Page 7 of Midwinter Music

“I am absolutely going to fuck you,” John promised. He was still dressed, but his cock was pressing up and out against his trousers, massive and hard, from the shape of it. He touched Sam’s mouth with one musician’s finger, pressing, pushing in, making Sam’s lips part. “Sam. My Sam. My hero, my protector. But you need some saving now, don’t you? And I can give it to you.”

Someone made a desperate moan, a quiver of sound, wanton. That was Sam himself. Begging. Tremulous with all the gold, the words, the exquisite longing and promise and comprehension, being known, being given this, at last, at last.

“Get on the bed,” John told him. “Hands and knees.”

Sam went, in a blind haze of desire. His prick was wet at the tip, leaking. He needed more, or exactly this, or anything John wanted of him.

He waited on hands and knees. His mattress was familiar, firm because he liked firm, steady beneath him. The sheets were white and cool. He let his head hang, heavy, like his cock. He felt the bob and sway of his arousal, untouched.

He heard soft sounds, the rustle of clothing, a quick upward sparrow-flit of music, a word; the fire in the fireplace kindled. Heat spread.

John’s hand touched his back, ran along his spine. Here with him. More gold. More pleasure. John’s voice was hushed, a man seeing a wonder of the world. “So obedient. So sweet. So good. Letting yourself have what you want, letting yourself give in…all those fantasies, all those sinful little thoughts you have…wanting so much, wanting to be fucked and claimed and made to spend all over yourself…messy, filthy, and utterly shameless, because you know you love it…”

“Oh gods,” Sam choked out. “Please, please…”

“Ah, you can talk. I must not be doing enough.” John’s hand—the flesh-and-blood one, not music-notes this time—found Sam’s dripping cock. Began to stroke him, gradual, root to tip. “Did you imagine me fucking you, in those fantasies? If you found me, if you saved me…would I offer to reward you? Bend you over the nearest bed, or writing-desk, or even a tree, out in the forest? Where you could scream my name as you came from my prick inside you?”

“No,” Sam whispered. “No, I…not like that…not because you owed me anything…”

“Ah. So you did picture something.” John’s other hand stroked Sam’s hair, wrapped into the strands, tugged his head up. John was naked, entirely naked, kneeling on the bed with him; Sam’s foggy head gathered in the sight, a dream, an enchantment.

John was so beautiful. Sun-golden, long and elegant, with the grace of youth and the dominance of a man who knew exactly what they both needed. His prick was so close to Sam’s face, like this: enormous, larger than Sam’s own, thick and long and a deep hot color.

John murmured, “You want to? Go on, suck me…” and guided Sam’s head to himself. Sam took him in, tasted him, learned the weight and heft and feel of him. It was delicious, opulent, drowning him in the feel and scent and heat. The world narrowed and billowed, gauzy, flowing. John’s prick in his mouth. John’s hands petting him. The pulse between his legs, his cock, his hole.

John groaned softly. His prick jumped; drops of male need flavored Sam’s tongue. “Gods…Sam…I never knew, I never thought…oh, gods, you feel good…”

Yes. So good. So much good. He wanted to come, or not to come, ever; he wanted to stay here, on his hands and knees, softening and melting and dissolving into this moment.

“You did picture it, you said.” John’s voice was shaky. Breathless melodies. “Not because you rescued me…no, nothing like that, not out of gratitude…you imagined me coming home, didn’t you? Coming home for you. Telling you you’d been good enough, you’d done enough, and I would give you what you wanted, because I wanted it too. Was that it?” His hand pulled Sam’s head back, cock sliding free of Sam’s lips. “Tell me about it.”

Sam could barely hold a thought. John’s hand hadn’t stopped teasing his shaft, and the sounds were lewd and wet, reverberating through his body. “Yes…yes, that…you’d come into my office…I’d be busy and you’d interrupt, and I’d look up because I’d…be annoyed…”

“Sounds about right.”

“And you’d tell me you’d got one of my letters…you’d tell me you came back because you wanted me, you felt…the way I felt…oh gods…”

“Don’t stop.” John was humming again, barely audible. A sensation like cuffs, like rope, slithered around Sam’s wrists, ankles, thighs. It pulled his legs further apart; his arms trembled.

“I—I—you told me you needed me, and you locked my office door, and you stripped me naked…right there…in my office…over the desk, and you fucked me, you held me down and fucked me until I came, and you came, so much it was dripping out of me…and you told me I was yours…”

“You are.” In one swift motion, John pushed him over, onto his back, guided by song-ropes of silk. Sam couldn’t’ve struggled if he’d wanted to; John pushed his legs apart, lifted them, wove invisible cords of melody around his arms and legs. Sam ended up bound by magic he could feel but not see, wrists tied to his bedposts, legs in the air and also tied there, suspended.

He might have felt embarrassed, ridiculous, trapped; he couldn’t. He was aware of his body, all forty years of it, the stray grey in the hint of fuzz on his chest; but he felt held, wanted, put here because John had done that. Where he, Sam, should be.

John swung a leg over him, knelt above him. His eyes were clear winter skies lanced by sun. “You are mine. You always were. And I’m yours. I’ve been yours ever since you told me you were here to protect me. I love you.” The invisible silky cords tightened for emphasis. “And right now I’m going to fuck you the way you want, until you’re dripping with me, until you’re spilling all over yourself because you can’t help it, because I feel so good inside you, just like all your fantasies. My Sam.”

Sam nearly did come, on the spot. The words rushed through him, a wave, a gathering rise and crest. The sensation of them sank into him, along with the peace of being held and restrained, and the weight of John kneeling atop him, and the taste of John’s cock lingering in his mouth, and the blue of John’s eyes looking down at him.

John touched his cheek, briefly: loving, fond, secure. “Do you have oil, or something?”

“Drawer…the left…”

That drawer also held, in its velvet-lined box, a lovely polished-stone dildo: rigid, unrelenting, pale pink and thick and punishing. John’s eyebrows went up, as he swung back around. “You like it hard, don’t you? Hard, and heavy, and big…”

“I…sometimes…I imagine…it’s you, your cock, and it’s so much, I’m so full, and I make myself spend, and then I fuck myself on it…more…make myself spend again, and again…”

“Oh, gods, I’ve never loved you more.” John put the dildo back, though, not without a small approving pat. “Next time. I want to be inside you.”

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