Harvest of Sighs

Chapter 15-2

He’s f*****g me against a wall inside an art installation while gala guests tipple and chatter nearby. He’s f*****g me in a tux, with our girlfriend outside, with all our friends outside, and he’s f*****g me with an angry, plundering rhythm that lets me know he has no plans for this to be quick. No plans for this to be easy.

By the time he lets me come, I’ll be exactly the way he likes me. Broken open with his name on my lips.

“Now then,” he says, still drawling, still cool. “This isn’t so bad, is it? No lightning strikes, St. Sebastian. No bolt from heaven, no hail of fire, no plagues. We are so civilized, are we not?” He asks that right as he gives me a hard thrust, which makes my dress shoes slide on the polished gallery floor.

“You know what we are, and civilized isn’t it,” I say, my voice hitching with each and every stroke. “This is not what civilized men do.” Maybe there have been men like us at the edges of the world, on frontiers, and in the wild, lonely places. Maybe we’re not the first brothers to do this—but that doesn’t make it civilized. Far from it.

This is a need that shies away from the light of day. This is a hunger that has to be secret.

“Then we’ll make our own civilization,” Auden says arrogantly. “One where you’re mine.”

“We can’t,” I mumble. My head hangs down, my hair drifting in my face. My hands are braced against the wall and I want so much to drop one down and start stroking myself, but it feels important to resist the urge to do it. Like if I don’t participate in making myself come, then I’m not really at fault, I can’t be blamed.

“You keep saying that,” he says, his hand sliding up my chest to wrap around my throat. He tugs me back, makes me straighten up enough for him to nip at my earlobe. He can’t really piston into me at this angle, but he can still rut, he can still grind. I’m still speared so thoroughly that I swear he’s all the way into my belly.

I’m still so hard and my balls are still so tight that I know I’m going to go off soon, and he’ll have won. He’ll have proven to us both that our unholy lusts can’t be denied or curbed.

Only, what? Two weeks without each other? And now he’s fallen on me like a wolf and I’ve welcomed him with open arms. Shown him my throat, my belly, all my vulnerable places. My stupid, degenerate heart, ready for eating.

“I keep saying it because it’s true.” I close my eyes as his teeth catch on the lobe of my ear, on the skin right below it.

He nuzzles my neck. My jaw.

His c**k is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt.

“Show me,” he whispers. “Show me the sin in this.”

I can’t. And not because it’s not there, but because the sin isn’t scrawled on our faces or trumpeted in our words. It’s written in our blood and scratched onto our bones.

“I love you,” he tells me, and I don’t know if I can survive it, this feeling like I’m being scythed down just like the barley and the wheat around us. I don’t know if I can survive him.

“Say it back to me,” he begs. His voice has lost some of that coolness now, some of its indolence. He sounds a little breathless, a little rough. “Tell me what I want to hear.”

Still spoiled though. Rich boy.

“You already know what you want to hear,” I say, eyes still closed. “You already know how I feel.”

His hand finds my c**k and he gives it quick, vicious strokes, pulling me up to my toes every time he squeezes his fist to the tip, and following my hips with his own every time I rise up so there’s no escaping his f**k.

“You’re not playing fair,” I complain in between grunts. My lower belly is poured full of heat and my erection is so swollen that I feel like I might split apart. Every single muscle is wire-tight and thrumming. “You’re resorting to tricks.”

“I never promised fair. I never promised that I wouldn’t use tricks.”

“You said there would be rules.”

“For you and my little bride,” he murmurs wickedly. His hand is too much. His thick c**k wedged against my prostate is too much. “Not for me. I am the king and you are mine to keep and to f**k. I make the rules. And the rule right now is you have to tell me you love me.”

I should have known. I should have known he wouldn’t leave here without taking everything. I should have known he wouldn’t let me hide from this.

“Fine, I love you. Are you happy?”

He reaches for something else in his pocket, and once he has it, he kisses my neck again. “I’ll be happy when you’re in my house. In my bed. In my arms. I’ll be happy when I can f**k you whenever I need. I’ll be happy when I can feel that piercing against my c**k whenever I want. I’ll be happy when you, Poe, and I are truly, actually together, the way we all know we’re supposed to be.”

“We’re not supposed to be anything, we’re—”

“I know what we are,” he interrupts. “It doesn’t change that you’re mine. It doesn’t change that you want to be mine.”

“And you?”

“Well, I’m yours, of course,” he says simply. “Yours to eat and ruin too.”

It’s too much. The hand, the f**k, his words. His thorny, cannibal heart.

I grunt as the pleasure finally takes me, as it snaps through me hard and cutting and keen, and as the first pulse surges up, Auden’s hand is replaced with a handkerchief. He catches my climax with the soft, expensive-feeling cotton, standing patiently as I spurt out every last drop.

