Page 10 of American Squire (New Camelot Trilogy 3.60)
and go back for his pen and iPad.
He’s sitting when I return, his firm lips pressed together in fresh unhappiness. “It’s not as comfortable as I’d hoped.”
“I’ll get you a pillow for your back, Mr. Blount.” Which is ridiculous, since a man as fit as Sidney doesn’t really need a pillow for his back, but it doesn’t matter why I’m moving around the room at his beck and call, only that I am. It’s all part of the game we decided on last night, and it’s almost unnerving how quickly the game relaxes me, even as it arouses me.
The pillow’s fetched, and then Sidney decides he’s too chilled, and makes me light a fire for him. And then he’s thirsty. And then he’s too warm after all and wants me to angle the chair away from the flames.
“I think I’ve finally found the reason I’m not comfortable,” Sidney says after a moment. “I need a footstool. Could you find me one, please?”
Only in Sidney’s voice could politeness sound nothing like politeness. The please only underscores the command that came before it, the slight touch of condescension making it clear that every courteous or genteel moment I have with him is an allowance given only at his pleasure, and I have no right to expect or demand otherwise.
That coolly uttered please is like leather stroking down my back. I want to purr.
Despite the scatter of plush leather and damask seating around the fireplace, the library is quite bereft of anything that would make a decent footstool. The wooden chairs around the long tables would be too high and the coffee table nearby would be too low. And even though I knew where this little play was leading the whole time, I still feel a shiver of foreboding and excitement when I think it’ll have to be me.
I dressed in jeans and a cardigan today, figuring my nerd-casual look would serve the dual purpose of being comfortable and also underscoring the difference in power between me and Sidney in all his restrained polish. I try not to be embarrassed when I again feel the jeans pull tight around my ass and thighs as I get to my knees and lower my head to the ground. I try to remain calm as I curl myself into a serviceable footstool and hear Sidney’s murmur of pleasure.
The snow has amplified the daylight into startling brightness. Even down on the rug with my head hanging between my shoulders, I can see all the individual twists and fibers, the places under the chairs that a vacuum missed, a forgotten wine cork, the bit of dried cuticle on my left thumb. How strange to see everything with the harsh and rational sobriety of day . . . and then still to feel a man’s shoes settle onto my back. Still to feel the heels of them digging into my skin, still to strain against my jeans with a needy erection at the shame of it all.
“You are a good footstool, Ryan,” Sidney says calmly. I can hear but not see the flipping of papers, the occasional tap of a finger on his iPad as he wakes it up to take notes or snap a quick picture of whatever document he’s reading. I wonder if I’m in the pictures; I wonder if you looked hard enough you’d see the curve of a man’s back under the expensive leather of Sidney’s shoes.
Running after Ash for four years—sometimes running with him if he decided he didn’t want to exercise alone that day—means I’m not unfit, but the position gets difficult fast. Even on my elbows, the weight of Sidney’s legs is enough to start my arms trembling. My cock is pinioned between my hip and my jeans in such a way that even the slightest shift in position is agony. And once Sidney sees I’m suffering, he adds to it for his amusement, pressing down harder with his legs, digging the soles of his shoes deeper into the muscles of my back.
We play this game for so long that I have sweat misting my face, even in this chilly room, and when he finally lifts his feet off my back, I’m breathing hard enough that my sides are heaving.
But I don’t get up. Not yet. Not without his express permission. There’s already going to be pain today, and while I’m a sucker for pain, there’s no sense in bringing more wrath down on my head because I couldn’t be patient.
“So well trained,” Sidney murmurs above me. “I’m envious of whoever got the pleasure of breaking you in. What was their name?”
“Mark,” I say. “At a club called Lyonesse in D.C. He trained Ash as well.”
Then I shut up, because I’m not so sure it’s a good idea to strum the strings of jealousy just now.
“Hmm,” Sidney says in that way of his. And then he sighs. “I’m still not comfortable, Ryan.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Blount.”
“Get on your knees and face me.”
He lifts his feet and I do, kneeling between his legs and looking up into his imperious face. I’ve knelt countless times at the club, in front of Mark or some other Dominant willing to play with me, but the difference between kneeling in a dark club and in a bright library is vast. And kneeling in front of someone who I eventually want to eat pizza with and whose childhood pictures I’d like to see is also unnerving. If I fail to please him here, what does that mean outside these walls? Would he be so eager for me to come to London and stay with him if I don’t satisfy him here, now?
Sidney’s eyes are perceptive and searching on my face, and he reaches forward to run a finger along my jaw. “I can see the worry in you,” he says. His voice is still cool and clipped, but there’s something gentle in it too. He’s being kind—or at least as kind as he’s capable of being. “You’ve already made me very happy. Would you like to see?”
“Yes, Mr. Blount,” I breathe, and he dips his head to his lap in permission.
“Then look for yourself.”
I raise my hand—tentative, still not sure if I’m allowed—and run my palm along his thigh. It’s the first I’ve gotten to touch him, and it’s like the first bite into an apple—punctured anticipation and the explosion of sweetness after.
I could not have imagined it would feel so good to touch him. I could not have imagined the warm sculpture of his firm leg under my hand, or the faint quiver of his body under my touch, proving that he’s just as affected by this moment as me. I couldn’t have known that brushing one hand up his clothed thigh would be enough to make me shudder. If I weren’t already on my knees, I’d be falling to them now.
Other than the repressed quiver of his muscles and the finger still toying idly with my jaw, Sidney stays completely still as my hand reaches the thickness currently stretching all the way out to his hip. He stays completely still as I explore the impressive length of him, the swollen crown all plump and distended, the wide base and the convexity of his testicles underneath.
He drops his hand to cover mine, moves it to the fly of his trousers. “Don’t just feel. I told you to look.”
“At where you’re happy?”
“And at where I’m uncomfortable,” he says, arching an eyebrow enough to tell me we’re back to business.
