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Danse Macabre

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I stand alone in circle of light, surrounded by a fathomless void. Head bowed. Arms at my sides. I’m wearing a formal dinner suit, the black cloth as rich and deep as the void around me.

Light flickers in the distance. With a single thought I’ve moved through the void. The two lights meet and merge, forming a larger whole, and I’m no longer alone: - Tony sits at a round table, jacket gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. His skin is a delicious shade of brown; he’s been somewhere sunny. His eyes seem to glow when he sees me.

There’s a single glass on the table beside him. Half-full of golden liquid, the surface is beaded with moisture that grows, hangs for a moment, then begins a slow, sliding path down the curve.

The white of Tony’s shirt burns with its own incandescence, drawing me like a moth. It’s impossible to look away.

A single piano note emerges from the void, softly repeated. A higher note on a violin, sustained. Tony’s lips curve in a tempting smile. Then there’s silence – a breath, no more – and in that expectant hush I hold out my right hand. He takes it in his left and stands.

The violin sounds again. Strident. High, then low, several times. A call to attention. I raise my right arm, perfectly perpendicular to my body, bent at the elbow as I place my hand under Tony’s left shoulder. His left arm rests on my right, fingers curling over my upper arm. My left arm – and his right – are outstretched, hands clasped, in the classic shape of a ballroom hold.

We look at each other. The tilt of his smile is haughty, but he doesn’t hide the warmth in his eyes.

I lead him across the floor, moving in time with the music. Our personal spotlight follows us. Our rise and fall is flawless as I control the turns, Tony allowing himself to be guided. Feeling the rhythm. Settling into the movement. His neck is angled back, head turned in our direction of travel, and I’m struck by his unexpected grace. He’s shorter than me, stockier, but no less light on his feet.

The unseen orchestra – for the quality of music is such that it must be live – begins the main theme. I hold Tony close as we turn, my mind spinning along with our bodies. I feel the rapid patter of his heart. I long to kiss him. But I can’t, not yet. It’s not the right time.

He breaks hold as the strident violins signal a change in tone. He spins away, both arms fully extended, hands stretching to complete the perfect top-line. I reach for him, our fingertips grazing, and take a few running steps to pull him back into hold.

The main theme plays more decisively now. We turn until Tony lets out a giddy laugh. His head drops back further and I can’t resist: - I lean in and kiss the curve of his throat, tongue flicking over his Adam’s apple. His gasp of appreciation is better than any verbalised praise.

Our turns become faster. We glide across the floor and I’m growing dizzy. I use a quieter moment in the music – a reiteration of the secondary theme – to guide Tony into a long dip, a brief hand squeeze on the fall of our movement the only prior warning I allow.

His grip tightens before relaxing, an inherent sign of his trust, touching me deeply. Then I’m watching, spellbound, at the way he arches fully into the dip, back curving with sinful ease over my supporting hand. He tugs his hands free, stretching them over his head, extending that beautiful curve.

I pull him up, arms closing around his waist, his curling around my neck. We move like that – moulded together, my leg between his – as we continue our waltz. Our spins have slowed now, gentled, the rise and fall a smooth glide. But the dizzying spin of violins drives us inexorably faster. I whirl him away, breaking hold again, watching his feet move in a neat flurry. When I can’t bear the distance between us anymore I seize his hands and haul him back. He’s laughing, skin flushed, eyes sparkling. I’m not just enchanted. I’m lost in him.

The violins are relentless. Exhorting us to move faster. The thunderous drums underpin the main theme until with a final shudder of strings we collapse to the floor, holding each other tight.

A single violin finishes the music with a slow, plaintive melody. I draw Tony to his feet, pulling him into an embrace, cupping the back of his head. I feel the warm bloom of his breath as he pants against my shoulder.

Our spotlight splits and shifts to illuminate a large bed. The white sheets are Egyptian cotton. The glow is alluring, but whether it’s because of its beacon-like quality in the void – or the intent in Tony’s eyes when he raises his head and looks first at the bed, then at me – I can’t tell. Perhaps it’s both.

I finally allow myself to give in to my need. I take Tony’s chin between my scarred fingers. His eyes lock onto mine; the desire in those honey-brown depths is staggering. But rather than plunder his mouth, my kiss is nothing more than a brush of lips over lips. When he pushes for more, I pull back with a throaty chuckle. Teasing him. Teasing myself.

But my control is imperfect and cannot last. I move in again, bending my head for another kiss, and he’s ready for me. Pushing him back toward the bed, I fumble with his buttons, my fingers clumsy and imperfect. With an impatient growl I unfasten them with a wave of my hand, pushing magic through the movement, and with another wave the shirt slides from his shoulders.

