CHAPTER FIVE #2
Rodney's eyes burned behind the blindfold. He blinked hard and willed himself not to cry, because crying during a BDSM encounter with a stranger seemed like exactly the wrong move, even if the stranger had just said the kindest thing anyone had said to him in years.
Mordechai's hands moved up to his chest. His thumbs found Rodney's nipples and brushed across them, lightly at first, barely a whisper of contact.
Rodney gasped. His nipples had always been sensitive, embarrassingly so, and the cock ring was making everything more intense, every nerve ending amplified.
"Responsive," Mordechai noted. He pinched the left one, firmly, and Rodney made a sound that was half gasp, half whimper. "Very responsive. Good."
He pinched harder. Rodney's hips jerked forward and a moan escaped him before he could bite it back. Behind him, he felt more than heard Mordechai's low, pleased rumble, a sound that was more cat than human, a purr with teeth.
"Don't hold back the sounds," Mordechai said against his ear. "I want to hear everything. Every moan, every whimper, every noise your body makes. You don't get to hide from me, Rodney. Not your body and not your voice."
He rolled both nipples between his fingers, harder, and Rodney's head fell back against Mordechai's chest. The pain was sharp and bright and chased by something that wasn't pain at all, a sweet, spreading heat that pulled down through his belly and into his cock, which was straining against the leather ring.
"You like pain," Mordechai said. Not a question. A discovery. "Not heavy pain. Not yet. But this—" He twisted, and Rodney cried out. "This, you like. Your body doesn't lie, even when your mouth doesn't know what to say."
Mordechai released his nipples, and the sudden absence of sensation was its own kind of shock.
Rodney panted, swaying on his feet. Then Mordechai's mouth was on his neck, lips first, warm and soft, pressing against the place where his pulse hammered.
Then tongue, tracing a line from his jaw to his collarbone. Then teeth.
The first bite was gentle. A test. Rodney shivered. The second was harder, and Rodney gasped. The third broke the surface just enough to sting, and Rodney moaned, a deep sound that came from somewhere below his conscious mind.
Mordechai made that rumbling sound again.
Approval. Want. He bit again, lower, on the slope where Rodney's neck met his shoulder, and this time he held on, not breaking skin, but pressing, the sharp edges of teeth that weren't entirely human denting the soft flesh.
Rodney's knees buckled. Mordechai caught him with one arm around his waist, holding him up, holding him still, while his mouth worked a line of bites down the side of Rodney's neck.
"Gorgeous," Mordechai breathed against his skin. "Your whole body is blushing. Do you know that? You're pink from your face to your chest. I can feel the heat of it."
Rodney couldn't respond. His capacity for language had narrowed to a single track, Mordechai's voice, Mordechai's hands, Mordechai's mouth, and everything else had faded to static.
Mordechai turned him. Rodney went where he was guided, pliant and shaking, and felt the cool leather of the couch arm against his stomach as Mordechai bent him forward over it.
The position was exposing and vulnerable, his ass in the air, his face against the cushion, his bound hands curled at the base of his spine.
He should have hated it. He should have felt humiliated.
He felt held.
Mordechai's hands ran down his back. Fingers tracing his spine, knuckling into the tense muscles along his shoulders, then sweeping lower.
Over the swell of his ass. Between his thighs, parting them gently.
Rodney felt the air against skin that was rarely exposed, and the vulnerability of it sent a bolt of heat through him that he couldn't have explained to anyone, including himself.
"I'm going to open you up," Mordechai said. "Slowly. One finger at a time. If it's too much, say lioness. If it's uncomfortable but bearable, tell me and I'll adjust. If it's good—" A pause. "Well. I'll know if it's good."
The click of a pump bottle. Then warm, slick fingers between his cheeks, circling his hole with a patience that was almost cruel.
Rodney's breath stuttered. He'd been fingered before, David had done it, dutiful and clinical, but this wasn't that.
Mordechai was teasing him. Circling the rim with a featherlight pressure, dipping against the center without pushing in, letting Rodney's body ask for it before he gave it.
"You're clenching," Mordechai observed. "Breathe. Down into your belly. Let it go."
Rodney tried. It took several breaths before his body listened, the tight muscles softening incrementally. The moment they did, Mordechai's finger slid inside him. One smooth, decisive push that seated deep in one stroke.
