There are markets in the dark places. They are secrets, passed by knowing voices in exchange for cash. These places are shunned by most of the civilized world, but it's also where people go when they fall through the cracks.
They must land somewhere, after all.
Most of the Fallen are moved around, captured and shipped away to distant lands where they are more exotic - and less likely to escape. Not knowing the language, they will not know their fate until it happens to them. The Fallen are helpless creatures, and generally beautiful. That is their main asset, and if they're skilled in other ways, then so much the better.
Are humans the only ones on sale at these markets? No, of course not. The world still has untold treasures, hidden and difficult to find. But humans are the most numerous and the easiest to collect. Indeed, for all their sublime claims to "human rights", very few truly care if strangers suffer, go missing, or die. It is their condition. One I share half of, I suppose.
In our world there are many kinds of creatures that blend in. They are adept at it. They have evolved to disappear. My father was one such - a strzyga, a living vampire. A twice-lived. He came from the old country to make a new life here in the United States, and against all odds he found a human woman who loved him. My mother loved us both, but our natures weren't like hers. Father tried to be good, to be godly and righteous, but it couldn't last. He outlived her, as he always knew he would, and right up to the end he, still young and handsome, prayed with her to comfort her. When she was gone, the prayers stopped. He had no reason to pretend anymore.
I suppose I didn't either. When mother passed, I was still young. For a vampire, that is. Fifty years old seems like nothing for the twice lived, and our youthful complexions sometimes fool us, too. For mother's sake I tried to live a human life, to find a job, learn a trade. In the end I did, though mother would turn in her grave if she knew what it was.
I am the head trader of the Fallen on the east coast of the United States. It's not something you can put on your resume, but those who matter already know. To the rest of the world I am nobody, a shiftless guy who used to jump from odd job to odd job and faded away into obscurity.
In the Dark Market, my name is Volto.
To assure my secrecy, I wear a mask - the volto, as the name implies. It's the type of masquerade mask that cover's one's face from chin to forehead, temple to temple. Mine is white and gold, with eye holes that reveal my light blue eyes with startling clarity. Above, my black hair is somewhat shaggy, just long enough to cover my ears, and my skin has always tended towards an olive complexion. Odd for a strzyga, yes, but my mother was Italian. Perhaps she bestowed upon me my love for Venetian masks. Or perhaps she taught me how to wear one before I ever placed the volto upon my face.
Tonight, I can smell the salty funk of the sea air seeping into the lower levels of the Charleston dockside warehouse. These markets always seem to occur near the water – it's less risky to hold the events where the shipping crates have arrived, rather than daring to transport such precious cargo across town. So many questions and problems with that method. So many bribes. So many unexplained disappearances, and recollected bribe money. I'm not one to waste resources, of course.
It's still somewhat early in the evening – 11pm. The stock cages are sturdy creations in steel, scrubbed clean every evening by my precious interns. I call them interns, but let's refer to them as they are – Fallen creatures that aren't pretty enough to make me coin. So I feed them, house them, and tend to their diseases in exchange for their labor. At times, I employ them as little spies. No one pays them attention, and my clientele have such big, flapping mouths. If they discover a secret that's useful, I reward them. They know better than to play double agents, of course. The last one I found being 'clever' was made an example of, then sold to a butcher and fed to the rest. There have been no clever ideas after that episode.
At 11:15, the first of the clients arrive, escorted into the assembled galleries by my masked interns. They wear masks like mine, but there's is a doll's face. Toys. I watch from my throne, a repurposed life-guard's high chair painted in black and strung with crimson and ebon silk ribbons. Above me, the lights are turned off, the remaining illumination at shoulder height. White Christmas lights are strung about the cages, creating a carnival-like atmosphere. Indeed, music plays, and there are entertainers here and there. More of mine, of course.
The cages themselves are draped with black velvet. Write ups of each sale item hang below on placards, and even now my little dolls are leading the growing number of clients around, showing them items that might satisfy them. My prices, of course, cover a range, as does the quality of my stock. Not everyone can afford a stunning pet worthy of a crime lord – some are in the mood for disposable amusements. I suppose a crime lord might be in the mood for either, but, in any case, I try to provide a wide selection. Male, female, human, and decidedly not human.
