Stuff My Stocking: M-M Romance Stories that are Nice and Naughty (26 page)

Kit reached, and Saenz helped, pushing a pillow beneath him so they met at a level. Sucking him in, Kit pushed the foreskin back with his tongue, gratified to hear the groan that produced. Licking, prodding at the slit, sucking again, nice, God yes, but it wasn’t what Kit wanted, not just now, so he made a production of going all passive—lips slack, head falling back into Saenz’s palm.

To find that indeed, this man was a god, omniscient and wise. “Ah,” Saenz said, and smiled. “Your neck is tired, no? We can work around that.” Then he gripped Kit’s curls in a tight fist and shoved in.

Yes. Falling into heaven.
Fuck me.
Saenz set the rhythm, and Kit sucked for all he was worth, reveling in the power that controlled him, the pull on his head, timed to meet the thrust of cock in his mouth. And the smell, God, Kit’s nose filled with the redolence of a long day’s sweat and musk, ripening, the faint remnants of the morning’s cologne a mist over male.

Was too much. The hard, unforgiving solidity of the probe, milking him like a stud animal. While a cold bastard of a man used his mouth without mercy. Kit gagged again and came, choking, in a ready stream of seed that flowed smoothly out of his slit and over his abdomen. An amazing sort of release, deep and ball-relieving, but ultimately unsatisfying, his prick still waving a needy, wanton dance, hard as ever.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Kit heard, in Yankee vowels, but he was too busy catching his breath to do much more than register the words.

Closing his eyes, Kit drew Saenz back in. Heard the approving hiss and relaxed, determined to taste as much of the man as he could. Frustrated—wishing he could swallow it to the root, wishing he could train himself on this man.

Kit heard the tear of foil, then felt the harsh suck of the dildo/probe being removed, leaving his hole gaping, open and ready. Only for a moment though, then warm flesh entered him, hard, stretching him further. A ripple of pleasure coursed through Kit. He wished he could watch, have a bird’s eye view of getting fucked from both ends. So lewd, so filthy and base, and there was no way he’d ever get this lucky again. Gloved fingers threaded through his hair, gripping him tight as skin dragged over his tongue, just shy of the reflex rejection. Balls slapping at his ass in a syncopated rhythm, fast and frantic. His own dick bouncing, skin stretched tight, in a hedonistic beat.

With a stiffening of his body, Saenz started to come. Balls pulled high and tight, he pulled out, gave himself another quick jerk, then grunted as the first volley spattered Kit’s cheek. Another hot splash over his brow and down his nose. Kit moved to catch the next lob on his tongue, capturing what he could, hoping Saenz understood that next time, Kit wanted to let that thick salty fire slide down his throat.

Next time…? Who the hell was he kidding?

He was still tasting Saenz, the faint acridness, the sweet, rolling it over his tongue, when he heard a low growl and felt hands yanking brutally at his thighs. A slam against his ass, an incoherent curse, and Lars came.

#

The moments that followed were like crashing too early from a high. Still unrelieved—in a literal sense—but he knew how this went; it was over, and reality began to settle like a ton weight.

Lars pulled out, stripped the condom, tied a knot in it, then dropped it into a biowaste container. He slapped Kit’s ass. “Good fuck, tight hole. You should give it a shot before you leave, Raf.”

Saenz waved him away. “Ándale. Get some sleep. I’ll take care of el diablillo.”

“I won’t argue.” Already buttoned back up, Lars looked no more disheveled than he had at the cantina. He quirked that asshole smirk again. “You two have fun.”

“Cabrón,” Saenz breathed once Lars had left. But he was grinning. He drew a thumb—ungloved now—across the semen splash on Kit’s cheek.

Kit flushed—the shame much more real now, knowing that the men were through with him. This was when the fun stopped. A slow rage began to stir within him. Familiar enough, and in the end, he’d quash it down—same way he always did, turning his ‘I don’t give a shit’ face to the world. Except this time, Kit hadn’t even come with any dignity; they’d just gotten him out of the way early.

