#SSceneC2017 Final 16 : Mia West vs Jeffe Kennedy @miawestwrites @jeffekennedy

His fingers scraped past Arthur’s navel, his belly there tight on strained breaths. When his knuckles bumped into a hard cock, he stopped, brushing them lightly over the hot skin.How long had he wanted something like this? Now that he lay skin to skin with another, he wondered if he would do it right. As many times as he’d imagined some scenario like this, he hadn’t accounted for the other man’s weight or strength. As in dreams, the men in the encounters he’d imagined—though sometimes recognizable—had been physically insubstantial. Seldom had he been able to touch them and feel supple flesh or hard bone. They hadn’t wriggled against him or had hair on their arses that brushed his legs. They hadn’t had bony ankles that scraped his own, hadn’t gulped air as if there weren’t enough of the stuff in the chamber. They hadn’t smelled of their day’s work so that he’d wanted to bathe them with his tongue.

None of those apparitions had been real. Any warrior knew he could only envision a fight so far. At some point, he had to armor up and face a man whose object was to kill him.

Secretly, though, Bedwyr was glad Arthur couldn’t see him. He brushed his mouth up the cub’s neck. “What do you want? Show me.”

The hand gripping his hip let go and covered his own. Arthur mashed their hands down his cock before guiding Bedwyr to curl his fingers around it. He squeezed Bedwyr’s hand once, then gripped the edge of the mattress.

The cock was longer than his grip, somewhat lanky, like Arthur himself. His fingers surrounded it fully; Arthur wasn’t as thick as Bedwyr was. He was no boy either, though, so perhaps it was time to stop thinking of him as a lad. He’d always been Cai’s younger brother, mouthy and annoying, more talk than good sense. Someone who needed protecting from himself. But the person arching against Bedwyr now, writhing to encourage him to stroke, was a man, with a man’s wants and a man’s voice.

“Fuck.”

A man’s orders.

He stroked his full length, and Arthur shuddered. After a few pulls, Bedwyr slid his hand down over the sac beneath. Arthur lifted his leg to let him in. Curling his fingers around the man’s stones, he pressed into the flesh behind them.

Arthur groaned and grabbed the bed frame.

Transfixed by the desperate clutch of Arthur’s hands, Bedwyr took hold of his cock again and began to stroke in earnest. Arthur’s legs straightened as he shoved his prick into Bedwyr’s fist. It pushed and pulled, growing harder as Arthur thrust. Bedwyr chased him with his own hips, pressing his throbbing cock into the tight muscle at the small of Arthur’s back.

Arthur pushed back.

It was awkward. As much as he’d been using his left hand in recent weeks, he’d not done this even for himself yet. But who was he to claim any finesse to begin with? He’d only ever been pleasured by his father’s women, and he’d kept the encounters as brief as possible, just enough to keep Uthyr from suspecting his true want. He’d never played the lover, never really reciprocated. He’d begun to think he’d only ever be able to do so in his imagination.

If the whispers he’d caught from the women around the village were true, and the prospects on the male side of things as lacking as they’d always seemed, Arthur hadn’t been with anyone at all.

Some possessive instinct made him want to be the first, to own this memory in Arthur’s mind. He squeezed his cock. “You want more?”

“Yes.”

Growled. That was more like it. “How? Tell me.”

“Faster. Just…faster.” He half shouted when Bedwyr complied.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He stroked hard, his fist bumping the tight sac guarding Arthur’s stones. “How long?”

“Long as it takes.”

Cheeky. “No,” he chuckled, panting. “How long have you wanted it?” He’d wanted to fuck someone with a prick since his pubic hair had come in, so—

“Since your first patrol.”

His hand stuttered to a halt. His first… “What?”

Arthur gripped his hand. “Don’t stop.”

Bedwyr rose on an elbow so he could see Arthur’s face. “You’ve wanted this?”

Arthur’s eyes were wide and staring but not at him.

“Look at me.”

He did, and the force of it pushed air from Bedwyr’s lungs. Arthur swallowed hard. “Please.”

The possessiveness in him twisted itself into something more familiar, and he surrounded the cub with the shelter of his body. He resumed his stroking. “Like this?”

“Yes.”

He did his best, distracted as he was by the contortions of Arthur’s face. How his brows were drawn as if he were in agony. The way his mouth lay open against the mattress, the jerking of his hips as he fucked Bedwyr’s fist. Something grew in his chest at the notion that he was the one causing this, and that something felt like responsibility. What little experience he’d had must be brought to bear, to make this right and good.

He also felt a fierce pride in Arthur. He had faced Bedwyr and asked for what he wanted, and now was taking it. He’d strapped on his armor and faced his opponent, except Bedwyr didn’t want to end him. He wanted to give him everything.