I watch from my perch as one of my dolls moves aside a curtain to reveal a young woman sitting in the back of her cage. She's naked, of course, just like the rest of my stock, save for the muzzle strapped to her face and locked there. Her arms are cuffed behind her, and her ankles are bound. She's of age – I do not trade in children – and I believe she might be Greek. Or perhaps Sicilian. Who can tell? All I know is that she's beautiful. Better yet, she understands her situation, and is doing a good job selling herself.
The evening carries on without a great deal of intervention on my part. My dolls are well trained, and the only part of the deal they aren't allowed to handle is payment. That's when I descend from my throne, gliding through the crowd like a wraith. I'm not as tall as the typical men of this day and age – I'm only 5'7", and I'm very slight. Still, I wear a black suit well, or, as I've done this muggy summer night, a pair of suit pants, black socks, black dress shoes, a black dress shirt, and black silk vest, fitted just so about my slender midriff.
What the client purchases from me in exchange for such precious money is a single key. Well, a key, and the assurance that when he or she takes their prize from its cage and goes home with it, I won't hunt them down. I don't believe in piracy of course. Some who run their own Dark Markets sometimes sell a stock item several times, but in the end it always gives them a poor reputation. I couldn't abide that, personally. I want my name, or at least my pseudonym, to be trusted. Volto shall never let you down. Volto has just what you need. That is what they say – that is what they will always say.
By the close of the market, I have sold nine keys. It's not bad, but I had been hoping to empty all ten cages. I've been moving the item within cage ten from market to market for three months now, and I can't seem to find a buyer for him. The dolls begin breaking down the displays while I walk down the two rows of cages. The last on the left remains covered, and I brush the black velvet aside to take a look at him. The man's slender without being gaunt. His look is perhaps middle eastern, perhaps Armenian. These days it's getting harder and harder to tell. Still, he's handsome, he's not diseased, and he's not too old. Why he's not selling is becoming a mystery.
I look down and tilt up his placard, studying the information there. Behind my mask I murmur the name printed there. "Seektear." I look at him, and his eyes smirk back at me above the covering of his muzzle. This was the only information we could get out of him when we acquired him. In fact, it was the only thing he ever bothered to say. A quick perusal of my smart phone brings up the truth, and I give him a look. "Ah, so you're Turkish, are you?"
He frowns, turning his face away from me. I would guess he's somewhere in his mid twenties and stands at about my height. I must admit that it amuses me that for so long we've been thinking that had been his name, when it was just the transliteration of his Turkish invective telling us all to fuck off, more or less. No wonder he hasn't been selling, charming lad.
When the dolls come around to take him out of his cage, I hold up a hand. "I'll see to him." My attendants bow and run off to help the others wheel away the other cages. The warehouse is emptying now, the strings of Christmas lights left on the floor, casting up their illumination as if in a horror movie. I suppose, for our young Turk, it is. "I've given you ample opportunity to offer me a name, and you've given me nothing of merit. So I suppose I'll name you." While he scowls at me, glaring from the corners of his lovely gray eyes, I take in his gestalt. Wiry, angry, passionate, but not all that forward-thinking. "Since you find yourself so terribly funny, I will name you Arlecchino."
I snap my fingers, and two of my larger dolls are by my side in a moment. "Wheel his cage back to the Commedia," I announce, though as they pull the velvet down and begin to move him, I add "leave him in my quarters." My dolls incline their heads, and wheel the cage out through the back door, the same place all the other empty cages had gone.
The rest of the night is mine, I suppose. Time for a light repast.
Chapter 2I am back at the Commedia well before we are set to launch at dawn. It's not that I, as a living vampire, must escape the sun. I rather like it, all things considered. A benefit of being twice-lived – I shall never grow old, but I needn't live like a lupus-riddled hermit. My dinner sits in my belly, still hot. Like the fanged dead, I can drink from human beings and leave them no worse for wear. Well, more or less. The possibility of leaving them infatuated is always a risk.
