The Dark Collector Page 2

  “Fuck! Yes, that’s right. Oh, God, yes.”

  I shove my hand into his underwear, find his balls and squeeze just a little, not to hurt, just to give him some sensation there too. He thrusts deep into my throat. I’ve nearly trained my gag reflex away, but it’s been a year since I’ve sucked a cock, and I gag a little, tears coming to my eyes. I pull back to catch my breath, then take him in again.

  I lose myself in this taking and giving, the rhythm and motions of sex. The scent of arousal, his and mine. Sex and longing, urgency and a restlessness, my hips rocking in imitation of his because I need this too. It’s so easy to get lost in this, easy in a way life after Jeffrey has no right to be.

  His hands are all over my shoulders and my head, stroking and petting me as I try to take him even deeper. When one tugs at my hair, I feel the jolt all the way into my balls, and I can’t help the moan that slips out around his cock. He seems to really like that, because he fucks my face in earnest then, a little rough. He’s claiming my mouth, and it’s so sexy it rips another moan from me. I’d give anything for a hand on my dick right now, it wouldn’t take much, I could…

  “I’m coming.” He sounds surprised. He shoves me off his dick and begins to jerk himself. I look up then, really look at his face for the first time since I crawled to him.

  His eyes are closed tight, his head thrown back. He’s the perfect image of sexual abandon. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows back on some sound too intimate to utter, but then his mouth drops open and frees that sound, a gasping, groaning sob. Come splashes on my chest and face, hot and slick. My cock twitches in empathy of his orgasm, and jealousy too, because it’s been so long for me, and I’m turned on and wanting. I stare and I groan—he’s just so fucking sexy.

  His eyes open, and I’m caught staring. A smile steals across his lips and he slides his fingers through the splatter of come on my cheek. They gather it up and slide into my mouth, and I suck his come from those fingers. My eyes roll back a bit, and I groan. I would have gladly taken him in my mouth, but him feeding it to me is sexy in a different way, a playful way I didn’t expect.

  “Eat this mess, pet, clean yourself up and I’ll reward you,” he croons, sweeping it from my chest and into my mouth until I’ve taken it all, licked it from his hands. “Good, pet.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” I whisper.

  “Why are you thanking me?”

  “Thank you, Sir, for making me suck your beautiful uncut cock. Thank you, Sir, for marking me with your come and feeding it to me.”

  “Such a polite pet. You’ve earned a reward.” He helps me to my feet, and places my hands on the back of the couch. “Wait here.”

  So I wait, naked, erect, my ass shoved out, bent over the couch, as he leaves the room. He doesn’t make me wait long before he’s back, but I can’t see what he has in his hands. A cool finger slicks lube on my hole—I press back a little, but the finger moves away. I feel something different then, not a cock, silicone. A plug. I groan and push back. I want it. I want that plug filling me and putting pressure inside me. It’s big, but not as big as some I’ve used. There’s a stretch and a burn and I gasp a little at the widest part. His hand rubs a soothing circle on my back as he presses just a bit harder and it settles into my ass just right. I moan. So full. It feels good, but I’m still so hungry. I want to be fucked. A plug isn’t the same. Even so, it turns me on that he gets to choose what he does to me. I need this, need to be owned.

  “Shhhhh. It’s coming, pet.” He reaches around me, grasping my cock in one bronze hand. It’s slick with lube and feels warm and hard against me. I groan into my shoulder as he jerks me off slowly. Too slowly. I can’t come like this, even though it feels good. I need rough. I need something harder and dirtier.

  “Please, Sir.” My voice is a low whine.

  “Please what?”

  “Please, Sir, I need to come.”

  “You will.”

  Still maddeningly slow. I try to hurry him, thrusting with my hips, but he doesn’t take the hint. Instead he prods at the plug in my ass, making me jerk a bit as it slides across all those nerve endings.

  “Hold still.” One hand still jacks my cock too fucking slowly to make me come, but the other starts playing with the base of the plug, tugging it and shifting it. Oh, it’s fucking intense, having something inside me, moving but not thrusting, teasing, never settling into place.

