It is not yet morning, and I should be asleep, but I find myself—for all the exertions of the night and indeed, this day, this week, these past few years (and more, if I am to be honest with myself)—curiously invigorated, keyed tightly but also at something like peace. And so I am recounting the events of the day; even so, I lie here with your arm, your bare and golden and beautiful arm, folded across my waist. And I am bare too, and we are together.
When we arrived in London there was a drizzle that soon turned to a soft rain. We walked from the station to the hotel, despite the chill, glad for each other's company and to have only each other's company. The hotel we are staying at is pleasant, bohemian even, given the neighborhood, but nothing so fancy as to risk the accidental meeting of some previous guest of Downton, and not so simple as to be a favored residence of others of our class. Like this trip itself, it was only really feasible with both of us together.
Of course over the past year we have gotten to know each other quite well in friendship, and after the revelations of February, in love as well. I have never held all the cards in love, and as I have come to learn, that has not changed with you. At almost every point in the time since I have known you, I have felt caught up, subject to my own desires and your inexorable charm, inexpert, fumbling, clumsy, lost. Never have I felt less sure, less confident, but in the act of love, in this I had found myself on certain footing.
At first, all we did was kiss. "All". As though our kisses were less than, like dry bread instead of a roast. No, forgive me. At first we kissed. And kissed, and still more kisses, and it was like we sketched our sex months beforehand with only our lips. As aching as each night left me, I was thankful, because your mouth taught me what you like, how to touch you, touch your cock, better than you knew, better than anyone ever has until me.
I remember the first time I took all of you into my mouth. The family had been out of town for weeks, and Carson had run out of tiny esoteric spoons to polish, the 11th best china had been dusted twice, and we had more time in the evenings for ourselves. Alfred and the girls had gone out to town to see a film, Carson was catching up on his books, Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore were getting in a nice long gossip, and we had several hours to ourselves before we had to even consider sleep. No need to rush, no need to watch the clock, no need to attend to anything once the latch to my door clicked shut, followed by the clatter of your brass livery buttons hitting my floor.
You advanced on me with determination. If you had been in France, the Germans would have had nothing on your determination. You pressed against me, until my calves were flush against the bed, and brought us down til you straddled my thighs, lean and tight, your lips to mine, tongue tangling with my own, hands against my neck. After all these months—years—to be pinned against the bed by your lust was intoxicating. It was no hardship to give up control to you for these moments, to be schooled in the language of your need.
You tugging at my hair, devouring kisses, hard swathes of tongue, filling my mouth, hard and soft alternating press of teeth into my lips, bite press bite, the iron clench of your thighs against mine, your hips like a metronome against mine and you cock hard and insistent against my belly, arching into my body, keeping time with your teeth. I was becoming fluent in you. You knew only that you wanted, but I am clever, and quickly knew what you wanted.
I grabbed your wrists and pushed you back. You stumbled, half off the narrow bed, whimpered like you were in pain. I stood and turned you, pushed you back onto the coverlet and took your place. Dear Christ your lips. I devoured them, sucked each in turn into my mouth, abrading them with my tongue. My game was give you an intimation of what my mouth can do to you, to terribly sensitize you, so that even a soft breath from me on your lips would feel to you like you were drowning in sensation.
As I worked over your mouth I slid my thumbs under your belt, teasing out your shirttails until I felt the exquisitely fine flesh of your lower belly and hips under my calloused hands. Although my hands are large and nimble, you were situated awkwardly, pressed downwards. While my fingers traversed great swaths of you skin they were splayed away from buttons of your trousers and did not reach your cock. Your fingertips scored my thighs and you tried to rock against me but only the heated air between us. You moaned so beautifully for me.
You became sweet, reaching out to me tenderly with the tip of your tongue. I did not let you dissuade me from my task. It was not until I felt your head list to the side, drunken with my kisses, whimpering, past will, that I began to suck on just that tip. I kept at it for several beats, now working at your buttons, pressing each tightly to your belly before I slipped it loose.
I took your tongue full in my mouth, twining it with my own, and for the first time I took you in my hand. God, I thought you'd buck me off at that. So hot so hard, as silken-fine as white four, as solid as marble, heavy, heavy, weeping already for me. I rolled my thumb over your tip and then switched hands, taking you in my left as I and pulled my mouth from yours. Your eyes were slitted, you were almost lost, but they drew wide then, hazy and dark with lust. I held my slick thumb before your swollen lips, brushing it against you lips for a moment before bringing it to my own mouth, sucking on the musk and salt of you as you shivered beneath me.
I pried your hands from my thighs and set them firmly to either side of yours, closing your fists against the bedding as I slid off of you and onto my knees. You looked down at me, gasping, chest heaving, bronze curls damp, lips and mouth and eyes full of me, only me, anticipation for me. Yes I am cruel, I never said I wasn't, only that I love you. I let you wait, tugging your trousers and pants down your hips, knocking your hands aside and back to the bed as you tried to speed my progress. I waited for 20 months for you, you wait for me now. Even when you were freed and bared to me I waited, until your breath matched the beat of my own.
I am cruel, and I love you, and I am not made of stone. Your suffering was mine. I write of your torment but I was far from immune. From my position between your legs I felt draped in you, the press of your thighs against my shoulders, your smell, the salt and metal and clove taste of you, the rustle of cloth and staccato of our breath.