Given the light misting rain that's been falling all evening, the main deck of my beloved handysize cargo vessel is well-rinsed and clean, aided, of course, by my on-board dolls. There are a few shipping containers loaded, mostly with things like scrap metal and other materials that I can get a good price for that American junk yards no longer need. I consider that fact – for the past twenty-something years, I've brought beautiful Fallen treasures for sale, and left with garbage, which would be sold to fund my next purchase of Fallen. The profits from such a cycle aren't great, but it's sustainable. Plus, I can live my life anywhere on this lovely ship. Given its relatively small size and draught, I can access nearly any port.
Which is handy, given that I must routinely shift the locations of my markets to avoid undo attention.
Beneath my boots, I feel the metal rumble to life. The engines churn water and push us out now that everyone's aboard. Luckily, my crew is experienced enough to handle all ship's operations on their own. I suppose that means they could make off with the vessel beneath my nose some night, but at present they wouldn't dare. They are all enthralled to me, of course, and hate me as they sometimes may, they could never bring themselves to knowingly disobey me.
I almost feel bad for them, and maybe would feel worse if I didn't give them food and shelter. And an allowance, if they're extra good. Besides, their skill as my crew pales in comparison to their use as nutrition for myself when we're out at sea. I can't really stomach anything other than meat and blood anymore, and when out in the middle of the ocean, one of them makes a donation every few days. It all rotates, of course – taking too much from one would just be wasteful.
Right now I'm dressed quite differently than I was in the market. Before I'd gone out, I'd changed out of my suit and mask and into a pair of jeans, work boots, and a light black hoodie over a black muscle shirt. My face is unknown by now – all of my business I carry out behind my mask. Unknown, but handsome. My mother blessed me with her coloration and slender build, while my father, of course, offered me his blue eyes and his condition. I'm striking both at a distance and up close, my cheekbones high, my features elegant, and my smile winning when I bother to show it. Unique to my people, my fangs fold up against the roof of my mouth like a viper, so it's difficult for someone to see my cutlery by accident even when I laugh.
By the time I ascend the metal steps of the stairwell inside, I know that the Commedia is heading back out to sea. I never plan a destination when I leave port, of course. Perhaps I'll make up my mind tonight when we've lost sight of the shore. The risers carry the sound of my steps to my private level, my pace languid. I know the sound carries through the floor of my quarters, and sure enough there waits Arlecchino, bound, gagged, and chained to kneel on the floor by the foot of my bed.
When his eyes lift to look at me, he blinks. I know that he's never seen me with the mask off before – I'm very careful never to let the stock see me. Now, however, since I haven't been able to sell him, I must think up some other use for him, or be rid of him. And for some reason, I like that his placard's been telling us all to fuck off in Turkish for the last three months. It shows panache, or at least an idiotic disregard for his welfare. Both, I think.
"Are you surprised by what you see, Arlecchino?" I ask softly, coming to crouch before him.
The young man looks confused, then angry, digging his teeth harder into his gag as he stares down at his knees. He tenses when I shift forward and grip his hair, tilting his head so that I can slowly breathe in the scent of his temple. His skin is clean and his hair has been washed recently, which is a relief. I can't stand it when stock is allowed to saturate in their own filth. Most of my sale items are on the same page with their fate, and offer no trouble when the dolls go in to take care of them. Arlecchino may have put up more of a fight. When I release his hair and shift around behind him to examine his bound hands, I frown when I see the dirt under his nails.
"This will never do. I can't have some filthy creature staying in my cabin. I can only imagine the state of your teeth," I chide, pulling out a small utility knife in one hand as I keep his fingers immobile with the other. Each nail is cleaned, and it almost feels like I'm cleaning out the hooves of a horse I intend to groom and show. I suppose I do at that, now that I think of it. "There, that's better. Now," I slip the knife along between the cloth strip and his cheek and pull, the fabric splitting along the blade so that his gag falls away into his lap, "impress me."
The man stretches out his mouth with a groan. Admittedly, he's been gagged almost continuously, save for being fed. When I get to my feet and put my knife away he just glares at me, his lips a firm line as he refuses to speak.
