Chapter 2
The field camp was half a day’s journey. A guard of Roman soldiers remained in the village with the scholars to keep the people subjugated. Marcus and most of the fighting force returned to field camp for a few days, preparing to travel back to the occupied city, their mission complete.
Gwen was bound to a stake in the earth within Marcus’ tent. He had come willingly enough, of course, but Marcus could not quell his fear that the druid would flee, given the opportunity. What was more, he simply could not let anyone see him leaving a prisoner unbound. And his subordinates were in and out of his tent constantly as orders were given and the return trip planned. He kept Gwen out of the way, bound and thoroughly concealed, and no one so much as looked at the barbarian their commander had decided to keep.
Only when the night grew deep and Marcus sent his last subordinates away until morning did he dare attend to his captive.
Gwen raised his head at Marcus’ approach—he had remained bowed and hunched over the stake since he’d been brought in. With a cautious touch, Marcus drew back the hood. He could see at once that Gwen had suffered—a thing he could not have prevented, but he regretted it. Gwen’s face was pale and drawn, pain haunted the edges of his eyes. Marcus examined him gently, and quickly discovered that his feet were raw and bleeding. He cursed. He should have thought of that and found some shoes for the man to wear before such a long walk.
I can make amends.
He brought Gwen food and water—the best he had at hand, from his own supper. The druid accepted and ate, and Marcus washed his dirty, bloody feet and wrapped them in clean bindings. He wished to give Gwen something finer to wear, but he had nothing that would conceal him—it would have to wait until they reached the city.
With another washbasin, he cleaned away the streaks of red markings and sweat. Then, hesitating, he handed Gwen the cloth. Confused eyes looked at him, until Marcus reached out and gently touched Gwen’s hip, sliding his hand back just enough to make his point. Then he rose and went over to his bed roll, giving Gwen privacy to clean himself.
Before he went to sleep, he gave the druid his only extra blanket for a bed. Then he lay and stared at the side of the tent for a long time, wondering what madness he was engaged in, and what further foolish risks he would take now that he had begun.
~•~
For the longer journey back to the city, Marcus’ cloaked and bound prisoner rode horseback, his mount tied behind Marcus’ steed. It was a little unusual that he kept Gwen so near, rather than with the other prisoners, but Marcus preferred to raise a few curious eyebrows than to risk anyone discovering that his “wench” was actually a living druid.
There was much to do when they reached the city; Marcus was forced to send Gwen to his house with a servant while he reported on the campaign. The time that Gwen was not in his sight seemed endless.
As part of his report to the senior centurion, he had to give an account of spoils—and he reported that he had taken a man from the last village for his personal use. The centurion didn’t even blink, merely asked if Marcus was planning to keep him—his value as a slave would be deducted from Marcus’ salary. He answered that he would keep him, and accepted the reduced pay. Then he returned to his house as quickly as possible.
It was a drab stone thing, likely taken from some poor Briton who perished in the attack. He had two rooms, one opening to the muddy street, and one in back with a bed. This luxury was his right due to rank alone. Most other soldiers did not have private houses of their own.
Marcus found Gwen bound to the leg-post of the bed in the back room; the servant had left him there before returning to his home, as Marcus had given him leave to do. “Gwen,” he sighed, approaching quickly and immediately kneeling to untie the druid.
Blue eyes regarded him with a faint smile from under the hood. “Gwynllyw.”
Marcus smiled helplessly at the reprimand and pushed the hood back. “G-Gwen…chlee…yoo?”
A broader smile, as Gwen shook his head. “Mahrkhus.” It sounded like a gentle taunt, for Gwen could at least attempt Marcus’ name in whole.
“Well, mine is easier,” Marcus mumbled, then gave up and lifted the man to his feet. Still holding his hands, he stared into those fathomless sea-blue eyes. Apologetically, he asked, “Gw…Gwen?”
The man sighed and nodded, smiling. “Gwehn.”
He brushed hair back with his fingers, tucking it behind the man’s ear as he murmured the name—“Gwen.”