It’s hard to maintain the kiss as we move, hard to get him out of his clothes, and as we reach the bed we break apart long enough to undress. He’s naked first and he helps me, pulling at my pants and underpants with greedy, impatient hands.

We come back together with breathless laughs that dissolve into hungry kisses. We’re both sweating, perspiration from the dance gleaming on our skin, making it easy to slide against each other. The exotic pleasure of heated flesh against flesh is intoxicating.

He pins my wrists to the bed and straddles my waist. His face hovers an inch above mine. I strain upwards for his kiss, but he stays tauntingly just out of reach. There’s mischief in his eyes. When he finally dips his head he kisses the column of my throat, teeth grazing the twitching tendon, hot, wet tongue tracing a path over my collarbone. I cup the back of his head, restless fingers running through his hair. Gripping his shoulders. The curve of muscle on his upper arms. When his tongue flicks over my nipple, I gasp, trying to stop the sound before it can escape. Too late.

When his teeth mark the place his tongue has just travelled, I don’t just gasp. I moan. My fingers dig into his shoulders.

He lavishes kisses along my sternum until he reaches the thin trail of hair leading down to my cock. I watch his process with half-lidded eyes, chest rising and falling. When his tongue flicks over the head of my cock – a single teasing lick, nothing more – I draw a sharp breath.

He releases one of my wrists and places a hand on my chest, nails lightly digging into my skin. Before I can react, his mouth closes fully over my cock and I groan, both hands clutching at his on my chest. Each sharp suck, each playful swirl of the tongue, drives me higher. The music still echoes in my head. Still pulses through my veins. With a quick, decisive movement I pull away and flip us both.

Now I’m on top, Tony pinned beneath me. Our kisses are fevered, each feeding on the other’s energy, our desire, our need. This is where I want him the most – gazing up at me as one kiss leads to another, eyes heavy with passion. Passion for me and me alone.

I want to devour him whole. I want to own him. He gives himself to me like this, over and over again, trusting that I’ll let him own me in turn. When we’re together like this, I give him everything I have to give. Can he see it in my eyes? Can he see more than my need, my desire? Can he see my reverence?

My answer is in the way he kisses me. The way his hands move restlessly over my shoulders, over my back. The way he grinds against me, cock sliding against mine. I could come this way – the slick glide of body against body, both of us giving and receiving pleasure – but it never lasts as long as we’d like. What we’re doing now, it needs to be slow. Special. His dance was magnificent; I want to reward him, to watch him come apart beneath me, and I know exactly how to do that.

I move back to sit on my knees. My erection bobs against my stomach. I roll my palm over the smooth skin, swiping my thumb over the head, catching beads of pre-come. Teasing myself, just for a moment. Knowing that Tony’s watching. I’ve come this way before, too – propped against the pillows, steadily working lube over my cock. Edging myself, over and over again, until all it takes is a few hard strokes to send me over the edge.

Tony sits up, catching my hand in his, slowly pulling it away from my cock. I watch him. Watch the way his eyes glitter. The way he licks my fingers, slowly, one at a time. Sucking the pre-come off my thumb. I want to push him down again, want to fuck him so hard he screams my name, but that won’t do either.

I pull his hand away from mine and kiss his palm, briefly flicking my tongue over his skin. He shivers. I push him back against the pillows. He folds his arms behind his head, a cocky grin spreading across his mouth.

I wrap my arms around his knees, pulling him closer to me, angling his ass up to my greedy view and opening his legs. He has a beautiful ass, muscular and firm, round and inviting. It’s easy to remember other times when he’s let me spank those firm globes. Easy to remember the beautiful flush of pink on his skin, the way his flesh ripples. The way he bruises so beautifully when I sink my teeth into him.

But I’ve made up my mind about how I want to worship him, and though I’m tempted to revisit those memories – to make new ones – my mind is made up. When I turn, looking for the lube, I find a large bottle on the bed beside me. I pour a generous measure onto my fingers and into the crack of his ass. I watch, mesmerised, as the clear liquid runs over his taint and catches in his puckered hole. He twitches, that cocky grin beginning to falter.

I slide my index finger slowly down through his crease, briefly teasing his hole. I catch a few drips of lube before they reach the blanket. Spreading it back up. Coating my fingers.

I glance up. His grin is completely gone now. He’s watching me, eyes smouldering, lips slightly parted.

I press the tip of my index finger against his hole. It spasms. Slowly I work inside him, feeling his muscles clench as I push. It’s a deliciously decadent sight, seeing him spread out in front of me, his cock an angry red exclamation point against his sweat-streaked belly. He twitches with each stroke in, shivers with each stroke out. God, he’s beautiful.