I roll my eyes and take a seat by my writing desk, turning slowly around in the comfortable swivel chair that's bolted to the floor. "Oh come now. I'm sure you've been dying to speak your mind for months, to bitterly tell me what a monster I am for trying to sell you, in this day and age." My brows are lifted expectantly, but still nothing, and I deflate in my chair. "Arlecchino, you're breaking my heart. I had such hopes for you."
"Are you going to kill me?" he suddenly asks in English, his Turkish accent pleasant but not overbearing, even if his tone is flat and tense.
At first I'm not sure that I've heard him correctly. But given that he doesn't repeat himself, I suppose there was never meant to be more to that question. "Oh, I don't think so," I offer casually. "There must be some use for you."
"You could set me free," he growls, a lovely ripple of muscle tensing along his shoulders and stomach.
That only makes me smile, and I slouch back in my seat. "And what will you do, once you're," I wriggle my fingers condescendingly, "set free?"
He frowns. "I'll go home."
"Of course you will. And where is home?"
With a charming straightening of his spine, he boasts "Ankara, of course. The Altındağ quarter."
I remember what his file had said when I'd rechecked it earlier this evening – yet another street urchin who'd matured into a low-level thug and thief. At the very least, that's what the Collector had said. Collectors are those who scour the slums, docks, and ghettos for the Fallen. Sometimes they post bail for those already in custody, and then keep them. Other times they lure in their quarry and groom them to get more money at the Dark Markets. Arlecchino's Collector had boasted that the young man had been quite a problem, and while I'd been dubious (Mediterranean Collectors are always full of shit to inflate their prices), there may have been a grain of truth to it. Altındağ is one of Ankara's poorer neighborhoods, its dusty hills barnacled with shanty towns.
"And you will go back to your old life doing what, exactly?"
He sniffs, and gives me a petulant glare. "Whatever I want. Away from this, and you, demon." There's a tug at his wrist shackles, and he snarls. "You can't keep me chained forever! I am Erbörü! I can't live like this!" The sudden revelation catches me by surprise, and I think his fit of pique has surprised him, too. His eyes had paled to silver for a moment, and he'd strained, not to escape, but to transform. For some reason he decided to stop the process, which seems to have taxed him considerably.
His shoulder rests against the frame of my bed and he shudders, gritting his teeth, which I only just see have points that are dulling once more. Breathlessly he insists "you... you're Mhachkay. I can smell it. A blood drinker. You're not human. You understand, don't you?" When he lifts his soulful, hurting eyes to me again, they've returned to their original dark coloration. I'm almost disappointed.
I turn to look out the window above my writing desk, gazing upon the sparkling blue waters as we leave port. This boat and this life are my assurance of freedom and privacy. It's difficult to find such a thing in a world full of humans. With a sigh I close my eyes, disliking that I'm starting to feel some sense of kinship with this cur chained to my floor. "I'm not in the business of offering charity," I grumble, my sarcasm forgotten for the time being.
Behind me I can hear the chains clink as he kneels upright again, eager. "Of course not. But I can be useful! I can fight, and I can steal."
With a sniff, I turn my chair back to him. "So can I. Why do I need you?"
He just gives me a blank look, then worms his way into my ego. "But... why should you have to do those things? Why not keep a man, an Erbörü, at hand to take care of those things? They are beneath you, surely." His grin is devilish as he purrs "They are not beneath me."
Be still my heart. For a long while I just study him, my features somewhat inscrutable. The boy doesn't let up, eager to please, or at least make it seem like he is. I suppose if I enthrall him he won't be so troublesome to tame. Plus, if he lays a hand on one of my dolls I will eat him myself and toss the rest overboard. Who needs a stable of hogs when you can dispose of the evidence yourself? My condition is so convenient, sometimes.
At long last I sigh and stand up. The boy flinches nervously as I walk around behind him and crouch again. I can feel his pulse lift, then race as I grip at his hair again to expose his neck. I've already fed, so I won't take much, but he doesn't know that. My more sadistic side delights as I trail my lips along his skin, feeling how hot his flesh is so I can locate the vein. He shudders, squeezing his eyes shut in frightened anticipation. It startles him when I find the right spot and slowly slide my tongue over it.
