Heading
toward Venice, breathing, counting, Xavier put Kayleigh and Olga and
that fucking video out of his mind, and focused his thoughts on
Carson. Xavier had never encountered anyone whose arousal was so tied
to fear. There was Dario, but that was something else. And there’d
been others—hell, countless others—who wanted or needed or
thrived on being dominated, controlled, made helpless, threatened,
even hurt. But with the others—Dario being the lone, eternal
exception—on some level either just at the surface or somewhere
down toward the depths, it was theater.
Not
for Carson. It wasn’t just that he really was his prisoner. It was
something inside of him. Something intimately intertwined with those
worshipful images of the model's cock on Carson's camera. With the
tragic sorrow quivering along the lie threaded between that silent
prayer in light and shadow, and Carson's brittle mantra, “I'm not
gay, I'm not gay.”
When
he got back from the Kayleigh's, Xavier uncuffed Carson and gave him
his three minutes in the bathroom. When he emerged, Carson startled
when Xavier intercepted him before he’d returned to his post, then
started panting and resisting as Xavier drove him back into the
bathroom.
Maneuvering
him into the shower, Xavier forced one arm overhead and latched the
restraint into the bolt in the wall, then did his other wrist.
Fuck,
from the look on Carson’s face it was like he thought Xavier was
about to whip a chainsaw out from under the sink and re-enact a scene
from Scarface.
Caressing
his cheek, noting how he flinched at that gentle touch, how pale he’d
gone, how he was trembling, Xavier said, “This scruffy beard you’re
growing is cute. But I like you better clean-cut. Soft and smooth.”
He
took off the gag and tossed it into the sink, and in lieu of the
chainsaw, he got his electric shaver from the cupboard, and stepped
back into the shower with Carson.
“It’s
not a straight razor. Don’t look so worried.”
Even
after everything, it felt so fucking intimate, touching and guiding
his jaw, coaxing him to raise his chin, to elongate his neck, making
his skin taut, easy to shave. Touching his chin with just the pad of
his thumb to coax a turn to the left, then to the right, the sharp
bright fear in his blue eyes softening to a hazed glow.
But
when Xavier put the guard attachment on the clippers and sat down on
the edge of the tub, Carson’s fear sharpened again. Christ, it was
beautiful, the way his abdomen—elongated and taut because his arms
were stretched overhead—fluttered with his alarmed respiration.
“Don’t
worry, I won’t shave you bare. We’ll just keep things from
getting unruly.”
Carson’s
body awkward and rigid the whole time, Xavier carefully groomed him,
gently lifting and shifting his balls and his dick as he worked
around them, relishing the soft, sweet delight of feeling Carson’s
cock swelling slightly in his hand.
Stepping
out of the shower, Xavier put the clippers away, then turned back to
Carson, dangling in suspense. Locked eyes with him. Stripped out of
his T-shirt.
Fuck.
That furrow between Carson’s eyebrows—how could such a little
thing hit Xavier so fucking hard? And the way his head sank down—a
slow, small movement, barely perceptible. Still so shy. Still
ashamed. And, of course, still afraid.
When
Xavier stripped out of his pants and underwear, Carson turned away.
He didn’t just turn his head aside. His whole body twisted until
he’d put his back to Xavier.
Stepping
into the tub, Xavier picked up the shower head on the end of its
metal snake-like coil, and turned on the water. Waited for it to
warm. Moved the spray over Carson’s smooth, broad shoulders,
watched the rivulets stream down his back, over the jutting curves of
his pale ass, down his long, finely muscled thighs.
Raking
his fingers into Carson’s curls, possessive but not rough, he
pulled his head back. Wet his hair, watching it darken and straighten
and cling to his scalp. Carson stayed dead still as Xavier filled the
hollow of his palm with shampoo, but shuddered when he felt that
touch, Xavier's fingertips sinking into wet locks.
Foam
rising and flowing outward from his fingers, streaking Carson’s
dark strands. Even with Carson staying still, staying silent, Xavier
knew how firmly to press his scalp with the pads of his fingers. Felt
his fearful rigidity slowly softening. Worked his scalp. Massaged his
temples in gradually widening circles. Worked just under the base of
his skull, wearing down the knot of stressed muscle fed on hours and
hours of fear and being restrained, one arm pinned back.
Xavier
rinsed the lather from Carson’s hair. Got the soap. Massaged his
neck, his shoulders. Sculpted. Smooth under his hands. Utterly
delicious to his touch. His back, too, so beautiful to look at, even
more so to feel, contrast of wide shoulders and narrow waist,
contours of smooth muscle, of silky skin.
Reaching
up. Finely muscled arms. Hands. For some reason, when he slid his
soap-slippery fingers between Carson’s, there was a quiet whimper.
Almost inaudible. Almost like he was still gagged.
The hairy
hollows of his pits. Sinewy torso. Down his sides: corrugations of
ribs, that ridge of muscled flesh where torso meets pelvis, down to
smooth, sleek hips.
Fuck,
his breath speeding, cock aching, Xavier slid his soapy hands over
Carson’s flat, taut belly. Up. Muscled swell of his pecs.
When
Xavier leaned in, let his chest and belly curve to press against his
back, let his cock nestle between Carson’s cheeks as he caressed
him, breathing in the scent of the soap, feeling Carson’s wet hair
against his cheek, Carson’s trembling body began shuddering against
his. A day ago, Carson’s weeping would have pumped Xavier full of
poisonous glee, but at this moment it was cooling all his warm
pleasure.
