We left the house on the North Downs at a very late hour. The chimes of the grandfather clock in the hall sounded a stately midnight as I focused my attention upon my own residence and opened a Threshold. Hat in hand, I stepped through into darkness, Marsh following close behind.
‘I suppose George must have gone to bed,’ Marsh said, as we emerged in a dark, but warm, room.
‘It is rather late,’ I replied, groping blindly forward. ‘Stay there for a moment, let me find a lamp.’
To my perturbation, I almost immediately stumbled over a chess table which had absolutely no business in the drawing room. Chess pieces scattered, unseen. I heard them bounce on a thick carpet and roll away. The presence of the table, and the consistency of the rug beneath my feet, both suggested only one, mortifying conclusion. I moved the heavy walnut chess table aside and, trying my best not to tread upon any fallen pieces, moved confidently to a second table and lit a lamp.
The soft glow revealed my shame; we had arrived at my home, but not in the drawing room. Marsh and I were standing in my bedroom. The young man twirled his new hat deftly in his hands as he surveyed the room. His dark eyes flickered over my walls, taking in the paintings which I kept for my own pleasure. Their subject matter was significantly less decorous than that of the paintings in more public parts of the house. A strange little smile fluttered at the corner of his mouth, and I wondered what he must think of my tastes. His gaze lingered on my crimson silk bedcover and the plush velvet hangings about the bed which perfectly matched its hue. A rare flush rose in my cheek. Marsh himself seemed highly-coloured, but I knew his blushes rose easily and often.
‘I do apologise, Mr Marsh. I am tired, and have perhaps had one or two more brandies than was entirely wise,’ I apologised for the embarrassing geographic slippage.
‘I believe I have as well. And even if I were entirely in command of my wits, I could not have come so close to my intended destination,’ Marsh said charitably.
I bowed slightly in acknowledgement of his good manners, thinking that he must indeed have had a few too many libations in order to be so well-disposed towards me.
‘I wish you a good night, Mr Marsh,’ I said, stepping aside so as not to infringe on his path to the door.
To my surprise, Marsh made no move to leave. Instead, he bent and began picking up the scattered chess pieces, placing them one by one on the board with little click-click noises.
‘I can manage. It was my own clumsiness that upset the board,’ I said, putting the lamp down and hurriedly bending to the task myself. Marsh’s presence in my chamber troubled me, for no logical reason that I could express. I simply felt vulnerable, I suppose; not a state to which I was accustomed.
The board was nearly repopulated. Only the black queen remained on the Persian rug, and Marsh and I reached for it at the same moment. Our right hands touched over it, mine whole, his marred and bound in linen, and I drew back as though his pale skin burned. In truth, it did. His skin was almost feverishly hot. His remaining fingers were long and shapely as he placed the final piece upon the board. My own hand seemed childlike in comparison, and I hid it behind my back as though frightened of what it might do without my permission.
Marsh rose slowly from his position on the rug, leaving his black felt hat carelessly behind. I bent to fetch it, and straightened up to find Marsh watching me with a curiously intense expression. I fancied that his eyes lingered improperly upon my derrière, but I had no time to call him to account before, to my unending shock, he bent his face down and pressed his lips to mine. My blue eyes flew open. The kiss was brief, unassuming, but his lips burned with that peculiar fire which had claimed his skin.
As he straightened again to his full height, I stood fixed. My every sensibility cried against his improper act, but my lips sang a different song, and I knew with terror that my loins sang in answer. Marsh looked down at me, flushing furiously, as I attempted to summon words. In the end, it was the young man who spoke first.
‘Should I apologise?’ he asked demurely, thick black lashes hooding his eyes.
‘I- I do not think it... necessary,’ I stammered out.
‘Should I get down on my knees and beg for your forgiveness?’ Marsh asked, and his usual clear tones had a sudden husky growl beneath which sent a shiver down my unwilling spine.
Either Marsh was clairvoyant or he knew me better than I had suspected. He knew at once what my ill-suppressed shudder conveyed: the longing that my lips could not utter.
Slowly, delicately, Marsh took off his heavy woollen coat and laid it aside. There was no need for it in the warm room; seemingly so warm now that I wondered if heat was the cause of my light-headedness. Still moving with the thrilling languor of a tiger, Marsh lowered himself to his knees once more, closer this time to me. His heart-shaped face was mere inches from my hips, and I died a little from embarrassment; he could not fail to notice my arousal. Marsh smiled, and the blood roared in my veins, over-ruling the feeble protests of my social graces.
It had been too long since I had known another’s touch, and now here he was, my young and beautiful protégé, offering himself as a willing sacrifice. How was I to refuse? I could not deny that, in my darkest heart, I had dreamed of such a night. I suspected enough of Marsh’s past to think that he would be a skilled artist. And those hands! His beautiful violinist’s hands, so tragically marred by our craft. How I longed to bind them in silk, to own them, for them to caress my skin.
