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Chapter 18

eighteen

My limits are morethan nothing but still not extensive.

Maybe it’s a soldier’s hubris, like I can fucking hooah my way through anything, including nipple clamps and electric fly swatters, but mostly it’s that everything on the list, I now imagine Mark doing to me, and I just want him to do anything to me. Anything he wants.

Also, and maybe this line of thinking makes me a bad submissive, but anything Mark wants so far has resulted in me having the best fucking orgasms of my life.

It’s not all ensorcelled martyrdom, you know.

* * *

Markand I fall into a rhythm over the next few weeks.

In the mornings, after the security meeting and my morning dose of fiber because fiber is an important part of my life now, I come up to his office where I’m shoved under his desk to suck him off or I’m dragged up to the roof so he can fuck me under the morning sky. We decide early on to be discreet-ish, knowing that it would be impossible to hide things forever from Jago or the core Lyonesse staff. So while I’m not servicing Mark in the hall (yet), I routinely find myself on my knees in the car while we’re driving around the city. Or dragged out of the hall with an impatient hand around my wrist and shoved into the nearest playroom, shackled to a bed and then paddled or flogged or whatever new sadism Mark dreams up that night.

On Sundays, Mark keeps me in his apartment and cooks for me, makes me read to him while he effortlessly dices shallots and garlic and other wonderful smelling things. For dessert, there’s me on the table, being edged or tormented or slid into.

At night, I sleep with him, his arms wrapped around me and his legs tangled with mine.

I wonder if Strassburg did all this, if Strassburg had to read him Sassoon and Owen and Rosenberg on Sundays, if Strassburg got to know the heavy weight of Mark’s limbs as he fell into a dreamless sleep.

On the third Sunday, after we eat a dinner of radish greens and quail—the quail bones so tiny and delicate that I feel like a monster eating it—Mark clears the table and I kneel on the floor. It’s never something he’s asked me to do in these in-between moments, these moments that aren’t quite kinky and aren’t quite not, but it feels good to do it anyway. Settling. Like when I’m down there, I’m already lighter.

“Evander never makes eye contact with anyone but Arjun, and even then, it’s only when Arjun lets him,” I said one morning to Mark after I’d taken his erection in my throat and swallowed his cum. I was still kneeling after, my head resting on his thigh like he sometimes let me do, and his fingers were in my hair, toying and teasing, the one thing that never failed to make me want to purr like a cat. “Should I be doing that too, sir? When it’s just the two of us?”

“I’m a little more organic than most in what I like privately,” Mark replied. “I like seeing your face. Your eyes. I like when I can see all the little desires and petulances that make having a submissive so much fun.”

“Will you tell me when you want me to do something?”

He tugged on my hair. “Always.”

So kneeling when we’re not in a scene isn’t something he’s said to do, but I like it, and I also like the way his eyes flit over to me in silent pleasure as he cleans up.

I do look at him though; I don’t think that’s something I can ever give up. I could watch him move between the kitchen sink and the dishwasher forever. I could take in the poetry of his rolled-up sleeves and the efficient circles he uses to wipe down the counter for the rest of my entire life.

After he’s done, he comes to me.

“It’s your birthday tomorrow,” he says, tucking a finger under my chin.

“Were you looking at my file, sir?”

“Perk of the position,” he says, looking down at me. “Also my older sister texted me very stern instructions not to forget.”

“She’s very nice,” I say honestly. I’ve been talking to my father as infrequently as I can manage, but I still hear all the happiness she’s brought him in his voice.

“Blanche is an angel. Very strange, given that Melody and I are not,” he says. “Anyway. Setting aside the fact that our families are now legally connected and I have people reminding me of your birthday, I already had this planned for you. But we’ll need to go down to a playroom for it.”

Usually when we go to the playrooms, it’s more about proximity to the hall and Mark’s impatience than what’s inside. He’s just as happy to make me kneel on dried beans from his pantry or torture me with binder clips from his desk drawer as he is to use the specialized tools downstairs.

My curiosity is hardly sated as we step inside the playroom and I see a plastic sheet laid over the leather upholstered platform in the middle of the space. There’s a plastic sheet underneath it too. I turn to face him.

