Stuff My Stocking: M-M Romance Stories that are Nice and Naughty (25 page)

Lars raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if pleading for patience. “I’m going to immobilize your arm. Less it moves, the better. Here. Up.” Using a long roll, Lars wrapped the bandaging around Kit’s hurt shoulder and arm, then across his chest and under the left armpit. Across again, a couple of times, until Kit’s upper arm was effectively strapped to his chest. “That’ll do,” Lars said, snipping the end and fastening it.

“I can move it.”

“Good for you. Don’t. Once the Toradol kicks in—” He checked his watch. “—should be pretty quickly—you won’t feel any pain, but that doesn’t mean the shoulder’s not injured. Got it? Be careful.”

“Yeah, all right.”

“Lay back.” Lars cranked up the back of the table and Kit leaned back into it. “Feet up. Come on.”

Kit did as he said, nonplussed, just following directions. Lars raised the rail on his left side, then pulled something out of his coat pocket—a thick black band, Kit saw—lined up Kit’s good arm and strapped it to the rail.

“What the fuck?” Kit jerked at his arm, ignoring the twinge of pain. “Hey!”

“Uh-uh.” Lars pressed a palm to Kit’s chest, pushing him back. “Calm down or you’ll hurt yourself.”

Kit lay back, breath coming fast, mind racing, trying to decide, danger or not? “Why are you tying that one down?” Stupid question, stupid, but his tongue just sort of rattled it off, full of shock and innocence.

“It’s been one hell of a day.” Lars withdrew two latex gloves from a box on the counter and began pulling them on. “We could stand to blow off some steam, don’t you think?” He snapped the wrist of one glove and grinned. “I know I could.”

Despite himself, Kit responded, viscerally, prick thickening—especially when Lars’s fingers trailed across the bare skin of his abdomen, the latex touch at once impersonal and intrusive. Even so…Kit flicked eyes anxiously towards the door. “Dr. Saenz…” …was still back there.
Jesus
.

“That bother you?” Lars unbuttoned Kit’s jeans, prompting a jerk of hips that was both nervous reaction and plea.

“Just don’t want that asshole—“

“Don’t bullshit me.” Lars barked a laugh. “Christ. I don’t know which of you is worse.” Toying with the line of hair below Kit’s navel, he said, “I was watching you, you know…in the waiting room today, when you thought no one was looking. Your inner submissive, on full display. Thought you were going to fall on your knees right there, in front of the entire clinic.”

Heat rushed into Kit’s face. Lars was fucking with him, right? Except that he could just imagine it, because he knew he got that way. And he’d seen it in clubs, the way a man’s entire posture could change when a dominant walked in the door. But there was no way Kit had done that. Not here. Not to a man he knew nothing about. “I was not…”

“Oh, please.” Lars rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like his meat in your mouth.”

Kit pulled at the bond at his wrist. Not seriously, just feeling as if he had to register some resistance.

Lars ran a gloved hand along Kit’s chest. “Not that I’m blaming you,” he said. With a finger, he parted the bandaging and opened a slit so that Kit’s left nipple peeked out. He flicked at it, bringing it to stiff attention. He couldn’t know how strongly that affected Kit. “You’d have to be dead to not appreciate Raf’s…assets.”

“I wouldn’t know about those.”

“Anyway. You don’t need to worry; he’s in back. And I’ve latched the door. You’ll just have to keep a lid on the screams.” Lars pinched his nipple, hard, and Kit accompanied his responding curse with a thrust of his hips. Couldn’t help it. There was a direct line from his nipples to his cock. Lars smiled, said, “You like being fucked?”

Oh. Dizzy. The question, bald of all pretense, knocked the last bit of sense from Kit. He nodded, stupidly.

“Good. We’re well suited then,” Lars said, and proceeded to remove Kit’s boots and socks. “—for tonight, anyway.”

Yeah, fuck you, too.
But Kit swallowed that back. At least the snide comment brought him back closer to the ground. He tilted his hips upwards as Lars pulled his mud-streaked denims down over his hips.

“You like this.” Lars draped Kit’s jeans with his t-shirt and then gestured towards Kit’s bound wrists. “Restraint. I’ll make it good. Here, up.” He’d pulled out stirrups at the edge of the table. There were ankle socks pulled over the ends, edged in pink, and now he guided Kit’s heels into them. Kit shivered as Lars bound them there with winding straps—nervous…with anticipation, with what was quickly becoming a powerful need. Feeling exposed now, and vaguely humiliated for that, for bellying up to yet another man.
Pathetic
, spat the voice of his old man.

