Song of Oestend (40 page)

“I won’t.”

“Good.” Aren reached up with one hand and grabbed Frances’ cock, guiding it to

Deacon’s mouth. Frances’ eyes drifted shut as Deacon sucked him in. He began to thrust, slower than before. “Good,” Aren said again, nipping at Deacon’s shoulder. He ran his hands down Deacon’s sides to his hips, then forwards over his stomach. Deacon moaned and his breathing sped up as Aren’s hands neared his cock.

“I’m going to fuck you later,” Aren said in his ear, keeping his voice low so Frances would be less likely to hear. “But not yet.” Deacon whimpered, but could say nothing with SONG OF OESTEND

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Frances’ cock still moving in and out of his mouth. “For now, I’ll give you this.” He wrapped his hand around Deacon’s cock.

Deacon moaned again, and for a minute, Aren lost himself to the simple pleasure of

stroking his lover, feeling his thick cock moving in and out of his hand. He ground his own erection against Deacon’s firm ass. He nipped at his shoulder.

Above him, he could hear Frances’ breath growing ragged. Deacon’s moans were

becoming more urgent. Aren let go of Deacon long enough to reach up and untie one of his hands. As soon as Deacon’s hand was free, Aren moved back to where he’d been, stroking Deacon while grinding against him from behind. Frances’ eyes were closed, but they snapped open when he felt Deacon touch him. He slowed, his eyes wide as he looked down at Aren. He was breathing hard, but he stopped thrusting, allowing Deacon, who was still blindfolded, to find his entrance.

Aren couldn’t see from where he was, but he knew the instant Deacon’s fingers pushed

inside. Frances’ back arched as he hung on to the canopy frame above him. “Oh, Saints, yes!”

he moaned, and his words seemed to trigger a greater arousal in Deacon as well. Deacon’s hand began to move, Frances’ hips began to thrust harder and faster, forwards into Deacon’s mouth, backwards onto Deacon’s hand. They were panting, their breathing almost in sync, and Aren tightened his grip on Deacon’s cock. He ground hard against him from behind. He revelled in the feeling of having both men submit to him, of being able to give each of them something they needed. Aren dug the fingers of his free hand into Deacon’s side, scratching his flesh. He bit harder on Deacon’s shoulder as he ground against him, as he stroked him harder and faster, moving his hand to the tempo of the ragged breaths of his lover and the man whose cock was deep in Deacon’s mouth, the man who Deacon’s fingers fucked faster and harder than before. He lost himself in the rhythm of their breathing, the motion of their thrusts, the guttural urgency of their moans, until suddenly Frances cried out.

Aren stopped stroking Deacon, for fear Frances’ orgasm would trigger Deacon’s, too,

but he held him as Frances thrust again into Deacon’s mouth. Deacon’s hand drew him in deeper, and Frances yelled out again as he spent himself in Deacon’s mouth.

Frances pulled out of Deacon’s mouth, and as soon as he did, Deacon started to talk.

“Aren,” he said, “Aren, Aren, Aren, Aren…”

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It was only his name, but Aren knew it for what it was. Deacon was begging him for

more. He wouldn’t let himself plead in front of Frances the way he normally did, but his need compelled him to say something.

“Shhh,” Aren soothed. He took Deacon’s hand and tied it back to the bedpost. He

grabbed the salve off the bed and spread more on his own fingers. Frances, who had

collapsed backwards onto the bed looking unbelievably relieved, watched him with a sated smile on his face. “We’re not finished yet,” Aren said to Deacon.

Aren put his slick fingertips against Deacon’s rim. He pushed, just barely.

Deacon’s body bucked. He strained against his bonds. He arched his back, trying to

push his hips back, trying to push himself further onto Aren’s fingers.

Aren pulled out, and Deacon moaned. He went limp against the ropes, sagging.

“Aren,” he panted, “Aren, Aren, Aren…”

Aren didn’t grant Deacon what he wanted right away. As Frances watched them, Aren

continued to tease his lover, barely pushing in, then pulling out, drawing their pleasure out as long as he could. He wanted to make it last. He also wanted to give Frances time to recover and join back in if he so desired. The boy was young, Aren thought with a smile. If any of them could do it, it would be him.

Besides, more than anything, Aren loved teasing Deacon. He continued to caress him

and kiss him, but he never went all the way. He made sure to give Deacon a little less than he longed for, less than he needed, making the big man buck and squirm, until he was nearly frantic.