Using him. Hot, yeah.
Fucking volcanic.
Even so, once the fog lifted, it fucked with him.

“Tan bello.”

Kit glanced up to catch Saenz’s gaze, still dark, still devouring. Beautiful?

“Did it…cómo se dice…did it ‘hit the spot?’”

“Yeah,” Kit said, weakly. Suspicious of niceties.

Saenz bent down and gave Kit’s nose a delicate lick, tasting himself. Like a cat. “Christopher, yes?”

“Kit.” What was this man on about now?

“Kit,” Saenz repeated. Then kissed him. A warm, sensual, afterglow kind of kiss, tongue exploring with a lazy sort of passion. And of course, Kit let him in, even returning the action, however tentatively. How could he not?—Kit wasn’t immune to these gestures. Tasting the man—the flavor of a hard day, mints, and maybe some bourbon behind that.

Saenz pulled back, and Kit, feeling powerfully out of his element, reached for what might pass as normal conversation—considering that he was strapped to a table, cum spattered and worn. “And you’re Raf.” Okay, a little defiance in there.

Saenz made a sour face, seeming to shudder faintly. Then he recovered his poise and smiled. He touched Kit’s lower lip with a finger. “Tonight, I am Dr. Saenz, no?” He trailed that finger over Kit’s chin, down his throat, then traced the line of his collarbone. “Maybe tomorrow…over dinner, perhaps?…then, I am Rafael.” He tapped a finger on Kit’s breast. “But not Raf, dios mio, no. Stupid name.”

Kit couldn’t help but smile at that. But. Dinner…?

“You are so sexy. I think Lars brought you here for me.”

“Me?” Kit felt his pulse begin to race. He wanted up. Wanted to pace. Leave, maybe. This was too weird. “Lars? Why would he—?”

“I have asked him about you.” Rafael met Kit’s eyes, seemed to search for something in them. “I watch you. When you work. At village meetings, when you talk with the ranchers. You are smart. Kind. You respect los paisanos. I find that sexy. But today—” He shrugged. “Perhaps I’ve been rude in my ogling. This afternoon when you glared at me, I thought surely I stood no chance at all.”

“I…” Kit stuttered. Still captured by the eyes.
Kit
glared? “…I liked…this.” He gave a jerk of his arm, the uninjured one. “Can you let me go now?”

“¿Estás seguro?” Rafael cocked an eyebrow at the restraint that Kit was trying. “I was thinking that you hadn’t come properly yet.” He toyed with Kit’s nipple, pinching until Kit hissed. “Perhaps we should try again?”

Kit bit his lip, didn’t answer in words, but his dick answered for him.

Rafael laughed. “So sweet, so open and honest.” He moved between Kit’s legs, bent over to kiss his stomach, trailed his tongue to the patch of hair just above Kit’s cock. Kit heard the rip of another foil, below the table edge.

“Tell me,” Rafael said. “Do you have plans for Christmas?”

THE END

Copyright ©2010 Ocotillo

Also from Ocotillo:

The Violet and the Tom
(novel)

Esperanza
(novel)

The Book of New Life, I
(novel)

Lubban wa Murr
(short story)

Website: http:
http://ocotillo-dawn.livejournal.com/

LOVE BOUND by Jessica Freely

Dear Santa,

So I was peeping at the neighbor's house and just look at what was topping his tree. Now I know that I have been and little naughty this year, but I would love to know what goes on with that sexy bound angel next door...

{PHOTO INSERT:  A beautiful naked man with black feathered wings stands with his eyes closed and his face pointing towards the heavens. His hands are cross in front of his groan and are bound at the wrists with thick rope.}

***************************

Max trudged home through the snow and the gathering darkness. Christmas lights festooned the trees along the Bloomfield downtown district's sidewalks. Speakers attached to the old-fashioned streetlights warbled a tinny rendition of
I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas
. He pulled his coat tighter about himself and walked faster. Five years now, and it still didn't hurt any less. Max could still picture every moment as if it were happening all over again.

