Michael fucking hated gauze. But when he woke up it was the first thing he saw. Michael stared at the gauze on his wrists and tried not to remember, tried so hard not to remember. He didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to see the blood seeping through the gauze and turning the white cloth pink. It happened though, no matter how he tried to fight it. And before he could stop it, he found himself standing in the sanctuary of Sacred Heart again. And again he saw those crazy old bats at church who were pissed off at Father Stearns.
“I don’t care how old and valuable the stained glass windows are,” Father S had said. “I don’t care if St. Peter himself donated them to Sacred Heart; if the glass breaks it’s a safety hazard and the window will have to be replaced.”
So much huffing and puffing from those old ladies followed. Someone’s rich grandfather had donated the windows at Sacred Heart a hundred years ago. How dare Father Stearns suggest replacing the window? They whined so much that Father S had gathered them around and said, with a straight face that should have won him an Oscar, “If God wants the window to remain in the church, then God can heal the cracks in it Himself. If God wants it gone, he’ll leave the job to the glazier. Start praying, ladies.”
Usually Father S never got involved with such mundane issues at the church. He had a reputation for being a master delegator. But when it came to the safety of children, he always put his foot down. And when the foot of Father Stearns went down, it never came back up again.
Michael had told himself he was only going to look at the window out of curiosity. Father S had said during Sunday Mass that repairmen were coming to replace it that week. If he wanted to see the spectacularly cracked glass, he needed to do it now. His mom had been out in the entryway with Father S, talking to him in hushed and worried tones. Divorce…that’s what they were talking about. His parents getting divorced. He didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to hear Father S telling his mom divorce was a sin and should be avoided at all costs. That’s what their old priest said in the last town where they lived. If Father S said that to his mom, then maybe his mom would try to make up with his dad. That was the last thing he wanted. He’d rather live in a cardboard box than under the same roof as his dad again.
He’d rather die.
But what if his mom wanted to get back with his dad? She tried so hard, but they fought so much. Fought all the time. And always about him. Maybe he could run away and then they wouldn’t fight anymore if he wasn’t there. Maybe he could…
He’d stood in front of the stained-glass window and looked at the scene. He’d never really paid attention to this window before the big broken glass controversy. It depicted an angel standing proud and righteous with tall white wings that reached to the top of the sky, a flaming sword in its hands. A pretty scene. Too bad they’d have to get rid of it. A spiderweb of cracks had appeared at the bottom of the window, and one ran up the center all the way to the angel’s chest; a six-foot crack had riven the glass. He ran a finger up one of the cracks, flinching as a sharp edge sliced his finger. A spot of blood appeared on the windowsill. For a few minutes, he could only stare at the spot as it darkened.
Again he touched the window and left a smear of red on the angel’s foot. A piece of glass wiggled under his hand. He dug his fingers into the crack and a shard about four inches long broke off. When he looked down he saw more blood…not on the windowsill this time, but on the floor. Good thing it was hardwood. Should make it easier to clean.
When he looked up from the pooling blood, he saw Father S rushing toward him, a look of pure terror on his face.
Father S? Terrified? That didn’t make any sense. Nothing scared Father S.
“Michael…stay with me.” He heard Father S’s voice in the distance, even though he knew his priest only stood a few feet away. “Help is coming. Don’t fall asleep. Stay awake. Talk to me.”
“I’ll clean the floor,” Michael said, but wasn’t sure if he said it out loud. He looked up and saw Father S holding him by both wrists. Where had all the blood on Father S’s hands come from? Had he cut himself on the window, too?
A mile away he heard a woman screaming. He closed his eyes. When he woke up, he saw gauze.
“Mick? Come on, Mick? Come back to me.”
He blinked a few times and looked away from the gauze and into Griffin’s hazel eyes. Griffin snapped his fingers again and Michael sat up, pulling the sheets up to his hips. He wasn’t quite used to being totally naked in front of someone other than Nora yet.
“I’m sorry, sir.” The “sir” came easier than the being naked part did. Michael laughed a little and rubbed his forehead.
“Don’t be sorry.” Griffin put his hand on the side of Michael’s neck. “You want to tell me where you were? Your eyes were open and I said your name about twenty times. You scared the shit out of me.”
“I’m sorry. Really sorry. I just woke up and saw the gauze…” He held up his wrists, freshly tattooed and gauze-covered. “It brought back memories.”
“Bad ones?” Griffin furrowed his brow. Michael didn’t like that look. Griffin was gorgeous no matter what look he had on his face, but when he smiled, it was like a bomb went off in the room. A happiness bomb. Nervous, worried—those weren’t good looks for him.
“Pretty bad. I’m sorry,” Michael said again. “This is our first night in your bed together and I’m being all emo again.”
