Page 63 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
“Nothing underneath your trousers, I notice,” he says. His free hand is under my jacket, under my shirt, he’s gone from squeezing my hip to searching out the muscled swell of my thigh, the firm curve of my bottom. I have to close my eyes against the pleasure. “Is that on purpose? Did you do it to tease me? Did you do it because you hoped you’d end up here, your zipper open and me about to open mine?”
I could stop this. I should stop this. I’m going to stop this.
In fact, Auden even dares me to stop him. Once with his words—say it, my sweet, suffering martyr, and I’ll stop—and over and over again with his body. A pause before the expensive wool is pulled down over my hips. A moment of stillness before a warm fingertip presses against the place I open. A lull in the kisses along my neck as he reaches for something in the inner pocket of his jacket.
I know what he’s doing. I know exactly what he’s doing. And still I don’t speak.
Auden—the same man who packed reusable water bottles for our sylvan antler-fuck—is no less prepared now. I hear a packet crinkling, the rustle of deliberate movement, and then something else that has me rolling my forehead against the wall in agony: the slick slide of him preparing his shaft for me.
“You had lube in your pocket,” I say. I want it to be an accusation, but I only sound dreamy and besotted, even to my own ears.
Auden’s voice sounds amused when he speaks. “You can’t blame a boy for hoping.”
Slippery fingers find the most private place in my body and enter, sending me up to my toes. The head of my now-neglected erection is leaving smears of clear seed on the exhibit wall, and when Auden slides his fingers free and pulls my hips back to present my entrance to him, I could cry with relief.
I missed this. I missed this, I missed this, I missed this.
There’s the wet, gliding kiss of his crown over my rim, then the moment the kiss becomes a snug pressure, and then the moment the pressure becomes an invasion. My fingers scratch and flex against the wall as he pierces me, and I can’t breathe, I can’t move. My lips are parted in a kind of noiseless grunt, an apnea of lust and pain.
But he is not noiseless, no, not my arrogant gala princeling. “So sweet,” he drawls, sliding out enough so he can thrust all the way in. “Sweet, suffering boy. Sweet, stubborn boy.”
He makes a grunt of his own when he finally fills me to the hilt.
I know what he must see when he looks down because I feel it, I feel the snugness of where he’s fit himself inside me, I feel the lean muscles of his abs and hips when he presses in. I feel the pricey rumple of our tuxedo jackets and dress shirts and the indecent open air against my backside and thighs.
He’s fucking me against a wall inside an art installation while gala guests tipple and chatter nearby. He’s fucking me in a tux, with our girlfriend outside, with all our friends outside, and he’s fucking me with an angry, plundering rhythm that lets me know he has no plans for this to be quick. No plans for this to be easy.
By the time he lets me come, I’ll be exactly the way he likes me. Broken open with his name on my lips.
“Now then,” he says, still drawling, still cool. “This isn’t so bad, is it? No lightning strikes, St. Sebastian. No bolt from heaven, no hail of fire, no plagues. We are so civilized, are we not?” He asks that right as he gives me a hard thrust, which makes my dress shoes slide on the polished gallery floor.
“You know what we are, and civilized isn’t it,” I say, my voice hitching with each and every stroke. “This is not what civilized men do.” Maybe there have been men like us at the edges of the world, on frontiers, and in the wil
d, lonely places. Maybe we’re not the first brothers to do this—but that doesn’t make it civilized. Far from it.
This is a need that shies away from the light of day. This is a hunger that has to be secret.
“Then we’ll make our own civilization,” Auden says arrogantly. “One where you’re mine.”
“We can’t,” I mumble. My head hangs down, my hair drifting in my face. My hands are braced against the wall and I want so much to drop one down and start stroking myself, but it feels important to resist the urge to do it. Like if I don’t participate in making myself come, then I’m not really at fault, I can’t be blamed.
“You keep saying that,” he says, his hand sliding up my chest to wrap around my throat. He tugs me back, makes me straighten up enough for him to nip at my earlobe. He can’t really piston into me at this angle, but he can still rut, he can still grind. I’m still speared so thoroughly that I swear he’s all the way into my belly.
I’m still so hard and my balls are still so tight that I know I’m going to go off soon, and he’ll have won. He’ll have proven to us both that our unholy lusts can’t be denied or curbed.
Only, what? Two weeks without each other? And now he’s fallen on me like a wolf and I’ve welcomed him with open arms. Shown him my throat, my belly, all my vulnerable places. My stupid, degenerate heart, ready for eating.
“I keep saying it because it’s true.” I close my eyes as his teeth catch on the lobe of my ear, on the skin right below it.
He nuzzles my neck. My jaw.
His cock is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt.
“Show me,” he whispers. “Show me the sin in this.”
I can’t. And not because it’s not there, but because the sin isn’t scrawled on our faces or trumpeted in our words. It’s written in our blood and scratched onto our bones.
“I love you,” he tells me, and I don’t know if I can survive it, this feeling like I’m being scythed down just like the barley and the wheat around us. I don’t know if I can survive him.
