Read Country Mouse Online

Authors: Amy Lane

Country Mouse (5 page)

BOOK: Country Mouse
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He pushed against Malcolm’s fingers and shuddered when one slid in. “I could always use something nice and big in there,” he breathed, “but I’m pretty sure your cock’s not what you meant.”

Malcolm chuckled and his hand left Owen’s backside. There was a sliding sound, wood on wood, like a drawer being opened, and then both of his hands disappeared. Owen recognized the sound of a tearing condom wrapper and the snick of a cap of lubricant, and then something cool and hard was prodding at his entrance. Owen shuddered and relaxed, welcoming this touch in the dark.

Malcolm was torturous, sliding it slowly . . . slowly . . . slowly . . . and then he stopped, Owen’s ass stretched around the widest part of the plug, and rubbed. Owen started to shudder, his body fighting the urge to push against it, to expel it, and shivering with the sensation . . . Oh God, the burn, the ultimate mix of pleasure/pain, lodged in his ass.

“You want something, maybe?” Malcolm asked, all of that smug self-assurance back in his voice.

“No,” Owen said through a tight throat. “I’m fine. Amazing, in fact. I half expected the plug to be made of ice.”

Malcolm chuckled, that massaging hand rubbing on his backside, soothing, gentling—but Owen’s shudders were getting harder, and he choked back a groan. “I have a mold for that, you know, but no time to prepare.”

“Sorry . . . to cramp . . . your style,” Owen panted, squirming in an agony of pleasure.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you want?” Malcolm taunted, and then, before Owen could answer, his hand fell across Owen’s flank with a practiced snap. Dull red flame burst to life, throbbing briskly out from Malcolm’s first blow.

Owen groaned, his ass clenching at the invasive pressure, his cock, rigid and erect in the space between Malcolm’s knees, thrusting for something, anything, any sort of friction to relieve its seeking need.

“It’s okay to ask, you know?” Malcolm mused, smug, but there was also an odd warmth to his voice. Not as warm as Owen’s skin when another slap hit his ass, just enough to make him jerk and clench again, glad for every bit of support, from Malcolm’s strong legs to the cushion and the floor. “But yeah, I did consider using a metal dildo from the fridge too. Great big head. Personally, I love it.”

The whole thing was just to rile him, that conversational chatter. But just as he was allowing Malcolm’s smugness to get to him, another slap hit him right where the first one had landed.

Owen let out a moan then, even though he was trying to hold back. It all seemed so easy for Malcolm. Feed a date, fuck a date, forget a date. But Owen was fascinated. It was like one of those two-sided puzzles. On one side was a sex robot, a cold, impersonal wielder of cane and crop and dildo (he hadn’t said crop, but Owen figured). The other was . . . well, he looked the same, but instead of the mask of live-steel perfection Malcolm had worn while bossing around the poor Soho bartender, he had the humanity of a man ordering his lover breakfast.

So who was it currently—
slap!—
warming Owen’s ass?
Smack!
Oh God, that one had brushed the plug, and a breathless whine started to issue from his throat. He whimpered, wanting that plug (Oh God) deep inside him, wanting the shaking orgasm that was threatening to erupt, crashing down over his cock and ass and vitals like a tidal wave—but not wanting to let Malcolm stop touching him.

“God,” Malcolm panted. Was he aroused? “You’re stubborn.”
Smack!
“Just come already. Come!”

“You want me to come?”
Smack!
“Then kiss my hot red ass, Malcolm. Kiss it! Kiss it and fuck me deep!”

“Kiss your . . .?” Malcolm was so surprised he actually stopped spanking, and Owen writhed as the air cooled the heated burn on his ass.

“You don’t have to rim me,” Owen snarled, “just touch me!”
And fuck me,
he added, but he thought that would go without saying.

Malcolm expelled a harsh breath, and then shifted Owen so his backside was truly in the middle between Malcolm’s hard, hairy thighs. (That hair was rasping Owen’s sensitized nipples deliciously, even as his chest moved past Malcolm’s leg and his hands, still clenched together, touched the ground.) Malcolm had to bend—it couldn’t have been comfortable, and Owen arched his ass up close, and for a moment, Malcolm just panted, hot breaths that gave heat to the banked fire of Owen’s skin. Then, tentatively, his tongue came out and traced a line on Owen’s right flank, and Owen moaned in encouragement.

