Page 23 of Tossing the Caber

“I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

Beacon hesitates, forehead furrowing in a sign of his frustration. His head begins to ache from the pressure generated by nothing other than his own stubbornness. The same pride that motivated him to sabotage his last betrothal rather than simply communicate to his parents and his intended that he believed they were incompatible.

Somehow, Laurel’s expression softens. His trousers are sagging halfway down his thighs; he fingers the waistband of his small clothes underneath. “Do you need me to force the issue?”

The suggestion is alarming, and yet its brilliance is… well, something Beacon, for once, is not expected to verbalize.

“Please,” is all he has to say.

In a movement nearly too smooth to follow, Laurel sheds his lower garments with one hand and spins the index finger of the other. Beacon’s remaining clothing moves without his say-so, stripping him bare before Laurel’s eyes. He’s relieved for the ungroomed thatch of hair protecting the space between his legs, but Laurel doesn’t so much as glance down. He stridesforward, tail whipping behind him as an irate cat’s would, grabs Beacon’s upper arms, and pushes with all his strength.

It’s feather-light, Laurel’s best effort, but Beacon follows the pressure fluidly. He allows Laurel to turn him toward the door to the washroom and steer him with confidence in Beacon’s silent consent to follow.

Whatever restraint Laurel has to keep from inspecting Beacon’s naked body, Beacon does not share. The moment Laurel raises the lights—it’d be too much to ask for them to do this in the dark—Beacon’s gaze drops. His participation in Laurel’s game hiccups when he sees the smaller elf’s nude form, sleek and toned, a bit shiny from sweat.

The most surprising element is his cock, somehow erect and rosy just from manhandling Beacon. It sends a shock of arousal from Beacon’s throat down to his groin, an electric sensation unlike anything he’s experienced before.

Laurellikesthis. He’s not uncomfortable or forcing himself to engage to save Beacon’s pride. No, he’s forcingBeaconto save him from confronting his ridiculous hang-ups. At least for now.

Beacon resolves then and there to properly thank his parents for choosing the most precious of elves to match him with. And that will be the last time he thinks about his parents during this activity.

The moment cools when Laurel is faced with the fixtures in the bathing-closet. There’s the tub for a bath, which Beacon is familiar with, but overhead is a spigot with its own set of handles.

Back in Stehr’s Peak, the athletic compound doesn’t have hot water or plumbing. They wash the day’s sweat in cold runoff from the nearby falls, rerouted over the land to lessen the pressure. An established schedule sends the athletes to a hot spring to soak their muscles, but Beacon never lingers.

Beacon’s parents paid an absurd amount of coin to rentthis marital suite for them after their wedding. The advanced plumbing was built courtesy of Gearwickian inventors, and Beacon only knows how to navigate the damn thing because he competed against an elf from Gearwick who felt compelled to tell him all about it while they waited on the sidelines during a competition.

“It’s called a shower,” Beacon says. He reaches over Laurel’s head to fiddle with the handles, producing a gush of lukewarm spray from above. It makes Laurel gasp and shrink back against Beacon’s chest. He wants to hold the other elf in place, but that would be taking control, which he’s not ready for.

Yet.

Laurel recovers quickly, facing Beacon with a determined furrow between his brows. “In,” he instructs. Beacon has to fight a smile as he complies.

There is a collection of soaps stocked around the basin. Laurel isn’t choosy: he snags one without looking, then shoves Beacon against the shower wall so suddenly Beacon doesn’t need to pretend in order to follow along. Laurel lathers the bar of soap between his hands, releasing the scent of… Beacon doesn’t know. Rosemary, maybe. Florals aren’t his specialty.

Without asking, Laurel applies the lather to Beacon’s chest, scrubbing aggressively. It’s nothing Beacon’s allowed before. Being touched in such a fashion is vulnerable, raw, strange hands underneath his arms, behind his ears, and, making him gasp, between his ass-cheeks.

Once Beacon’s upper body has been thoroughly soaped, Laurel rinses it with water that’s gone so hot, Beacon can’t help the soft sound that escapes him; he hasn’t stood under the fall of hot water before, and its caress makes him want to melt.

Then Laurel yanks him down by his wet hair and kisses him, and Beacondoesmelt.

All Beacon’s strength abandons him as he sags against the shower wall, allowing Laurel a better angle with which to claim his mouth. And heisbeing claimed, isn’t he? Beacon never imagined giving himself to another elf; it was always the other way around.

The hot water makes their kiss slippery and wild, lips sliding together with abandon. For once, Beacon isn’t wondering where to put his hands or worrying if his tongue is giving too much or not enough.

Too soon, Laurel pulls away. He keeps Beacon against the elaborate hand-painted tile that encloses three sides of the wide basin. And with a mulish look, his jaw set, Laurel says, “Let me show you what I think of yoursecret.”

He drops to his knees.

Beacon nearly climbs the wall with alarm, but the tile drops him right back into the basin, unable to escape Laurel’s piercing gaze. He can’t.

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

The untrimmed state of his pubic hair doesn’t appear to bother Laurel, judging by how he simply strokes the wiry thatch to the sides, exposing Beacon’s lower anatomy. He doesn’t stare, though; in fact, Laurel holds Beacon’s gaze like something molten, something precious, and if either of them fumbled, it could fall over and cool. Without breaking the connection, Laurel leans in and laves his tongue over the engorged flesh at Beacon’s apex, mouth so wet and hot that, for a second, Beacon worries he might faint. But he doesn’t, so Laurel keeps going.

Beacon has never moaned before, not like this. He takes a handful of Laurel’s sopping hair, holding on while he continues to tongue at the thick knot of nerves. When his grip tightens, Laurel moans in response. He switches to sucking on it, bobbing his head the little amount needed to cover the entire length. It’s exaggerated in a way Beacon appreciates,having never allowed someone to do this before out of worry that it would make him feelwrong.Instead, Laurel’s skill and instincts keep Beacon pinned to the tiles without him applying any pressure.

After a stretch that is both too long and not long enough, Laurel rises; Beacon tries to help steady him without losing his own balance. Not missing a beat, Laurel grabs Beacon’s hands, so much bigger than they usually seem when in Laurel’s tender grasp, and fits them to his ass like his short, tight trousers. Beacon flexes his fingers, digging into Laurel’s firm cheeks. One hand slips into the crease between them, but the other follows the curve upward until his hand is pressed against the base of Laurel’s tail.