“Scoot forward. Carefully. There, yes. Good.” Once again, Lars disappeared behind Kit. This time, Kit didn’t even attempt to watch him, and Lars was back in no time, with more bindings that he used to keep Kit’s thighs pulled apart.

The slide of a drawer, and Kit looked between his legs to see Lars fumbling beneath the exam table. Lars straightened, and Kit felt the familiar chill of lubricant along his crack. A tap at his pucker requested entrance, and Kit closed his eyes as a finger breached him, gloved and cool.

Very clinical, the way Lars opened him up, slathering him well with lube. Kit bit his lip, keeping his moan low, not ready to beg, not just yet.

Lars pulled back, peeled his glove off, and slapped Kit on the ass. “Be right back.”

Then he walked out, leaving the door—like Kit’s legs, like his mouth—wide open.

#

Kit wasn’t alone for more than a few minutes—time he spent talking himself down.
He’s going for condoms, that’s all, fucking with you, it’s part of the game
. His breathing had just begun to slow again when he heard footsteps, coming off the carpet and onto the linoleum-tiled hall.

It wasn’t only the scuff of running shoes, though. There was also the click of hard heels, nearly in tandem, and Kit froze, blood running like ice.
No way
. His head swam, distorting the sounds of approach, “…thirty milligrams of Toradol, but I’d like for you to take a look—“

And sure fucking enough, they entered side-by-side, white-jacketed torturers, a vision of hell on a dose of brown acid.

Except for the fact that immediately, the newcomer stiffened, eyes snapping wide. And Kit…well, a last jerk, an, “Oh fuck!”, and then his tongue cemented itself to the roof of his mouth. Speechless, and unaccountably terrified, like a beam-blinded buck. Dick limp, just like that, no life left at all. What the hell had he ever done to deserve this?

That gaze, as black and cool as ever, jerked from Kit’s stare, and raked once over the display before him. Never before in his life had Kit wanted to wail…

The corner of Saenz’s mouth quirked upwards. “Oh, my.” The lilt of his accent, cultured Honduran, seemed incongruous just now. “What have we here?”

The ridicule in the comment snapped Kit back to himself. He jerked at his bonds—wrist, legs—and struggled to sit up. “Let me up! What the hell—?”

In two strides, Saenz crossed the room and pressed a warm palm to Kit’s chest. “Shh, mango. You’ll aggravate the injury.” Gloves in his hand, like they’d appeared there, and he slipped them on, then prodded the shoulder a bit. “How is this, now—better? Any pain?”

Kit stared, feeling cowed all of a sudden, and not a little bit bemused. “No. No pain…”

“Good, good.” Saenz soothed. “We do want our hero comfortable.”

Kit winced, stung by the obvious mockery, though he knew he should stand outside it.

To Lars, Saenz said, “Any other injuries?”

“I don’t know.” A quick glance showed Lars smirking. “Thought you might want to check him over yourself.”

Oh, fuck.
An embarrassing squeak escaped Kit. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he leaned his head back and let a whoosh of air escape. Trying his damndest to shut it all out.

“Señor McGregor.” A tentative brush of fingers traced a line across his clavicle. “Look at me.”

Hard, that voice, insistent, but nonetheless gentle. Kit examined it briefly but found none of the derision he felt sure had to be there. Only a faint rolling of the first ‘r’ in his name stood out. He opened his eyes, bracing for the familiar contempt in that flat gaze…except, he saw hunger, hot and greedy, and suddenly, Kit was unsure…had the gaze changed?—or had it always been this?

“What will it be, Señor McGregor? Do you feel you need further examination?”

Kit sucked in a breath. Heat curled in his belly, reawakening the beast. Saenz noticed, of course he would, and the smile that broke through his absolute focus was tinged with amusement. Kit’s mouth went dry. No, he wasn’t dreaming this, and he was having a damned hard time escaping those eyes, from seeing how they devoured him. And he realized he wanted them to. Fuck. Like the spider and the fly.

“Or shall we go home? Pretend this never happened?”

Those fingers, tracing a pattern along his thigh now, sending tiny charges through Kit’s skin, raising gooseflesh.

“Ah. You tempt me, mi diablillo, to tell you what you want. But a temporary pleasure is not worth my license.” Kit found himself shaking his head, hypnotically agreeing with Saenz, and Saenz pressed, “Do you consent?”

Kit licked his lips. Nodded.

Saenz slapped Kit’s thigh, demanded, “Dime!”

Tell me.
A fiery blush powered down through Kit’s neck and across his chest, but he said, “I consent.”

Silence. Saenz watched him, expectation clear in his eyes. Lars, too, though Kit was aware of him only peripherally, a ghost at his feet.

