Page 149 of For Real

It makes a completely different sound: soft and swift, rustling like sharp-winged birds flying past me.

And…Laurie…God…he kind of screams, not exactly pain, just the suddenness, I think, of a new sensation, and while he’s lost in that moment, I cover his upper back and shoulders with all these stinging little flicks, watching the impact points flare and vanish like a trail of comets against a red sky. Laurie’s moving now, not in a way that throws me off, but sort of into me and into my strokes, so we’re one, our breath harsh and mingling with the scratchy whisper of horsehair on skin and Laurie’s occasional frantic moan.

I love this. I fucking love it. I love that I’m hurting him, and I love him.

I’m gasping and sweaty and my heart is thundering and I’m not sure if I’m going to come or laugh or cry or…or…what.

I turn my body sideways, gather up the tails, and fling the flogger at him with everything I’ve got, sending them crashing into him like handfuls of needles. He jerks and cries out, sounding so powerful and powerless at the same time, this chained-up man who is taking pain for me, who isn’t afraid to be weak for me or ashamed to be afraid. The bravest, strongest, most beautiful man I’ve ever met.

And then I’m throwing the flogger aside, and I’m wrapping myself around him, pressing myself against all the hot, hurt places I’ve left on his body, and he’s, “Oh God, yes, Toby, touch me, please,” so desperately that I only really hear because it’s what I’m thinking too. And I kiss him and bite him and tear at him with my fingernails, and I’m sort of actually really crying, but it’s good crying somehow, and makes Laurie hiss when I spill salt all over his abraded skin. But he’s still leaning into me, still arching to my touch, still answering my tangle of snarls and sobs with “please” and “yes” and “Toby.”

It’s crazy because even though I’m crying everywhere, I’m not sad. There’s just all this feeling pouring out of me, but it’s wild and fierce and rapturous, like I’ve been waiting for it my whole life and everything makes sense now. And it’s not that I’m complete, or some shit like that, because I always was, but there’s a bunch of pieces of me that fit together in a way they didn’t before.8

With Laurie. Because of Laurie.

The urge to have him and take him and revel in all the ways he’s mine is clawing me to shreds from the inside out.

Shakily I unclip the cuffs. Concern for his knees and his arms kind of vaguely flits across my brain, but I don’t think he’s been there long, and when I tell him, “Up,” he lets me use his own weight to pull him and shove him over the bed. There’s no resistance in him, no struggle, he doesn’t even put his hands out to protect himself—just falls, surrendered, blind and helpless, his upper back this blazing testimony to all my love and savagery.

“Don’t move.”

My cock feels like it’s going to explode if I touch it, but I somehow manage to slaver myself in lube.

I don’t do Laurie, though. I want this to hurt a little bit too. I want him to carry it with him, like the marks on his skin. I want to give him this gift. Because with him I can be fearless too.

I kick his legs wider—which makes him groan in some muffled mixture of eagerness and shame—but I don’t touch him. Not yet.

He shifts a little against the bed, pushing his hips up, so I catch a glimpse of his tightly drawn-up balls, the shadow of his eager cock. “Please?” he tries, a little hesitantly.

I love it when he begs, but it’s not what I want. I lean over him, shoving our bodies together, and rub myself over his back until he gasps and writhes. I put my lips to his ear, and I whisper, “Spread yourself for me, and I’ll fuck you.”

And then I stand again and wait, shuddering with lust and power, cruelty and love, tears drying on my face and sweat on my back.9

Laurie makes a mortified little noise and hesitates for a long moment, though I have no doubt he’ll do it, no doubt at all. Then reaches back his hands and pulls himself open—exposed, vulnerable, inexpressibly needy, and completely beautiful. I last about a cool, controlled nanosecond before I slam into him like a really short, skinny juggernaut showing serious commitment to getting into some guy’s arse.

It’s… Well…I make it. There’s a moment when I think I might not, but Laurie kind of lets out this sharp, pained breath, and suddenly, fuck, he yields, and I’m in. He’s tight, but there’s enough lube that I don’t think I’m going to actually do any damage. I like the charade of violence, the pretence that I could actually overpower him, his flogged and hurting body forced into subjugation by mine.

I push his hands out of the way and pull his hips back to meet my thrusts. He claws at the bed, as a kind of instinctive reaction to loss of physical control, but I’m in him deep by then and I sort of know how to do this now. His body goes pliant when the pleasure hits, and the sound he makes is one for my trophy cabinet: ecstasy and relief and gratitude and submission.

I dig my fingers into his flanks, and I fuck him like I’ve never fucked anyone. I wouldn’t have dared. But the marks I’ve left on his skin are singing to me, urging me to use him, and take him, and bring us together like that again. The less care I seem to show, the more Laurie responds, twisting under me, crying out with helpless passion for every harsh thrust I give him.

It is like flogging. Rhythms and patterns and control, and the sheer power of having someone respond the way Laurie responds to me. Everything we give and take from each other in those moments of pure and perfect connection. I know how to take him to the brink and how to pull him back, how to please myself and deny him, until he’s practically weeping with longing, begging me to touch him, to fuck him, to let him come. And when I don’t, when I’m cruel, he wails and protests and loves me even more. And I’m humbled and honoured and touched and so fucking happy he can find this thing in me to love.

I want to be like this forever, but it’s too much for me: the pleasure and the power and Laurie being Laurie. So utterly gorgeous when he’s all undone, no control or pride left, stripped back to nothing but this. Because beyond shame, fear, and vulnerability, there’s only true things: sex and love and us.

I fall over his back, still buried deep inside him, and sink my teeth into his shoulder, into all that red and tender skin. It’s not…planned.

Because all I’m thinking is mine.

And Laurie bucks up, into my bite, against my body, and comes with a hoarse, wild cry, just from my teeth and my touch and my cock.

I almost come too, but with some world-record-type effort of will, and probably some serious internal damage to my bollocks, I hold off. Instead I pull out of him as carefully as I can. I barely need to touch myself—just the sight of him lying there in a shuddering heap, hurt and fucked, and covered in all the ways I’ve had him, is enough. I spray myself across his back, white over red, and Laurie takes that too, with the same grace, the same generosity, the same courage and eagerness he takes everything I give him: my cock, my cruelty, my kisses. Me.

I just about manage not to fall on top of him and ruin my handiwork. I land on my side next to him, and he lies where I’ve left him, as though I’ve still got him in chains, his body heaving a little with the aftermath of everything we’ve just done. Reaching over, I push the tie out of his way, and he emerges, blinking and wet-eyed.

“Oh, Toby,” is the first thing he says, with his voice still rough from all the noise he’s been making. “You’ve been crying.”

I’d sort of almost forgotten I’d done that, and swipe at my face with my elbow, feeling like an idiot. Because who cries when they’re flogging someone else?

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