In that moment, it was almost impossible to hold himself back—all Marcus wanted was to kiss this man’s sweet mouth and take him to his bed and have him again. The days since they had coupled had been endless, the nights agonizing. Yet the time had also given him place to think.
That first encounter, Gwen had tried to ask him to stop. He had not truly resisted, and some part of him must have wanted Marcus, too—a man did not grow aroused simply from a kiss if he did not want more than that. Still, whatever sliver of desire he may have felt and whatever pleasure he may have had in the end, he wanted Marcus to stop. For that alone, Marcus had to accept that he had raped Gwen.
Such a petty thing it seemed—Roman soldiers barely remembered the distinction. Conquered barbarians were a long way from Roman citizens, their rights nonexistent. Still, the way Marcus felt when he looked at Gwen, when he looked into those precious, brave eyes—he did not want to merely use the man against his will. He knew they could not even speak to each other, yet Marcus wanted more. He wanted their desires to be mutual, for Gwen to come to him—perhaps even to care for him, as Marcus already cared for his captive. He would not have risked his life by harboring a heathen druid otherwise.
Now he had been thinking, and now he had a plan. And whatever his lusts were, he would not simply take this man again, even if he put up no resistance. He wanted to wait until Gwen sought him out—but first, he felt that, just once, he needed to show Gwen that he could offer him more than a quick, dirty, painful rutting.
One time only, he would show Gwen pleasure—the best he could give. Then…he would wait. For as long as it took. And if Gwen never wanted him after that, Marcus would…well, he would accept it, though he did not know how, or what he would do.
Tonight, however, he gently separated himself from the temptation of Gwen’s body. He showed the druid around the house—the man seemed impressed with it, luxury that it was compared to the hovel he had lived in before. Marcus gave Gwen the bed, and laid out his own bed roll before the hearth in the front room. Gwen seemed confused, but he did not protest.
The next day, Marcus went out, and when he returned, he had gifts.
Clothes—a tunic, like Romans wore, made of finer stuff than Gwen had probably ever worn, although it was perfectly common and ordinary. A much nicer cloak, and larger—better suited to concealing him, if needed. Shoes. A new loincloth—Gwen’s had been burned in his hut. He also brought a long shirt and trousers, like the Britons wore, in case Gwen felt uncomfortable in Roman clothing.
There were other things, but he did not offer them right away. They were for later use.
The clothing alone, however, seemed to utterly astound Gwen. The man ran his hands over the tunic like he had never felt anything so fine as common linen—his people, Marcus had observed, wore mostly wool. Gwen’s eyes were filled with questions, but he didn’t have the language to ask them.
“Tunic,” Marcus supplied, touching the garment. “Gwen tunic.”
“Tunikh?” Gwen reached out and touched Marcus’ shoulder. “Mahrkhus tunikh?”
Nodding, he touched his own clothing, then the one Gwen held. “Marcus tunic. Gwen tunic.”
The druid spread his hands out, eyes and mouth open in a voiceless question. Marcus just smiled. “Gwen tunic.” He held it up against Gwen. “Go on, put it on.” Then he turned his back to give the man privacy.
A pause—then Marcus heard the shuffling of fabric as the robe dropped. After a moment, he heard, “Mahrkhus.” Turning, he saw Gwen standing there in the tunic, tugging the hem down uneasily.
He smiled broadly. He couldn’t help it. “Good,” he murmured. His eyes took in the sight with appreciation. Gwen’s slim form was suited to a tunic. His arms and legs were strong, but with a wiry leanness unlike Marcus’ bulkier muscles. The tunic showed innocent amounts of white skin scattered with dark blond hair, but Marcus’ lust climbed higher for the modest display. He had seen enough naked whores to last him a lifetime in Rome. He found he much preferred a view like this—simple, with the most secret parts hidden. For now.
Marcus had food and drink, too—the best he could procure, which was far better than camp fare. He prepared meat and ale and fed his guest on venison and pheasant and bread and cheese and even a few early wild berries. Gwen ate, his surprise slowly fading into a cautious smile. Marcus named each food as he offered it, and Gwen softly repeated the words, in his thick accent.