“Please.” Voice so small. He cleared his throat. “I want…this. The examination.”
Jesus. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Good.” Saenz patted Kit’s thigh, then to Lars, said, “Proceed.”

Gloved hands tugged at Kit’s balls, just this side of painful, kneading a little. Another grasped his cock, that was Saenz, and Kit watched avidly, connecting that pleasure to the fist, the arm, the dark eyes, those sensual lips. It didn’t take much for Kit to harden.

Kit was a leaker, and he was demonstrating that now, with copious precum that latex-sheathed fingers slicked down his shaft. A thumbnail dug into the slit and Kit jerked, groaning, the sensation just a little too much, but so good in that. Saenz fisted him—tightly—and Kit squirmed, reptile brain vying for freedom even though he really had no desire for it now.

“Be still,” Saenz commanded, and his grip on Kit loosened. “You struggle, I send you home.” Kit understood then, that despite the scene, despite the swamp of testosterone and lust in the room, that Saenz could no more stop being a doctor than Kit could stop being Texan. Kit was not to risk injury. He fell back, confining his struggles to his hips and his mind, finding the sensations more intense for all that.

Lars spread his thighs wide. Fingers tapped again at his sphincter, then impaled him. Two—or was it three?—right off and Kit hissed. In pain, but the burn was good, long sought, hell yes.
Use me.

“There we are, that’s good,” Lars purred. His office voice, Kit knew, and thank Christ Lars’s tour was up, or Kit would gladly die rather than come into this clinic for treatment again.

On the heels of that thought came a sensation so intense it was damn close to painful. Kit squawked, jerked his pelvis, and Lars’s palm came down on him, covering his prick in a polymer grasp.

“Don’t move,” Lars said, “You’re sensitive. I’ll ease up a bit…”

Lars twisted his fingers, studying Kit intently, and Kit groaned, head falling back, dick beginning to throb. “Oh, jeeezus,” he said, and twisted, trying to get away, to get closer, just, oh yeah…right there, that felt good.

He glanced up to see Saenz watching avidly, one hand gripping the hair at Kit’s nape, the ball of the other pressing at his fly. “Healthy?” he asked Lars.

“I’ll say.”

The hand at Saenz’s crotch returned to touch Kit, feathering up his body in what was becoming a familiar stroke. This time, he stopped at the exposed nipple, gave it a couple of flicks, and then twisted. Hard.

When Kit yelped, Saenz jerked his head back and slapped the hand over his mouth. “Shh,” he said, then pushed his fingers into Kit’s mouth, over his tongue, until nails tickled the back of Kit’s throat and Kit gagged.

Lars chuckled. “Our boy likes that, Raf.”

Indeed. Kit flushed, humiliated, but even that fed him, knowing that Lars knew, could feel every response, every pulse of Kit’s cock in the cloak of his palm. Saenz’s eyes sparkled, and when Kit moaned at the renewed assault on his prostate, he said, “Suck.”

Kit did, the bitter of his own leakage a layer over the synthetic taste of the gloves. But he sucked, hollowing his cheeks, running his tongue between fingers, inviting them to fuck him. Eager to please the dark eyes, yearning to reach that space where ego was so consumed that shame ceased to have meaning.

Lars’s fingers disappeared from Kit’s ass, and something larger replaced them, blunt and cold. Kit grunted around Saenz’s hand as the object penetrated him roughly, not nearly enough lube, but
Christ, yes, please
, and did they keep it in the freezer? His moan pitched too high now, not at all like a man, even that pride stripped from him.
Like an animal, pitiful and primal…yessss.

His hips strained upwards, cock desperate for a touch, but there was nothing there now, just air. The probe, dildo, prong—whatever the fuck it was—attacked his gland with a relentless cool pressure while his aching prick danced, painting streaks of clear fluid across the flat of his abs.

Saenz withdrew his hand from Kit’s mouth, then dragged a thumb across his stomach, gathering up a glob of the mess there. Another prod sent Kit soaring and another cry of “Fuck!” burst from his lungs.

“Silencio!” Saenz hissed, then, lower, “Do I need to gag you?”

All self-respect gone now, and feeling very much the imp Saenz had named him, Kit nodded, and said hoarsely, “Fuck me,” before turning his head and opening his mouth wide.

It took Saenz all of a second to cotton on, then his fingers flew to his fly, unzipped, and the head of his cock popped free. Fat and livid, the tip peeking out from a partially retracted foreskin—Saenz gave it a single stroke, from balls to crown, and Kit watched as a pearlescent drop gathered at the tip.