The orgasm goes on a shamefully long time, pulse after pulse, so thick and forceful that he can see how much I loved this, how much my depraved body hungered to be used in just this way and only by him. It would knock my feet out from underneath me, it would bend me double, it would have me boneless and staggering to the floor, but he holds me up as he finishes tenderly milking my orgasm, he keeps me upright not only so I can empty into his handkerchief, but so he can stay inside me as I do. So he can feel every seize and shiver and clench of my groin as I release.

“Good boy,” he whispers, giving me an approving nip on the neck as I slowly stutter to a finish. “I didn’t want you to dirty your tux with what you let me do to you.”

The handkerchief disappears, and then his bare hand returns to pet me. Fondly. Appreciatively. “Now hold still, I need to come.”

His c**k is wedged tightly inside of me, he’s jammed in so thick and so deep, and every rock of his hips has him shivering, murmuring to himself, squeezing my hips and c**k and biceps at turns, as if to reassure himself that I’m really here, he’s really f*****g me, he’s really using his stubborn boy the way he needs. And here I am doing the same thing—trying to memorize the feel of his lips on my neck, the fit of his erection inside me, the low rumble of his pleasure-words under his breath as he eases his needs with my body. I want to stuff myself so full of him that even when we’re apart, I can feel his hands and hear his voice. His possession most of all—that is what I must never forget. I must never forget how it feels to be whole.

He comes with a ragged sigh, one hand on my throat and the other wrapped tight around my waist. I feel him inside me, I feel each and every throb, and without a condom, I can feel the slick heat of his release too. His orgasm feels as good as mine, which sounds like it shouldn’t be true, and yet it is, it is. Feeling his satisfaction, his jerking, pulsing animal pleasure—it eases something inside me. It scratches some itch I can’t describe—service, submission, love, something—and it makes me feel like I’ve just swallowed the sun.

Plus it makes me hard all over again.

“One more,” he says gently. “I can’t send you out there like this.” I feel him reach for something else in his pocket, and after the tearing of a wrapper, I look down to see him rolling a condom on over my renewed erection. He’s like Mary Poppins with that inner tuxedo pocket.

“I’m afraid you’ve already defiled my handkerchief,” he explains as he rolls the latex all the way to my base. “And walking around with c*m on your tux is rather infra dig.”

I think I laugh a little, a soft puff of air that has my body clenching around his erection, which hasn’t softened one bit since he came.

He takes in a sharp breath at the abrupt squeeze of my channel around him, and then he’s moving fast, hard, rough, his earlier release easing his way and making his f**k slick and wet. And he matches his own pleasure with mine; he fists my latex-covered c**k and jerks me like I jerk myself at home. Brutally. Impatiently. With a ruthless pace and a cruel grip.

I don’t stand a chance.

The merciless ride against my prostate, the elegant, watch-wearing fist I’m f*****g, the vulgar selfishness of the man behind me using me like this—there’s no way I ever stood a chance. My second orgasm rips through my guts and tears through my groin, and I fill the condom with long, heavy jolts; I empty all of myself into that primal, aching moment, my heart pushing up to the vaulted ceiling of barley and wheat and floating there as Auden finishes inside me. He chases every drop, every swell and pulse, he denies himself nothing.

He would deny me nothing too, I think. If I let him have me.

I can’t let him have me.

My heart tumbles to my feet, flopping and shivering wetly around the spiky awns and kernels and stalks already drifting dry and dead on the floor. My eyelids are burning even as he carefully slides the condom off and puts it somewhere, even as he extricates himself and uses something—his handkerchief again?—to catch any spend as he pulls free.

It wasn’t as if I’d forgotten all my protests, all my reasons and fears, when I let Auden f**k me. It was only that I wanted Auden more than I wanted to be good. And now that we’re no longer joined, now that we’ll have to step back and fix our clothes and leave this chambered tomb of barley, the horror of what I’ve done—knowingly this time, knowing who he is to me—crowds up in my throat and chokes me.

Is it always going to be like this? Me pushing him away, hiding, denying, until our control snaps and we fall on each other like hungry animals? Is it entirely hopeless? Should I stop resisting? I can’t live without his love, and yet succumbing to it will always be wrong, our family and friends would think it wrong, everyone would think it wrong.

Our desires are so forbidden, they shouldn’t even be shaped in words. In thoughts. They shouldn’t even be acknowledged, except to a priest under the cover of confession.

Auden has tidied up behind me, and I know I should pull my tux together too. I just can’t, I can’t move from right here with my forehead and hands braced against the wall. If I move, if I turn and I see him, I will start to cry. And I may not have much to my name, but I’d still like to have some dignity. Some pride.