As night fell, Marcus rose. He faced the bedroom, but turned back to Gwen and held out his hand. “Gwen?”
The barbarian met his eyes…and understood.
He rose and placed his hand in Marcus’. He seemed…accepting. At peace, but not exactly eager. It seemed like he had been waiting for this, and was not surprised that the time had come. As Marcus drew him into the bedroom, Gwen let himself be led, but the sadness was back in his eyes, and the flickers of smiles he had been showing earlier now faded.
Still hopeful, Marcus brought Gwen into the bedroom and guided him to sit on the bed. Then, he bent and placed a sweet kiss on Gwen’s lips. Just a simple kiss, a sign of affection. With that, he drew back, and the next thing he did was disrobe. Completely.
Gwen watched, surprised as Marcus stripped off everything he wore. Gwen’s expression seemed conflicted—a little curious at what Marcus was doing, a little sad; perhaps because he took the nudity as confirmation of what Marcus wanted from him.
Naked now, Marcus went to Gwen, spoke his name softly, and slowly undressed him, too. He carefully laid aside his clothing, but left Gwen in his loincloth. Then he produced his most expensive purchase—a bottle of olive oil from the distant Aegean Sea. He slid down to sit behind Gwen and, with oiled hands, began to caress his shoulders and back.
Though Gwen’s body was not especially stiff, he was very still. He did not respond to the touches, not to resist or to embrace them, but it didn’t matter. Marcus rubbed up and down his arms until they were glistening with oil and the muscles had to be soft and loose. He paid even more attention to Gwen’s back, then moved his hands around to his chest and stomach. He did not pull Gwen back against him—he moved forward instead, pressing his chest to Gwen’s oiled back and nuzzling the crook of his neck as his hands worked slowly over the hard, flat chest and lean stomach.
The oil was lightly scented, yet it could not diminish the faint musk of Gwen’s body. Marcus felt lightheaded with the scent of him; he couldn’t stop drawing in deep breaths, brushing his nose into Gwen’s hair. He had been erect since he began to touch the man, and it was a mystery to him. He barely recognized himself, so lost in passion over a sorcerer—a half-wild man from the edge of the world.
Perhaps he had been alone too long. They said it was common for soldiers, and Marcus had made far less use of the women who traveled with the army than most of his fellows. Perhaps it was the eyes. Or the calm serenity in priceless blue, the fearlessness in the face of death that immediately captured his admiration.
“Gwen…” It was a whisper, breathed into the man’s ear. Marcus kneaded thin sides, moving low, down to narrow hips. “Lovely Gwen.” He ran his hands back up the man’s stomach and caressed his chest again. “I want you to enjoy it this time, my treasure. I swear you will. I will give you such perfect pleasure.” Did it matter if the words would not be understood? The tone would surely make his feelings clear.
At the very least, it was having an effect. As Marcus softly murmured in his ear, Gwen’s manhood began to swell. His loincloth could not conceal his growing excitement. Marcus kissed the side of Gwen’s throat and slipped his hands down, but he did not touch his groin. Still spreading oil, he kneaded Gwen’s thighs—and watched as they fell open, without his prompting. Hands moving over the smooth inner thighs, Marcus kissed higher, trailing his way over Gwen’s jaw, seeking his mouth. But he could not reach from behind, not unless…
Gwen offered it. He turned his head and suddenly Marcus had his lips.
As rough as the kisses had been the first time, Marcus made them that much softer now—but no less passionate. Gwen did not respond much, other than to keep his head turned and allow Marcus as much access as he liked. And Marcus took that permission and kissed his captive as he had never kissed anyone in his life.
The touches had become a light caressing, exploring the man’s body. Occasionally, Marcus felt Gwen shiver at his touch—a brush over his nipple, or just above the arch of his hips, or when his fingers crept too high between Gwen’s legs, nearly meeting the tight cloth over his groin. Marcus memorized every spot as he filled Gwen’s mouth with kisses.
