Free Rough Canvas by Joey W. Hill

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut again, a shudder running
    through him. Okay, Marcus was pissed. Seriously pissed with him. But he’d do it. He could torture him three times that number of times, and he’d still do what he had to do, though his cock throbbed so hard now he made sounds of growling need in his throat as Marcus fisted a handful of his hair and began to roughly fuck his mouth. Thomas still reveled in it, in serving his Master, clutching at that sense of completeness he hadn’t had in over a year.
    He’d forgotten that Marcus never lost control. Even if he was pissed, he never lost sight of the ultimate goal. As he worked his cock back up to a full erection, night closed in. After spilling his seed down Thomas’ throat, he switched positions, removing the dildo and taking Thomas’ ass, pushing him to the floor again, until he snarled his release and Thomas’ body shuddered in an agony of need.
    Time ceased, details blurred. There was only flesh meeting flesh, penetration,
    burning. The blindfold removed again, Thomas watching with glazed, watering eyes as Marcus washed himself, that sensual torment of seeing the soap-and-water slicked 40
    Rough Canvas
    fingers moving over the cock that had been deep in both orifices of his body. Then his lips being stretched again. Rocking against that rubber phallus, holding it in with his heels. When Thomas couldn’t see, it was all intensified, the slide of Marcus’ body against his, every rough thrust, every light caress.
    There was one blissful point when Marcus stopped deep inside of his ass and
    pressed a kiss to the back of Thomas’ neck. It was possibly the most unbearable moment of all as Marcus slid an arm around his waist and held him, his palm over Thomas’
    thundering heart, just before he came again.
    He should have been keeping count, but he wasn’t. It all became about serving
    Marcus until his Master was ready to have him do otherwise. It was all he was, all his mind wanted to be.
    Once when Thomas was eight, he’d been dared to swim a hundred laps in the
    community pool. He kept going and going and going. Someone stopped him by
    reaching in and grabbing his arm, pulling him up. He’d been dazed, disoriented, because it had been all about proving he could keep going. The number was no longer important.
    The blindfold was untied again. Marcus brought back the room, the features now
    sharp-edged in their clarity. The book. The wineglass. The edges of the coffee table and frame of the picture over the fireplace. It was twilight outside. The room smelled of sweat and sex, old wood and lubricant which Marcus thankfully had started to use on the second penetration.
    “Back on your heels, pet.” But this time Marcus didn’t put the dildo back in and Thomas was glad, because his ass was so sore. “Hands clasped together at your lower back again.”
    The now constant quiver in Thomas’ muscles increased when he felt the pressure of velour cuffs being wrapped around his wrists and then ankles. Marcus hooked the two sets together, so he was completely helpless.
    Then his Master went back to the sofa and sat. Thomas fastened hungry eyes on
    him. Marcus’ chest was slick with sweat, hair damp. He’d been kind enough not to pull on his slacks and so he sat there completely naked. For the moment, his cock rested on his thigh and the nest of his testicles as he considered his slave. His green eyes were still that of a dragon’s, laced with fire and power, the simmering fierceness of his climaxes still in his face, the sensuous, taut set of his mouth.
    Thomas’ attention lingered on the slope of his chest, the tapering to the stomach.
    God, but it was mouthwatering terrain. No one could look at Marcus’ smoothly
    muscled upper body and not want to take a hard, deep bite. Suck and lick him like an ice cream, like the curves of a creamy vanilla double scoop. The long thighs and narrow calves, all roped with the clean lines of a cyclist’s muscles, were equally