To my surprise, the boy before me groans, unable to help himself. I suppose if I'd been kept in a cage and ignored for as long as he had, I'd be dying for attention, too. Still, without any clothing, it's easy to see what even a single lick is doing below, and I torture him further by sliding my fingertips slowly along his hardening shaft.
His entire body ripples, his cock twitching within my fingers. He mumbles something in Turkish that I don't understand (not that I understand any of it), the tone pleading and guilty all at once. My lips press to the wet spot I left with my tongue, and he mumbles again, this time quite clearly begging as he tilts his head even further to offer himself. Within my mouth, my fangs descend, hinged behind my canines. The tips caress against his feverish, wet skin, until they hit that perfect spot and punch in. It's a moment's work, a moment's pain, and I withdraw, letting them fold back into the grooves within my hard palate once more as I suckle on the bleeding holes.
My fingers caress along his painfully hard cock and stroke it, playing with him, delighting in the velvety feel of his heated skin. Pearlescent drops of pre leak out from his slit, and they're enough to lubricate my tease, my stroking growing faster and firmer with every draw of blood I take. It's a race against time – excited as he is, the sedative in my saliva will soften him soon. His climax is impossible, but I still tease him, stroking him and drinking from him until, at last, he wilts in my hand and relaxes back against me, exhausted.
The hand that had been on his cock moves away, letting the hanging flesh shine, soft and tender. I bring those fingers to my lips and suckle them clean slowly, enjoying the salty musk as it mixes with his coppery blood. When all my digits are clean, I slide my ring finger past my lips, catching the tip on the point of my left fang. Very carefully I take my finger from my mouth and move it to Arlecchino's, using my bleeding digit to paint his lower lip with a drop of blood. With a soft, almost doglike whine he licks at it, sliding his tongue along my blood until, at last, he licks my finger, inviting it into his mouth.
I have to trust that he won't bite me, and I admit to some trepidation even as his tongue cushions me, and his cheeks hollow in their suction. His throat works, swallowing down the scant drops I offer hungrily. At any moment I expect him to bite down, either in sudden anger or greed, but as the moments pass he shows no sign of offending. Once the small knick in my finger stops bleeding, he keeps nursing on it, eyes closed, tongue lazily rubbing against it. It's... cute.
"That's enough," I rumble at last, and when I pull my finger from his lips, he only sighs with disappointment. Quite sternly, I intone "when I unchain you, you will not run away."
"I won't run away..." he breathes luridly, his chest tightening as if the words are a moan.
I pull out my key ring and find the little skeleton ditty that opens up all the sets of shackles we have. It slips into the hole and at a turn the mechanism clicks, unfastening and falling open. By now I've released my grip on his hair, and as I move the chains and wrist cuffs away, it leaves the boy only bound by a collar, his fatigue, and whatever strength that little spell has imbued. This is always the riskiest time – if I've gotten him to a safely obedient place, then that's fine, but if I didn't push hard enough, this is when I could get very hurt.
Not that I can really be killed. Not unless he manages to rip my head off from my neck. Honestly, that seems to be the only way to drop one of the twice-lived for good.
Slowly I rise up to stand once more, taking slow steps around Arlecchino as he comes to his senses. I'm about five feet in front of him, my body tense as I watch him, when suddenly I find myself slammed onto my desk. I'd hardly seen him move, and it feels like I've been hit by a car. The supplies on the desktop go flying, and my vision swirls somewhat from the way the back of my head cracked against the window.
I look up and see him looming above me, on all fours on the desk, his hands on my shoulders, pressing me harder to the glass. Before I realize what he's doing, he's kissing me hungrily, his tongue tasting at himself and me. My eyes almost roll up beneath my closed lids, his desire overwhelming. But, of course, rules are rules.
With difficulty I manage to part the kiss just barely, and with our lips a hair's breadth apart, I hold up my right hand, fingers splayed, palm near his temple. "STOP!"