December 24, 2005: Stev had been out of town for work, but he was flying home in time to spend Christmas with Max. Max had been to the kink shop and bought a nylon rope. After three years of committed, vanilla sex with the gorgeous man he loved more than anyone he'd ever known, he was going to come out to Stev about his kink. He was nervous and hungry, a bad combination, and he stopped into the Bloomfield Diner for a bowl of their famous chicken noodle soup before picking Stev up at the airport.

The Bloomfield Diner was a no-frills place that had somehow escaped the gentrification the rest of downtown Bloomfield had undergone in the early naughts. Maybe because everyone liked it just the way it was. It was a place where long-time local residents and newcomers mingled freely. And it had a television behind the counter.

Now, Max paused outside the door to the diner.  Should he go in? The memory of that night was burned in his mind. He didn't have to relive it again to remember the way he'd sat there, spoon half-raised as he watched the news bulletin about the plane crash. And he recalled exactly the way his stomach had twisted as the bottom fell out of his life.

Through the window he saw Ralph working the griddle, just as he'd been that night, and each consecutive Christmas Eve that Max returned to enact this useless little ritual of remembrance. Max went in and took a seat at the counter. The second stool down from the cash register.

"Max," said Ralph, pouring him a cup of coffee. "It's good to see you."

"Good to see you too, Ralph." And it was. Max liked Ralph. He liked his strawberry blond hair and his muscular build. He liked the tight white tank tops he wore and the way they displayed his tattoos -- the USMC anchor and shield on one bicep, a merman on the other. Most of all, Max like that Ralph never wished him a merry Christmas.

Ralph had seen Max's face when the news of the plane crash came on. Engine failure. How could an engine just fail? But it had, and the plane caught fire. No survivors.

It was Ralph who'd made sure Max got home all right, and it was Ralph who'd brought over chicken soup every day that first week, while Max had sat on his couch staring at Stev's empty chair.

"The usual?" asked Ralph.

"Yeah."

There was only one other person in the diner at the moment, an elderly lady in the far corner reading the paper. Max glanced up at the television. It was turned to a local station, as always. At the moment a syndicated episode of How I Met Your Father aired. The laugh track sounded hollow.

Ralph brought him his chicken soup. "Five years now," he said.

This was new. Max never really said anything before. "Yeah."

Ralph started refilling the paper napkin dispensers. "Five years now you've been coming in, at the same time, on the same day. You sit in the same spot and you order the same thing. And the rest of the year I don't see you. Why do you do this?"

Max leaned back and looked up at Ralph. He always forgot how physically intimidating Ralph could be, and how deep down, in the place he pretended wasn't there, that made him want to turn the tables on Ralph and dominate him -- just like he'd wanted to do with Stev and had never worked up the nerve. "Why?"

Ralph met his gaze. "Yeah. I mean, it's not like you need to remind yourself. Do you?"

Max opened his mouth. That was exactly what he'd been about to say -- that he did it to remember. But Ralph was right. He hadn't forgotten. Not for one second.  So why?

"You know what I think?" said Ralph.

Max stirred his soup and tried to decide how he felt about this new, talkative Ralph. Curious. He felt curious. "What do you think?"

"I think you're replaying the day hoping somehow it'll turn out different."

Max dropped his spoon and it splashed soup all over the counter. "That's ridiculous."

Ralph smiled, but his green eyes remained serious. "It's not going to change, Max."

Max shoved his bowl away and stood. "I know that! As it turns out, I'm not very hungry right now. I'll take this to go, please."

Ralph sighed. "Half of it's on the counter. I'll get you a fresh bowl."

He wrote out Max's order, then ladled a helping of soup into a to-go container. Before handing it to max, he wrote something on the lid.