“Ah—” Arthur stretched against him. His eyes closed before flashing open again. “It’s happening.”

“What is?”

“Fuck,” he moaned. “Fuck.”

Arthur’s body seized, and seed shot from his cock. It pulsed in Bedwyr’s fist as it spent itself. He milked it until the curve of Arthur’s arse pressed against the underside of Bedwyr’s prick. Letting go of the man, he gripped himself as best he could between their bodies and stroked. The firelight etched sharp shadows along Arthur’s ribs and shone on their ridges as he breathed. This was life, this man and the fire that shaped him in the dark for Bedwyr to see. He wanted it, clutched and pulled desperately to be part of it, and then he was spattering Arthur’s back with slick streaks.

He stared at them, panting, as they began to drip down his skin. When they touched the bedding, he pushed on Arthur’s shoulder until he lay on his back.

“What did you mean, since my first patrol?”

The light was dim, but still he could see the wariness in Arthur’s eyes when they met his. Part of him wanted to temper whatever made Arthur look that way. But the warrior he’d been made into knew to strike when the other man was most vulnerable.

He didn’t expect to get struck in return.

“That’s when I started wanting you,” Arthur said.

“Pleasure me, Destrye,” she demanded. “Prove your worth to a sorceress of Bára.”He breathed a laugh. “Sweet captive bride, you will writhe for me and, before we’re done, you’ll scream my name in pleasure.”

She wanted to already, convulsing when he drew the silk across her taut nipples. They’d never been so sensitive, her breasts swelling like molten glass, full of breath and fire. Lonen dragged the silk over and around the skin of them, teasing her, while her breath grew ragged.

“These are my lips on you,” he told her, picturing it so she would, “licking all this delicious flesh.” He stepped back and flicked the ends of the silk against her, drawing incoherent cries in response. “I might use my teeth, too. Do you like that?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.” She nearly sobbed the words, unable to take and keep a decent breath. “Whatever you want, warrior.”

“Because you belong to me.” He loomed large before her, fierce and feral.

Only one answer. “Yes.”

“These are my hands on you.” Tying the scarf around her rib cage, he knotted above and between her breasts, crossing it up and over her shoulders, then bringing the ends around and beneath, tying them off to the center knot. He took his time, teasing her nipples with the free ends. Picking up her container of mask ribbons, he tied them to the scarves, meticulously making sure not to brush her skin with his, tightening them around her breasts with nearly painful pressure. “I have big hands,” he told her as he worked. “Barbarian hands, rough from fighting and manual labor. They scrape your soft white Báran skin and you love it.”

“I love it,” she agreed, longing for that very thing. “Touch me, Lonen.”

“I am. I’m squeezing your breasts. Do you feel that? Taking my fill of you, as is my right.”

He tightened the ribbons and she cried out, writhing against the bonds.

“Hold still,” he ordered in a harsh voice. “Don’t make me bind you further. All your pleading won’t save you.”

Understanding, she did her best to hold still, transfixed as he made a loop with a thin strip of ribbon, then slipped it over the tight peak of her nipple. His eyes caught hers. “Your teeth chewing your lip—that’s me, devouring your mouth, your nipples.” Slowly, he tightened the little noose and she gasped at the intensity of it. He smiled, a cruel, ruthless enjoyment of her predicament. “See? Many uses for those ribbons you squander so freely, Princess.”

He did the same to her other nipple, all the while describing what he’d be doing to her, until he’d reduced her panting and begging. “Please, Lonen,” she chanted.

“You want me between your legs?” he asked, leaning close so his breath caressed her cheek. “Touching you there, making you pump those pretty hips until you can’t hold back.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” She ached there as never before. “Touch me please.”

He dropped to his knees, eye level with her sex and she watched him, rapt, abruptly aware that he’d never undressed. “Take off your shirt,” she told him.

With a half-smile, he complied. “As you command, Princess.” He picked up another scarf, threading it between her ankles and holding the ends in each hand, one in front of her and one behind. Working as slowly as before, he wisped the silk up the inside of her thighs, tantalizing her into edging her feet apart. When he reached the apex of her thighs, he dragged the scarf between her slick nether lips, sliding against her so she whimpered at the intensity of it.

“This is my hand, parting your folds,” he whispered. “There, yes?”

She had no words, only moans of encouragement as slipped against her, making her move her hips with it, just as he’d promised. “That’s it my hot little princess,” he crooned, “take your pleasure from me. My hand stroking you. You feel so good. Here’s my mouth on you.”

He imagined it, inhaling her scent, and she groaned at the sight of his dark curls between her thighs as the silk worked her. The tension built and she struggled against the mounting pressure. “I want,” she panted. “I need.”

“Take it then,” he rasped. “Let go. Let go of all of it.”