JUSTIN’S POV

I never acknowledge that I know what he’s up to when he comes from work and isn’t in the mood to don a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.  I just play along as I get dressed, leaving my collar up because he’ll wander into the bathroom with a tie dangling from his fingers when he hears me turn the hair dryer on, and I’ll have to stop right in the middle of that so he can tie my tie, and then I’ll finish getting dressed while he sits in a chair by the bedroom window reading a magazine or surfing the net.  He will always stand up and smile when I emerge from the bathroom all ready to go; he will always kiss me before we leave the house, and once we get wherever we’re going, he will always hold my hand from the car to the restaurant.

We’ll talk about whatever it is that we always talk about over dinner; he’ll have a few glasses of wine—as will I; I’ll order desert, probably cheesecake, and he’ll eat a couple of bites, more if I make him, and he’ll smile the entire time.  The ride home will be much quieter; his hand will be curled around my thigh.  It won’t stay there though; it’ll inch closer to my crotch because I’m shifting in my seat to get it where I want it. 

When we pull into the garage, I wait until he opens my door for me.  He takes my hand again as I listen to the garage door close, the kitchen door open, close, lock, and then the sound of our absurdly expensive shoes as we walk through the darkness, up the stairs to our bedroom.  Once inside, he turns the fireplace on low; they’re calling for snow tonight.

I’m praying for a blizzard.

We stand next to our bed in the warming darkness and his hand slides behind my head because he’s going to kiss me and release my tie at the same time, and then his will be next.  He folds them both together, opens a drawer in his nightstand and sets them inside, and then he’s kissing me again—soft and sweet and forever, and when he stops, he’s smiling at me.  He steps away from me to the mini-bar in our room, pours himself a shot of something, and then sits down in the chair by the window and watches me undress.  I take my shoes off, my pants, and then my underwear, and he nods because he wants me to lie down on the bed.  I can tell by the gesture he makes that he means on my back, so I comply, and that’s when he gets up—and when time starts to move in neat decorated intervals as I watch him set his empty glass on top of the bar, remove a few things from the tiny fridge, set them on the table next to his side of the bed, and come back to me.  The evening begins to stretch out in front of me like a warm piece of taffy that goes on and on for miles.

His shirt is off when he lays down beside me, but mine isn’t, so he pushes it up—with his ice cold hand—and when I push that very same hand down between my legs, he leans on me hard--god, the way he smells—and says, “You need to slow your roll,” and I start laughing because Gus told him that the other day, and he didn’t even know what it meant.  “You’re a really sexy dork, you know?” I tell him, and he’s trying really hard not to start laughing, too, and he looks away and tries to compose himself, and then looks back at me all serious and shit because he’s going to kiss me, and we both lose it. 

“You’re an ungrateful little twat, you know that?” he whispers behind my ear, and I have to settle down so I can understand what else he’s saying, “I come home and take you to dinner and wine you and dine you and fondle the hell out of you under the table, and then you try to slow my mo.”

Slow his mo?

Is he kidding me with this shit?

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to ‘slow your mo.’”

“You are the most insincere little shit I’ve ever had the pleasure of molesting.”

That’s what ‘mo’ is short for. 

My bad.

I’m totally (going) down with that.

“Please be assured that I take the molestation very seriously,” I tell him, and everything has gotten all hot and dark around me because he’s unbuttoning my shirt, peeling it off, kissing my shoulder, and then I can feel his hand unfastening his pants, and then his cock, warm and hard against my hip.  “You can have anything you want tonight,” he says to me, “But we’re going to take care of a few things first.”

“We are?”

“You need to come before I fuck you.”  His pants are gone, and our bodies have morphed into Velcro, and he’s tucked my hand between us and he’s holding me, keeping me pressed hard against him, “And before I spank you.”

“Why?” I ask him. 

“You know why.”

*********************
BRIAN’S POV

This is always the first hurdle to jump, and he never wants to even attempt it until it’s as big as Mt. Everest.  “I don’t want to,” he tells me, and instead of doing what he’s supposed to be doing, his hands are all over me; he wants to kiss me, wants to play with the wrong cock.  But that’s not how this works.

“You need to get it over with,” I tell him.

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t, I’m gonna fuck your face and call it a night.”

And that does not go over well…just like I (we) planned.

He’s not talking to me now and when I kiss him, he acts like he’s a corpse, and when I guide his lazy hand to his cock and whisper in his ear, “You need to learn to listen,” he moans by accident.  “That’s much better.”  And when my hand runs over his bottom, he gets weak in my arms, wrapping his leg over mine to shore himself back up, and when I feel his hand start moving between us, I tighten my grip on him.  I could come just feeling him jerk off between us, and the fact that he’s pissed at me through the whole thing is really just very pretty icing on a very pretty cake.  He knows what’s coming next, and he groans when I roll away from him for a few seconds, and when I’m back, he closes his eyes and lies in the crook of my arm, his hand pressed against my chest.

