Thomas was of the patient sort.

He had waited for Jimmy to come round, to realize that their friendship, borne from misunderstandings, a disastrous kiss and then and a nasty right hook or two, had grown into something more. And for that, Thomas was eternally grateful.

He had been so patient. So patient that he even tolerated Jimmy's forays into more unconventional, unconventional sex. Thomas had groaned in forced ecstasy as a candle got too close and singed his chest hair, dripping hot wax onto his sensitive pale skin. He had tittered in overly girlish delight as Jimmy sashayed in his room in a pair of pilfered panties. (Thomas never knew which Crawley woman had suffered such an indignity; Jimmy kept mum as part of the game.) He even sportingly managed a half-convincing imitation of a cat slowly lapping cream out of Jimmy's navel. (This scenario he would have gladly done over and over but Jimmy had insisted that he meow during their entire encounter.)

Thomas couldn't help himself. He always thanked Jimmy profusely after they made love. Jimmy thought it was charming at first, then it got a bit annoying.

One night after Thomas had collapsed in a sweaty, panting heap on top of him and the dreaded words were uttered, Jimmy had taken the older man's face in both hands and said, "I love you but please stop thanking me. You loving me is enough. It's always been enough."

So that was the moment Thomas had been waiting for-the right moment when he would finally feel secure in their relationship that he could share a secret that he had buried since 1912 … and the very next night he shared it.

It was so simple yet so complex-he loved wrists. Typically tanned on top, yet pale and marbled with blue veins so tenuously close to the surface underneath. If one looked closely enough, one might see the blood moving under the skin, the perfect place to measure a beating heart.

He loved Jimmy's wrists. The way his jacket rode up a bit and exposed them when he played piano, or stretched to reach a particularly tucked away piece of silver. The slow, sensuous way he put on his cufflinks, his fingers deftly fastening each piece. (Thomas loved watching Jimmy get dressed almost as much as seeing him undress.)

Thomas even loved his own wrists, how they were thin, elegant with just the hint of dark hair sprinkled across them. He liked to put his own cufflinks on in front of the mirror, turning each way to see his wrists from every angle.

In the criminally small bed they shared each night, Jimmy would usually fall asleep with one hand up onto the pillow. Thomas would reach over and softly trace each vein, feeling his pulse under his finger, still in disbelief that Jimmy was actually his.

Almost every night now, he would begin their lovemaking by gently kissing and nibbling at Jimmy's wrists, slowly working his way up to his smooth palms, then softly mouthing each finger. Jimmy would reward him with slight shivers. The footman thought it a bit odd that his lover was so focused on his wrists but it never failed to awaken his cock.

But there was a slightly darker side to Thomas' obsession, and it was the one he really felt he could finally share; he loved having his wrists bound together—and the tighter the better.

He made the suggestion to Jimmy who had replied with a slightly wary, "I see."

Thomas then eagerly pulled the velvet belt from a dressing gown out from under his bed and held it out to his lover and tried to sound calm when he uttered the words and held his arms out, "Tie me up."

Jimmy took it in his hands, marveling at the luxuriousness of it. (More luxurious than he or Thomas could ever dream of.)

"Where did you get this?" he said, running his fingers over the softness.

"Never you mind. Just do it."

Jimmy gave a wry smile and raised an eyebrow, "Well, if you insist."

"I do," Thomas said a bit quickly, then added softly, "Tightly."

He settled back onto the pillow and watched as Jimmy twirled the rope around his wrists, tying it with an expert knot he had learned in the army, and grew harder and harder in anticipation. Jimmy patted Thomas' wrists and said, "Feel good?"

Thomas bit his lips together and grunted in reply. It had been more than a decade since he could indulge in this peculiar pleasure, feeling his pulse pounding in his hands, his wrists together and tight as in some sort of twisted prayer.

"Alright then, let's get started." Jimmy was a bit uncomfortable with the situation and looked around the room like there was a missing piece that would somehow help it all make sense. But Thomas had been such a good sport for all of his "experimentations" that it was only fair that he indulge the older man's particular kinks.
He climbed onto the bed and parted Thomas' knees and unfastened his trousers, lowering them. He then set on the task of Thomas' pants. He laughed at the erection threatening to burst out of the thin cotton.

"Jesus, Thomas. You are such a … whore. We haven't even DONE anything yet!"

Thomas pushed his hips up in aggravation. "Just take them off. C'mon do it," he begged, unhappy at the sound of desperation in his voice.

"You realize, of course, that you can't touch me," Jimmy said smugly as he pulled Thomas' pants down.

Thomas nodded quickly and replied, "Yeah, so?"

"And, you can't touch yourself."