“Carson.
I’m not about to fuck you. I’m just enjoying bathing you.”
If
anything, Carson’s shuddering just got worse.
Fair
enough. Given the situation, it was probably hard to buy that line
with Xavier’s erection nestled in his cleft. Xavier took a step
back. Turned Carson to face him. He was seeking his eyes, so he
wouldn’t have noticed right away, except Carson’s hard dick slid
against Xavier's thigh as he pivoted him away from the wall. Whatever
confusion was making Carson cry, there was nothing indecisive about
his hard-on.
When
Xavier said, “Look at me,” Carson obeyed.
It
wasn’t fear—at least not fear that Xavier was about to rape
him—that Xavier found in Carson’s upturned eyes, surprisingly
unshy, unevasive, but red and welling up. A different kind of fear.
An inward-turned fear. The unexpected rush of tenderness that hit
Xavier’s chest made it hard to breathe.
He
didn’t think Carson would let him. Not like that. Not with his own
trembling seeking. But at the first brush of lips Carson gave himself
to the kiss. Not just a yielding submission.
Fuck,
joder, there’d never been a kiss like it. As cock and
chest-twisting as a hard fuck, but with something sweet and bitter
pouring into his belly at the same time.
Just
for a second Xavier thought of letting him out of the restraints.
Maybe it was the way that inward-turned fear in Carson’s eyes
flared up when Xavier glanced up at his wrists, but he left him like
that. Arms bound overhead, body stretched taut, defenseless.
Just
shallow kisses now, watching murky pleasure and hazy fear ebb and
churn in Carson’s eyes as Xavier touched him. A shadow appeared in
that furrow between his eyebrows as he touched his nipples, both at
once, feathering and teasing, first. Then tormenting him, twisting
and tugging, drinking his groans, devouring his lips, feasting on his
tongue.
Carson
was so fucking keyed up, Xavier was afraid to touch his cock, pretty
sure he’d lose it at the first stroke. But fuck, so much fucking
want. More brutal than any before.
A
fistful of hair. Kissing. Wrapping his fist around his own aching
dick he gave it a squeeze, rubbed the joint behind the crown with the
pad of his thumb. He wasn’t much better than Carson. Wouldn’t
last a minute.
Carson.
Looking. Anticipating. When Xavier brushed their cock heads together
Carson let out a cry that drove a hot thrill right to Xavier’s
balls.
Kissing.
Tongue and lips. Throat. Nipple. Ear. Neck. Carson writhing and
sighing, Xavier came, the spasm grasping his balls and cock in a
brutal jolt, launching a thick rope of spunk onto Carson’s stiff
prick. Loving that, he kept lacing strand after strand over his head
and shaft as spasm after spasm wrung him out.
Sinking
down, he perched on the edge of the tub, grasped Carson’s hips in
both hands, pulled him forward, and swiped his tongue up the length
of his shaft, pink, lightly veined, hard as fucking iron, and over
his succulent head, looking up into those startled blue eyes watching
it all, and swallowed. Licked and licked until he’d mopped up every
drop of his own spunk, drank it down, slid his tongue over his own
lips, devouring Carson’s look of stunned, overwhelmed arousal, then
wrapped his lips around his cock.
Fuck,
the way Carson groaned and shuddered as Xavier pulled his cock into
his mouth, the way he was trembling in Xavier’s hands was every bit
as fucking delicious as the hard meat in his mouth. Letting go of his
hips, Xavier pried Carson’s thighs apart, slid his arms between and
grabbed two handfuls of muscled rump as he went on eating. Tangy
pre-cum seeping from that succulent head, fat and firm against his
tongue. And God, that satiating yet appetite-whetting sensation, his
whole cock filling his mouth, head prodding his throat. When he
swallowed, Carson groaned and bucked and came, semen pouring down
Xavier’s throat, jet after viscous jet.
Xavier
nursed and licked his way back, releasing Carson slowly, inch by
inch, then stood, drank in his dazed look, and took him in a hard,
deep kiss, startled by his own hunger, when he’d come just a couple
minutes earlier.
And
Carson. Jesus Cristo. If anything, he looked more scared than
ever, now. Sadder than ever. But, fuck, he kept kissing. Kissing like
he was trying to eat Xavier’s goddamned soul.
Xavier
ended it. Because he had to. Because you don’t gamble the fate of a
bunch of stolen kids on a kiss. Not even that kiss.
But
he ended it gently. With a press of lips at the corner of Carson’s
mouth. With another tender brush of lips and a soft kiss by his ear.
He
got a towel and gently dried Carson’s face.
Carson’s
voice was soft and full of hurt surprise. His eyes were even worse.
“Take off the cuffs.”
Xavier
gave him a carefully measured look. Not angry or threatening, but
unyielding. A bit reproachful.
When
he started drying Carson’s body, Carson said, “You’re really
going to keep me chained up?” Wounded. Angry.
“Yes.
But if you don’t say another word, I’ll leave the gag off.”
When
he’d finished drying Carson, letting the perverse thrill of gently
lifting and shifting his cock and his balls so he could blot them dry
prick him through the heavy blanket of regret wrapping itself around
him, he perfunctorily dried himself with the same, now damp towel.
Then he unlatched Carson’s restraints from the overhead bolt and
led him back to his post.
