Page 57 of Seducing the Sorcerer
“Stop asking and do it.”
“Bossy. Funny, considering who’s boss at the minute.”
Fenn thrust another finger up, quite hard. Morgrim made a noise suspiciously like a squeak. Very un-sorcerous. Then Morgrim relaxed into it. He might be nervous, but he’d certainly done this sort of thing before. Fenn began moving his fingers very gently, slower, slower, making Morgrim shiver and whimper and twitch. Fenn smiled to himself; sometimes there was nothing worse for a bloke than a soft touch.
And ah, but Morgrim was beautiful like this: gagging for it, cock red and seeping clear fluid onto the hay, arse exposed and plundered, as powerful and yet at the same time as perfectly under Fenn’s control as a well-trained stallion who knew better than to try it on. A shiver of something that was surely magic ran through Fenn, different to anything he’d experienced with another man. It brought with it a sense of wonder and of hope, as if he were up among the stars and Morgrim was there with him.
Christ, but Fenn had to have him. Now.
He removed his fingers, got more oil and anointed his own cock. Morgrim knew what was coming and said, “Oh Gods,” through gritted teeth.
Fenn positioned himself, the tip of his cock just pressing against Morgrim’s arsehole. He held the pose for a moment to imprint it in his mind forever: Morgrim’s beautiful back slightly arched for him, his long hair hanging down further than it usually did because his head was thrown back, the steady light of the lantern, the smell of hay and sweat and oil and perhaps just a hint of shit, the sound of the rain, and the imperative of his body and of magic coursing through his veins.
He thrust. Morgrim cried out and began pleading, a whispered babble of words and moans. Fenn thrust again and nearly lost it. Ah, come on. Twice? He could do better than twice. He thought of the worple horse in the stall next door, its gormless expression, its infuriating way of walking in front of him. The crisis receded a fraction.
He took a firmer grip on Morgrim’s hip with one hand and thrust again, really hard. With his other hand, he grabbed a handful of Morgrim’s hair, and tugged. Morgrim gave a cry of surprise and pain, hands scrabbling for purchase on the wall. Fenn thrust again, working up a fast rhythm, good and hard. Only then did he reach around and take Morgrim’s cock in his oily hand.
Morgrim came almost immediately with a strangled cry, arse squeezing Fenn tight. Fenn worked his cock, dragging more cries from him. Then Fenn let go, grabbed Morgrim’s hips with both hands and pumped into him as hard as he could. And it was bliss; everything concentrated on that perfect pleasure. And he was coming, pounding into Morgrim with a violent shuddering power, a moment of perfection, where nothing else mattered and there was nothing to fear or hope for because he had everything he’d ever wanted.
And then the moment was passing and he was standing in the stables with his softening cock in the court sorcerer’s arse and oh Gods he hoped everything was going to be all right. He pulled out, carefully, and stepped back. Morgrim slumped, eyes closed, face slack, as if he’d passed out and the wall was the only thing keeping him up. His back shone with sweat and his arse and thighs gleamed with oil.
“All right?” Fenn said.
Morgrim shifted unsteadily, pulled up his drawers, turned around and sank to the ground with a groan. He sat there in the hay, back to the wall, trousers still around his knees. He hadn’t done his drawers up and his shrunken cock nestled between his legs, his plentiful pubic hair all caught into clumps and curls by the oil. He looked different: his fine features blurred, his cheeks red, his hair tangled. The lines that lent his face such character seemed to have vanished.
Fenn crouched next to him. He’d never used Morgrim’s name to his face before. He didn’t even know if Morgrim was a given name or a family name or even some formal court-bestowed title thing. He wasn’t sure what it was appropriate to call a court sorcerer when you’ve just fucked him sideways, but he knew no other name to use. Perhaps he should have asked beforehand.
“Morgrim?”
Morgrim opened his eyes. They looked drugged, too black, unfocused, dreamy. “Gods’ fucking balls.”
“Aye. You all right?”
“That was...it was...”
“Good?”
“No. No. It was...fucking...incandescent, that’s what it was. Gods. You. You’ve done that before.”
Fenn grinned. “You swore. Twice. And, aye, I have. And you have and all. Plenty, I should say.”
“Haven’t. Never. Not like that. Gods. Magic. Like stars, like flying.”
Fenn was part delighted, part disbelieving. It had been damn good, but surely Morgrim was exaggerating just a bit?
“Give over,” Fenn said.
“Like...like riding a storm. A...a storm of stars.” Morgrim groaned again. “Gods, you’re fucking wonderful.”
“You sound half cut.” Fenn said, beginning to feel truly alarmed. “You always like this after?”
“Not with most people. Sorry. It’s magic. You gave me some. It’ll wear off soon. Just let me enjoy it. Yes?”
“Aye.”
Fenn sat next to him feeling strangely alone. He hadn’t meant to give Morgrim any magic; it must have just happened. It had been good, though. Bloody good. And Morgrim wasn’t being dismissive or cold. Nor did he seem embarrassed. So that was grand, wasn’t it? Because feeling put out because the bloke you’ve just fucked seemed to have enjoyed it too much was plain daft.
“Fenn?”
