Free Fall, CH 05 (Patreon)

He dodges my punch and predictably tries to take advantage of my overextension. I grab his wrist, pull as I twist, and sent him to the ground. I place my foot down to avoid falling, and my other one is kicked out from under me. The gravel digs in my side, and boxes light up in response.

The hardest one to quiet is his and those responding to it. Pride that he caught me by surprise, that he didn’t let the pain of that landing slow his reaction, or—

“Gotcha,” Bart says, smirking, instead of pressing the advantage.

The box reacting to his words dims the others.

Disappointment that he still isn’t taking this seriously.

I am on my feet. His smirk turns sour as I rush him, force him to back and get to get up, but it’s too late for him. He will pay for this. I shoulder him aside, grab his arm and pull him back to me, throw him against the houses’ wall, I’m in front of him before his head clears and my forearm presses against his neck, holding him in place as I grab his ass with my other hand and pull.

He knows the price for disappointing me this way.

He wraps his legs against my waist even as he fights to move my arm so he can breathe.

He also knows the price for simply allowing this to happen.

His pained scream as I push my cock in his ass is strangled under the pressure of my forearm. There is the usual scraping of sand, which I ignore. The fear in his eyes as I bare my teeth and snarl makes the lowering of the physical pleasure from that worth it. Maybe this is the day he pushed me too far, he wonders. Maybe this is the day when I am done with his games and how he thinks he can manipulate me into fucking him the way he wants to be fucked.

He doesn’t know if this is the day I will end him for treating me this way.

I do not either.

Boxes clamor for attention as I think that, but I ignore them too.

I thrust hard. The discomfort is less now as the passage becomes slick. The sensations build in me.

And in him.

“Don’t,” I snarl, as I can see the ecstasy in his eyes. That moment when diving himself over to me causes a physical release. I pull my arm enough he takes in a ragged breath. “You have not earned it.”

With no longer having to fight to pull my arm aways, he grabs onto my neck, and my hand joins the other on his ass as I pound it. I keep my eyes fixed on his, daring him to cum from this. Promising him worse than he is already getting as I let my pleasure build.

I mash my lips against his as my orgasm hit. I bite and draw blood as I cum, buried deep inside him. He moans and trembles, holds on to me tightly.

I stay in him as the heat dissipates. When I go to pull my mouth away, he kisses me, pushes his bloodied tongue into my mouth. Almost makes it a demand.

I pull away and glare at him. I do not take orders. When I see the understanding in his eyes, I lower my gaze. The motion is for him. So he knows this is serious. I already know the state he’s in, but has he remained aware of himself through all this, or did he lose himself in the sensation?

His cock is hard, trembling, leaking. It makes its own demand to be touched, stroked, brought to pleasure.

I ignore it too, even if I’m pleased at his control.

When I raise my gaze, he’s smiling. Not self satisfaction or pride. Contentment.

“This is nice,” he says. “Just you and me. I’m glad Zephyr offered to entertain Emil for the afternoon.” The smile changes. It’s minor, but he’s almost mocking me, as if to imply he sees through my ploy. That I arranged for Emil to be away so I could enjoy him without distractions.

As if I am incapable of focusing on him when Emil is near.

“I didn’t set this up. Emil expressed curiosity about Zephyr’s art previously, so Zephyr offered and Emil accepted.”

“Emil arranged for us to spend time alone?” his question is filled with surprise, and… I realize he may be right. I go over the exchanges. Zephyr coming over while Emil practiced shooting, the mention of his art. The subsequent questions from Emil, leading to me giving him Zephyr’s number. Emil asking if it’s okay for him to visit him today. Emil mentioning Zephyr had made the offer. No, making a point of mentioning it.

“You must take our training seriously,” I say, silencing the boxes the realization triggered. Emil manipulated me. “If this had been against someone else, they would have killed you.”

“If this had been someone else,” Bart replied, his smirk back. “I’d have killed them first.”

“You can’t know that.” Boxes shudder at the thought of what his overconfidence might cause. They are nearly in sync and….

Something.

Frustration shines brighter and I silence everything.

“I am proof that you are not the pinnacle of death, Bart. There may be someone out there who is better.”

“Better than you?” he snorts.

“Yes. That is possible. Better than you, that is likely. You will not survive discovering that is you already believe yourself the best there is.”

“I know I’m not.”

“If you believe you are the best beside me. I—” the chaos of boxes chokes whatever the words might have been. How expectant expression doesn’t help silence them. I am violent in exerting my control over them, bringing complete silence and darkness to remind them who is in control.

“We need to wash and disinfect those wounds.”

* * * * *

The glow of the boxes is low, comfortable, as Bart leans back against me. They know their places now, so I am giving them some play.

Our legs intertwine as we sit. My back against the shower’s wall, him between them. My arms drape over his shoulders, and he runs a hand up and down the left biceps.

“You need to be more unpredictable,” I whisper in his ear.

