Microsoft Word - Blind_Space-Marie_Sexton.doc (12 page)

It was true, of course, but there was more to him

than that, and although I was worried about how he would react, I knew I had to tell him. I took a deep breath and said, "I know about Stanton."

I felt him go stiff. I heard the sharp intake of his breath. He tried to pull away, but I'd anticipated his reaction. I grabbed one of his hands as well as I could with mine, and he stilled.

"He has nothing to do with this," he said.

His voice was shaky. I could feel him trembling.

The fact that Stanton's name unnerved him so much only reinforced my belief that I was making the right choice.

"He has everything to do with it," I said.

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He swore under his breath. Once again, his words

were in another language. I didn't understand them, but I understood the inflection. He wasn't angry. He was shaken, and maybe a bit overwhelmed. I waited, wishing I could actually see him. It would have helped so much to be able to read his expression.

"Your men have faith in you," I said. "I have faith in you, too."

He didn't answer for a moment, but then he stepped

close again. He gripped the back of my neck and pulled me close to kiss me. It wasn't a lingering kiss. It was short and sweet, and it came with a promise.

"I swear to you Tristan, I won't let you down."

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As quickly as it had come, the moment was gone.

He let go of me, stepping back a bit to take my hands.

There was a tug at my wrists. A snap. The pressure from the tie was gone.

I was free.

His hands shifted on mine, moving to rub the place

where the tie had been, and I stopped him, grabbing one of his hands. I couldn't see him, but finally, I had the freedom to really touch him.

I started with his hand, exploring it with my own.

He had long, thin fingers; rough knuckles; thick, strong wrists. I moved my hand slowly up his arm. Hair on his forearm, but not too much, and then my hand was blocked by his sleeve, which felt like silk. I moved my hand up higher. His upper arm was bulky and hard. I moved my hand up farther, exploring his shoulder. I'd always had the impression he was stockier than me, and feeling him now, I knew I'd been right. He was a bit shorter than me, but much broader. I moved my hand down to his chest. His shirt was open at the top, and I felt smooth skin over hard muscles.

Very little hair on his chest. Both nipples pierced with thin metal rings.

Slowly, I moved my hand back up, along the soft

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skin of his neck. My fingers found a strange ridge, at the spot where his neck met his shoulder. I stopped to feel it.

"It's a scar," he said. "From the war. I nearly bled to death."

I knew more about that scar than he realized.

I moved my hand up further. His ear was pierced,

once with only a simple stud on his lobe, and again up higher with a hoop. I felt his hair against my fingertips. My thumb was on his temple, and I moved it back, along the side of his head. It wasn't shaved all the way to the skin, but the hair was short there. Higher up, it was longer, obviously ratted, sticking up and out. No wonder I'd been able to feel it on my cheeks as he kissed my neck. My fingers followed the mohawk down the back of his skull. The hair there hung several centimeters past the nape of his neck.

"What color is it?" I asked.

"Black." He laughed. "Mostly." He took my hand and guided it back to his temple. "Red here." He moved my hand to a spot behind his ear, almost at the nape of his neck. "Purple here." He laughed again, and I could tell he was embarrassed. "I'm a vain man, Tristan. I spend a ridiculous amount of time in front of the mirror before you arrive, even though I know you can't see me."

The confession made me smile. I moved my fingers

forward to carefully explore his face. It was strange. I'd

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never felt anybody else's features before, so I had no idea how to put everything I felt into an image. I stuck with what I could easily visualize: his eyebrows were thin, his cheeks were smooth, there was a tiny cleft in his chin. His lips…

I knew what they felt like.

I leaned in and kissed him. Always before, my

bound hands had been between us. Finally, I was able to feel his body against mine, and to put my arms around him.

He pulled me tight against him. It felt amazing, but it wasn't enough. There was so much of him I still didn't know.

I broke our kiss, falling to my knees in front of him.

I pulled his shirt open and felt his stomach. It was smooth and flat, yet not too hard. There was a tiny bit of softness there to hint at the relative luxury he lived in. I found the buttons on his pants and unhooked them.

"Tristan," he said, his voice thick with arousal.

"Shhh," I said. Whatever he wanted, it could wait. I pulled his pants open and used my hands to explore lower on his stomach.

Hair began just below his navel—not thick, but not

just a trail, either. Sparse hair across his lower abdomen, getting thicker as my hands slowly moved lower. My

fingers finally found his cock, thick and hard where it

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emerged from his coarse hair, which I knew now had to be black.

"Oh gods, Tristan," he moaned as my fingers moved up his shaft to his tip.

A thick metal ring pierced the end of his cock. Not circumcised. Most men weren't, but occasionally one still encountered a man without his foreskin. I used my fingers to slide his back all the way. I felt his fingers clench in my hair, pulling me toward him. I opened my mouth and let him inside.

He was thick and salty. The metal ring was cold

against my tongue. Although he kept his fingers knotted tight in my hair, his hips didn't move. He held perfectly still and let me explore his length with my mouth and hands. He smelled amazing, musky and masculine. I let his length slide deep into my throat, burying my nose in his thick hair.

His smell was strong and unbelievably arousing, and I whimpered.

"Tristan," he said again, his voice a hoarse whisper.

He used his hand in my hair to pull me away from his cock.

He angled my head up, as if to make me look at him.

"Will you wear more of the lace for me?"

Just the thought of it made me weak with arousal.