My mind made up, I abandoned all rational protest. Keeping my eyes fixed on Marsh, kneeling in delicious supplication before me; I threw aside my hat and slipped off my coat.
I saw the realisation blossom on Marsh’s face, saw the beginnings of a smile for an instant before I pulled his face up to mine and kissed him hungrily. All the fire of long nights alone, of days of weary work and longing, all this I poured into the kiss, pressing my lips to his hard enough to bruise. I felt Marsh gasp as I forced his mouth open with my hard tongue and plundered his mouth. I tasted brandy and chocolate mingled with a subtle flavour all of his own and Oh! Was there ever a taste so sweet?
Marsh pushed up against me, straining to deepen the kiss, half rising, and I pushed him down. Marsh growled, denied, and my trousers were suddenly painfully tight. I broke the kiss and took a step back, fumbling with my clothes. I tore the buttons from my trousers in my need, and at once my manhood sprang free, engorged, desperate. Marsh reached for me, his own member straining within the tight grey trousers which, even at the best of times, left little to the imagination. I ripped off my cravat and caught his seeking hands in its silken bonds, pulling his wrists together in a mockery of prayer. What communion to a silent God could be more holy than this?
Marsh struggled to reach me still, his eyes shining in the dim and sultry room, lit only by the single lamp. I tied the cravat roughly in a knot, imprisoning him, and divested myself of the evening clothes which were so unnecessary here. I thought of Marsh’s perfect form, and groaned at the thought that I would have to imagine it no longer. It was mine, and soon I would take possession.
Marsh knelt, quivering, on the carpet as I undressed. Twice, he attempted to rise, to reach me with his bound hands, and twice I pushed him down, growling at him to wait. I applied the softest of pressures from my stockinged left foot, caressing the swollen bulge in his trousers, and he hissed between clenched teeth. I felt him stir beneath my toes, and I could barely contain myself. I forced myself to wait, forced Marsh to wait, subjecting him to the sweetest torment imaginable.
At last, my clothes were gone, thrown into a corner. Even my goggles I placed carelessly on a table, unwilling to pause to properly put them away. I had more pressing concerns. I advanced on Marsh, taking his cravat in hand and pulling it aside. I bent and kissed him again, gloriously aware of my manhood brushing against the soft fabric of his waistcoat. Oh, how I wished it were his skin!
‘Clothes, off. Now!’ I panted, as I broke the kiss. Marsh scrambled to obey, hindered by his bound hands and missing finger. I made no attempt to aid him, choosing instead to run a trembling hand up and down my eager shaft as I watched my gift struggle to unwrap itself. I brought myself close to the peak, then forced myself to halt, to wait. The release was for Marsh, and I would not waste it.
My patience was soon exhausted. The young man was bare-chested, wrestling with the strained buttons on his trousers when I stepped over to him, running my hands over the scarred flesh of his well-formed back, tracing the cruel marks which spoke of his bravery. His chest was smooth, almost hairless, and his shoulders were lean and muscled. He was willowy but strong, everything that I had dreamed he would be.
I teased his stone-hard nipples between my fingers and crushed my member against the tight backside of his thin trousers. I was rewarded with a delicious moan and a frenzied scrabbling at his buttons. I pushed his hands away and replaced them with my own, stroking and teasing until he was writhing against me, trapped within his clothes.
‘Please, Lewis. Please!’ he begged, in barely more than a whisper.
‘Have you been well behaved?’ I whispered back.
‘Oh no! I’ve been terrible, evil!’ Marsh cried out, shuddering from head to foot.
‘Oh good...’ I said, and savagely tore the buttons from his trousers, plunging my hand through the fly and twisting my fingers in the luxuriant growth I found there.
Marsh cried aloud as I seized his throbbing shaft roughly.
‘Do you want me to punish you, Marsh?’ I hissed in his ear, squeezing his manhood.
‘Yes! Oh god, yes!’ Marsh almost screamed. I planted a row of ferocious kisses across his shoulders, bit at his neck like Dracula himself, all the while teasing him, tugging and caressing. Marsh was limp against me, whimpering, and I could stand it no longer. I pulled his trousers down, ripping them off. Both of us stood in nothing more than stockings, and that suited my tastes well. I adore the touch of silk on my skin. Marsh was naked before me at last, and I spun him to face me, drinking in the glory of his perfect young form. His member stood proud amid a thick forest of tight curls, as black as my own were golden. His chest heaved with the great sobbing pants of his longing, and I took him in my arms, trapping his hands between us, crushing our bodies together.
Our different heights complicated matters, but I stood on my toes and kissed him, our tongues tasting each other, stealing his breath for my own. We ground against each other, and I felt his bound hands wrap around my manhood at almost the same moment as I took his in hand. His skin and the silk against my most sensitive parts was a touch of heaven itself. My breath left me in a rush. I broke the kiss and clung to him as my eyes rolled back in my head. I was so electrified that in a few ecstatic strokes it was over. I jerked, moaning aloud as I came hard, the ejaculate splattering across both our stomachs. My hand tightened convulsively as I peaked, and at once Marsh was with me, crying out as his own crashing climax arrived.