“Aren,” he cried out. “Please!”

Aren smiled. He kept his fingertips firmly on Deacon’s entrance, rubbing in slow,

sensuous circles. He reached around with his other hand to grip Deacon’s cock. Then, very, very slowly, he pushed his fingers past Deacon’s rim, sliding them deep inside. Deacon whimpered. He writhed. He groaned. He pulled against his ropes. Aren kept his fingers moving, in and out, in and out. He kept his other hand moving up and down Deacon’s shaft.

Frances, whose cock was growing hard again, watched them with half-lidded eyes. He

crawled across the bed. He got to his knees in front of Deacon. He ran his hands up Deacon’s sides. He eyed Deacon’s face and his lips, and Aren wondered how Deacon would respond if SONG OF OESTEND

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Frances kissed him. But Frances seemed to decide against it. Instead, he began to kiss Deacon’s neck and his chest. He let his hands wander over the big man’s chest and sides.

Aren continued his motions with both hands, fucking Deacon from behind with one

while stroking his cock with the other. He ground his own aching erection against Deacon’s hip, biting his lip to fight back his own impending climax.

He felt Frances’ small, callused hand on his, and Aren let Frances take over stroking Deacon. Aren concentrated on moving his fingers in and out of Deacon, grinding himself against Deacon’s hip as he did. He watched as Frances kissed his way down Deacon’s chest to where he held Deacon’s big cock in his hand. He saw the way Frances eyed it, debating.

Aren could tell just by watching the boy that he’d never sucked a man’s cock before.

Frances pulled Deacon’s foreskin back. He put his head down and touched the very tip

of his tongue to the end of Deacon’s shaft.

Deacon bucked, gasping, and Frances looked up at him, his eyes burning. The boy was

stretched out on his stomach, and Aren noticed the way his hips ground into the bed. He heard Frances moan. Frances pushed his hips down again as he bent his head back to Deacon’s waiting cock. He put his tongue out again, flicking it over Deacon’s crown, and Deacon moaned again, pulling against the ropes.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes yes yes yes…”

That seemed to be all the encouragement Frances needed. The boy opened his mouth

and took Deacon’s tip in, and Deacon cried out, his voice hoarse and husky with need.

Frances began to move up and down—he couldn’t take in more than half of Deacon’s

length—but he made up for it with sheer enthusiasm. He attacked Deacon’s erection, sucking it, pumping the base of it with his fist as he humped his own hips against the bed. The boy was moving faster and faster, his thrusts against the bed becoming more urgent as he sucked Deacon.

Aren sped up, moving his fingers faster in and out of Deacon, watching as Frances

sucked Deacon’s cock. Frances and Deacon were lost again in the pleasure, and Aren let himself get lost, too, grinding against Deacon’s firm hip. Their moans began to overlap. Their ragged breathing fell into sync. He pushed harder against Deacon’s smooth flesh as he pushed a third finger inside.

“Aren!” Deacon cried. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…”

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Aren’s own arousal was peaking. He couldn’t hold his own orgasm at bay much longer,

let alone Deacon’s.

“Not until my cock is in you,” he said. Deacon moaned in response, pulling on his

ropes, biting his lip in what Aren knew was an attempt to distract himself from the pleasure.

Aren moved into position behind Deacon. His own cock was rock hard, almost painful

with the need for release. He pulled his fingers out of Deacon. He used his hands to spread him wide, to open him up, and he slowly pushed his cock inside.

“Awww!” Deacon cried out, pulling harder against his bonds as Aren started to thrust.

The bedposts creaked from the strain as Deacon’s muscles tensed. Aren thrust harder. He watched Frances’ hips humping against the bed. He heard Deacon’s low, desperate cry. He felt the weight behind it, the pressure of Deacon’s orgasm bearing down on them all.

He reached around Deacon. He grabbed hold of his nipple with one hand. And he

squeezed.

Hard.

Deacon gasped, sucking in his breath as the pain hit him, then his back arched and he screamed. His body tightened around Aren’s cock, and Aren came with him, pumping into Deacon’s body as his lover cried out again from the force of his release.

