Page 55 of Salt Kiss
“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, butplastic?
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 areright 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 wordpresent,” 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 dotoyou. 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.