I can tell his pulse is hammering in his chest – I can see his body heat glowing from him, and I can see it surging with every heartbeat. It'd be a lie to say that my vampiric heart isn't doing the same. Very slowly, Arlecchino grunts, then pulls back, step by step, until he's standing some ten feet away from me, chest heaving, his eyes pale and feral.
"Good..." I purr, wincing a little as I drag myself off the desk to stand on my own two feet. "Good. Good boy, Arlecchino."
He grins in the middle of his heavy breathing, looking just a touch insane. I suppose after this last hour of his life, I can't blame him for being somewhat out of his senses.
"Sit in the corner and calm yourself."
The boy pouts, but he sulks off and does as he's told, curling up against the far corner of the room, hugging his knees as he looks at me over their knobby tops. I dislike how cute he is – I just know that I'm going to be far too indulgent. "Arlecchino, my dolls will be coming in here to clean up your mess. You will not move from your corner, and you will not talk to them. You will be a good boy." I point to him and narrow my eyes. "Tell me what you'll be."
"A good boy," he offers over his knees before ducking his head back down again, toes curling.
"That's right." My head's throbbing, and I take a seat on my bed as I take out my cell phone. I send a chime to three of my most experienced dolls, and they are up in my quarters within five minutes. It takes a moment to explain what happened. They listen calmly, their masks put away, now that we're at sea. Their plain faces are focused and obedient, and they each attend to a specific task – tending to the bleeding wound in the back of my head, cleaning off the window and my desk, or finding clothing for Arlecchino. That last task requires running down to the stock room to find something in his size, and when the girl comes back with a few selections, I tell her to leave them on the bed. I then instruct her to go find a hot meal for Arlecchino and to bring it up here, along with a bottle of water, and two steel bowls.
Within twenty minutes, my dolls are gone, the gash in the back of my head is stitched and wiped down (it will heal within the hour, but I don't want to bleed all over the place), my desk and window are returned to normal, and Arlecchino is whining softly as he watches me scrape some mashed potatoes and meatloaf into one of the gleaming metal bowls.
"Now, you are about to get a very nice meal. I'll not have you making a wretched mess out of this. Keep yourself neat and I'll let you have clothing. Make a mess, and I will punish you." I walk over to him with the bowl, and he perks up, tense, his desire to eat and please me fighting themselves as he nibbles his lip. "Do you understand what I've told you?"
He nods quickly, and so I put the bowl down perhaps two feet in front of his toes. He almost jerks forward, but then he pauses, looking at me, shaking with anticipation. At last I nod and gesture to his food, and he falls to all fours. His tanned skin sprouts black fur, and his body slowly transforms into a large black wolf with silver eyes. As luck would have it, the collar is just large enough not to choke him, but I'll have to see about getting one that is more appropriate for this talent he apparently has.
As a wolf, he manages to eat neatly using just his mouth, his long tongue licking up every stray particle that might mar his glossy coat. When his food bowl is about halfway empty, I set down the second dish, into which I've emptied the water bottle. He immediately sniffs at it, then returns to his food. I've had a pet dog before, and in the back of my mind I'm fairly certain that he's going to vomit all of this back up in moments. I could be wrong – perhaps Erbörü have more capable stomachs than my old labrador.
The painkillers I took after I'd been stitched up are helping a little, but I'm fairly certain that I have a concussion. I'm quite tired. Of course, it's been a long night, during which I didn't sleep for a moment, so I suppose there's a reason I wander to my bed and sit on it, then slowly lie down. Where's the harm in resting my eyes for a moment?
Surely nothing bad could happen.
Chapter 3I wake up with a gasp, my heart racing. For a moment I'm still in the dream, and I feel wire loops around my neck, holding me at the end of long poles as I struggle, the taste of dust in my mouth as I howl miserably. For a few moments I stare up at my ceiling, noticing how it's striped with silvers and blues and blacks. The rest of the room is dark as well. How long was I sleeping?
