Page 11 of American Squire (New Camelot Trilogy 3.60)
I unbutton his trousers, wondering how an action that I do several times a day can be so clumsy when I’m doing it with someone else. And then I cease to wonder anything at all as I part his zipper and see his naked, erect cock.
It’s thicker than I originally thought, and long enough to rest obscenely against the cashmere covering his most of his torso. There’s a light, masculine fur of hair on his lower belly, and the crisp hair around his root has been kept neat. It’s the cock of a calculating and fastidious man—but an arrogant one too. Even the way it juts up from his groin and beads with precum at the tip seems vain and demanding. Just like Sidney himself.
“If you put your mouth on it,” he says. “I might feel better.”
I glance up at him through my lashes, just to confirm, and whatever he sees in my face has him fisting his hand in my hair.
“Fuck, you’re pretty,” he hisses through his teeth, yanking my face down to his waiting erection. “You know what I thought when I first saw those eyelashes? Those pretty, dark eyes of yours? That I couldn’t wait to have you on your knees, just like this, looking up at me through those doll’s eyelashes while I fed you my cock.”
“Yes, Mr. Blount,” I moan. And he does as he says and pushes himself past my lips and into my waiting mouth. I make sure to look up at him, catch his gaze as he rubs himself against my tongue. His eyes are hooded, burning on mine, and if I was nervous earlier about pleasing him, it’s all gone now. There can be no doubt that he wants me, that he’ll want me again after. I’m even better than the Roman artifacts in the glass cases; he’s appraised me and now he wants to keep me.
He’s clean, soap-scented, with just the barest trace of salt to his taste, and I moan again as I manage to take him deeper, into the tight clench of my throat.
“Ah, again,” he says, using the fingers twisted in my hair to force the issue. His hips thrust up as he pulls me down, and soon he’s fucking my throat with just enough consideration for my breathing that I don’t pass out—but not so much care that I don’t have tears streaming fast and hard down my face.
“Those tears,” he grunts, and I know what he sees. I know he sees them glinting on the long fans of my eyelashes. I know the bright sunlight pouring in through the windows must be making them sparkle. “Fuck, Ryan. Those tears.”
And then he comes. Pulsing, thick, hot—all down my throat, all while his cruel hand forces me down against him. My own cock throbs in response, it aches. It keens. I think I might be able to come too if I swivel my hips just right to rub my tip against the inside of my jeans, but I don’t even get the chance to try because Sidney stands up and hauls me to my feet, even as I’m still swallowing the very last of his spend.
He doesn’t bother to zip himself up—instead he leaves himself exposed, still mostly hard and still wet from my mouth—as he drags me over to the long library table.
“Wrists out,” he says, in a tone that brooks no argument.
Not that I would argue.
My wrists are tied quickly, with the expertise of someone who’s done it countless times before, and he checks my circulation with the detached efficiency of a nurse. Then my jeans are unbelted, the leather making a slow, sinister hiss as it slides from my loops, and my jeans are unbuttoned and unzipped.
Sidney tugs the waist of them down and my cock hits the cool air, final
ly free to throb and swell as much as it wants, and I make an involuntary noise when I see his hand move up, like he’s going to touch me.
“Please, Mr. Blount,” I say when his hand moves away. It’s everything I can do not to start crying again. “Please.”
“Please what?” he asks indifferently. He’s already turning toward the table, towards the other things he laid out for us today.
“Please t-touch me.”
“Touch you? You mean touch your cock?”
“Yes, Mr. Blount.”
“And make you come? Is that what you want? That’s a very selfish thing to want, by the way.”
“I know, Mr. Blount, but please.”
“It does look like it hurts an awful lot,” he observes as he reaches for his leather gloves and starts pulling them on. “Does it? Hurt?”
“Yes,” I whimper, my eyes on his hands. Those gloves—the gloves I asked for last night because it turned me on so much to think about being handled by him while he wore them. It feels like all of the blood in my body has gone to my groin, like there’s a fist at the base of my spine just squeezing and squeezing and squeezing. I’m terrified I’m going to erupt all over myself without even being touched.
“How about this?” Sidney suggests in a silky voice. He has his gloves on and my belt in one hand. “Let’s trade one hurt for another.”
Oh God, please don’t let me come right now, please let me hold out. Please, please, please.
Sidney hikes up my cardigan so that my entire ass is exposed. The leather glove brushes against the skin at the small of my back and I shudder. “What color are we on, Ryan?” he asks.
“Green,” I answer.
And a second later, the belt stripes leather-thick pain across my ass.
