57
by Pares
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught
Save where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.--Shakespeare's Sonnet 57
I never ask him what he does when he's not with me.
Not that I never think of it, of the price he pays, or what he charges...
But when he's got his hand fisted in my jeans, it's hard to remember any questions other than Will he let me fuck him? Did I buy more lube? Jesus, did the condom break?
The window glass is cool against my fingertips, but the streetlight outside isn't enough to show him to me. I don't know him well enough to pick the shape of his shadow out of all the others. I'm beginning to realize that I never will.
Three weeks, and no word. Eight weeks since he kissed my cheek... Seven weeks and six days since he came to me and let me touch him.
I knotted my hands in his leather jacket, and I slammed him up against my door.
"I won't let you fuck with my head," I told him.
And then I kissed him.
I'm not *that* repressed. I knew what I wanted, what he wanted. And if he wanted to play the role of informant to earn a place in my bed, I would accept that. Mutual benefit. Mutual need.
I unbuttoned his black jeans and jerked him until he came in my hand, swallowing every protest or groan he tried to make, every kiss he tried to keep.
He looked surprised at that. That I'd let him come first, that I'd *made* him come first. It was the first time I felt like I had a better grip on things than he did. No pun intended.
I threw him out after that, didn't give him time to explain anything, or hand off documents, or plan for next time.
Next time.
He hasn't contacted me for three weeks now. And so I think about Alex, and the holes he's slinking in, the men he's charming, whose hands might be on him. I should probably write this down. I'll need ammunition for the night he decides to try and *talk* to me.
The second time. He mugged me in the hallway in front of my apartment, ramming me into the wall, his solid shoulder against the small of my back.
I knew it was him, I could *smell* that it was him, so I didn't bury an elbow in his stomach when he let me go. Or when he settled his hand on my hip and brought his knee up between my thighs. Leaning, pressure, heat...
"Did you miss me?" And his voice was like frayed silk.
There was no answer for that. I reached back and took his hand, settling it over the bulge in my pants. I heard him lick his lips before he stepped away.
I unlocked the door and followed him in.
He didn't bother with an explanation, and I didn't ask for one. He was kneeling before I turned around, and that was enough.
His black jacket caught the underwater light from the fishtank; it gleamed in his eyes. He was licking his lips again, and brushing a thumb against the thickness behind the zipper of his jeans.
I slid my own zipper down and crossed to stand in front of him. I didn't touch him. After a moment, he leaned towards me, inhaling.
Just the sound of his breathing sent a prickle up my spine; the skin on the back of my neck tightened, tingled, raise hairs.
He cupped me, my soft skin against his rough palm, his nails surprisingly smooth as he ran his thumb along the pulsing vein.
//How does a one armed man file his nails?//
The he sucked the head past those finely drawn lips, curling his fingers around the rest of me... I tightened my own hands in the waist of my jeans. I didn't want to touch him, didn't want to clench my hands in that soft hair, didn't want to fuck that smirking mouth...
Of course, I did.
There is no temptation like a kneeling man.
Eventually, I jerked his head up with one hand and caressed his throat with the other. Then I held him still while he loosened his jaw and took me. I was crammed against the back of his throat, I could feel the helpless flex as he tried not to gag, watched his nostrils flare as he tried to breathe. And I only drew back far enough to push my cock deeper.
When he started to choke, I let him go.
He leaned on his good arm, hanging his head, breath rasping.
"Do you still think you want this?"
"Do you think you could stop me?"
And he was up again, crushing me against the wall, working his hand into my pants.
"You won't make me beg," he promised me.
He took his hand back and reached into the pocket of his jacket. He dangled the three strip of condoms; that cellophane rustle was strangely entrancing. He dropped the pack on the end table and shrugged out of his jacket. I watched him tug his t-shirt up over his head, watched it catch on the buckles of his prosthesis. I didn't move to help him.
Eventually, he was naked, and I was blind to everything but him.
He rolled his jacket and laid it on the floor beside the couch. With a final look, he nodded curtly and knelt, knees spread on the soft leather. I stared at the curve of his back, the way his shoulders tightened.
I didn't have any lube. I didn't occur to me to ask him for any. I sorted my medicine cabinet mentally, and only saw some aloe gel for sunburn and an ancient, rusting can of Bactine.
I found myself crossing the room to stand behind him, stroking the velvet nape of his neck with three fingers.
"Get dressed. Get out." And I couldn't make my voice harsh; I'm not even sure now, that he heard me. When he stood up, he looked... confused.
But he complied, and maybe I only imagined resentment in his eyes.
Third time's the charm, though.
The time he brought lube. The time I undressed first. The time I fucked him hard enough to make him groan with it, hard enough that I worried about blood.
And now three weeks. And all I do is dream of him; my fists clench when I think of him, trying to remember the silk of his inner thigh, the exact temperature of his tongue. I close my eyes and try to remember if the light was bright enough to see the back of his neck flush when I pushed into him that first time...
I realize now that this, that all of this, is on his terms, and that I was more fool than usual to think I had any control whatsoever.
I find that I care less and less about what he does when he's not here. His actions are only important if I can see them; if I can watch the muscles tighten when he turns his head, if I can see the flex of his thigh when he crosses the room naked, to kneel again, if I can see the way the shape of my cock distends his mouth...
And so I wait.
And there are no more questions.
END