Slowly, slowly, Gwen was melting—his muscles went slack, his head fell back to rest upon Marcus’ shoulder, and the rest of his weight soon followed, until Marcus was holding Gwen in his arms, laying back against him, skin against oiled skin. Gwen’s legs had fallen open, spread wide, and he was plainly erect. Though he managed enough control to remain still, his posture begged for pleasure, for Marcus to touch and handle his manhood.
Marcus didn’t—until he felt Gwen respond to his kiss. Just a little—a hesitating brush of his tongue, a press of lips. It made Marcus’ skin prickle with heat, and he thanked Gwen by sliding one hand down his stomach and cupping his clothed erection.
Gwen’s chest expanded under his hands as he gasped. Marcus fondled the proof of his desire, whispering against his lips, his cheek, his eyelashes, “Beautiful Gwen. Beautiful, beautiful Gwen.” His answer was only the sound of panting—hot breath upon his face from Gwen’s parted lips. “You are letting me touch you…letting me have you…I thought you would hate and fear me for raping you.” Gently, he slipped his hand inside the loincloth to caress his prick directly. “I don’t understand, but I am in awe of your kindness.”
Leaning back, he drew Gwen along with him until they were lying on their sides. Marcus kept his arms around the compliant man, his hand gently stroking his erection. “I know…your obedience does not mean you want this. Even this,” he slowly squeezed the length from tip to base, “does not guarantee your heart’s consent. A man’s body is made to respond to touch.” He kept his voice low and purring, even as he voiced his fears. “You might be cooperating to avoid cruelty. You might simply be hoping to escape another painful attack. You might…you might be planning my death. The things you brought from your hut might be magic tools to curse me with, or poison to feed me when I grow too confident of your willingness to remain my prisoner.”
Perhaps he did not keep his fears out of his voice as well as he thought, for Gwen twisted in his arms, rolling onto his back to look up at him with clouded, concerned eyes. “Mahrkhus?”
Marcus kissed his druid on the mouth. His hands slowly began to unbind the loincloth. He sighed, a self-mocking smile on his lips as the kiss ended. “Worried for me again, treasure? Or wishing you had the words to tell me not to touch you?” The loincloth removed, he let his hand return to Gwen’s manhood. His fingertips rubbed the base, then caressed his testicles. Marcus’ voice grew thick. “Bear it for one night, beautiful. I will make your body sing with joy tonight. Then, no more—though lust for you destroy me, I swear I will not touch you again until you come to me and ask for it.”
Gwen stared at him as he spoke, watching and listening with a mix of obvious confusion…and equally obvious arousal. Marcus smiled down into those lovely eyes and murmured, “Beautiful Gwen,” as he bent to kiss the man again, again, and again.
All the way down Gwen’s glistening body, Marcus kissed him. He adored the man as though he were made to godlike perfection, though the reality was far from it. He did not have the perfect proportions of the ideal male, nor the formed muscles of a well-fed young athlete. He was skinny, his strength packed into hard, lean muscles that left knobby joints a little too noticeable for any sculptor to call him admirable. His body hair was light brown and scraggly—now wet and plastered down with oil over his shining, pale white skin.
He would never have caught Marcus’ eye in a Roman bath house, but he had his full attention now.
It had been a long, long time since Marcus had serviced a man, but he didn’t falter in the slightest when he came to the male organ. His lips embraced Gwen’s hard flesh with the relief of one who finally had what he’d been dreaming of. Gwen’s prick was warm in his hands and against his lips; Gwen gasped and tensed at his touch, his breaths coming fast and shaky. Marcus toyed gently with the soft foreskin, but did not pull it down…yet. He slowly took Gwen into his mouth, leaving the sensitive head almost totally covered, and even that seemed to strain the young man’s control. Gwen barely managed to contain his voice; his breathing was loud and strained. Marcus felt hands grasping desperately at him, blunt nails scratching his shoulders, fingers twisting in his short black hair. They tried to push him away, then pulled him closer instead. Marcus sighed with pleasure, glancing up at his captive to see that Gwen’s eyes were closed, his face an erotic mask of confusion, reluctance, and desire. It occurred to Marcus, then, that this act might be entirely new to the barbarian. It seemed, after all, that young Briton men did not have older mentors in their shabby little villages. Perhaps he had never been taught things like this?