A fine line, toward Owen’s crease but not in, and then Malcolm lifted his head, and Owen felt lips, soft and exquisitely gentle on his reddened skin. The tongue came out, wet the lips, and there they were again, soft, kind, tiny little kisses, and Owen allowed himself to beg.

“That’s beautiful, Malcolm. Oh God, the plug!  I need it so bad.  Keep kissing, just . . . oh God . . . the only place that mouth would feel better is on my cock—”

“Make up your mind,” Malcolm groused, but it seemed oddly kind, teasing, and the kiss turning into a scrape of his teeth but nothing more, just the promise of a bite. “Fuck. I want you.” He dipped low to suck Owen’s balls into his mouth, squeezing them carefully, just right, and Owen’s orgasm was building again, one little bit at a time, then rapidly as Malcolm found enough coordination to press against the end of the plug.

Before he could get quite there, Malcolm stopped and ran strong fingers over his ass, kneading the muscle.
That
slap felt impatient, even slightly irritated. “Get on the couch. I’ll suit up.” Malcolm reached to wherever he’d been reaching before, then guided Owen to get back on the couch on all fours.

He considered protesting the position and turning onto his back, but that was when Malcolm’s fingers played with the plug. Owen groaned and pushed his ass out. When the plug left him, he felt even more vulnerable, empty, but that was just for a moment, as Malcolm pushed two lubed fingers into his hole.

“Just getting you ready,” Malcolm murmured, and shifted his weight again. That small crinkling sound was the condom, and Owen relaxed as much as he could, desperate to come now.

The blunt large head demanded entry, and he moaned when Malcolm pulled his ass cheeks apart, as if to watch himself push in. But such concerns were well past Owen’s capability now, even though he knew how practiced all this was, how much Malcolm the sex robot got out of this, how it had to feed his ego.

Malcolm pushed slowly, and, oh hells, he was bigger, so much bigger than the plug. Owen had loved the dark and the uncertainty of it all, but suddenly he wanted light. He wanted to see it, hold it, know the thing that was invading his flesh, and know it intimately.

Suddenly, just as Malcolm slid home hard and deep and bordering the fine edge of just too goddamned big, he had a hunger to see Malcolm’s face. He wanted to see if this mattered.

Behind him, Malcolm let out a low, pained, tenuous groan. “Hell . . .” he panted. “Oh bloody fucking hell.” He pulled back and slammed forward, and Owen groaned. The sound seemed to spur Malcolm on.

“God, scream for me,” he hissed, thrusting so hard Owen was driven, face first, into the couch. “Spanked you till my hand was raw, you fucking git.” Malcolm’s hips thrust forward again and another low, hard groan tore out of Owen’s mouth.

Malcolm’s hand came down hard on his ass, not with practice or the intent to arouse, but with sheer, screaming frustration, and Owen’s howl was not entirely from need. Malcolm didn’t seem to hear that sound, though, because he smacked Owen again and drove forward, his cock so far into Owen’s ass that Owen could feel their balls slap together. “Just wanted,”
thrust,
“to hear you,”
smack!
“come!”

Owen screamed, his entire body one unbearable ache of pain and desire. He reached underneath himself, resting his weight on his shoulder as Malcolm pounded into him, and grabbed his cock, needing to come so badly he didn’t care how it happened. He was dripping pre-cum, and normally he liked some play with that, some sweet teasing of the crown, some gentle squeezing, but that wasn’t what he needed now. What he needed now was his fist, tight and hot and hard, pumping until his aching balls pulled up underneath him.

Malcolm thrust again, and the added smack of their balls together set him off, set his cum pumping from his fisted cock.

Malcolm howled, “No, dammit,
no!
” and then his thrusting grew more frenzied and his hands left marks on Owen’s hips as he ground Owen into the couch with a berserker’s fuck. When he came, he let out a howl and collapsed around Owen, convulsing in orgasm, breathing so hard and fast Owen was worried for him.