  The need to come is welled up in me, blocked by his slow hands, blocked by his refusal to find a rhythm, and I can’t reach the orgasm—until the first sob wrenches from my chest. Then, incredibly, as hot, shameful tears start spilling from me, the hand on my cock speeds up and I’m coming and crying, flying out of my skin as I spill my come all over his leather couch.

  He’s whispering to me, rubbing my back and soothing me. He eases the plug from my ass and sets it aside, then he grabs a blanket from the back of the couch and throws it over my spend. As I sob into my hands, he tugs me down onto the couch with him. He cuddles me to his shoulder and I sob there instead, so lonely, so fucking lonely for my Jeffrey even in this other man’s arms. Eventually the sobs slow.

  “You’re so beautiful, pet.” His words are clearer now that the fog of my grief is lifting. “Shhh, don’t worry, I’m not angry with you. You needed that. Do you feel better now?”

  I nod, because I do, but the ache in my chest is growing. I just came from a handjob from a stranger, and it was the most intimate act I’ve experienced in over a year. Me, who had been an artistic symbol of decadent, raunchy sex, crying over a handjob?

  “You’re sad—about Kuyper?”

  I nod into his shoulder, snuggling close, aware I’ve gotten snot and tears all over his crisp white shirt, but taking this comfort because it feels good to be held and he doesn’t seem to care about the messy side of my grief.

  “It’s okay, pet. Just rest here and let it out. You loved him. Was this…am I the first since…?”

  I nod again, my eyelids growing heavy. I yawn around a little sob, and he holds me tighter.

  “Go ahead and sleep,” he murmurs. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  ****

  I wake on the dark collector’s couch, wrapped in a blanket, naked and aching. Morning light spills through floor-to-ceiling windows as I sit up and stretch. I glance around, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  I don’t have his permission to go wandering the apartment, but I’m antsy, so I do anyway. I find the restroom and relieve myself, then explore. I tell myself I’m looking for him, but the first open door I come to leads into what appears to be his personal gallery. I recognize Jeffrey’s work, of course. He’s also got a breathtaking Mapplethorpe. I wander from one image to the next, stopping in front of one of Jeffrey’s.

  Me.

  An older—I guess the appropriate term is “early”—portrait of me. He’d made me up, painted me like a doll, and laced me into a corset. He’d bitten my shoulders and my neck until I was covered in his bruises and bites, and he’d photographed me like that. He’d painted from that photograph, but instead of photorealism, he’d made me some fey thing with pointy teeth, black eyes, and cheekbones so much higher and more prominent than my own.

  Yet the look on my face, that haughty challenge, that had been real enough. Being dressed up, made up, it made me feel like an object. Like his boy, his doll, his thing. I’d loved feeling owned like that. It made me proud; it made me feel alive. When he showed me this painting the first time, I told him he hadn’t painted my face, he’d painted my spirit, as only he had ever seen it. He’d made love to me so tenderly that night, we’d both cried. Hell, Jeffrey, how will I ever live without anyone to see this wild thing inside me?

  “That’s my favorite.”

  I jump at the sound of his voice. I turn warily, caught somewhere I probably shouldn’t be. Will he punish me? He comes and stands beside me, wraps a possessive arm around my waist and nods at the painting.

  “You look so wild here. It’s a departu
re from his usual style. You couldn’t have been more than twenty-one when he painted it. You had started influencing him already. I started getting into his work more when he started painting you.”

  I nod, a lump forming in my throat. “He called me his muse.”

  “No pressure.” The collector’s lips twitch in a little smile.

  I laugh, the lump in my throat dissolved by the unexpected humor in his voice. “No, it was never like that. I felt…exalted.”

  “You deserved to. You inspired one of the most talented artists of a generation. You deserve to be exalted.” He turns to face me, grips the front of my neck in one bronze palm. “But you made a mess of my couch last night. And now you need to clean it up.”

  I come alive. My face heats and my cock hardens. His hand is as good as a collar there against my throat, holding this buzzing, fey thing inside me even as it claws its way to the surface.

  “Yes, Sir.” I lower my eyes. What would be the most humiliating way? Would he even let me? “Would you like me to lick my come off your couch?”

