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The man sucking me off knows what he’s doing. He runs the flat of his tongue around the end of my dick before he suctions me into his mouth, bit by bit. His lips look pink and raw against the fabric of the black ski mask he wears. His eyes are bound over the mask, so his lips are all I see of his face. His lips sliding over me, taking me in. It takes all of my focus to keep from closing my eyes as he sucks me, and I know that this is what he wants. He wants me off my game, vulnerable to the suck and slither of his tongue and lips.
And I want him to think that he’s so good at what he’s doing that I have dropped my guard. So when he lets my dick slide from his mouth and leans down to tongue my balls, I decrease the pressure of the knife point against his neck. I moan to show him how he’s getting to me, how I might let him live if he gets me off well enough. The moan is an act, but it’s also part real. And that’s the thing that’s got my pulse thumping in my forehead. Even with his hands bound behind his back, he’s a risk. And that, as much as his mouth, is why I’m so fucking hard.
He stops lapping my balls and puts his lips around the end of my dick again. I should stop him now, but I want just another minute inside the warm depths of his mouth. I want to face-fuck him just a bit longer. I already know he’s not going to give up the information. He’s too good. So I’m going to have to kill him. But first, I want. Fuck, I want.
I put my hands on each side of his black hood and pull his head toward me. He leans willingly, swallowing me up until my brain feels like it’s whirl-pooling down into my stomach. His rhythm is hard and unyielding, a rough in and out that draws my balls up and my breath down.
‘Ah, fuck.’ I grab the back of his head and pull him off of me before I can come. It’s harder than I expect. To buy a little breathing time, I hold his head away and say, ‘I do love those pretty little lips of yours, especially against that black fabric. Like they’re just made for sucking cock.’
My hard-on throbs in the air between us. He can’t see it, of course, not with his eyes bound. It lessens some of his humiliation, but I can’t risk having him see me. Not that he’s going to get out of this alive, but I’ve been taught to cover all my risks.
I put my fingertip to his bottom lip. It’s wet with his saliva and my pre-come. There’s something about the way he sucks his lip in, under his top teeth, that reminds me of someone I used to know, a lifetime ago, but I can’t place it.
‘Now, I hate to waste a mouth like that. So let’s call a truce. You give me what I want –’
I tap my palm against the side of his covered cheek to show I’m serious. ‘And I’ll think about letting you go.’ It’s a fair promise. As fair as I can make anyway.
He doesn’t move or speak. He’s hardly moved or spoken in the last five hours, which is why I resorted to having him suck me. I know what he’s trained for: he can be buried alive; he can survive drowning and cold and heat. He can take pain. But pleasure? He’s not trained for pleasure.
People on the outside think we’re cruel and somehow inhuman. And we are; just not in the way they think. It’s all about breaking our foes down, using fear and humiliation to protect what matters most.
But this guy doesn’t seem to have either humiliation or fear. My men waited for five days for him to show and still they nearly missed him. Unlike a lot of guys nowadays, he actually knows how to do what needs to be done. I can tell from the way they bound his eyes without taking off his mask and from the ropes around his hands and feet that he put up a fight before I got here. I’m almost sorry I missed it. But there’s something kind about having him be anonymous; when you do things like I do, it’s easier if I never see their face.
And now we’re alone, him and I, in this small concrete room in the middle of nowhere. Now we’re alone with each other and our wills.
‘C’mon,’ I say. I bounce my hard-on off his lower lip, just to remind him why we’re here. My dick reacts with its own little half-surge. I’m tempted to stick it back between those lips, to fuck his mouth until I come, but it’s a temptation that I can’t risk. Not yet. ‘Tell me what I want to know.’
He says something, low enough that I can’t hear. It’s an old trick, and I’m not falling for it. You can stick your dick in a guy’s mouth and he’s smart enough not to bite it off, but you lean your face down there, and you don’t know what could happen.
‘Try again,’ I say.
He licks his lips. The point of his tongue is wet with saliva and it leaves a trail across his top lip.
‘Let me watch you come,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell you what you want to know.’ It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice. Something about the deep spit of it sends a surge of blood into my dick, rising it a half-inch higher.
Without waiting for my answer, he searches for my dick, finds the end of it with his lips and sucks me inside. He moans and my brain shuts down in the warm wet suck.
‘I don’t believe you, you know,’ I say, even as I’m reaching behind his head to take off the blindfold. My fingers shake, but the knot’s not hard to undo. He sucks my dick in deeper, until I swear I can feel his lips against my stomach. I like to close my eyes when I come – it takes me into a space I can’t capture otherwise – but I don’t dare.
I pull the blindfold away as he bobs up and down on my dick, sucking it as though he’s sucking up oil or gold. I drop the blindfold to the ground. And then, everything happens at once: I start to come inside the hot wet hole of his mouth, the man raises his blue eyes to my face, and I understand that I have fucked up.
I back up, sliding my twitching dick from his lips. Come sprays the air between us, but I barely notice.
‘Jesus,’ I breathe. ‘Fuck, Jonas? What the fuck?’
The man’s eyes flick toward me when I say his name. And then his lips curl up at the corners. ‘Shit,’ he says. ‘No wonder you felt so good in my mouth. I should have known it was you.’
He says my name, and it’s the same way he said it then. The same way he said it in that sugar cookie summer.