Page 71 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“Stand still.” He knelt and took Soren’s cock in his mouth. Soren gripped his hair, gasping. John sucked him until he was groaning and thrusting his hips forward, then stood up again. Soren’s eyes were black, his mouth open, face flushed.
“All right. Now you can tie my cravat. Not too tight. You know how I like it.” John made him do it twice. Soren’s hands were trembling. His eyes had that pleading look. Desperate to come, not sure if it was going to happen. Perfect.
John checked his cuff-links, then unbuttoned the fly he’d just made Soren do up. He pulled aside the linen of his drawers and let his cock stand proud. It curved up, engorged, swelling with veins, shocking against the respectability of his good wool trousers and waistcoat.
Soren was already kneeling, already closing those impossibly red lips around the head of his cock. John let him suck it for a while, admiring the contrast between Soren’s nakedness and his own nearly public appearance. But the sight and sensation were too much to bear for long, and anyway he wanted Soren sweating—wanted to lick his skin and taste salt. He pushed Soren onto his hands and knees on the hearthrug. Then John positioned his cock at that tight, puckered arsehole and pushed against it, just with the tip, nothing too much, not yet.
Soren moaned, and pushed back against him. John got the vial of oil from his pocket, sloshed some out and eased his way in, Soren writhing under him. Then he stopped for a moment, hands firm on Soren’s hips to hold him still, trying to think of something dull. He was sweating now himself; the suit was slightly restrictive, a little annoying. Next time he’d make Soren wear the clothes; he’d have him in that ridiculously tight Regency coat, naked from the waist down.
Then he remembered there probably wouldn’t be a next time, and that Soren’s old clothes had been ripped to shreds in the fight and then lost somewhere. That helped him calm down anyway.
He began to move, gently at first, then harder. Soren tried, once, to frig himself, and John thrust really hard, making him grunt and whip his hand back down to the floor to stop himself falling. The firelight was shining now on Soren’s naked back and his breath was coming in whimpers.
John grabbed a handful of Soren’s hair and twisted his face towards the fire. That was better. Soren’s mouth was open, eyes tight shut. His face was blood red in the firelight, sweat dripping onto the rug. His hair, in John’s hand, was dark with sweat.
“Christ, John,please,” he panted.
If he could still manage words, they weren’t finished. He let go of Soren’s hair and shoved him onto his forearms. Then he thrust harder and at a slightly different angle. Another “please” turned into a cry. Too loud? He didn’t care. There was no trace of the elegant lord now; Soren was wailing into the hearthrug, hips bucking. John reached around and wrapped his hand around Soren’s cock. Soren gave a strangled cry, then another, and another. John thrust extra hard, and was lost in a world of heat and pleasure so fierce, it was like fucking a man of fire.
At the very end, he ran his tongue up Soren’s spine, feeling him shudder and gasp and clench tight around him, one last time. Soren’s sweat was salt in his mouth, like the sea, like tears, like the stuff of magic.
***
Afterwards, Thornbyundressed John with care and they got naked into bed. Thornby glanced down at the cluster of pins that stood by the bed. “No octopus,” he said, unsure whether to be disappointed or relieved.
“The pelt’s yours now. Maybe that’s why. We don’t need any more clues. You’re free.”
There was something final in John’s voice, as if he was saying goodbye. Thornby turned to look at him. And he could see that, although John might have forgiven him, he did not trust him. And he did not understand. There was a wary look in his eyes.
“You know why I came back, don’t you?” Thornby said.
John looked away, towards the fire. “Don’t say anything rash, will you? You’ve got a whole new world at your feet. Who knows what you might find there?”
“But, John, I hoped, you know, that I could see you sometimes. I mean, not just sometimes. Whenever you like. If you have time. In London, or—or wherever.”
There, he’d said it. Or at least, something approximating what he’d wanted to say. He couldn’t help remembering all the men—and quite a few ladies too—who’d burbled and stammered athimover the years. Now, at last, he knew what it was like; his tongue was limber as a sea cucumber and he felt about as intelligent, too. He’d never had any trouble making his wishes known in the past, but then he’d never really cared before. Right now, he cared so much, he felt he might die of it.
“Is that what you want?” John said. “To see me in London?”
“Don’t you want to?” Waiting for John’s answer was like waiting for release from Raskelf all over again. The seconds stretched into years.
“You don’t owe me anything,” John said eventually. He put his hand over his eyes. “You know that, don’t you? I know I got you out of Raskelf. But you got me out of that ghastly thorn-bush. And out of prison, come to think of it. So, we’re quits. And Catterall will pay me.”
“But it’s not because Ioweyou something! John, I wish you’d look at me.”
Thornby pulled at his hand and John let him take it. John’s eyes were wet with tears; he rubbed them.
“Sorry, it’s been a hell of a day. You’ve no idea how tiring it is, blasting holes in country houses and being arrested for murder. Of course, we can see each other in London, if you want to. Look at us, finally in a place where the walls don’t keep whispering at me. That cell was as bad as Raskelf.”
The subject was being changed in a way that was not entirely satisfactory. But John was clearly trying to pull himself together. And he had agreed they would see each other again, even if he seemed somewhat lukewarm about it. Perhaps John preferred other magicians, men with whom he could discuss the things that really mattered to him. Thornby’s stomach lurched unpleasantly at the thought. But Johnhadagreed they would see each other again. Thornby lay down against him, their legs tangled together.
“So, no-one’s done magic here?” he said.
“That old chest’s seen a bit.”
“What does it say?”
“Smugglers used it once. If anyone opened it, they saw smoked fish.” John’s eyes grew unfocused for a moment. “It’s never stored smoked fish. It thinks that’s funny. Didn’t know pieces of furniture could find things funny, did you? This bed does, you know. It thinks—”