Drawing off slowly, Marcus tasted the first hints of Gwen’s flavor before he released the man from his mouth. His prick was already leaking fluid, and Marcus had barely begun. Parting his lips, he kissed down to the base of the shaft, cradling the length in his hand as he moved his mouth to Gwen’s testicles. Here, his sucking kisses lingered longer, and his tongue played over each tender sac. Gwen was so different from the few men Marcus had pleasured before. They had been so much older, nearly elderly. Their members had responded slowly to his ministrations, and their low-hanging balls had been large and dark and loose.
By the gods, Gwen was so much more desirable. His testicles were soft but not saggy, flushed an attractive pink under the dusting of dark hair. His erection dribbled eager juices, and it stood as straight and hard as a marble column. His proportions here were perfect—nether intimidating nor pathetic. A youthful, perfectly formed male—now in Marcus’ hands, shaking with each slide of his tongue over the gentle swell of his sac.
Oh, Marcus could have pleasured him for hours. The gasps, the sharp intakes of air that shuddered with his every touch—Gwen’s responses were tantalizing. Watching his chest heave and his stomach tense and flex as Marcus touched him was more gratifying than the most ecstatic moans he had ever heard. Marcus wanted to revel in every sound, seducing his barbarian until dawn.
To his slight disappointment, however, it was quickly becoming obvious that Gwen would never last until dawn—or, indeed, very long at all, if Marcus continued to fellate him. Sweat shone on his brow, and Marcus relented. His lips tugged slightly on Gwen’s foreskin as he pulled off, and then his hands were guiding the young man, rolling him onto his side, then his stomach. With the palm of his hand, Marcus stroked the flat expanse of Gwen’s pale buttocks. Fingertips caressing over and over, he traced the slight curve at the bottom, where the thigh began. Gwen’s buttocks were like the rest of him—flat and firm, without any soft curves. Marcus’ wife was nothing like Gwen. She had a remarkably ample backside; large, beautiful breasts; soft swells about her middle, her shapely legs, everywhere. She was widely regarded as a great beauty; his fellow soldiers always complimented her—not always politely.
No one would ever praise the beauty of this man—apart from perhaps his eyes, if they noticed—but tonight, as his hands framed Gwen’s backside and his lips pressed fervent kisses to the very base of his spine, Marcus wanted Gwen exactly as he was. Perhaps in the coming weeks, he would see if he could feed Gwen better, but it would not be out of any wish to change him—only to make sure he was healthy and strong.
If Gwen ever came to desire him in return, he would need a great deal of strength and energy for the things they would immediately do together.
Moving downward, Marcus continued to kiss Gwen with an open mouth, tasting the oil on his skin, mixed with salty sweat. Very soon, his mouth reached the crevice between Gwen’s buttocks. His hands gently separated the two sides, allowing him to lick between them, tasting the muskier flavor here as he moved toward the entrance to Gwen’s body.
Silently, Gwen let him proceed. He was braced on his elbows, head bowed, legs spread enough to leave Marcus room between them. When Marcus slid his tongue over wrinkled flesh, lightly probing the opening, Gwen shivered slightly but did not flinch. Marcus bore his silence patiently, but he was a little saddened that Gwen did not even make a sound when Marcus’ tongue slipped inside him. He needed those soft little gasps, needed to know that Gwen felt him.
Supplying himself with more oil, Marcus eased a single finger into the opening. Gwen’s backside clenched for only a moment before he relaxed—Marcus hoped that was a sort of welcome, but he doubted it. A simple lack of resistance, more likely, and Marcus wished he understood what Gwen was thinking and feeling. Perhaps he should try to learn some of the Briton tongue…although Marcus had never been anything but a dullard in such studies. Contemplatively, he eased his finger in and out, stroking Gwen’s warm inner walls. These druids were supposed to be intelligent, educated—for barbarians. Perhaps that didn’t carry them far, compared to the advancements of the Empire, but if Gwen at least had a little more intelligence than the poor brutes the Romans were conquering every day, it might be possible for Marcus to teach him to speak Latin…
“Hahh!”