Rodney's mouth opened on a silent gasp. His fingers curled against his bound wrists.
The sensation was a lot. Not painful, not with the lube easing the way, but present.
A fullness that demanded his attention, that made it impossible to think about anything except the place where Mordechai's digit was inside his.
"There." Mordechai's voice was thick. Rougher than before. He was being affected by their play too, the knowledge sent a dark thrill through him. "That's good. You're tight, Rodney. Tight and warm and you're shaking. Do you want me to stop?"
"No." The word came out fast. Desperate. "No, Sir. Please don't stop."
Mordechai began to move his finger. Slow, shallow strokes that gradually deepened, withdrew, returned.
Rodney's hips started moving of their own accord, pressing back, seeking more, and Mordechai didn't correct him.
He let Rodney move. Let him find a rhythm.
And then, without warning, he crooked his finger.
Rodney's whole body jerked. Something lit up inside him, a bright, sharp pleasure concentrated in a spot he hadn't known existed. He cried out, loud enough that he'd have been mortified if he'd had any self-consciousness left, which he didn't.
"There it is," Mordechai murmured. He pressed again, and Rodney made a sound that was close to a sob. "I wondered when you'd find that."
He added a second finger. The stretch burned, a bright, clean sting that made Rodney hiss through his teeth and grip the couch arm hard enough that the leather creaked.
Two fingers were thicker than one, obviously, but it was more than that.
It was the feeling of being opened, of his body being asked to make room for someone else, and the burn of it sat right on the knife-edge between pain and something that wasn't pain at all.
"Breathe through it," Mordechai said. "Don't fight the stretch. Let it happen."
Rodney tried. The burn peaked, held, and then, slowly, like ice melting, began to bleed into heat.
Not the sharp heat of pain but a deeper, slower warmth that radiated outward from where Mordechai's fingers were buried in him.
He exhaled, and his body softened, and Mordechai rewarded him by stretching him wider, and Rodney groaned.
"Good." Mordechai's voice had dropped. Thicker. Rougher. "You're opening up for me. That's it. You can take more than you think you can, Rodney."
He found that spot again, pressed against it with both fingers, and Rodney's cock jumped against the couch arm, leaking a wet streak across the leather.
The cock ring held him in a tight, throbbing ache that made every sensation sharper, every touch amplified.
He was so hard it hurt, and the hurt was good, and that was a discovery he didn't have time to process because Mordechai added a third finger and the stretch bloomed into something enormous.
"Oh fuck—" The words tore out of him. Three fingers was a lot. Three fingers was fullness verging on too much, his rim burning and his body clenching and Mordechai's knuckles grinding against sensitive tissue as he worked them in, steady and relentless.
"There it is," Mordechai murmured. "That sound.
Right there. That's the one." He twisted his wrist, spreading his fingers, and Rodney's back arched off the couch.
"You're stretched wide around my fingers right now, Rodney.
Three fingers deep. And you're taking it so well. How your body is pulling me in?"
Rodney could feel it. Could feel the slick, obscene sound of Mordechai's lubed fingers moving inside him, could feel his own body clenching and releasing in a rhythm he couldn't control.
The burn had transformed completely, it was all heat, all need, a desperate aching emptiness that three fingers couldn't fill because what he wanted was more than fingers.
"Mordechai—Sir—I need—"
"Tell me what you need." The fingers stilled. Buried deep but motionless. Waiting.
"I need you to fuck me." His voice cracked on the word. "Please. Sir. Please fuck me."
"Ask me again."
"Please fuck me. I need your cock inside me, I need—" He was babbling. He didn't care. "Please, Sir, I can't—I need—"
Mordechai withdrew his fingers. The emptiness was immediate and devastating, Rodney's hole clenched around nothing, and he whined, high and desperate, pressing his hips back, seeking what had been taken from him.
"Patience." Mordechai's voice was strained, the control audibly fraying at the edges.
The sound of clothing being removed. Buttons, belt, zipper.
The whisper of fabric against skin. Rodney listened to Mordechai undressing and felt his whole body pulse with anticipation.
Then warmth behind him, bare skin against bare skin for the first time, Mordechai's chest against his back, and the hard, thick length of his cock sliding between Rodney's slicked cheeks.