Sci Spanks (16 page)

He has a sudden and searing sense of just exactly how much power he’s handed over to Bas, how much control, and he could reach for it back, could bark a command and Bas would follow it, Kimolijah
knows
that. Somehow Kimolijah doesn’t want it, and that would have seemed anathema just an hour ago, but the thought of wresting that control back now almost makes Kimolijah sob, and even that doesn’t embarrass him anymore.

It feels like he’s been hard for hours, tied to this bed and writhing forever, strokes of pleasure burning through him until he thinks he might go insane. And every time he thinks it can’t possibly get better, he can’t possibly
feel
any more, it does and he does, and Bas takes him a little further into mind-numbing bliss.

Kimolijah’s body and mind coil and warp into new contortions that bend his concepts of reality, stretch the fabric of his Self, but none of it seems important now somehow, because he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so blazingly
alive
as he does inside this moment. There’s this incredible, ironic
freedom
in all of this, and he thinks he might be laughing, something a little crazed and euphoric, but his mind won’t fix and latch onto any one thing for more than a fleeting second, so he’s not really sure, and that’s not important either.

He’s somehow managed to push off Bas’s hold on his legs, lifted his knees, and he has no idea when that happened, but there they are, and Kimolijah digs his heels down into the mattress, rocks down onto Bas’s hand.

“Please,” Kimolijah whispers, and his voice sounds strange, hoarse and broken, so he must have been screaming, and
Huh,
isn’t that funny?
but he’s not really surprised and he really doesn’t care. “Please,” he says again, “want you,
please
.”

And Bas draws in a long breath, leans down. “Soon,” he says against Kimolijah’s lips.

“
Bas
,” Kimolijah groans—whines,
begs
—right into Bas’s mouth, and the needy, plaintive tone of it should be pathetic, but it isn’t, because Bas breathes it in, gives a little twist-jerk of his hand, and only slides the fingers of his other hand into Kimolijah’s hair when Kimolijah does it again. “Now, please now,” and it tapers off into breathless, garbled mutters when Bas’s thumb slide-scrapes over him.

“Beautiful,” is all Bas whispers, voice calm and low, and in direct contrast to the filthy things his hands are doing to Kimolijah’s sanity.

This is it, right here, this is what love is: knowing that you’d give anything, do anything,
be
anything, and you’d regret it later, but being sure that it won’t be asked of you anyway, so it’s all right, it’s all right to want, to take, to give, to know.

Kimolijah’s heart beats behind his ribs like it’s trying to claw its way through. Skittering sensation on him, in him, way down deep inside, and it feels so amazingly good it actually bloody
hurts
, but not like pain, not like a discord of nerve-endings battering against one another. It’s a burn that could eat him up, could push him right to the end of himself, could send him rocketing to the ends of his own borders, a lunatic laugh caught blunt in his throat while he explodes into nothing. And the scariest part about it is that he just might smash through that end-barrier himself, with his own hands, batter and bloody them, if it means he can go on feeling this blinding rush of
almost
and
ohfuckyes
and
one more push, help me, take me, keep me, don’t let go
.

But he doesn’t have to, because Bas is over him now, drawing his hand away, and Kimolijah would protest because the loss is almost
painful
, it really is, but Bas is pulling at Kimolijah’s leg, sliding it up and over his shoulder, so Kimolijah just shuts up and goes still, because he doesn’t want to do or say anything that will make Bas stop what he’s doing. He watches with rapt attention as Bas drops more oil into his palm, almost shatters into a million little pieces when Bas’s eyes close and his head falls back and his mouth opens, as he smears a hand over himself, pumps and slides it once, twice, and stutters out a little groan.

Kimolijah realizes the whimpery little noises in his ears are coming from his own mouth, and he clamps it tight. Bas is gorgeous, just bloody
gorgeous
, all broad with his pale skin glistening with sweat, biceps flexing and catching at shadows as he moves his hand on himself. Kimolijah wants to touch him, he really wants his hands just for a moment, just so he can
touch
Bas, his fingers nearly burn with it. For the first time, Kimolijah seriously considers asking Bas to let him loose, just so he can sate the prickling, itchy want in his fingertips, satisfy at least one desire
right now
, touch everything he’s been denied and fill himself up with it. Instead, he slides his foot over Bas’s calf just to remind him he’s here and waiting,
waiting,
waiting
, please don’t make me wait any more, it’s burning me to look at you and I’m bloody
dying
here!