  He ponders that for a long moment, measuring me with his eyes. “No, I think just a wet cloth will do.” Disappointment washes through me until he adds, “If you’re a very good pet, I’ll let you lick your come off the floor later.”

  Oh. I shudder, suddenly desperate to be his very good pet indeed.

  “Come on, pet. I’ll show you where to find the cleaning supplies.”

  While I clean his couch, hard and blushing, he makes coffee and breakfast, whistling to himself in the kitchen. I scrub every inch of the leather with the soft cloth, making sure it’s as clean as possible. When I finish, I kneel beside it and lower my eyes.

  “Beautiful.” His voice catches as he comes into the room. Was that for me?

  He sets a tray on the table next to the armchair, then sits. “Excellent work, pet. Come kneel beside me.”

  When he drops a pillow on the floor beside his chair, it’s clear what he wants. I crawl to him and arrange my knees on the pillow.

  “Look at me,” he orders. I look up and my breath catches. His morning stubble is a black shadow across his face, making him look rakish and ruthless, but there’s a softness in his expression. He places his coffee cup to my lips and cups the back of my head with his other hand as I take a cautious sip. It’s bitter, black, not at all how I drink it, but I take it like this because it’s what he’s offered. There’s satisfaction in that for me, for accepting his choice. I may only be his for a weekend, but the submission to his will feels good. Next, he holds a bite of something warm and cinnamon-smelling to my lips. I don’t break eye contact, I just open my mouth as he slips the pastry inside.

  His fingers follow it into my mouth, salty skin after sweet pastry. I nibble and lick playfully at them until he pulls them away with an indulgent smile. “Good pet.”

  He feeds me half his breakfast, sharing his coffee and his cinnamon roll and praising my antics as I try to taste more of him than the food. This reminds me of that last intimate morning with Jeffrey, but it’s soothing anyway. I can be this part of myself with this other man, this man who loves Jeffrey’s art, and it’s okay. I lick at his palm again and try to catch his fingers with my lips.

  He laughs, ruffles my hair, and then stands, taking the tray back to the kitchen. I wait for him, staring at the floor, my heart beating a cautious refrain.

  When he returns, he guides me to my feet and leads me back down the hallway, past the gallery, to a large, airy room dominated by a gigantic bed. “Time for your bath, pet.” He opens the door to an en suite bath and gestures me inside. His shower is all marble and shiny chrome, decadent and beautiful. He adjusts the water temperature for me.

  “Clean yourself everywhere. I’ll be inspecting you afterward. If you miss anything, I’ll know.” He winks, making me shudder in anticipation of his “inspection” even as he puts me at ease. He leaves a fluffy white towel on the warmer next to the shower, places a new toothbrush next to his by the sink, and leaves me to it.

  As I lather myself with his fancy, rich-smelling soap, I can’t help but wonder about my handsome dom-for-the-weekend. My first impression of him had been of darkness: dark hair, dark eyes, a dark suit. But his personality, what little he’s shown me, has been light and playful. He’s been mostly gentle with me—dominant, yes, but careful. He’s given me roughness when I’ve needed it, but otherwise he’s treated me like some precious objet d’art, something he’s afraid will break. I’m pretty sure he can tell I like to be bossed around, but he’s not sure how far he can take it.

  I’m almost ready to step out of the shower when I see the nozzle on the wall. Oh. He did tell me to clean everywhere. It takes a moment of tinkering with the hardware on the wall to figure out which knob would switch the water, another moment to find the waterproof lube hiding behind the shampoo.

  It feels good when the cold metal slides over my prostate, reminding me how he’d plugged me last night. Warm water cleaning me out feels good too, and my cock gets hard. I’m tempted to jerk off there in the shower, because ohmygod it really feels good, but he didn’t tell me to come.

  He didn’t tell me not to. He didn’t tell me I have to wait for permission.

  It’s so damn tempting. I squeeze my cock, slide my hand around on it…oh.

  But I want to make him happy, and I want him to make me come, so I finish my intimate cleaning and dry myself off. After toweling my hair dry and brushing my teeth, I return to his bedroom. He’s sitting at the foot of his bed, waiting for me.

  “All clean?” He raises an eyebrow and I nod.