"What's this?" Max knew what it was. It was a phone number.

"I think you're a nice guy, Max, and I like your taste in Christmas presents."

Max stared at him. "Christmas presents? I never gave you a--"

Ralph's green eyes were clear and full of light. "Of course not. My guess it was for that guy who died in the plane crash. But I've never been able to forget how you looked before you got the news, when you first walked in here with that bag from Noir -- happy and cocky, like you owned the place. If you ever get around to being that guy again, call me. I like a man who knows what to do with ten feet of nylon rope."

Max's cock leapt and his face went red. He stared down at the number scrawled on the lid of the soup container. "I... I don't... I can't..."
What? Talk? Breathe?

"No worries. Toss it if you want. Just don't waste the soup."

Max forced himself to meet Ralph's gaze. On the little television, an ad for a debt consolidation company came on.

"Like I said, you're a nice guy. But you're still stuck in the past."

Max wanted to object, but Ralph was right. He searched for something to say. "Merry Christmas," he blurted and blushed even harder.

Ralph gave a soft, startled laugh. "Merry Christmas to you too."

#

Late that night, Max awoke to a sound. A thump from downstairs. He sat up, his heart racing. It was either Santa Claus or a burglar, and he didn't believe in Santa Clause.
Shit!
He needed to call the cops, but he didn't keep a landline anymore and his cell phone was downstairs.
Fuck!

Moving as quietly as he could, Max put on a pair of jeans and grabbed the baseball bat from under the bed. He crept down the stairs on bare feet.

The downstairs was dark. No Christmas tree or holiday lights brightened the gloom. Max didn't decorate for the holidays. He and Stev were going to do that, Christmas Eve when they got home, and Max had harbored secret fantasies about tying Stev up with the evergreen garland and hanging balls from his--

Another noise from the living room derailed his train of thought.
Somebody's really down there.
He trembled, but tightened his grip on the bat. When he reached the bend in the staircase, where the light switch was, he flicked it on.

From here he had a bird's eye view of the living room -- and of the winged man kneeling in front of the fireplace. He was naked and powerfully built, with a shock of dark brown hair and a cleft chin. His hands were bound in front of him with a rope. Max lost his grip on the bat and it rolled down the steps with a series of thunks. "Stev."

Stev looked up. His hazel eyes luminous, his handsome face anguished. "Max."

As if he himself had wings, Max flew down the remaining steps and across the room. He grabbed Stev and hugged him, his effort complicated somewhat by the wings, but he managed to thread his arms beneath them and hold his lover tight. Stev was warm and solid in his arms. "Stev! Its really you!" The feathers brushing against his face muffled his words.

Stev sighed and sank against him. "Oh Max."

Max was lost in the warm silk of Stev's naked skin, his smell, like evergreen and oiled leather. How many times had he taken Stev's undershirt out of its baggy to smell it, to close his eyes and imagine Stev was really there.

This was so much better. Even if it was just a dream. He sat back and ran one hand over the arch of a wing. The feathers were black and soft as a warm summer breeze. "This is a dream."

"It's no dream, Max. Look at me."

Max did. It was Stev. There could be no doubt about that. Stev's straight, high bridged nose, his lush mouth. Max's heart pounded.
How was this possible?
"You died."

"I did."

"But you're here."

"I am."

"How?"

Stev raised an eyebrow and tilted his head at one of his wings.

"Oh. Then..." He cupped Stev's face. But you feel so solid, so real."

"I am real. I'm here, in the flesh, for now, for a reason."

Max had forgotten how Stev could be. Impatient with people who didn't catch on right away. "For a reason?"

Stev rolled his eyes. "Look at me, Max. Come on. Look."

Max did. He took in Stev's bare skin, gleaming in the dim light, his sculpted chest, his lean ass, his wings... and his bound hands. Stev lifted them. "Need me to spell it out for you? You have me bound. I can't move on because you won't let go!"