Bas peers down, locks his gaze to Kimolijah’s, smiles something soft and lovely at him. Kimolijah wants to bite that smile from off Bas’s lips, wants to gnaw away Bas’s calm, make him feel just as out of control as Kimolijah does, just because it’s so bloody fucking
good
that he wants Bas to feel it, too. And then Bas is taking hold of himself with one hand, gripping Kimolijah’s hip hard enough to hurt with the other, and guiding himself in. And Kimolijah forgets what control is.

He arches,
screams
, the leg dangling over Bas’s shoulder locking up so that Kimolijah’s heel is grinding into the thick muscle beneath Bas’s shoulder blade, the other curling up tight to Bas’s ribs, digging in and trying to draw him in deeper, harder. Kimolijah’s hands are splayed, knuckles brushing against the smooth wood of the spindles, and his head is arched back so far he can see the veins in his arms standing out as he strains against the silk holding him down. He doesn’t need to see it; he can
feel
it, so he closes his eyes, concentrates on sensation.

Bas is hard and hot inside him, grinding in slow at an angle that whites Kimolijah’s mind, scrapes spangling pressure all through him with each minute shift of Bas’s hips. Bas’s hand, fingers hot and palm filmed a little with sweat, drags down Kimolijah’s thigh, almost scalds him, sweeps a stuttering light touch over Kimolijah’s erection, and Kimolijah almost comes out of his skin, frothy spangles of blistering intensity sparking all over him and thumping down deep into his belly. It’s the first time Bas has actually touched him, and it threatens to send Kimolijah over the edge, just that quick.

“All right?” Bas asks, voice low and heavy, like he’s got gravel in his throat.

And Kimolijah has to think about it, has to really concentrate to make sense of it, because what kind of
stupid
fucking question
is
that, anyway? Is he all right?
No
, he’s not all right, he’s about to bloody die of
sex
, for God’s sake, and he grinds his teeth as he realizes Bas has gone still and is actually waiting for an answer.

Kimolijah’s emotions are stretched out and bowed, joined and blurred together in the middle, and he can’t tell which is which; fear, lust, anger, love—it all feels the same,
fearlustangerlove
—and it makes his heart thud and his blood pulse hot through his veins until it reaches his brain and scour-scalds his mind. He is a great, jittering mass of
feeling
, of raw nerve-endings, like his skin can’t even contain him and hold him together anymore, he’s just a big puddle of sensation, and that’s all right, good even, hot and good, but there’s still something cold and oily beneath it all, and he doesn’t know what it
is
.

Kimolijah tries to catch his breath, locks his jaw, because he thinks if he tries to speak, a stream of insult and invective is likely to spill out his mouth, if anything he says is even intelligible, and he really doubts that’s the answer Bas is looking for. Kimolijah calms the gulping that’s not really helping him breathe anyway, tames it down to a semi-steady in-and-out. And he nods.

“Say it,” Bas tells him.

And this time Kimolijah’s pissed, he’s really bloody
pissed
, because Bas has driven him to a state that’s as close to senseless as he’d ever imagined he could be, and now he wants
coherent conversation
? Kimolijah clenches his hands into fists, squeezes his legs as together as they can get until one knee is digging into the side of Bas’s neck and the other is grinding into his ribs so hard that Bas chuffs out a sharp little gasp.

Kimolijah narrows his gaze, sends a few sparks shooting from his fingers and up the wall behind the bed, and he’s not entirely sure it’s just for show. Slowly and clearly, he says, “If you leave me here like this for much longer, I will fry you to a slimy little puddle of slag, and when I tell the Directorate what happened, they will shake my hand and commend me to the Prime Minister, and the whole of Knapston will throw me a parade.” He lifts his head, lets his mouth pull into a bit of a snarl, and growls, “Don’t.
Stop
.”

Bas’s eyes go dark, narrow, and his jaw sets. A small, buzzing assault of nerves slicks through Kimolijah at that look, and he lets his head drop back, swallows, because he has no idea what he’s just let himself in for; he’s not the one in control, after all.

A small, evil little smile, and Bas does something twisty and wicked with his hips, makes Kimolijah scream so loud his throat almost locks up.