Something shifts by my legs, and I look to see Arlecchino laying with his shaggy back against my right leg, the top of his head pressed up against my hip and ribs. When he senses I'm awake, his head lifts and comes to rest on my chest, his pointed ears pricked towards me attentively. I blink, still somewhat disoriented, but I pet along his head slowly with my left hand. "Hello, there," I murmur, and his tail thumps against my ankle as it wags happily. "Have I been asleep the entire day?"
A grumbling growl, which I think means yes, tumbles out of his throat, then he whines and tries to lick my chin, scrambling lazily to gain those last few inches. I remember now that, of course, when I enthrall someone new and drink from them, I recall some of their memories for a short time. It's their influence on me, I suppose, and they don't last. Given what I'd seen, I can only imagine that was the moment of Arlecchino's capture.
My hand slides gently between his ears, and I ask, "how long did you live as a wolf?"
He huffs, then slowly turns back into a man, still sprawled against me. My fingers still pet along his scalp, through the shaggy black hair, and he closes his eyes comfortably. "When I couldn't find anything to eat as a man." With a touch of guilt, he adds "I would go out into the hills and kill sheep. But only when I had to."
I chuckle, sliding my fingers along his cheeks, which are hot with embarrassment. "And did you ever repay the shepherds for their loss?" Arlecchino just blushes hotter and shakes his head. My fingers slip in beneath his chin, to make him look at me. "Then I will teach you some manners, and you won't commit that faux pas again."
His smile is shy but warm and genuine. Winning, in other words. Charming, damn him.
"Now, given that I've slept all day, I really must..." I begin, but continuing is going to prove difficult, given how Arlecchino is sliding down my body, until he's resting on his stomach between my parted legs. His brows lower as he smirks, and I only watch as he nimbly unfastens the fly of my jeans. He keeps looking at me, watching, attentive, in case I should tell him to stop. Should I? Am I being too indulgent? Oh, probably, but the way he ducks his head and kisses at my stirring cock makes me gasp and lay my head back down on the pillow.
His lips are warm and just a touch chapped – I've not kept him in the best of conditions since purchasing him, of course, so I deserve it. From my crown all the way down the shaft to my sack, clad in neatly trimmed black pubic hair, and back again. Over and over until I'm painfully rigid and gritting my teeth with impatience. I can feel him shift somewhat, and when I look, I can see that he's on all fours, his head dipped to lick at my shaft like it's speckled with honey.
The sensation teases me and I groan, arching my back, until I prop myself up on my elbows, quite intent on gripping him by the hair and forcing him to finish what he's started. But when he sees my stormy look, he grins, sliding his tongue all the way up and flicking just at the underside of my cap. "Do you know what a joy it was to find a bone, cast into the trash by a butcher? It was so delicious..." His mouth descends to my cock again and he suckles on the side of it, just pressing or grazing with his teeth here and there. "I could gnaw on it for days."
The thought of being tormented like this for that long is unbearable, and I close my eyes, wincing just a touch as a well-placed caress of teeth makes my cock pulse and twitch. A thick string of precum drips down nearly to my skin, but Arlecchino is there, catching it on his tongue and licking it up, right back to its source. The way his lips purse and nurse at my furiously blushing tip is devastating, leaving me to shudder and grip at the sheets with desperate fingers.
And then his head dips and he takes everything, somehow. I watch, eyes narrowed with delight, and I feel how I push past his tongue, past his hard palate and his soft, just to the back of his throat. I couldn't possibly be the first man he's thought to please, especially given how his tongue deliciously rubs slowly as he withdraws, teasing, before pressing down again. It's so hot and so wet, and the soft, rumbling growl makes me tilt my head back with an almost pained groan of delight. I know I'm salting his tongue already, but I can't help it. I'm not going to last long with this.
The only sounds in the room are of the engine decks and decks below us, the regular wash of the ocean all around, the sea wind, and the wet suck and rolling growl of his mouth. That, and my panted breathing, of course. It's difficult to remain still, but he's not yet earned the right to be taken that way. Soon, perhaps. Very soon, if he keeps literally sucking up to me like he has been. Still, my hands curl into fists, and my hips and legs and stomach are tense. I want to fuck something, fuck him, fuck his mouth. Anything, but I'm too stubborn to change our positions. And, perhaps, too lazy. It's nice to be spoiled.