“You’re so fucking beautiful when you do what you’re told,” I tell him as the cold, wet metal ring slides down his cock, and he bites my shoulder and I work his balls through it, and then we’re all done, and he’s sweet and compliant when I kiss him and tell him, “It’s time for you to roll over.”

He looks at me in a way that I would smoke if I could, his arms in front of his head, his hand resting on my bicep; my travels down his back, and when it rides over his ass, I lean down and remind him, “Hold still.”

“Don’t…please.”

His fingers dig into my muscle when I start to spank him, and I bring him along slowly, fuck with his head so he never knows whether to expect pain or pleasure, get him on top of that wave.  I know he’s there because I can hear him—just barely—

“Harder, please.”

I don’t waste any time giving him what he wants, and that in itself catches him off guard, and his head comes up off the bed, and his entire body tightens, and when I tell him, “Lie down,” he doesn’t, and the sight of him spread on the dark sheets makes me so fucking hard that I stop…

…and lie on top of him to hold him down, to feel the burn, to let my cock slide back and forth in the perfectly toasted crevice of his ass and to listen to him beg me for things he’ll never admit to wanting in daylight.

“Hurts,” he moans.

“I’m sure.”  I kiss the back of his neck.  “Must be agony.”

“Brian.”

“But you like that, don’t you?”

“No,” he lies.

“Come on, that ache between your legs?  Hurts like a bitch when you’ve just soaked the sheets, doesn’t it?”  He moans, and then his breath catches, and he’s jumped the second hurdle without even realizing it was there.

He’ll turn the tired concept of master and slave on its head before this is over.

*********************

He’s unraveling underneath me, the end of a rope being torn apart strand by strand, and each one of those strands starts curling in my direction when I nudge his legs apart with mine and slide off him.  I lie beside him again, kiss the side of his face, “You gonna let me finish?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” and then I raise the temperature on his ass again, stopping for a few seconds when he’s hitting a wall, letting him slide back a little before my hand makes an even bigger promise the next time.  He fucks the shit out of that continuum; he begs; he pleads; he resists; he repents; he takes every ounce of pain he feels, soaks it in a pleasure sponge, and then wrings it out hard again and again and again…while my dick’s in his virtual hand.

He knows how to get me exactly where he wants me.

*********************

JUSTIN’S POV

It’s over and he’s on me again, and his hand is so hot, and I wish I had eight arms to hold onto him right now because I need him, and he knows it because his lips are skimming across my shoulders and then moving up the back of my neck and then stopping behind my ear. “Is that ring getting a little tight?” he asks me.

“I want you.” 

“I'm sure you do,” he says, and then my eyes disappear inside my head because his once-hot hand is freezing cold and wet and pushing between my legs, and the drop in my stomach pushes them farther apart and then I feel my ice cold future between my legs, laying against my thigh.  “I want to get up,” I tell him, meaning on my knees, but then I feel cold wet lube sliding down my bottom and then my ice cold dildo tracing its path, and then he answers me, “You stay down ‘till I fuck you.”

“Please.”

“Open up,” he whispers in my ear, and there are no words to describe the feeling of that frigid intrusion and my body resists, but he’s already ready to push me through it, “I can spank you again.”

“No.”

“Let’s try this,” he says, and he spanks the back of my legs so hard that I want to reach back and stop him, but he’s everywhere, and then I feel his hand—cold and wet—between my cheeks, and he’s leaning on me again, his fingers spreading me apart.  “How’s that feel?” he asks me as he fingers me, and I want him inside me so bad, I fuck his hand and he immediately takes it away, and I feel the freezing cold again, but it’s solid hard pressure, and he’s right by my ear, “Take it or I’ll make you take it,” and before I can breathe, the head of my glass dildo is inside me, and I want to scream and the sheets are balled up in my fists.  He lies down next to me, coaxing it inside me and whispering in my ear, “Open all the way up.  I wanna feel it disappear inside you.”

“It hurts.”

“I know it hurts; you’re almost there.”

“Tell me you like it.”

“Oh, I more than like it; I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you.”

“I want you inside me.”

“Open up."

The chill spreads inside me like a fever that has no where to go, and he makes me go and go and go until the pressure between my legs and the ache in my ass is maddening—infuriating--and then it’s gone, and all I can feel is Brian.  He’s on top of me and between my legs and his tongue is so hot, and then he’s urging me up on my knees, and my legs are shaking, and then he’s inside me and everywhere—chasing down the pain until he can reign it back in and account for every last ounce of it that he’s set free.  He catches up with me wherever I’ve gone, and then—

I’m caged underneath him, and I close my eyes when he’s searing orders behind my ear, “Don’t you move,” and then there are nothing but orange spikes flashing behind my eyes as he reaches back underneath and slaps me between my legs—the sting on my inner thighs—he fucks the pain away, the sting again, fucks me until he spills inside me, and this black-market hot salve bleeds beneath my skin, and his voice reverberates in my pores, “Jesus, god, Christ, god….Justin…oh holy fuck.”

“Oh god," and my mind divorces my body.

He pants as his body softens over top of me.