As Owen relaxed into the couch, the world around him black and the trembling body of an almost-stranger sweating on top of him, it occurred to him that sometime between his own finger dipped into Grey Goose, the promise of a night to come, and this very moment, his companion had flipped some of his puzzle pieces, become more human and less robot—and Owen had willingly blinded himself to the transformation.

With a little bit of self-directed anger, he ripped off his blindfold and reached over his shoulder to stroke that curly hair. The gel had sweated out, and it was soft and sticky under his fingers.

 

 

Shit. Damn. Fuck. Malcolm groaned in frustration, and, if he were being honest, fucking embarrassment. Promising a stranger a good night, fulfilling his fantasy, and then losing it like a fucking schoolboy. He’d had bigger plans, much better plans, had wanted to blow Owen’s mind, and then this.

Total fuck-up, control jumped out of the window in one glorious, sweaty mess, but regardless, this wasn’t like him, and he knew a dozen guys who’d laugh at him for promising much and delivering pathetically little. He could let arousal simmer for hours, could play with denial and need, slowly removing all inhibitions. It worked, he’d done it, knew how to do it, and delivering any less felt like a total failure. Despite the pleasant post-orgasm buzz, despite the fact that Owen had come.

And was touching him.

Malcolm secured the condom (
you can do at least
that
one right, can’t you?
) and pulled out, his palms hot from the slapping, sweaty, tingling. He wanted to lean into the touch, because for the moment, Owen felt safe enough for him to do that. Was he?

Malcolm had no fucking clue. “Sorry,” he murmured and got up. He pulled the condom off and near-rushed into the bathroom, where he tossed it in the bin.

In the mirror there, he looked like a tousled, sweaty disaster, squinting at his own reflection in the too-bright light. He leaned forward, seeing the two (okay, three) fine lines under his eyes, that bewildered stare because he’d be damned if he had the slightest clue how he could have lost control like that.

He did remember the accusation from one guy who’d crushed on him a few years ago—poor guy had even waited for him outside the bank after work—who had thrown something like a hissy fit:
It’s not a competition, Malcolm. You don’t always have to win.

He tossed some water in his face and then stuck his head under the faucet, washing the sweat off, and the rest of the hair gel, because that stickiness would be all over the pillows once he managed to sleep.

Shit. And how to face the stranger—Owen—when he returned to the living room? He really didn’t want to hear any smartass comments on his performance. Really not. He washed his hands—again—and dried them with the care of a surgeon before an operation. Ideally, when he came out, Owen would just have left and hopefully not have stolen his phone or wallet or something.

He straightened, rubbed his eyes again and inhaled a few times. He could still play it cool. Turn it into something of a compliment. You’re simply too hot—your own damn fault. He snorted. No. He’d only use that if Owen gave him any shit about it.

He opened the door again and saw one of the reading lamps near the couch was switched on. The blindfold lay near his glasses on the table. He headed back and didn’t look into Owen’s eyes. The guy was following his movements with his gaze. He was sitting up, still naked, not bothering to cover himself with any of his clothes strewn on the ground.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and Malcolm grimaced. Ah, the ultimate insult.

“Bloody great. I’m sorry about that last bit,” he said, still not looking. “Here, we can go into the bedroom. It’ll get cold in here in a bit.”

“Can I wipe off your couch for you?” Owen asked, and for a moment Malcolm startled, thinking they were playing the kinky servant
game, but then he realized his little country mouse was just being nice.

“I’ll get it,” he mumbled. He moved to the puddle of his clothes and found his silk boxers and put them on, then threw his dress shirt on because he felt just a little too bare. And he wasn’t kidding. Half his flat was windows—it would be damn cold very shortly.

He walked to the kitchen and reached for a dish towel, squinting and wishing he’d put on his glasses, and was good and truly surprised when that lanky, athletic body showed up right behind his. A pair of long-fingered, narrow-palmed hands landed on his shoulders, and Owen whispered, “I can get this, Malcolm.
We
had sex. Here, gimme.”

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