Marcus looked up, startled. He’d been slowly exploring inside Gwen, searching for his most sensitive spot, and he was hardly surprised to have found it—but this gasp was the first he’d heard of Gwen’s voice since Marcus had begun touching him tonight. It took his breath away.
Suddenly, he could remember their last encounter so vividly—Gwen’s cries and moans and sobs of pleasure, all in that beautiful voice…all nearly forgotten in the silent days since then. And as much as Marcus did not want to repeat the forcefulness of that rape, he ached to hear Gwen’s pleasure-soaked voice again.
Nuzzling Gwen’s backside, he added more oil to his hand and carefully inserted a second finger—first teasing around the rim, then gently pushing inward a little at a time, making certain Gwen would feel no pain at all, just a little more stretch. If he was as inexperienced as he seemed, the stretch might feel odd more than pleasant, so Marcus coaxed his hips to lift a little and allow him to reach under Gwen and lightly pet his still-engorged prick. He cradled it in his palm, squeezing gently, feeling the soft sac rest against his wrist. With a little nudge, Marcus brought Gwen’s testicles back within reach of his mouth, and he licked and kissed and sucked them oh so slowly as his two fingers eased Gwen’s opening wider. Occasionally, he would brush that sensitive spot inside; Gwen did not make another sound, but from the way he shuddered, Marcus knew he felt the deep pleasure of his touch, and he smiled.
How long he spent preparing Gwen’s body, Marcus had no idea. It felt like hours; perhaps it was. But Marcus took every step slowly, patiently—each added finger more careful than the last. He would not take Gwen until he was stretched enough to accommodate a man even larger than Marcus was. It might lessen his own pleasure to insist that Gwen not be left as tight, but he cared more that it would ensure a painless entry for Gwen, when the time came.
And the time finally did come—when Marcus had stretched Gwen even wider than his own girth, when he had soaked Gwen’s hole with so much oil that the excess dripped from his skin onto the bed. When Gwen’s tension had faded into a shivering surrender, and when Marcus had caressed as much of his body as he could reach, soothing the tight muscles with tenderness. At last, he knew it was time.
More oil, again—Marcus coated his own erection with it, fighting down a moan of pleasure as he stroked his neglected prick. He was on the edge; he’d need to be very careful not to spill immediately. Murmuring in a kind voice, he urged Gwen’s knees under him, arranging Gwen in a comfortable position. The druid obeyed without a sound, moving as Marcus directed. It was…truly incredible to kneel behind him and see Gwen waiting for him, open and—at least in appearance—willing.
If only one day he could be more than willing…
Lining up, Marcus began to nudge his tip inside Gwen’s opening. Soft, slick flesh offered hardly any resistance as he entered with short, rocking thrusts. Gwen’s body was so hot—from the moment Marcus felt him enclosing his prick, his control began to strain. Still, he refused to give in to his desires and take Gwen too quickly. With an almost languid pace, he penetrated Gwen deeper and deeper, and Gwen’s body trembled, but he made no sounds of pain. Even when Marcus was fully seated inside him, his entire manhood clasped in sweet, slick warmth, there was no difficulty, no flinch of discomfort, no sudden tightness to make him worry that he hadn’t prepared Gwen enough. He had been that thorough—more than he’d ever been with anyone, more than anyone had ever been with him.
Leaning down, he wrapped his arms around Gwen’s chest; the druid’s hands fisted in the blanket as he felt Marcus shift inside him. He was still silent—no sounds of pleasure, not even a whimper of protest. Strong and brave. Marcus remembered very well how he had handled his lessons in this act—not nearly as bravely. He may have been little more than a boy, but he had whimpered and whined like a girl. “You are wonderful, Gwen,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the narrow, angular shoulder. “Beautiful Gwen…I never thought to find such strength and nobility in one of these barbarians.” His manhood was aching for more, his hips desperate to move, but Marcus held still, stroking his druid’s flat chest, kissing the nape of his neck and the shell of his ear, whispering, “Gwen…Gwen…” over and over.
