cock against Henry's tender hole, coaxing him open. The
pressure was intense, a continuation and expansion of what Henry had
experienced with Martin's fingers, and he struggled to breathe, struggled to
keep from panicking.

Martin met his eyes and smiled, so genuine and warm. “Just a
little bit more. You're doing so well. You feel so good to me.” He bent and
kissed Henry, who shuddered and felt he might come to pieces if the intensity
didn't let up. He could feel Martin's cock throbbing in his ass, outsized and
overwhelming, and it was all he thought he could possibly take, and then Martin
moved, pushing deeper, an inexorable force, until his hips came to rest against
the curves of Henry's ass.

“My god, Henry,” Martin murmured, tossing his head back and
rubbing Henry’s thigh with soothing strokes. His cock flexed inside Henry’s
body. “You feel amazing, so perfect. Are you doing all right?”

“I’m okay,” Henry said in a small, shaky voice. He shivered,
muscles clenching and grabbing at the unfamiliar thickness in his ass.

Martin paused to dribble a little more oil over the taut
joining of their bodies, and Henry was so conscious of his own pulse where his
skin was stretched tight and thin. “I don't want to hurt you,” Martin murmured.
He bent and kissed him and began to move his hips. With each stroke, the head
of Martin's cock glanced off of that sensitive place inside Henry's body,
making him cry out and hitch his knees higher.