I pick up the bottle with my free hand and squeeze more lube over his hole. I pull my finger out, then move back in with two, index and middle fingers braced together and pushing inexorably deeper. He’s panting now, soft little breaths that make me want to lean forward and kiss his again.

I curve my fingers as I search for his prostate. I know I’ve found it when he groans, covering his mouth with his forearm to stifle the sound, his hips jerking. But I won’t let him conceal his pleasure. I work that spot again and again, tagging it until he’s writhing in front of me, body arching. The moans spilling from his parted lips are the most erotic thing I’ve ever heard.

He reaches for his cock. I grab his wrist and push his hand away. He stares at me. Panting hard. I scissor my fingers inside him, enjoying his short, startled groan. He’s ready.

Withdrawing my fingers, I grab the lube again and squeeze a generous measure over my aching cock. I hiss as the cold liquid touches my heated skin; with swift, economical movements, I smear it over my shaft from tip to balls.

I lean forward, pushing Tony’s legs back to his shoulders, bending them at the knees. Spreading him wider for my greedy eyes to appreciate. He looks so fucking good this way, his hole twitching, anticipating the way I’m going to fill him. Needing me as much as I need him.

I push my cock inside him, fascinated by the slow glide, by the way his hole stretches. My eyes flick up to his face, seeing the way his head lolls back against the pillows. His groan is low and controlled. He’s holding himself together, but only barely. The feeling of being inside him – his muscles clamping down hard on my cock – it’s incredible. These are the only times I truly feel powerful; I’ve fought demons, inter-dimensional monstrosities and rogue sorcerers, but defeating them never made me feel like this. I feel like a god.

When I’m as deep inside him as I can go – when his teeth are gritted with the effort of keeping a groan locked in his throat – I lean forward and fully cover his body with mine, bracing my hands on either side of his head. He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me further down. His kiss is voracious, plundering my mouth, sucking my lower lip and then giving it a sharp nip. I gasp and pull back. He holds his teeth together for a second before letting me go. But I move right back in, kissing him until I can’t breathe, until all I can do is draw in a ragged gasp against his mouth.

I fuck him with short, staccato strokes until I force myself to slow down. I have to keep control until no control is possible. I kiss him again, but it’s slower this time; I’m drawing it out, teasing us both.

His hands move restlessly over my body, sliding away from my neck to flutter over my chest. His nails graze my ribs and I shudder, intoxicated by the sensation, by the soul-shattering desire in his eyes. His hands move around to my hips. My back. My ass. His grip is possessive, driving me faster, making it impossible to keep a steady pace.

I hide my face in the space between his shoulder and neck. I breathe him in. The raw scent of sweat and sex, the spicy odour of his cologne. Every thrust makes me moan, the sound vibrating through my throat and I’m close, so fucking close –

He grabs my chin, yanks my face back up. His kiss is enough to push me over the edge. I groan against his mouth, losing control, coming with enough force to tighten every muscle in my body, pleasure ripping me apart and making my final thrusts frantic and uncoordinated.

Finally my orgasm fades, leaving me wrung-out and emotional. Shivering from the after-shocks, I pull out, moving back to my knees as I bring his legs down. The sight of my come glistening around his still-twitching hole is almost enough to make me hard again. He’s beautiful. Decadent. Desperate. Mine.

I lean forward, hands braced on either side of his hips, and envelop his cock with my mouth. He yelps, hips jerking, hands going to the back of my head. I relax my throat – fighting my gag reflex as he drives deeper – and let him fuck my mouth, knowing by his frantic groans that he won’t last long.

I feel the first splash of come against the back of my mouth a second before his hoarse yell fills my ears. His fingers tighten, gripping my hair, pulling to the point of pain and heightening my own afterglow. I swallow until there’s nothing left to take, then slowly pull back, swiping my tongue over the sensitive underside of his cock. His whole body bucks.

I pull him against me, lightly holding him as he trembles and shudders. He nestles his face against my throat. His breath, still rough and uncontrolled, is hot on my skin. I kiss the top of his head. He relaxes against me.

Perfect.

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The circle of light fades, plunging us into hard darkness. It slowly resolves into the bare outlines of my study at the Sanctum. A door. A chair. A table.

I’m awake. Slumped in a chair. The sour taste of whisky in my mouth. Nausea grips my stomach; yet another hangover.

My eyes burn. Moisture slides down my cheeks, soaks my beard. I long to lose myself in the dream again but it’s gone. Nothing left now but fantasies – hopes, desires – constructed around my memories. Perfect moments stitched into a blanket.

Tony’s gone. I’m alone.

The blanket is a shroud.

 

END