‘Oscar!’ he cried, spasming against me. I felt his hot seed spread across my chest and he went completely limp.
I staggered under the sudden weight and fell, steering our fall towards the welcoming bed. We plumped down on the soft silk sheets and lay there, still locked together, both utterly lost in the wave of the climax.
* * * * *
For an immeasurable time, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, we lay. And then, at last, my mind returned to me. Marsh was staring into my eyes, the very picture of sweet vulnerability, but I knew now what dark pleasures he had witnessed.
‘Oscar?’ I said, raising one eyebrow at him. Marsh flushed, but I could not honestly claim to be surprised. The cry merely confirmed my existing suspicions. Still, it was hardly good manners to be calling out the name of another.
I dabbed the evidence of our congress from our skin with a handkerchief out of fastidious habit, but I might as well not have bothered. I could already feel myself stirring again, gathering for a second assault. There was much still to be explored. I could see similar thoughts taking shape for Marsh.
‘I will make you pay for that slip of the tongue,’ I promised, kissing him fiercely. I rose from the bed, leaving Marsh, already stiffening deliciously again, prostrate and bound. His perfect backside called to me. I rummaged swiftly through my wardrobe, unearthing several more silken cravats; suitable bonds, with a little creativity.
Marsh watched me, shivering with anticipation which strengthened my own ardour in turn.
I returned to the bed and shoved Marsh roughly down when he rose to kiss me. His breath was quickening again as I untied his hands, turning and positioning him to my liking. Using the silk, I tied each of his hands and feet to one of the four bedposts, stroking and touching him all over as I went, leaving him face-down and helpless, his member crushed into the soft counterpane. The remnants of sticky seed on his stomach stained the sheets.
I looked down upon him for a moment, one hand idly stroking myself, teasing as I appreciated my captive. His pale skin, glowing in the dim lamplight, was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, even marked as it was with terrible scars. Long, shapely legs and a well muscled back were joined by a backside worthy of Adonis, of Achilles. The round, firm cheeks were forced slightly apart by his spread eagled position; the dark valley between them drew my eye and hinted at pleasures such as I had never known.
Kneeling on the bed, I ran my fingertips up and down his back, titillating, hearing him groan and grind his hips deeper into the bed. I slapped his perfect backside.
‘Stop that,’ I commanded, resuming my torturous stroking.
Marsh quivered, arching his back towards my hand, and I delivered another slap to his behind. Marsh moaned, a sound so achingly sensual that it resonated through my own body. My manhood stirred, hungry.
Desperate to hear that sound again, I delivered a slow volley of slaps to Marsh’s bottom, watching in delight as it reddened. Marsh buried his face in the covers, biting into them to suppress mingled cries of pain and pleasure.
I kept up the chastisement, alternating my punishing slaps and the subtler torment of my delicate fingertips, until Marsh was writhing in sweet agony and my desire was beyond endurance.
I took oil from a bottle on the bedside table and spread it over my loins, moaning to myself at the touch of the cool, viscous liquid on my inflamed skin.
I moved around the bed and poured the oil on Marsh’s pink backside, eliciting a gasp as the slick mess slithered between his cheeks. I plundered him, first with a finger, then two, aided by the oil. He was tight, but not unmanageably so, and my groin twitched in anticipation.
‘Do you want this, Marsh?’ I asked, plunging three fingers slowly, languidly in and out of his hole.
Marsh replied with a wordless groan of ecstasy as I found the sweet spot inside.
‘Do you?’ I insisted, twisting my fingers.
‘Yes!’ Marsh groaned. ‘For God’s sake, Lewis, do it! Please!’
‘Beg me,’ I hissed, enjoying the moment, drawing out his torment.
‘Please! My Lord, I beg you! Ahhhhh...’ Marsh begged, trailing off into a cry as I spread his cheeks and roughly pushed myself inside.
Oh, the glory of it! He was hot, and tight, and wriggled deliciously. I had never felt such pleasure. He bucked and moaned as I thrust down into him, hard and deep, filling him to his core. I wrapped my arms around him and held us together so he was doubly bound; by the restraints and by my weight.
I gave no thought to prolonging his punishment now, too lost in my own body, too lost in his. I simply took him, rode him with the savagery of a beast, crushed him beneath me.
Our cries mingled until I could not tell which were his and which mine, until, with a sudden tightening that held me fast, transfixed, Marsh came, seed pumping into the bedclothes. This time, he made no mistake.
‘Lewis! Oh, God!’
I thrust, hard, once, twice, triumphant, using all the transient tightness of his peak for my own, and suddenly I reached it, filling Marsh to the brim with wet heat.
Jerking weakly, I collapsed on top of Marsh, my wits fled on a roaring ocean of pleasure. Limp now, I slid free of him, rolling aside to lie beside him, pressed against his heaving side as the exhaustion of our labours overcame us, and we slept.