Minutes pass, and he only goes a little faster, swallowing a few times at my head with every dip, rubbing with his tongue on the way up. Rinse, repeat. It's maddening, my cock leaking more and more, until at last I slap my hand on to the back of his skull and hold him down, my hips jerking up, plunging myself into his mouth, right up to the hilt. With my teeth grit, my almost tortured urgent cry sounds angry, my nails just digging into his skin as I shoot my cum into his gulping throat. The feeling of being swallowed at with every pulse makes me shudder and melt, and I collapse back onto the bed with a helpless gasp, my hand sliding away from his head to land, limp, on the sheets.
Slowly he lifts his head, suckling at my softening cock to tease away every single drop. I grit my teeth, closing my eyes tight as I allow this moment of masochism to happen, my body slowly squirming until, at last, my wet flesh and his lips part ways. He almost dips his head again, but I lift a hand, fingers splayed, palm hovering near his temple. I don't even need to say the word stop for him to do it, and he quietly moves to the side, resting on his hip as he watches me with more than a little hunger. That's alright, he's allowed to lust after me. All good boys should.
I stretch languidly, letting him watch my exposed, wet genitals shift with the movement until, at last, I move my hands down to fasten my pants once more. He pouts, biting his lip, though I can't imagine what he thinks I'm going to do with my cock right now. Or in the next hour. "I should put you in a little steel cock cage, Arlecchino. Just to torment you. How would you like that?" I muse with a lazy smile.
The boy huffs and sits up, hugging his knees with his back against the wall against which the side of my bed is pressed. His erection is poorly hidden between his slender thighs, and my laziness dissipates in favor of the desire to torment him. He looks at me from under brooding brows as I sit up, and he lifts his head curiously as I stalk over to him on hands and knees. His legs slowly part when I touch them with my hand, then part further when I nudge my hips in against his own, his turgid cock just grinding against my fastened jeans and shirt-covered stomach.
Almost immediately he tilts his head, offering his neck, breathless, even as his hips grind against mine. The movements almost feel like he's begging, rather than mindlessly humping, and I lean in closer, pressing my lips against the side of his throat. Arlecchino closes his eyes and moans, his cock throbbing, then twitching again as I wrap my hand around it. I don't prick him with my fangs, but I do press down with my more mundane teeth, gripping his neck and keeping him still as I rapidly beat him off. There's no tease or romance to it. There's nothing slow or sensual about it. I want him to cum, so he's going to whether he wants to or not.
I mean, I highly doubt that he is upset about this.
The boy squirms, gripping my shoulders, his toes curling as he tries to thrust up into my hand. I can't see him at present, given my mouth's present occupation, but I can feel his fingernails grow, pricking at my skin through my shirt as he holds onto me. His skin gets hotter beneath my teeth and lips, and his cock throbs suddenly, his spunk splattering onto his heaving chest over and over and over again. I listen to his breathing and notice that it's lowered in pitch, the sound wetter somehow.
What have I gotten myself into? Has he half shifted while I was toying with him? My heart pounds in my chest, and I slowly release my hold on his neck. He growls and groans with relief, and very slowly I pull back, just enough to look at him and see how far he's gone. His eyes are pale, nearly silver again, and his teeth are pointed and bestial, his lips tight and nervous. When he moves forward suddenly I freeze, not sure what to expect, but not wanting to back down.
To my surprise, he licks at my mouth and chin, his breathing almost squeaky and tight, delighted, like someone's pet might be. His tongue flicks gently, lapping at my lips, though he doesn't want to kiss. I think this is a sign of submission, and as I relax and let him adore me, he relaxes, too, and shifts back into the darling boy I'm growing fond of.
With a little smile, I admit "I meant to have you in those clothes hours ago."
He just grins, leaning back against the wall, his toes curling and uncurling in much the same fashion a puppy's tail might wag. "Can I wear them so you can later tear them off?"
My purr delights him, and I croon "I so enjoy how you think, Arlecchino."