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This was the last position Tristan would ever suspect to find himself in. The blindfold of thick silk blacked out his vision almost totally. He was helpless to it, to whoever held him captive. On one not so very special evening, back-to-back in the low golden light of the bedside lamp while Seto read and Tristan dozed, they'd struck up a conversation about the concept of bondage. Seto rolled over and offered the open magazine across his companion's shoulder. A pair of hands filled up the single-page ad, crossed at the wrists and bound with the band of a sports watch. Fingertips flexed in some unknown pleasure or agony. Now that, Seto pointed out in a dryly amused tone, was quality. Laughing, Tristan agreed, his powerful sexuality making the connection to pleasure immediately. He replied that any company who could manufacture a watch to withstand bondage deserved a second look. When Seto didn't answer, Tristan looked over his shoulder. His partner's expression was flat, carefully schooled. Worried that he'd overstepped a boundary - cursing his sixth grade sense of humor - Tristan asked what was wrong. And Seto answered. Familiar hands brushed over the planes of Tristan's chest. He closed his eyes against the fabric, no longer straining to see, and hissed through his teeth as smooth nails scritched lightly around the thick pads of his nipples. Blinded, Tristan was focused on sensation, on the rich chuckle that came when he arched his back, on the mingled body scent and the dark overlying smell of cinnamon lubricant. "I can't do it," Tristan admitted frankly. And then even more frankly… "I've tried." The hollow silence that grew between them was big enough for another person to fit. A nameless malicious phantom, and as clearly in his own mind as though it were Seto's thoughts, Tristan saw that faceless body perched over his, anonymous hands gripping, tying, taking captive…claiming territory that was his and… "It ruined everything," Tristan raced on, desperate to explain what he meant, what he needed and craved, and what-worst of all-he knew would break him with a certainty that chilled. "I'll do anything you want me to. But not that." He'd been prepared for everything except the cool hand that cupped his jaw. Seriously, Seto replied, "I would never ask." Tristan gripped the bedpost as Seto's mouth sank down on him. He bucked, but with his knees looped over the other man's shoulders, there was little he could do but squirm fruitlessly. Closed off from sight, light soaked through the red silk to his eyes like evening sun when he tossed his head towards the bedside lamp. Tristan keenly felt every touch, and every nerve ending responded as though his skin dripped with warm water. He clung to the place he'd been fastened, unable to move, pinned in place with the liquid heat of Seto's mouth and skin and the rapid breaths washing over his thighs whenever his partner released him. It was over too soon, rushed by the stark power of raw sensation without relief, and burned through him like fire. Seto's cheek lay warm against the soft, shallow dip of Tristan's navel while he slipped, dazed and sated, in and out of consciousness. One hand…then the other…gingerly let go of the bedpost and slid through Seto's hair. Before the blindfold went on, Seto's hands rode the undersides of Tristan's arms, pushing them up, up, until his palms coiled around Tristan's knuckles and pressed both big, rough hands to the smooth curve of polished ebony. The blue eyes were focused, intent on their task, and flicked down to Tristan's hazel once the bigger brunet's fingertips were lightly entwined around the support beam. They smiled at one another. Tristan's choice, always Tristan's choice, but Seto's game. Back to Scylla's Work E-mail the Author Home |
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