He snorts. “You’re telling me, the guy who barely plans two steps ahead, to be more unpredictable?”

“Yes. Your lack of planing means you rely on a set of moves you are comfortable in. That you don’t have to think about. You have to consciously act against that.” The only times he doesn’t fight that way is when he holds a knife.

“Do we really need a debriefing now?” he asks, just short of whining.

“I want you to be a better fighter, Bart.”

“I’m never going to be better than you.” He turns his head and kisses my response away. It is firm, but not demanding. He has learned that lesson at least. For today.

I reach down as I kiss him back and he shudders as I caress his cock, get him hard again. Maybe I will be generous and bring him to orgasm this time. I see the need in his eyes, hear it in his breathing, feel it on his body. I have brought him close often since his arrival yesterday. The fight was when I planned on allowing him to cum, but he had to get cocky.

Maybe the delay has been enough.

I close my hand over his cock and his moan is deep, rich. I stroke him and his entire body shudders.

“Yes,” he whispers, “please.” Then he is kissing again.

I take my time. The fact he might have earned it doesn’t mean I have to hurry to grant him his release. Forcing him to endure this treatment also serves to remind him who is in charge of his pleasure.

Because it excites him, I let him feel my erection against his lower back, thrust against him and he whimpers. He almost moves up against me, but remembers himself in time, so I continue stroking him, only slowing, instead of stopping as feeling him getting close.

“Soon,” I whisper, and the hope flashes in his eyes. He holds himself still, even if I can feel his need to thrust in my hand, to take some control back, to make it happen now, instead of when I decide.

I stoke him faster, get him closer, I will—

My phone buzzes. A series of long and short set for only one person. My phone is on because that is who Emil is with.

I am up. I have the phone out of his holster on my harness resting on the sink. “What’s wrong?”

“Shit-shit-shit, I don’t know what—”

“What is wrong?” I demand, cutting off Zephyr, trying to use the tone to get through his panic.

“Emil’s down,” his breathing slows. “I was showing him my work, telling him how I used the cars from those guys. It was going great, then, now, he just started freaking out and—”

“I’m coming.” I put the harness as I run, slip the phone in its holster. I silence the boxes before that chaos makes me incapable of acting.

Emil is at a stranger’s place. He had nothing he can seek comfort with.

Zephyr wouldn’t know how, even if he had thought to try. He didn’t. The attempt is the first thing he would have mentioned. Samuel yells at me as I pass his house. The tone is angry. He doesn’t matter. Cornelius’s house registers because I don’t hear her as I run by it.

If she is at Zephyr, someone will get hurt. If she has touched Emil, someone will die.

I don’t bother with the front door. Zephyr’s workshop sits at the back. A large garage with the front always open to keep it from getting any hotter than the Arizona weather forces it to be. When he sees me, his eyes bulge. He steps in my way, and I shove him aside hard.

I crouch before Emil, who is in the corner, hugging his knees to himself, rocking in place. His eyes are fixed on one of Zephyr’s sculpture. The trunk of a car, cut from the rest, the hood lifted, the inside redone as a place someone might live in.

“Emil, breathe.” I move between him and the object of his terror, but it doesn’t matter. He isn’t seeing it anymore, but what it represents. Much of the trip between Phoenix and Portland was spent with him in the trunk of Gregory’s Continental. Only pulled out when Gregory felt like using him. “I’m here. No one can hurt you.”

He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t hear me.

I rest a hand on his head. “Emil. You aren’t alone.”

He lets only me and Bart touch him, but even then, there are places he can’t bring himself to let me approach, not that I have an interest in touching him in those, even if Emil thought I would want to be with him that way too.

I had to explain to him what the sex between me and Bart means. The discussion wasn’t comfortable for him, but by the end he understood that sex is not something I will ever require of him.

One area that he won’t let me touch that was unexpected is his chest, and the only situation that he cannot stand is my hand splayed on it. Gregory held him down that way as he used him, Emil explained, once he was able to think, after I had inadvertently put my hand there to keep him from tipping forward during a balance exercise.

My hand on his head, without pressure, tells his body there is someone there in what registered to him as none threatening. Gregory only had an interest in Emil’s ass, so his hands never touched his head.

When his breathing slows, becomes deeper, I add my other hand, hold them against the side of his head. When his body relaxed, I coax his head up and I watch his eyes, looking for when he returns and sees me.

“I’m here,” I tell him. “You are safe.”

He nods, then latches on to me.

I pick him up.

“You shouldn’t be holding him,” Zephyr says, “considering you’re naked.”

I glare at him. He’s bleeding from the left arm and side, where he fell among material for his sculptures. “I am going to be back. And we are going to have a talk.”

I leave before Zephyr finds his voice.

If Emil even hints that the man picked up on how he was and didn’t immediately take him away from the garage, I am going to kill him and Jacoby can take his rules and fuck himself with them.

As I reach the house, the absence of Bart’s SUV only registers distantly, and when his box tried to pull attention away from Emil, I slam it down.