“M…Mahrkhus…”
His head snapped up at the sound of his name—Gwen’s voice was low, rasping, thin with strain. The slightest glimpse of blue made his breath catch. Head turned, Gwen was looking back at him over his shoulder. “Mahrkhus,” he repeated, in the same tone, and at the same time, he pressed himself back against Marcus. Just a little, but the request was clear.
Gwen’s eyes were not.
It was difficult to catch from a glance, but Marcus could see unhappiness in those eyes. Was it reluctance, or shame, or regret? Perhaps all of those things. And yet Gwen was asking him to continue. Did he desire Marcus, but feel shame or guilt for that need? Perhaps he has someone else…
No.
Now was not the time for such doubts. Gwen was willing, if not eager—Marcus would give him something to grow eager for, and after this he would try to understand Gwen, to understand his reluctance and soothe whatever worried him, if it could be done.
Cupping Gwen’s chin, Marcus turned his face just that little bit further, bringing his lips closer—close enough to kiss. And he did kiss him—a soft, reassuring touch. A promise that he understood, and he would be kind. Hips drawing back so deliciously slow, he pressed in deep again, sighing against Gwen’s warm mouth. Without hesitating, he repeated the motion, beginning to thrust with an easy, almost lazy rhythm.
Carefully out, smoothly in—push rocking back into pull, pull becoming push again without a hitch. Rolling hips, slow and steady, and Gwen—Gwen meeting his thrusts. Just a little—a barely noticeable arch to his back, drawing his manhood in that little bit deeper. A faintly reluctant squeeze each time he pulled back. Not much—but enough. To feel any reciprocation at all from this man gave Marcus hope. Hope that this wasn’t rape, not this time.
Neither of them made a sound at first. Marcus held Gwen against him, sweaty chest and sweaty back pressed together, and their heavy, panting breaths were the only sound in the little chamber. Marcus kept pressing his face against the soft, golden waves of Gwen’s hair, drawing in his earthy scent, whispering his name in his ear from time to time. Then, gradually, Gwen’s voice began to slip into his gasps—little threads of sound, whimpered moans, soft and strained and utterly beautiful. Marcus could have groaned from the bottom of his soul when he heard them, but he held back. This wasn’t for him—it was for Gwen. An apology, an offering. That Marcus felt ecstasy in it was secondary.
A shudder ran through Gwen’s body, accompanied by a full-throated moan that made Marcus’ heartbeat stutter. His hips thrust forward with more force in response—yet still slow. Intense, but not quick, not rapid or hard or pounding. Slow and strong and controlled, though his heart was hammering wildly, and his partner was trembling, each inward gasp shaking and each exhale a sound of restrained pleasure—still slow.
His hand travelled down, down to Gwen’s erect prick, to the hot column of flesh that dripped with fluid. Marcus held him a moment, feeling every throb of Gwen’s manhood. Then, he smoothly stroked his prick—slow, like his thrusts inside Gwen’s body. Slow but strong.
“Gwen…” Marcus’ own voice was thin and strained; the sound of it surprised him a little. Until he heard himself, it hadn’t even occurred to him that this slow coupling might bring him to completion. Now…
Now he was suddenly becoming aware of how close to the edge he already was. It was different, approaching orgasm at this gentle pace, but no less real or hot or overpowering. He was already beyond the point of holding back, of stopping himself and making this last longer. He could only do his utmost to see that Gwen’s pleasure came first.
Pumping his hips a little more insistently, Marcus felt Gwen’s hot insides tremble around his prick. With each press in, he sought to rub over Gwen’s most sensitive spot, and each time he found it, his fingers stroked the wet tip of Gwen’s manhood. Then he’d give Gwen a long, firm stroke as he pulled out again. At the same time, he buried his face against the side of Gwen’s neck, mouthing the sweat-salty skin and sucking patches of it hungrily.
“Beautiful…beautiful…”
His voice was a muffled moan—the sound of a man lost in the throes of passion. And he was—Marcus had never taken anyone to his bed who affected him like this.