He’s already unbuttoning his shirt as he eyes a table against the deep green wall.

“I can’t recall us needing plastic sheets before. Sir,” I say, not sure whether I sound nervous or excited.

“It’s a courtesy for the cleaning team,” replies Mark as he takes off his shirt. “Undress and get on the table.”

I automatically obey, unbelting and unbuttoning until I’m fully naked. I lay on the platform, the cool plastic crinkling under me, watching Mark’s back as he prepares something at the table.

“On your stomach,” he says, and I obey then too, with only a little hesitation. I’m not scared, but the plastic has my mind whirring. There’s no doubt that towels are useful nearly all of the time, but plastic?

I’m settled with my head pillowed on my arms as Mark comes over. I brace for the first ticklish drapes of a flogger or maybe the initial stroke of a paddle, but instead, I feel only his hands, warm and large and—slick—

“Baby oil,” he murmurs as I shudder underneath him. “Relax.”

Strong and slippery, his hands work the oil into my back and shoulders and upper arms. More oil is drizzled onto the small of my back, and then—and then—

“Fuck,” I groan as he works the oil into my backside and upper thighs, his thumbs sliding teasingly close to where I want them. It’s so warm, the pressure so good, and his thumbs are right there. I arch a little, trying to push my hips up into his hands.

“God, you’re easy,” Mark says, but it’s spoken fondly. “One short massage and you’re spreading for me.”

I am, I realize with my face burning on my forearms. I’ve got my hips lifted and my knees apart, hoping this will make an arrow to where I want his touch: my opening, my testicles farther down.

The oil has made everything so slick, and then his knuckles graze against the underside of my scrotum and I gasp.

He ignores me, continuing to rub me everywhere else, and then finally a blessed moment of slick attention on the eyelet of muscle between my cheeks. By the time he rolls me over, I’m so hard that my cock is straining in the air above my stomach.

He makes a tutting noise, like he’s embarrassed for me, and starts working the oil over my chest and stomach in short, warm passes, making sure he’s left my nipples bunched into tiny points when he’s done. My hips are moving, chasing, as he oils my stomach and then my hips, neglecting my erection to massage my thighs and calves and feet. The erection lifts above my stomach a little, as if trying valiantly to get his attention, its tip now gleaming with need.

“Sir,” I pant, closing my eyes as his fingers work over the soles of my feet. It feels amazing, but I’m going to die if he doesn’t touch my dick. “I thought this was supposed to be a birthday present.”

“Oh, I don’t think I ever said the word present,” says Mark. “Only that it will be your birthday. And now we’re in this room. Those two things might be entirely unrelated.”

“But you—” I stop. “I feel tricked.”

“You were so ready to believe the worst of me when you first came here, and now you’re shocked by a little massage-related deception? Your estimation of me must have improved over these last several weeks. But never let it be said that I have no mercy?.?.?.?”

His hands come to my balls, rolling and fondling, cradling and gently moving the testicles inside the skin, and my heels dig into the plastic sheet, but they’re too slippery to find any purchase, and then I slide on the table and he laughs. The dark laugh, the one that makes me want to sign my soul away.

“Little slut,” he purrs, his oiled fingertips running up my cock once and then falling away. The muscles in his forearm flex under his tattoo. “My little whore.”

“Please,” I whisper again, and he gives my erection a hard flick with his fingers. I arch in agony as he steps away from the table.

“Back on your stomach, Tristan. And no peeking. I want your not-a-gift to be a surprise.”

I suppress the urge to grumble—I was never a grumbler as a soldier, and the one or two times I’ve come close with Mark have never had any effect other than earning myself a sore ass—and turn back over. There’s not enough residual oil on my erection or the plastic to make pushing against it pleasurable, meaning that even if I rut against the table, it’ll be a fight to make myself come.

Cruel of him.

My forearms are crossed and my head rests on them; I don’t look up as I hear him approach, although I do tense a little, despite the rubdown I’ve just been given, because what could possibly require this much oil?