He moans, his hand rubbing the pinked skin between my legs; he kisses my shoulder blades, pushes his fingers through my hair as he pulls out.  “I’ll take care of it,” he says meaning my cock ring.  It falls on the bed, and he lets me slide down on my stomach very slowly.  His hand glides over my entire body from the top of my head to my ass; he kisses me and says, “Whoa.”

*********************

BRIAN’S POV

When it’s over, he owns me even more than he did before.  I hover over every sound and sigh he makes, procure anything and everything he needs or wants, protect him from every impulse that might stress even one molecule that makes up who he is.  And then I’ll confess to him that, “I thought about this at work today; all day long.”

“About what?”

“About spanking you, about watching your hot little ass fuck that thing--  Jesus.”

“Mmm.”

“About fucking you cold like that—warming you up like that.”

“Don’t stop.”

“You liked it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You want to come?” I ask him, even a retarded shadow-puppet could detect his hand moving under the covers.

“Maybe.”

He thanks me for taking him out to dinner when I push the sheet down to the end of the bed, urge him on his back, and lie on top of him.  “You’re very welcome.” 

“You looked really hot in those pants,” he informs me. 

“I am really hot.”

“The wine steward wanted you to pop his cork, by the way.” 

I tell him that, “He followed me into the bathroom.”

“He did not.”

I look up from his stomach, “Um, yes he did.  He asked me if I wanted his phone number.” 

“Excuse me, what was it?  1-800-DUMB-ASS?”

“Apparently.  I told him that I don’t keep the address book, but that he was welcome to give his number to you and get on the list.” 

“Brian.” 

“Did he give it to you?” I ask him. 

“Hell, no, he didn’t.  I couldn’t even get another glass of wine, and now I know why.”  I laugh, and it tickles him.  “I can’t believe he hit on you when he was fucking waiting on us.”

“Maybe he thought you were my son.”

“That you were kissing?”

“You’re really hot when you’re jealous,” I inform him, “Be quiet and relax.”

“I’m always hot,” he corrects me and then he’s finally done chattering.  He strokes himself with his eyes closed, and he’s content to have me suck on his balls until he’s ready to come, at which point, he says, “Uh,” grabs me by the hair and puts his dick in my mouth.  (He’s classy like that.)

*********************

He’s worn out.  I can tell by the sleepy satisfaction on his face.  He says nothing when I get up and turn off the fireplace so we won’t wake up tomorrow morning and feel like we’re in Miami.  The room goes dark, and he’s waiting for me when I get back in bed.  “I don’t want to get cold,” he says as he aligns his body with mine. 

“Okay.”

“I want to tell you something.”

“I’m listening.”

“I was fantasizing about you today, too.” 

“You were?”  My hand is resting on his back; he pushes it lower, and then his hand rests back on my arm.  “Sometimes I want you to…”  

“To what?”  He can’t answer me and resorts to kissing my chest until I stop him.  “What?  Tell me.”

“To go farther,” he finally says.

“Justin, we live in West Virginia and we went to dinner in Pennsylvania.  That’s not far enough?”

“I fucking hate you right now,” he says; he tries to roll away from me, but that’s not happening. 

“I’m just teasing you.”  He struggles in my arms for a second, but he stops when I kiss him, and then he’s basically on his back with a weight on him that he can’t move.  “Farther how?” I ask him.

“Will you build me a dungeon?” 

I bust out laughing.  Maybe he thinks I can do that because there was a carpenter in The Village People or something?  Do I look like Homo Depot?  “No, I won’t build you a dungeon, but I’ll spank you for asking,” I tell him.

“Okay.”  (It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s only half-kidding.) 

“We’re going to sleep now,” I tell him, and he lays in my arms and bitches about the nerve of our cunty little wine steward like it’s his favorite bedtime story or something.  “Look, I’ll buy you a pre-fab dungeon and you can hang the wine steward in it, okay?” 

“That’s actually a decent idea.”

“Sometimes I have some of those, believe it or not.”

“How much do pre-fab dungeons cost?” 

Really?  “I don’t know.  The Pre-Fab Dungeon catalog I have is pretty old.  I need to get an updated one.”

“We can look it up on the internet.”

Now, don’t get me wrong, there is nothing better than having an evening like this with Justin, and there is nothing better than being able to fall asleep with the warm fruits of my labor pressed against me all night, but there’s a distinct possibility that I’m spanking brain cells right out of his head.

……

…...

…...

He stops jabbering, and I watch him watching the snow fall outside our bedroom window, and he moans when I hold him a little tighter.  I brush his hair off his forehead, and he turns his head and smiles at me, and when I lean in to kiss him, he flips in my arms, his hands meeting behind my neck.  It’s the longest, sweetest kiss I can remember in a while, and his hands travel all over my body, and he tells me he loves me and then he whispers, “Want to fuck my face before we call it a night?” 
…… 

Okay, so perhaps I spank them out of his head; they land on his pillow, and he re-absorbs them.  Even if he’s losing a lot of them, clearly some of those left behind are in peak condition.

And that catalog has to be around here somewhere…