“A ‘yes’ would’ve done,” Bas slurs.

Kimolijah doesn’t really hear it, what with his blood slamming against his eardrums as it is, thudding through his head and chest, as Bas drives into him so hard Kimolijah has to lock his arms, grip the headboard to keep himself from being rammed right through it. It’s fierce and rough and driving, and it winds everything inside Kimolijah into a thrumming, fiery coil.

And this is all right, this is
good
, and maybe Bas handed Kimolijah back that tiny bit of control just when Kimolijah was about to lose it completely, or maybe it was just an accident, but it doesn’t matter, because Kimolijah has himself back now, and he can have that at the same time he has
this
. It somehow puts the world right, makes this into the everything he’d suspected, instead of the nothing he’d feared.

It’s like some great weight has been lifted from Kimolijah’s chest, and relief swamps him that he can breathe again. He can feel
everything
—the sheets clinging to his back and scraping lightly at his skin as Bas drives him up towards the headboard and then pulls him back down; the maddening little breeze over his erection that Bas stirs as he slams his body into Kimolijah’s; the stretch and burn of strained muscle in his arms and shoulders; and for the first time, Kimolijah lets himself feel—really
feel
—the slick-rough bristle of the silk around his wrists. Maybe he’d been afraid to let himself accept the sensation before, he doesn’t know, but now he revels in it, lets Bas enwind his whole body in a corporeal bond, as silken as the scarf itself, for all that it’s coarse and almost-harsh.

He relaxes a little, lets go the headboard, tug-twists his wrists—trying to get loose or making sure he can’t?—and the uncertainty of just that one thing is like a burst of warmth in his chest, chitters white noise through his head, sideswipes him and sends a slurry of buzzing animal
want
all through him.

“
Fuck
, yes,” Bas breathes, low and shaky, and Kimolijah opens his eyes, tries to focus, sees Bas’s eyes locked to the movement of Kimolijah’s own wrists, watches them flare and widen with each curl of fingers, each pull and twist and quiver. And
God
, the half-drunk look in Bas’s eyes, like Kimolijah himself is some sort of opiate and Bas can’t help it, can’t help but want him, want him with everything in him and with a ferocity that might be exhilarating or terrifying, it can go either way, and there’s an astounding brilliance in knowing that it won’t.

Bas flicks a look at Kimolijah, something sharp with little razor-teeth, and Bas smiles a bit, a small, wicked thing, and he drags his fingertips over the bunched muscles of Kimolijah’s forearms, skitters them over the slippery silk of the scarf, and the gasp it draws from Kimolijah makes Bas’s smile curl at the corners, deepen into something murky and intense. Bas’s eyes nearly glaze over, only just bright enough still to gleam dark in the tossing shadows from the fire. A hard, jolting snap of Bas’s hips, and Kimolijah’s whole body arches, a shock of fizzy euphoria arcing out from Bas’s body and into Kimolijah’s like live gridstream, sparking through from the dense core of him and exploding through his chest in a hungry, guttural cry.

Bas’s hand drags down Kimolijah’s arm, over his chest, and even though Kimolijah knows it’s coming, has been
waiting
for it for what seems years, he still can’t help but jolt and nearly choke on a gasp when Bas finally lays that hand to him. The touch is firm and hot, and still a little oil-slick; Kimolijah feels like it’s enfolding the whole of him, gripping him together so he doesn’t fly apart.

It feels like Kimolijah’s been hard forever, like he’s been so close to the edge of orgasm for so long he’s forgotten how to let himself fall over it. Spiraling pressure builds up and up, flares through his limbs, pushes behind his eyes so they burn and sting, and he almost feels like weeping.
Right there
, and
almost but not quite
, and it’s like he’s hanging over a chasm by his fingertips, his own weight dragging on his body and stretching him out, tight and taut, and if he just lets go, lets himself drop, and
why can’t he just let go?

He’s vaguely aware of Bas’s free hand tracing up and over his arm, sliding towards his hand, and yes, maybe that’s it, maybe if Bas just touches the silk, burns it into Kimolijah’s skin, Kimolijah will be able to fall and this cruel-sweet
ache
will coalesce into euphoria before he can lose what’s left of his mind. But Bas doesn’t touch it—he skims right over it, twines his fingers with Kimolijah’s instead, holds on tight.