His footsteps stop, and I sense him on my left side, moving slightly. And then—out of nowhere—hot pain drips along my shoulder.

I jolt, the heat already mellowing into a pleasant warmth, the sensation sinking into my skin, and then it comes again on my other shoulder, a small splash and drip, burning and then immediately gorgeous.

Wax.

He’s dripping wax on me.

“I remember you saying that you’d have a hard time staying professional if you saw a wax scene,” says Mark casually. There’s some movement, Mark picking up something he’s set on the table, and then more dripping. Along my spine now, in slow, torturous arcs. I suck in a breath with every flash of heat, shudder out an exhale as it cools and leaves behind hot, angry deliciousness. “And then it occurred to me that it might be fun to do to you. Fun for me, certainly.”

More wax on my back. And—on my backside, a splash and an agonizing slide down my crease. I moan as it reaches my entrance, cooled enough not to burn, but still so, so warm.

More comes, dripping down to my balls now and then splashed onto the backs of my thighs and knees and even on the soles of my feet. Flashes of searing heat, followed by unbearable surges of arousal. The cooled wax on my skin adds to it all, layers of sensation, cool and warm and so fucking hot. At some point I’m up on my elbows, my head hanging down and my ass lifting mindlessly in the air as he drips all over me.

Mark is laughing at me. Little wax tart, he says, his voice a little cruel and a little affectionate too. Look at you. Look at you.

When I think I can’t bear it without touching myself any longer, he makes it worse. He orders me to roll over, and now I’m allowed to look, and so I see as he alternates a turquoise candle and a gold one to create a beautiful play of colors on my skin. I see as he drips the wax up the line running from my navel to my sternum, as he drizzles it along my belly and chest.

He splashes burning wax on my nipple, waiting for me to settle down after each splash before he does it again and again, until both nipples are tingling with agony and my erection is a dark red bar hovering above my stomach.

And then he sets the still-burning candles in their holders, steps back, and looks at me. The room is lit by wall sconces and the tiny, flickering candles, and his eyes are blacker than the devil’s when he rakes his eyes over my spattered flesh. He runs a possessive hand over me, from the wax-bitten soles of my feet to my navel to my throat, his palm lingering there while he bends over and licks my lower lip.

“Open,” he murmurs, and I open for him because I will always open for him. His tongue seeks mine, rubbing against it, tasting it, and then he proceeds to map the rest of my mouth in a deep, exploratory kiss. Like for all the times he’s kissed me since Morois House, he’s never kissed me while I’m covered in wax, and so he has to commit it to memory.

I hope it’s a good memory because I’m trembling underneath him, burning alive inside my own skin. I don’t know that I’ve ever been this aroused, with every single part of me prickling and tingling and hungry for more, and the flames are still dancing and he tastes of pepper and citrus and spice, and I’m so hard—I’m so, so hard.

“You’ve been very patient, letting me play with you,” he says against my mouth. He moves his hand from my throat, and I hear the click of a bottle. And then oil, sweet and slippery, drizzles all over my cock.

It jerks up in response, from nothing more than that, and Mark pulls his mouth away from mine with a fierce oath, like it’s my fault that he’d rather keep kissing me than carry on with his scene. My mouth is wet when he straightens, clicks the bottle shut, and then gives me a series of hard, vicious strokes that has my back bowing off the table.

“Oh God, I’m—”

Mark’s hand has already moved away from me, and I have to bite back a series of choice words for him as my orgasm freezes right on the edge.

“If you can come from this, then you can come,” he offers, which is one of his favorite games to play, and one which he always wins.

Maybe I win too, depending on how I look at it, but it doesn’t feel that way as he lifts the gold candle and moves it over my hips. The first bite of fear, the first real flicker of oh fuck, I don’t know, dances through me like the small flame currently guttering above my hips, inconstant and distracting.

Hazel. I’ve never had to say it, I’ve never wanted to, but I don’t know if I can handle hot wax there—

I realize that the long pause, the drawn-out drama of the moment, is so I can say my safeword. He’s watching me and not the candle, waiting for me to speak. And if the wax dripped now, it would drip on my upper thigh, nowhere too painful. Oddly, knowing it would be that easy to stop him, makes me not want to stop him at all. Makes me want to see how far I can go for him. For me.

