A Seditious Affair(2)

His Tory.

Silas was tempted to have him on his knees again, but there was something about him standing in the middle of the room, bare and staring and aroused. Like a spare prick at a wedding, he thought, and grinned, knowing it looked wolfish. He was no fine gentleman with polite smiles to ease the social passage. No doubt the Tory could have any gentleman he desired up his social passage, come to that, but it wasn’t what he wanted. He came here.

He unbuttoned his own trousers. Two buttons, that was all, none of your fancy tailoring, and his prick sprang free. The Tory’s eyes went to it as if dragged. Well they might, Silas thought, giving himself a slow, complacent stroke. Not so long, perhaps, but thick enough to be sure the Tory wouldn’t forget this night in a hurry. Wouldn’t rush off to another bed before next Wednesday.

“I’ll give you something to remember me by,” he said aloud, and saw the Tory shudder. “Well? What’ll it be?”

The Tory’s chest heaved as he struggled to speak. Silas had never been much of a talker either, always thought you might as well get on with it. Get in, get on, go back to work.

Not with this man. The Tory needed words.

Silas caressed his prick, thumbing the end. “Asked you a question. Now, you can get on your knees and beg for it, and maybe I’ll let you gamahuche me. Good big prick in your mouth, just the way you like it. Might even let you have a bit of fun, once I’ve done, if you serve me well enough. Or.” He cupped his balls, a gesture the Tory called vulgar, and saw the flare in his eyes. “Or you say no to me one more time, and I’ll put you on all fours and teach you who your master is, whether you like it or not. Understand me?”

The Tory’s eyes met Silas’s, so dark. He said, soft and clear and very gentlemanlike, “No. Don’t touch me.”

“Get on the bed.” Silas pushed himself out of the chair, bracing his legs wide, knowing he looked intimidating. He was an inch or so shorter than the Tory, broader but not by much, but he’d been in a lot of fights in his life, and he wasn’t afraid of more.

Not that they were here to fight. But the Tory knew what he was looking at, and his eyes darkened at the idea of a threat.

Silas took another step forward, moving close to the naked man. Such clean, smooth skin, curling black hair. He reached for the Tory’s skull, cupping his head, running the soft locks, ungreased and unpomaded, through his fingers. He hated the hair stuff, and the Tory knew it.

Silas wanted to caress. Instead he tightened his fingers, so the Tory gasped with pain. “On the fucking bed!” He shoved sideways and the Tory went stumbling, over to where he should be.

“Knees,” Silas said harshly. “Hands on the rail.”

The Tory’s hands came out at once to grip the wooden bed frame, and Silas could breathe then.

Some men liked whips and chains. He had learned that here, or been told it, rather, because any bastard tried those on him would be going home with his teeth in his pocket and the butt end of a whip up his arse. Silas had been chained and flogged, and not for pleasure. It was ten years now, more, since he’d taken the whip, but the sight of the damned things—instruments of torture and oppression used as toys—still made him queasy and angry.

None of that for Silas. And not for the Tory, with him. He’d take them, Silas had no doubt, and like them too, but he didn’t need them. He needed hard words and harder treatment; he needed to be made to kneel and beg and break. The Tory’s manacles were in his mind.

He was on knees and elbows, an awkward position that let him clutch the rail, head bowed and breathing hard. “You don’t let go,” Silas told him, leaving the rest of the sentence unspoken, because they both knew it: unless you want me to stop. The Tory never had yet. It unnerved Silas sometimes, wondering if he ever would.

Silas walked to the head of the bed, to the curtain against the wall, and pulled the cord.

“Oh, no,” the Tory said urgently. “No.”

It sounded as though he meant it, and the odd thing was he probably did. He’d probably prefer whips. But his hands were still on the rail, albeit white-knuckled.

Silas moved back to the foot of the bed so he could see them both in the mirror he’d just revealed. He did look wolfish. Rough as hell, in his cheap fustian jacket, with his cropped salt-and-pepper hair so unlike the Tory’s well-kept locks. He’d have to mess those up.

He stripped, taking his time, eyes on the Tory’s in the mirror. Nothing but breathing in the room, and harsh need, and the smells. Other men’s fucking, the Tory’s soap, and Silas’s sweat.

“Legs wider.”