Page 41 of The Cartographer

“When I was a kid, the first thing I learned from the guys I ran with was, if someone messes with you, you fuck them up so bad they won’t even think about doing it again.”

That tidbit pulls me up short, and I hope he doesn’t feel the stutter of my hands over his body. I don’t ever want him to think he’s surprised me. I don’t want him to ever feel as though he can’t share something with me because I’ll be horrified. No, it’s important not to blink.

And it makes so much sense.

“What else did you learn?”

“Don’t look people in the eye. Don’t smile. If someone yells your name, you sure as hell don’t stop. Especially after dark, especially if you’re not on your own territory. Learn the geography of the neighborhoods and keep track of where people are—dealers, clients, cops. Never act scared, and whatever you do, don’t back down.”

What a world. If everyone followed those rules, it could only end badly. I get the feeling Allie expected to die young. Like he’s living on borrowed time. Much as I am. I want to give him some structure, some expectations, because he does well knowing where the limits are. Not that he’ll always follow them, but I hope he will.

“Well, how about for now you just follow mine?”

“You’ve only given me one.”

“Let’s start there. You remember what it is?”

“I never have to do anything I don’t want to do.”

“That’s right. I hope you take it seriously because I need to trust you to tell me so. I won’t ever harm you on purpose, you have my word. But though I like to pretend I’m omniscient, I’m not actually, so you’ve got to help me out. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Now that’s settled, let’s get started.”

I climb off him and disrobe. Not a teasing strip, but not in a hurry either. Solid, confident. I try to project it from every pore.I’m experienced and adept. Believe in me.When I’ve stripped down to my skin, I grab a couple of pillows and direct him to raise his hips so I can slide them under, covered with a hand towel from the bathroom. A touch humiliating, perhaps, to have his ass elevated and exposed, but it’s not for shame’s sake. In all my years of deflowering assholes, this is what seems to work the best, how many of my clients and lovers seem to think is most comfortable. I want to make this easy on him.

“Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Nervous. Embarrassed.”

“Why embarrassed? There aren’t a whole lot of things that have turned me on more than knowing I’m going to get to work my way into that ass. You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”

I stroke his neck, the back of his head, run a thumb behind his ear, and he stretches so I have more space to pet him. Lovely. When he’s practically purring, I settle myself behind him again, press my hips, and yes, my erection, against his nicely spread cleft. I rock against him, enjoying the choked whisper of a gasp he lets out.

“Does that feel good?” I ask, though I know the answer perfectly well.

“Yeah. Yeah.” His voice is feathery with strain and desire, so I give him more. Press harder with longer, firmer strokes. Give him a better idea of what he’s in for. It’s not so long before he’s pressing back against me, and I know if I were to reach underneath him, he’d be hard and perhaps slick with pre-come. The idea that he’s making a mess on the hand towel draped over the pillow because he’s literally dripping with want, well… If I want to get to the headliner of this evening’s performance, I need to stop dicking around with the opening act.

As I withdraw, he whines, and I reflexively smack the side of his ass, hard, producing another choked inhale. Oh, my Hart likes to be hurt. How could he be more perfect? “You can complain if you like, just know that’s what’s going to happen when you do.”

I’m almost sorry when he doesn’t make another sound. Perhaps something else he’s afraid to admit? Maybe those tats weren’t so painful after all. Though it probably depended on the circumstances. Masochists are tricky creatures, though some would argue not half as tricky as sadists. Possible, but sadists are my people. I can’t even fathom the other side, but god bless masochists. I’d just be a monster without them. With them, though, I get to be a teacher, a mentor, a patient and thorough instructor.

Now it’s time for my latest pupil’s lesson. I reach for the lube and a finger cot, slipping the thing on before greasing it up and then anchoring his hip with my other hand. Then, then, I rub my fingertip over his hole, stroking the tightly closed bud.

“There are a few things that will make this easier,” I instruct, trying to sound more like a lover than a professor, though I’ve given this lecture dozens of times.

“Three things?”

I’m amused he remembers from earlier, but… “Not just that, though I will be using copious amounts of lube, I assure you. No. What will make this easier is if you relax for me. Take deep breaths. Make yourself soft, accepting. Let me in. Some people say to bear down, but—” He squeaks, and I smirk. “Yes, that’s why I don’t like to say that.”

It raises the humiliation factor, probably because you’re reminding your penetratee you’re putting something in where they’ve traditionally only had things come out. Not pretty things. A muffled sentence comes from the pillow Allie’s buried his head in.

“What was that, Hart?”

He turns to the side and huffs, squirming a bit against where I’m still stroking him with one finger.

“Isn’t it…gross?”

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