“Please,” I say. “Please.”

He licks his lip, the knot of his throat moving up and then down, and then I fully appreciate how much he wants this too. There’s a subtle hitch to his breath as he looks back at my oiled cock, a hectic thudding of his pulse at the side of his neck. An obscene tent in his trousers.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells me, right before he tilts his hand and the wax lands on my skin.

I nearly scream, my back coming off the table, the air driven out of my lungs. The wax landed right on the tip, a sear of pure, undiluted pain, and is now dripping down the length of my shaft, its progress eased by the oil.

The pain is gone almost the minute it starts, but the after-effects—my pounding heart, my rigid muscles—linger even as the wax cools. I slump back on the table, my eyes going to Mark in some kind of plea. Again, the candle spends a long moment over my upper thigh, the wax slowly spilling down Mark’s hand instead of on my skin.

But the lingering heat, the hardening wax?.?.?.?it’s no longer anything like pain. It’s like being touched. Being stroked.

My skin tingles everywhere, still aware, buzzing and receptive to every tickle of cool air. And impossibly, I don’t even know how, don’t ask me to explain it, my dick is jerking up for more abuse, so swollen it feels like the skin itself might split.

“More,” I croak, and Mark smiles.

“More,” he agrees, and there’s another splash of burning wax, this time on the root of my shaft, dripping down my scrotum.

Again, I buck, squirming away from it, squirming toward it, and then still with that devil’s smile, Mark tilts the candle a final time.

It lands just below the head, on the soft skin of my frenulum, and this time, I do scream. The pain punches right through me, right through my little fears and cravings and secret miseries and untold hopes, and claws something vital and primal right back out.

Even as my scream leaves my throat, my testicles draw all the way up, my thighs clench, and I’m fucking up into the cool air, the hard wax pulling at my crown and my shaft, and then I’m contracting, surging, ejaculating, high and thick jets that land on oil and wax, and I’m still screaming, I think, or something like it, still mindlessly fucking the air, feral as a trapped animal.

The pleasure tearing through me is painfully perfect, barbaric in its bluntness and yet exquisite in its unending torment. It goes on and on, built and layered on itself like the wax on my body, pump after pump of my hips in the air and the semen splattering on my stomach and chest.

Until finally, finally, it slowly ends, my body empty, my mind dazed.

I stare at the blurry dance of the candles’ flames, unable to form a single word.

Mark’s hands are on me now; I’m back on my stomach, his fingers on my intimate skin. The wax falls away easily, with a single brush of fingertips, and that was what the oil was really for, I think. Not for the added pleasure of slippery skin to massage, but for the ease of removing the wax later.

Except it’s not later yet; there’s more oil drizzled into the small of my back and rubbed farther down, and then I feel Mark on top of me, his trousers gone, his erect penis nestled into the place where my backside splits. Not to penetrate me, but to rock and slide against the hot, thin skin there. To rut against the slick space hard enough to make both of us grunt.

Mark comes fast, faster than I’ve ever known him to, his arms sliding under me to hold me close as his hips churn and his cock gives a thick swell against me. He starts pumping between us, his seed nearly as hot as the wax he used to burn my skin.

His forehead comes down on the nape of my neck, and his breath is warm and fast against my back.

“Perfect,” he says breathlessly. “You are perfect.”

And then he kisses the nape of my neck with so much tenderness that I start to cry.

The sole other time I’ve cried during a scene was when he used the binder clips on me, and even then, it was only when he’d taken them off. But I’m crying now.

It is a stunning thing, to be covered in wax and semen and with someone heavy and panting on top of you and to realize that you really are in love. But there it is.

The fall that I’ve been fighting, the snare I’ve been slowly cinched in—it’s done now. I’m here. I’m lost.

“Oh, sweet Tristan,” Mark says softly. He moves to kiss a tear off my cheek. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Thank you for my birthday not-a-gift,” I whisper, and he kisses my cheek again.

“You need only ask, and I’ll give you everything. Everything I can.”

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