His orgasm was quick but unbelievably intense, and Aren collapsed against Deacon’s

back, holding himself up only by his grip on Deacon’s body. Deacon was limp in his bonds, his sides heaving as he fought to catch his breath. Aren forced his knees to work. He made himself stand up on legs that were wobbly from his own climax. He looked around Deacon’s body at where Frances lay on the bed. The boy obviously hadn’t been able to swallow Deacon’s cum. He had apparently pulled away and used his fist instead. There was cum on his hand, in his hair, on the sheets, on his cheek. He let go of Deacon and sat up, breathing hard, but smiling ear to ear. He looked down at the sticky wetness on his own groin, where he’d climaxed again. He grinned up at Aren.

“I made a mess of your bed.”

Aren burst out laughing. “You’re forgiven,” he said. He turned to look at Deacon, who was smiling, still trying to catch his breath. He wanted to untie him, but he found that now, after they were all spent, he wanted his lover to himself. After being tied up, Deacon was SONG OF OESTEND

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always tender with him. That was when Aren felt the most cherished. It was a moment he didn’t want to share.

He looked over at Frances, trying to decide what to say, but to his surprise, Frances was smiling at him, already getting off the bed. “I’ll go downstairs,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Aren started to say, but he stopped when Frances burst out laughing.

“Holy Saints, Aren, you sure don’t owe me any apologies.” He smiled at Aren again as

he picked his pants up off the floor. “I’ll drink your whisky. You take your time.”

When he was gone, Aren untied Deacon’s legs, and the big cowboy moaned, more from

pain than from pleasure, as he straightened back up to his full height.

“I’m sorry,” Aren said again, and Deacon laughed, just as Frances had done.

“You don’t owe me any apologies, either.”

But suddenly, Aren wasn’t so sure. He remembered the shame he’d felt as Dean

Birmingham had untied him so many months before. He remembered fighting back tears as he lay there, cum from at least three men running down his legs. He remembered how

humiliated he’d felt that some of it was his own. He didn’t want that for Deacon.

Aren climbed onto the bed. Deacon’s hands were still tied but being able to stand all the way up had given him some slack. Aren knelt in front of him. His hands shook as he slowly pushed the blindfold off Deacon’s eyes. He was afraid of what he’d see in them. When Deacon’s gaze met his, Aren’s doubts seemed to shrink, but they didn’t disappear. Deacon looked as he always did after sex—happy, sated, relaxed. And as he looked at Aren, Aren saw also the tenderness he’d grown used to seeing in Deacon’s eyes.

“What’s the matter?” Deacon asked immediately.

“Did I do wrong?” Aren asked, his voice shaking.

“No,” Deacon said. “You never do.”

Aren reached up and untied one wrist. “I don’t want you to feel ashamed.”

“Why would I?”

Aren moved to the other hand. “Do you regret letting me tell you what to do? Do you

hate me for bringing Frances in?”

Deacon was looking at him with puzzlement in his eyes. “Not one bit.” With both

hands free, he reached for Aren, pulling him into his arms, holding him tight against his SONG OF OESTEND

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body. “Here in this room, you’re in charge,” he said, “I’ll do anything you say. I’ll follow any order you give me.”

Aren felt a lump in his throat, although he couldn’t have said exactly why. “Tell me you love me.”

Deacon smiled. He pushed Aren backwards onto the bed, still holding him tight. His

hands moved on Aren’s skin, petting him, soothing him, reassuring him. “I do love you,” he said. “More than you know. More than I can say. More than anything else in the world.” He kissed Aren’s neck and his jaw. He caressed him. “I love you more than I ever thought possible. I don’t know how I ever lived without you. I hope I never have to live without you again.”

Aren felt tears running down his cheeks. His entire body was trembling, and Deacon

held him tighter. “I don’t regret one second of my time in this room with you, and I don’t want you to regret any of it, either. You make me what I am. You make me strong. You’re perfect, and you’re beautiful, and I love you. And I need you. And I depend on you. And there’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do just to see you smile.”

Aren drew a deep, shaking breath. He felt the world grow steady and solid again

around him. Deacon looked down at him. He gently wiped away Aren’s tears, concern and love and a hint of confusion in his eyes.

Aren didn’t blame him for being confused. He was glad Deacon wasn’t asking for an

explanation for Aren’s sudden loss of control, because he wasn’t sure he had one to give. But Deacon’s reassurances had steadied him. He hadn’t made a mistake by bringing Frances into their bed. He had wanted to make Deacon feel good, to give him as much pleasure as he could, to give him the release he knew Deacon so desperately needed, and he realised he had succeeded. His sudden and irrational fear that he’d shamed his lover was nothing but a ghost of his own past.