Moans answered him, full, deep moans of unmistakable ecstasy. Then Gwen arched, straining. His head fell back. His voice rose in a thin cry. His manhood pulsed, pouring his seed into Marcus’ waiting hand.
“Gwen!”
Marcus was moments behind. The clasp of Gwen’s body was too hot, too tight, trembling and wonderful around him. He held back with a frantic will and watched the pleasure of completion sweep Gwen away. Then, finally, when he could hold it no longer, Marcus cried out Gwen’s name and ejaculated within him. His seed shot from his prick in rapid, mind-erasing bursts. He poured his semen into Gwen, groaning and shaking, clinging to the man’s hard body so tightly he could only pray he was not hurting Gwen. Until he was finished, it was impossible to let go.
As their climax faded, Marcus forced himself to unlock his arms from around Gwen, who immediately sank down and collapsed onto his face with a grunt. Carefully, Marcus withdrew himself from Gwen’s body, a lingering ache in his chest at having to let go. He felt his own limbs trembling, urging him to lie down as well. Not yet, however.
He leaned down and placed one quick kiss on Gwen’s back, between his shoulder blades. Then he rose from the bed and left the room. Returning quickly, he brought the water pail, a wooden cup, and the washbasin. He set them beside the bed and poured water into the basin and the cup, then gently touched Gwen’s shoulder, guiding him to roll onto his side. Hazy blue eyes opened, saw the cup of water Marcus was offering, and fluttered to a little more awareness as Gwen took the drink and struggled to sit up. Marcus aided him, his hands touching Gwen’s back, his sides, sweat drying on skin but the body still so warm. When Gwen was reclining on one hip, propped up enough to drink, Marcus released him to wet a cloth in the washbasin. Gwen downed the water quickly, and Marcus was waiting to take the cup and offer the wet cloth.
Gwen ducked his head and took it, but Marcus caught the bright red color his ears had suddenly turned. He ached to stay, to watch, to take the cloth back and do this for Gwen, touching him intimately, cleaning him with care. But he thought Gwen might not like that, and he didn’t wish to force more than he already had on the man. So instead, he refilled the water cup, placed the basin within reach, and took the pail back out to the main room.
There was really nothing for Marcus to do, however. He could have gone to draw more water, but he was nude and his clothing was in the bedroom. They had just eaten, or he would have gathered some food to replenish Gwen’s energy. Unsure what to do, but wanting to give Gwen time to clean himself, Marcus fiddled around with household objects, after washing off a little himself. He banked the fire for the night, but remembered he was naked as soon as he began the task, and though he managed to do it, he did it poorly, standing as far away from flying embers as he could.
“Mahrkhus?”
He glanced up quickly to see Gwen standing in the doorway, leaning against the post, his back bent so that he couldn’t fully straighten. He had the cleaning cloth held awkwardly in front of his groin, covering himself with it. He looked uncertain. Embarrassed. Perhaps nervous.
Marcus crossed to him quickly. “Gwen…” He showed as much tender concern as he could, and he guided Gwen back to bed. “I didn’t want to make you rise,” he murmured apologetically. “Come back to bed. You need to sleep.”
Though Gwen clearly did not understand a word, he compliantly let himself be taken back to bed. He hesitated a moment before lying down, and when he did, he looked up at Marcus with uncertainty. Marcus, however, had no plans to take Gwen again—though he did have the desire to, certainly. Instead, he removed the washbasin, gently took away the now-dirty cloth, and lay down beside Gwen on the bed.
Drawing the blanket over their nude bodies, Marcus scooted close and took Gwen in his arms, pressing his lips to Gwen’s brow. “This once, Gwen—no more after tonight, I swear it. Not if you do not desire it. You are not a mere wench to warm my bed; I will make you see that. You are…” Marcus trailed off, studying the dimly-lit features so close to him. “You are fascinating…Gwen.”
With that, he touched their mouths together—Gwen again did not respond or resist, but Marcus kissed him anyway, tenderly, burning the sensation of Gwen’s lips against his into his memory. He did not know if he would ever feel it again, and he wanted to remember.