I suppose I should have some shame writing these next lines, but I don't; one of the few places I have felt most at peace has been when I have set myself between another man's thighs and had my fill of him. I know many think otherwise, but I have never myself felt low kneeling with a mans cock in my mouth; it was always others that tried to make it so. But never you.
Once I had the head of your cock seated on my tongue I used my hands to pin yours at your sides. Eventually I would want to reclaim mine, to roll your bollocks between my fingers, to labor your shaft, to press hard against your base and to move lower still. For now it was time for you to sit and learn what this mouth you knew so well was capable of, how much you had to learn of pleasure from me.
When I finally took you in I am sure I sighed with all my heart. I am not giving into hyperbole when I say that I love and want all of you. I love your face and your voice and your thighs and your arse. I love your hands, and your feet, the lovely corded muscles of your back. But this was the first time I had seen you fully, and I was glad to see that I also loved your cock. It is a beautiful one. Large for your stature but fat and beautifully veined. Your hood was mostly back, soft as suede, a toy within a toy for me to play with after long hard swipes along your length with the flat of my tongue, after worrying the thick vein traversing the underside of your cock (which seemed to me even richer than the rest of you), after nipping at the flare of your head lighty, lighty, relentlessly, ghosting my tongue over your drenched slit.
But finally I sucked you in deep, all the way into my throat. You met no resistance, no man ever has, this was nothing I ever had to learn. Perhaps in part this is why I made such a good medic; my body resists nothing, rejects nothing, it has only ever been my heart, and with you my heart has always been open, as wide as it has ever been with anyone.
You were and still are, my love, a fantasy embodied, and with that first full deep suck of you I hummed with pleasure. I felt your groan as much as heard it, could sense your toes curling in you shoes and so I did it again. And again, and again, tightening my grip on your wrists as you writhed beneath me, me beneath you. You began to thrust, as much as my hard restraint allowed you, and I went with it, matching you with suction, rolling your head against the inside of my cheek, brushing it hard against the back of my palate before taking you back all the way again to the root.
By now you were so far gone that when I removed my hands from yours you stayed put, fists clenched into the bedding. white knuckles melting into the sheets. I played with your bollocks for a time and then firmly gripped your hips, stroked you heaving belly, making you feel vulnerable and exposed to me under my caresses. I pulled you further into me, your arse now half off the bed. You jerked back, shoulders thrust far now for balance and I tugged your trousers farther down your thighs, revealing all of your core, all soft and hard and slick with your sweat and my mouth.
You were begging now, begging me, for me, my name and God's interchangeably on your lips. Good, I thought, let him beg. It is a sweet pleasure to know that of the two of us, it is not God that can answer your prayers.
With my left hand I continued my lovely torture of your shaft. I used feather-light touches with just the tips of my fingers every time I drew my mouth back, a counterpoint to my unrelenting suction on return, the pressure, the ghost of teeth. With my right I wandered and played in the valley below your bollocks, padding my fingers along it methodically, strategically, until I found the place that may you bow against my hands and gasp my name. With every hard suck now I rocked my thumb into it, and you met me with your hips, still trying to gain what little leverage might be left to you by hooking you feet clumsily against my calves. To all the world you are golden, perfection, sure, right, with a place for everything and everything in it's place. How I love to unlatch you, lock by lock falling to my clever hands, and open you wide and scatter these hidden parts of you around like treasure.
I had now pulled my mouth off of your cock and was laving your bollocks with the flat of my tongue. I rolled my tongue a bit to cradle them firmly, insistently pressing all the while at that hot little patch, your cock leaking copiously now, speeding the glide of my rough palm against you.
Although my desire was almost painful at that point, I felt peaceful. I love this best, hunger for it as much as any release, getting lost in the rhythmic sucking of cock, losing track of time, sinking down into into your smell and sound and taste.
I felt you tighten and rise up against my mouth, thicken in my hand. The thought crossed my mind to press against your base and press your bollocks back, to halt your pleasure so that I could continue with my reverie, but I had shown you enough of my cruelty and talent, and you had been such a very, very eager student.
Bringing my lips back to their home, I focused myself on heavy sucking and pressure. Every bit of you touching me felt like granite. The tension from you body coiled around us. Your whispered pleas and nonsense words took on greater urgency, and I could feel your pleasure cresting. Your cleft was soaked with sweat and my own saliva. As I felt the first deep contraction traverse your cock, I slid my finger deftly inside of you, taking you from both end. The bed dipped as you rocked heavily to your side as scrambled to thrust a fist into your mouth to muffle the sound of your spend.
You came down my throat and I swallowed around you, feeling my tightening muscles wrest even more pleasure from you. I continued to suckle at you until you softened. I gentled my mouth now, lightly lapping you clean and you sagged into the bedding. Your face was dazed and soft, you were gasping deeply. A heavy quiet settled between us, and it was the work of a a few brisk strokes before I came beneath your feet, my brow against your slick thigh, licking my own lips, never enough, never enough of you.
That was the first night you slept with me, near until morning, us both still wrapped lushly in what we made together, a desire uniquely ours, different than any I had before. The night my sleep was quiet, rich, and dreamless.
It has been weeks and weeks hence, but I remember every taste of you. Now, my fingers only know the feel of the world around me in relationship to the touch of your skin. 120 weight wool in summer is the palms of your hand, thick satin lining cases of silver is your tongue against my teeth, mahogany slick with oil and lemon is your thigh in the early morning.