He had to be able to see what it did to me—the way my breathing sped up, the weakness it inspired in me. "Yes."

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He pulled me to my feet. He stopped once to kiss

me, but it was only a moment, and then his hands were tearing at my clothes. I aided him only in that I stood still and compliant while he undressed me. His touch felt amazing. His soft, low moans as he uncovered me made me giddy. The thought of what was to come made me ache.

He put something in my hands. I felt it, determining which item from my bag it was. The fabric was thin and stretchy, slightly rough and scratchy. They were pantyhose, made entirely of black lace. It hadn't been easy to find a pair that fit me.

He pushed against me, and it seemed I could almost

feel the tension in him. "Please," he said, and his voice shook.

"It will be easier to put them on if I'm sitting down."

He led me into the room, a corner of it I'd never

been in before, and pushed me gently backward until I was sitting on what could only be his bed. It made me

breathless, knowing where I was and where I was headed.

With him.

It took me a minute to sort out the pantyhose, but I finally figured out the front from the back. The first few times I'd tried to put on hose, I'd torn them by trying to shove my feet straight into them and down the legs, but I'd since learned to do it right. I bunched the fabric up in my

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hands so I could put my toes right into the foot of the hose.

First one leg, then the other. I stood up to pull them into place.

These were made for style, not comfort. The lace

was stretchy and a bit rough, continuing all the way to the waist. They hugged my scrotum and rubbed deliciously against my erect cock. I stood still, waiting for him to say something.

"Holy mother of the gods," he said at last, "you're exquisite."

The comment made me smile.

"Turn around," he said. "I want to see the back."

I obliged him, and heard him moan when I did.

"Get on the bed," he said.

I climbed onto it, on my hands and knees, my ass

pointing in the direction of his voice. He moaned again.

"Tristan, whatever self-control I have, I'm going to lose it the moment I touch you."

His words made me shiver. I wasn't sure my arms

could continue to hold me. "Good."

The sound he made was closer to a growl than a

moan. "Lie down," he said.

And I complied.

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I lay on my stomach, trembling in anticipation. The hose made me feel tawdry and cheap, and yet, I found that feeling cheap, in turn, made me feel unbelievably horny. I wanted to be fucked.

I could hear Valero behind me. I heard a drawer

open, the sound of a lid being spun off a glass jar. I hoped it was lube. I hoped he would touch me soon. I ground my erection against the bed, and behind me, I heard Valero moan.

"Please," I said. I couldn't think of anything more than that one word.
Please, please, please.

The bed shifted as Valero climbed onto it. He

pushed my legs apart. His hands traveled up my thighs and I whimpered, wanting so much to feel him touch me more.

I reached up and gripped the headboard. I felt the need to steady myself, to somehow ground myself lest I be washed away in this tide. Valero's hands reached my ass. They caressed, rubbing around and around, and I ground him into the bed. "I've never wanted anyone the way I want you," he said, his voice thick and husky. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Please!" I said again.

Valero's hands squeezed. His thumbs pushed

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brutally between my cheeks, making me gasp, pulling the hose tight between my legs. The lace tugged against my cock and I arched my back, thrusting my ass into Valero's hands, not even knowing anymore exactly what I wanted, knowing only that I wanted it now. I
needed
it now.

Valero squeezed again, and I whimpered, biting my

lip, feeling as if every inch of me was humming. I pushed against the headboard in an attempt to grind harder into Valero's hands. Suddenly, his grip changed. The fabric pulled tighter than before.

He tore the hose open. I felt the cool air of the room against my skin. It felt like a violation, having the lace torn, knowing my ass was bare and accessible while the rest of me still felt the sensual touch of black lace. It made me shake and whimper. I wanted to be violated more. Desire and need eclipsed all else. I wanted to be fucked in a way I'd never wanted it before. I feared I might sob if it didn't happen soon.

"
Please
!" I said a third time.

Valero growled. He gripped my cheeks, pulling

them so wide that I gasped, partially from pain. And then he finally gave me what I so desperately longed for.

He pushed his cock into me. He didn't go slow. He

didn't wait for me to say it was fine. He buried himself in me, holding there for only a second before he began to

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thrust fast and deep, fucking me hard, talking as he did, his words a breathless stream in a language I didn't know. I didn't need to understand the words to know he was

consumed by the same desperation I felt. He was frantic; his foreign words punctuated the relentless pounding of his cock. He pulled my hair. He used his teeth. He fucked me as I'd never been fucked before, with a reckless abandon that was nearly violent. He slammed into me with a vicious brutality that took my breath away.

I gave myself up to it. I felt I might never come

back from the intensity of what he did to me, and I didn't care. I surrendered to his attack, losing all sense of myself to him.

There was no reprieve—no moment of tenderness—

there was only the ruthless intensity of being fucked by him until we both lay sweating and panting and spent. My ass ached. My throat was raw. I'd come so hard I thought I might have screamed. The hose were a mess. The legs were still intact, but everything above that had been torn by Valero, or soiled by my cum.

Only then, when the storm had passed, did he lean

down and kiss the back of my neck. "Tristan," he asked gently, "are you all right?"

I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. My body

ached, but my heart was light. My mind was perfectly

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clear. I'd never felt better. It was a moment of sheer peace. I had no fear. I had no shame.

Some part of me had been set free, and I knew with

a sudden, painful clarity that I never wanted to leave him. I couldn't explain it. I knew it was irrational, but that didn't change it. The only thing I cared about at all was staying with Valero.