  “I asked you a question, pet.” So he’s going to make me say it.

  “Yes, Sir.” I kneel at his feet. “I’m all clean for you, Sir.”

  “Good. Stand up and put your hands on the bed.”

  I obey, even though—maybe especially because—the position leaves me feeling raw and exposed. He pushes my feet apart with one of his own, spreading me wider. I blush, feeling hot all over. He runs one hand down my spine oh-so-gently until his fingers slide against the cleft of my ass. An involuntary shudder wracks me.

  “Did you clean here?” His middle finger drums against my hole, the odd percussion sending my hips thrusting back to meet it.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He moves behind me and I know he’s looking at me, staring at my most intimate places. He spreads my cheeks with his hands and stares. It feels dirty. I’m clean for him, but his inspection feels dirty. Heat creeps up my spine from the place where he’s staring.

  When his tongue slides over me, I jerk against him. His hands run down my arms to grip my own.

  “Hold still, or I’ll bind these.” Not an idle threat, I know he means business. If he bound me, he’d own what happened between us, and I could give it all to him. I could just be his plaything, his toy, his slut.

  “Yes, Sir.” I want to be bound, so when he licks me again, from my balls to the base of my spine, I jerk again, this time on purpose.

  He chuckles against me, gives me one last swipe of his tongue, and disappears.

  I wait there, chest heaving, until he returns. He drops the heavy leather cuffs onto the bed in my field of vision, and I shudder again. He picks up first one, then the other, fastens them around my wrists, and pulls my wrists behind me to the small of my back where he locks them together. As if he knows how a rough touch will gentle me, he shoves my face down against the soft coverlet, sets his palm between my shoulder blades and leans close.

  “Don’t move.”

  I relax my shoulders against the bed as he spreads me again, prodding me with his tongue, slicking me with spit. He slides a finger inside me, dry, but enough of the lube lingers from the shower that it goes in slick. He finds my prostate quickly, and circles it with that probing finger, massaging me. I groan into the bed, but I hold still for him.

  “Good, pet. You just needed a little help. Would you like me to fuck you?”

  I shudder again, the thought of that big uncut
cock sliding inside me is completely arresting. Last night would have been too soon, it would have been him taking something from me, but now? Now I want him.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Ask me nicely.” His finger disappears from my ass.

  “Please, Sir, will you fuck me? Please put your big dick inside me and rut in me until you come.” Saying the words makes me want it even more. I hear a crackle of foil and the snick of a lube bottle opening, and then I feel his cock against my hole.

  He presses in gently, for all I’m barely prepared for him. He invades me, slowly, steadily, one hand on my shoulders, the other at my hip. The initial sting as he breaches me makes me groan, and that hand on my hip tightens as he pushes deeper. I let out a breath on a shuddery sigh and my body opens, relaxes, takes him inside.

  “Oh, you’re so good.” He groans as his hips slap against my ass. “Such a good little pet, so sweet, taking my cock.”

  I rock back against him just slightly—to encourage him because that kind of praising top-talk always turns me on. He finds his rhythm then, not rough, just steady, and his hands slide under my body to work my cock. I thrust back with my hips, startling us both, and his teeth come down on my shoulder. It’s a marking bite, but it’s tentative, an acknowledgement that he knows this was Jeffrey’s thing, but I like it, and I push back harder.

  He sinks his teeth into that shoulder and worries them back and forth slightly. Heat spikes inside me, shame and arousal at being mounted, bitten, owned. Yes.

  “Oh, God, pet, the things you make me want,” he whispers, then he licks over his bite and grabs my hips with both hands.

  He pushes into me in hard, forceful motions then, fucking into me hard enough to make it hurt, and I cry out a little sob of “Sir!”

  His body stills against mine, and a heavy shudder works through him as he comes inside me.

  He withdraws almost immediately, leaving me unfulfilled: chest heaving, arms bound behind my back.

  He disappears into the bathroom without a word and he’s gone a long moment. When he finally returns, he’s disposed of the condom and he’s brought a washcloth. He washes my hole gently, wiping away the lube. I whimper, because I want him back inside me, him, or a dildo. I want to be fucked. Hell, I’d even take the plug and that slow handjob again.