4. Silence isn’t always a reward

I can hear the music playing softly in the background, so softly, barely a whisper of sound in the darkness. Darkness surrounds me, my senses heightened, I can hear him, moving, sensually swaying to the heavy beat filling the air, I can hear his hands sliding over his own skin, his arousal so thick, I can almost taste it, thick, sweet, intoxicating, he’s beautiful in the candle light, and he’s trying to torment me into submission, into begging for him. What he doesn’t realize, is I love listening to him, feeling him, tasting him, as much as I love watching him. I can hear him, sliding his hand around the hard column of his cock, can hear the slippery glide as he strokes himself. I can see it in my minds eye, and I want to be that hand. I want to stroke him, lick him, caress him until he’s almost as jellified as I am right now.

He moves. I can hear his hips thrusting into his hand, thrusting himself, fucking himself. He’s gliding closer, until I can feel the icy coldness of his skin, flush against my own, his head on my shoulder, and still he’s thrusting into his hand. His other hand reaches around caressing my back, and I can feel his cock hard and cold against my stomach as his head comes to rest on my shoulder. Thrusting, pushing, his cock hard against me, his hand is gone, and he’s thrusting into the hallow of my hip bone, his flesh caressing me, stroking me, the fire dancing all they way up.

The heavy beat of the music, stroking me in time with his thrusts, just enough contact to drive me insane, I can hear the babble coming from my own mouth, can’t seem to stop it, don’t wanna stop it, wanna keep thrusting against him, staying here forever. His cold hand wraps around me, stroking me, the same way he was stroking himself, and I can’t stop, thrusting, aching, pushing into his hand, into his closed fist, tight impossibly tight grip around my hand, he’s still thrusting against my hip as I thrust, thrusting together, stroking, loving, aching, needing him to finish it, finish me, feeling, aching, fulfilling.

“Please…” Finally bursts from my lips, I’m going to explode, he knows it, he strokes it, plays with it, drawing out my pleasure. His nimble fingers unsnapping the tight leather binding me, free, stroking, aching thrusting, want… hunger… need… my body tightens, spasms, I can feel the tendons in my neck stretch, pull, surrounding me, he’s all around me, milking me, drawing me into him, basking in the hot cum, coating his stomach, his legs, his own cock, the slickness, still thrusting against me, and then he’s cumming to, long hard spurts, bucking against me, cold and hot, mixing together, slick and wet, he’s cumming, cumming on me… I’m limp, hanging, drenched in his arms.

5. The brightest star of the evening

I’m struggling to comprehend exactly what has happened. He comes, and goes with barely a sound. He’s here, I know he’s here, but I don’t look up. I don’t acknowledge him. Concentrating on the task before me, books, dozens of books laid out before me, blurring before my eyes, as I focus on him, on his progress, where he is, coming closer. I lean down, pretending to read harder, concentrating, never can when he’s around.

He’s behind me. I can feel him, pressing in, closer, moving, I want him, need him, but I continue reading, playing his game. I feel his fingers on my shoulders and I try not to jump, tension, eagerness… foreplay. I want him, he knows it, he can smell me, but still I don’t turn around. His fingers tease the muscles of my shoulders caressing and kneeding, working the tension out until I’m putty in his hands. Still his fingers don’t stop moving, stretching my shoulder muscles, turning me to putty in his hands, my head falls forward, and I feel the barest whisper of a kiss against my neck, before his hand is pressing me forward, laying my head upon the dusty books in front of me, and his hands are traveling lower on my back pulling at me, twisting me, making me ache as he pulls me halfway to my feet, pushing me against the table, over the table, bracing me upon it, right there on the books, and he’s there, pulling and tugging at my jeans, pulling twisting, tugging them down. I feel him. I’m still wet from before, slippery from him fucking me into the ground, and he’s...

He’s in, and cold and so hard for me, I press my face against the books, stifling my moans, biting my lips to keep from screaming, as he rides me, dust and cum. Public place, some one’s coming, and still he fucks me, pressing me down, thrusting, stretching aching, his hands grip my shoulders as he rams into me. So full, so aching, need more… need… my cock brushing the table and I stifle another moan. Need friction. My fingers scrabble over the table surface searching for purchase, as I rub my cock against the hard wood, back and forth, friction, needing to cum, right here on the books, dirty old texts, demons, blood and glory, there’s something wrong, fucking here, among the sacred texts, among the dead, the forgotten. His touch gentles, caresses, loving even, and he’s there, around me in, me, and everything else is forgotten. I don’t feel the books pressed against my face, I feel him, in me, deep, thrusting, pulsing, needing only me, he’s here, pressing, pushing, drawing me out, and I gasp for air, dizzy with the sensations, and the past is forgotten.

6. Sins of the living

I haven’t seen him, felt him, he’s gone, gone from me like whispers of the past. I want him, need him, feel him beneath me even though he’s not here. Every time I turn around he’s there, breathing on me, pressing me down, touching me, sliding against me, and then I open my eyes and I’m alone, hard and aching with want.

I can’t find him, I’ve searched, but he’s gone, gone without a word, and I need him, ache for him, but he’s gone.

I can hear it as I approach my door. Paper softly fluttering in the cool night breeze, beckoning me closer, daring me to find it, touch it, fluttering, calling me, pressed against my door, held there with a flimsy pin, fluttering in the wind, like I’m doing without him.

My fingers scramble for it, when I see my name written in his bold scrawl. My name, he was here, here and I wasn’t. I open the door stepping in blindly, focused solely on the letter laying stiff in my hands, hard parchment no match for his smooth skin. My fingers fumble slightly as I open it, tearing at it in my haste to see why he’s left, why he’s gone leaving me aching, wanting, needing... so hard for him.

Lover,

I couldn’t say it face to face, never face to face, with your skin trapped beneath mine, gliding, caressing, moving, stretching, achingly needing you. I could never tell you. I love you, need you , want you, want everything about you.

I feel you in me, around me, surrounding me with everything you are and everything we could be. Everything we could never be. I see you, see right down the middle to the person you’re hiding inside, and I’m scared.

I'm scared to look into your eyes and see myself reflected there, all my imperfections on display. And for you to see them and turn away because of them. Or worse, have them change you. Making you less than what you should be.

I’m bound to you as surely as I’m bound to this body, wanting, needing aching for you, being inside you, your scent, taste, the way you feel sliding against me, I know you, I know every part of you.

You're the part of me I don't want to ever lose. My best part and my greatest weakness. You make me feel strong when we're together and I lose myself in you. But when you're apart from me, all the old fears come creeping back. Haunting and terrifying me till I lose all sense of reason.

You have a choice to make, my love. Forget all that we shared, live your life without me, and I'll fade into your memory, the faint music of a once enjoyed dream. But if you chose to be with me, then I wait for you. Trust the bond that we share and when you find me, I shall endeavor to be the man you've shown me I could be.