Max rocked back. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

Silence settled between them. Max shifted. He reached out to Stev, then paused, his hand hovering in midair. Stev sighed. Outside, a car went by, the radio playing
Angels We Have Heard on High
too loud.

How could his heart be breaking now? Wasn't it already shattered beyond repair? He dropped his hand. He bowed his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Another long sigh. "Of course you didn't.  It's okay. Look. Max, look."

He raised his head. It hurt to look at Stev now. Wasn't this what he'd wanted, secretly, in the bottom of his heart? Stev back, and in the flesh? Only this wasn't for good. this was... what was it?

"I know." Stev's eyes, half-lidded, glittered in the faint light. His breath came in rapid gusts. "Max, I never wanted to leave you. I hated dying!

Max crept closer. He touched Stev on the shoulder. His skin was warm. "It wasn't your fault. It was a plane crash.  Did you... Were you... Was it bad?"

"No. I was lucky. I died instantly when the engine blew."

Relief flooded Max. He hadn't realized until now how heavy the thought of Stev suffering had been. "Oh God. Oh Good."

"Oh Max. I'm so sorry. I didn't want to leave you."

"You've really been trapped all this time, waiting for me to let you go?"

Stev scooted closer and rested his head against Max's shoulder. His right wing sheltered Max. "Yeah, but..." He tilted his head up to peer at Max. Their faces were very close. "It's worth it to be able to kiss you again."

Max closed his eyes and leaned in and Stev's velvet lips touched his like a benediction. He thought he'd never feel that soft press again, or taste the ambrosia of Stev's mouth. He was starving for that taste, that touch. He gripped Stev's face in both hands, cradling his jaw as he devoured his mouth.

He couldn't get enough. He straddled Stev's lap, and wrapped his arms around him. Feathers brushed against his arms and made him shiver. The shiver became trembling. It had been so long. "I missed you." Three words that encompassed five years.

But Max didn't want to think about that, or about what would happen after tonight. His cock tented the front of his pajamas and poked Stev in the belly.

Stev's hands were trapped between them. "Here, let me untie you.

Stev smirked at him. "Go ahead. Try."

Max tugged at one of the  loops of the knot. It loosened but as he pulled the rope through, the rest of the loops twisted, slithering like a snake, knotting itself again, just as tight as before.

"See?" Stev's smile changed. "Besides, you always wanted me tied up."

Max gasped. "I never told you. I was going to but--"

"I know. I know everything now."

Max's face was hot. He was bright red, he could tell.

It's okay. It would have been too. I'm okay with that. All you had to do was ask, Max."

More regret. "I thought you'd be offended."

Stev snorted. "I kind of knew even in life. I mean, you were always pinning my wrists. I didn't mind." His eyes darkened. "I liked it."

Something powerful rose up inside Max like a creature awakened. The desire to dominate. Max braced his knees on either side of Stev's hips and rose up. He took Stev's hands and pushed them over his head and back.

The position made Stev arch his back. His wings opened and a soft grunt escaped him. But it was true, he didn't mind. He was hard. Keeping the tension in Stev's arms Max leaned in and bit his angel's neck. He ran tongue and teeth down the silken flesh to his shoulder.  Stev was very much a living, corporeal being. The heat of his pulse radiated from his neck, heating the side of Max's face.

Max wanted to work his way down Stev's body but he'd lose his grip on Stev's arms if he did. He looked around and spotted the two empty hooks on the mantelpiece. They'd been intended for their stockings long ago. He'd never taken them down.

In the back of the hall closet sat the shopping bag from Noir, untouched since that night five years ago. Max fetched it.

He threaded the rope between Stev's bound hands, looped it over the hooks and drew it tight, pulling Stev up onto his knees, his arms stretched up and back, his wings extended, his whole body straining with the effort of maintaining the position. His cock jutted out, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.

There. How any times had Max imagined Stev just like that? The sight made Max's cock pulse. A spot of precum moistened the fabric of his pajamas.