Page 54 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“Too much?”
“I don’t usually allow that.”
“Sorry.”
“No. You can. I’ll say if I want you to stop.”
Thornby grinned, and slipped his finger in, this time going a little deeper, letting John get used to the idea of being touched inside. Then he withdrew his finger most of the way and began to concentrate on John’s cock again—licking and sucking, sliding the foreskin up and down, occasionally bringing his other hand into play, stroking the shaft, squeezing gently.
John was hard as a rock, the head of his cock almost purple. Thornby let another finger join the first, and pushed a little harder. He was feeling for that spot that makes men quiver and sob and spread themselves wide to let you in. The moment he found it, John tensed and clutched the sheet with both hands and gasped, “Ah, Jesus! Fuck!”
Thornby made an encouraging noise, and began to suck a little faster, and at the same time to move his fingers faster too, and more firmly.
“Ohhh, fuck,” John said. It was an anguished groan, like a man praying for his life. He was moving his hips, pushing against Thornby’s hand, and a moment later he was spending into Thornby’s mouth, arse clenching tight around Thornby’s fingers, crying out into the cold room in a way that was most unwise.
Thornby waited until the last shudder had gone through him, then slipped his fingers out and looked up. John was staring at him, slightly dazed. “Bloody ’ell,” he said. He sounded, for a second, not the gentleman he had learned to be, but an ironmonger’s son who has surprised himself.
Thornby racked his brains for something light-hearted to say. If John was feeling vulnerable, as men sometimes did, a joke would let him laugh and feel better. And in any case, he liked to see John smile. But he could not for the life of him think of anything. He felt as if something had happened that wasn’t just sex. John had given him something precious. And he hadn’t even come himself, though his cock was throbbing as if a single touch would undo him.
Then he remembered that cry. It had really been quite loud. Flattering, of course, but how delightful if Mr Grey or Mr Lazenby had heard it and decided to investigate. He got up, put the chair under the door handle again, and washed his hands in the dribble of cold water from the bottom of the ewer.
He was about to get back into bed when he noticed something white undulating gently next to the iron pins by the bed. He’d nearly stepped on it. He peered closer and nearly gave a yelp of surprise.
It was an octopus. And it must belong to John, because it had one tentacle wrapped around a pin like a gentleman holding a malacca cane. It gave Thornby such a look of affronted dignity that he muttered ‘beg pardon’ at it.
“You realise there’s an octopus under the bed?” he said, getting under the covers.
John, who had been slipping an arm around him, went still for a moment. “Is there? Yes, all right. I’m not surprised.”
“Yours, is it?”
“No.” John began kissing Thornby’s neck, biting it a little; the shivers made Thornby’s toes curl and his cock twitch.
“It’s not?”
“Near the pin, wasn’t it?” John said.
“Yes.”
“Mmm. There’s been something every time now, when we have sex. Always things from the sea: shells, barnacles, starfish. Now an octopus. It’s us, I think, manifesting them.”
“But I thought the pins put a stop to all that. Isn’t that what they’re for?”
John had been trailing kisses down his chest, curling his tongue around a nipple. He glanced up. “Yes. But then I’ve never been with anyone like you before. And I’ve never felt—” He broke off, and instead planted a kiss near Thornby’s navel. “What about you? Ever had a magician before?”
“I don’t think so.” The idea that he might have, unknowingly, was faintly alarming.
“No? And the sea? Fond of it, are you?”
“I can’t abide it, apart from Turner’s maritime pieces. It reminds me of that awful time at the seaside with Father. And my foot.”
“Well, don’t worry about the octopus. It’ll go away soon.” John was tugging at his hips, moving him into a more convenient position.
Thornby frowned. “Yes, but—”
But he got no further, because John suddenly pinned him to the bed with firm hands, and began sucking him unmercifully, presently sliding a couple of fingers uphisarse. And soon there could have been a kraken under the bed and he wouldn’t have cared about it if John didn’t. There was only John’s mouth and hand, and the sensation pulsing through him. He came, urgently and sweetly, biting his own fist to stop himself yelling. He wasn’t usually a screamer, but there was something about the way John did it that almost made him forget himself entirely.
“I should go,” John murmured afterwards. His voice dragged with tiredness.