(Thomas could practically see the light go on in his lover's head when he was struck by a particularly devious idea.)

"Oh my. How unfortunate for you," Jimmy sneered as he waved his hands over Thomas' cock like a magician about to reveal his greatest trick.

"C'mon, love. Be nice." Thomas said and attempted a smile. Jimmy had tied him up so tightly that his hands were turning a bit purple. This excited Thomas even more.

"Nice? I think we've sort of passed that point when you asked me to tie you up."

Jimmy leaned down, careful to not let any part of his warm body touch Thomas and whispered into his ear, "I love seeing you like this. You're so … so … not … you." (Jimmy always certainly had a way with words, much to Thomas' amusement.)

"Ah fuck Jimmy, if you're not going to touch me, please for the love of God untie me."

"Wait. Shhh shhh shhh." Jimmy said, and held a finger to Thomas' lips. "What was that? I think I hear Mr Carson calling me?" He shifted on the bed as though he was about to leave but Thomas wrapped his leg around the footman's waist to stop him.

"What?! No, please. Please don't leave me like this. Ahh shite. Shite. Shite. Shite."

Thomas' voice was on the knife's edge of tears. He began to rhythmically thrust his hips up, trying to somehow fuck the air between them, his cock a sad flag stiffly waving in the breeze.

Jimmy managed to stifle a loud laugh. "Thomas, what the bloody hell are you doing?"

With a grunt, Thomas rolled over onto his belly, bent his knees and tried rutting against the bed, a sight made particularly painful due to his bound wrists. To Jimmy, he looked like a jockey trying in vain to push his horse to the finish line.

"God, LOOK AT YOU. So desperate. Such a harlot, a whore."

"Ahhhhh. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." Thomas snarled into the pillow.

"You love it when I touch you, don't you."

Thomas nodded and began to rut faster.

"Say it."

"Nnnngghhh Jimmy, yes. Fuck yes."

Jimmy tilted his head in disappointment, "Hmmmmm. That wasn't quite up to snuff, Thomas. Your enthusiasm is a bit lackluster. I think you can do better. Roll over so I can see your face."

Thomas obeyed and made a strangled sound in his throat, then cried out, "Jesus, Jimmy! I'm a whore! I'm your dirty whore! Touch me, please!"

Jimmy looked bored and said, "Go on."

Thomas narrowed his eyes at the footman and said slowly, "I'm a dirty fucking whore. I need your touch. Please … sir."

"Ah, there it is. Say it again."

"Please. Touch. Me. Sir."

"And then the first part again."

Thomas looked panicked and gasped, "Huh?"

"You know, about being an H-O-R-E."

The question Why is he trying to spell horse? briefly flashed through Thomas' mind. He shook the thought away and growled, "I'm your filthy, dirty whore. Please, please, for Christ's sake, sir, touch me. Let me come, sir. Let me come."

"Oh alright," Jimmy grinned and took hold of Thomas' cock and examined it.

"I had no idea that you were so … filthy. Look at you. You're about to break."

"I know … I know … I know," Thomas whispered in between sharp breaths.

"Trussed up like a … like a … something," Jimmy mused.

"Nnnnngggghhhhh, please Jimmy. Oh god, please."

Jimmy swirled his thumb around the tip of Thomas' cock, smearing the trickle of fluid around his shaft. He started squeezing and pumping and it only took a few strokes before Thomas came with a moan all over Jimmy's fist, his now-numb arms held above his head, his hands clenched almost in fury.

Afterwards, they lay together and Jimmy ran his fingers over the red indentations the belt had left in Thomas' skin. The more he had pulled, the tighter the belt had become around his wrists. Jimmy looked at the veins mapped underneath his lover's paleness.

"They say that wedding rings are worn on the left ring finger because there's a vein that leads directly to the heart."

Thomas took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled, "Do they now? Hmmmmm."

"I'd marry you if I could," Jimmy blurted out, then blushed and buried his face in Thomas' chest.

Thomas closed his eyes and smiled.

"That's the kindest thing anyone's ever said to me," he murmured and began to stroke Jimmy's hair. The footman immediately stiffened; he could be an open book that snapped tightly shut on occasion when supposedly less-than-manly sentiments fell from his lips. It made Thomas nervous and he quickly tried to diffuse the situation.

"I'd tie the knot with you, too." Thomas waited for a response. "Did you get that Jimmy? Tying the knot? Jesus, I feel like Molesley with one of his dreadful jokes."

Jimmy lifted his head and groaned, "Never say that name again in this room. EVER."

Thomas smirked and laughed, "What name? Go to sleep, my cheeky boy."

Jimmy sighed and was soon doing just that.