“I love my emo-Mick.” Griffin bent forward and kissed him. “You can be as emo as you need to be when you need to be. But if I see you disappearing on me again, I’m going to drag you back to me by your hair if I have to. Fair?” Griffin tugged on his hair hard enough to make the point. The fog of the bad memories had already started to dissipate in Griffin’s presence.
“Fair.” After all, he could hardly linger in the past when the present moment involved him and a naked Griffin in the biggest, softest, most luxurious bed he’d ever slept in. “I’ll try not to go back there. Promise.”
“Is gauze a trigger?”
Michael shrugged. Griffin rolled his eyes and sighed before smiling again. He reached out and dragged Michael to him and slammed them both down into the bed.
“Repeat after me, sub,” Griffin said, dragging Michael back against his chest. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Smartass.”
“Smartass.”
Michael cried out in pain as Griffin bit him hard on the back of the shoulder. The pain sent adrenaline shooting through his body and immediately he felt better. He was even a little turned on.
“I deserved that,” Michael said as he relaxed into Griffin’s arms.
“You did. Repeat after me: ‘I am not a clam.’ ”
“What?”
“Just say it.”
Michael exhaled heavily. “I am not a clam.”
“I am a person.”
“I am a person.”
“I answer the questions that my owner, the devastatingly handsome and charming Griffin Randolfe Fiske, asks me to answer…”
“I answer the questions that my owner, the devastatingly handsome and charming Griffin Randolfe Fiske, asks me to answer…” Michael managed to say all of that without laughing, which made him pretty proud of himself.
“Because I am a person and not a clam.”
“Because I am a person and not a clam.”
“So stop clamming up.” Griffin punctuated the order with another bite. This time the pain also sent blood surging through his body. He felt Griffin starting to get hard against his hip. “I own you, remember? This isn’t a game. I can’t take care of you if you don’t tell me what’s going on in your head.”
Griffin knocked on Michael’s skull like it was a door needing opened. Michael laughed and groaned simultaneously.
“Yes, okay. Gauze is kind of a trigger. I’m alright, I promise.”
He’d spent all summer working with Nora on some of his fears and bad memories, on coping techniques to deal with his triggers. Nora had even gotten him to the point he could hold razor blades and other sharp objects without feeling freaked out. Before this summer with Nora, even scissors and butter knives had made his hands a little shaky. He’d forgotten to tell her about the gauze.
“No sub of mine is going to let a Band-Aid beat him. Only I get to beat you. Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which is why you’re going to talk to me about stuff like this all the time. Because we’re together now. I own you. So that means I own your stuff. The bad stuff and the good stuff. It’s all mine, just like you’re all mine. Got it?”
“I got it.”
“So give it up.”
Michael took a deep breath. He opened his mouth and then closed it again.
“Mick…” Griffin nipped at the back of Michael’s neck and placed a kiss on top of the bite. “I’m not going to fuck you again or let you come until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Okay, so the gauze,” Michael began, the words rushing out at breakneck pace, “I slit my wrists, both of them. I don’t even remember doing it. I only remember the blood and my mom screaming and Father S trying to keep me conscious. I remember waking up and seeing gauze on my wrists. I lived in gauze for months after that. I couldn’t even look when my mom changed the bandages. I closed my eyes and turned my head. I didn’t see the scars until three months after I got out of the hospital. All I saw was the gauze.”
Michael remembered burying his head against his mom’s shoulder as she washed his stitches and changed his bandages night after night. She never said anything during those humiliating tortures at the bathroom sink. She’d work in silence, sometimes crying, sometimes not. Only at the end when it was over would she kiss him on the cheek and tell him she loved him. Once his wrists had healed, she didn’t have to deal with the wound washing anymore. Michael almost missed it by then. It was the one time of day he felt close to his mom.
“So gauze makes you think bad things?” Griffin asked, running his hand over Michael’s arm from shoulder to wrist and back up again.
“It makes me remember. That’s all. I’ll get over it. Just…bad associations.”
“Bad associations. I get it. I do. I got alcohol poisoning once on absinthe and—”
“Absinthe? I thought that was illegal?”
“It is. So is coke too, but that didn’t stop me from getting fistfuls of it and shoving it up my nose. Anyway, absinthe had this sort of licorice flavor to it. I can’t even smell licorice now without wanting to puke my guts out. That’s good though. That bad association will keep me from ever drinking it or any other alcohol again. But you just got some serious ink on your wrists so you’ll need the gauze for a few days.”
“I know. I know… I’ll be okay.” Michael took a quick and determined breath. “I’ll deal with it.”
“No, we’ll deal with it.”
Griffin pushed Michael onto his back. Michael wound his arms around Griffin’s shoulders as they kissed long and deep, their tongues mingling, their hips pressing into each other. Fucking was a much better idea than talking about Michael’s bad associations with gauze.
A low rumbling noise emanated from the area of their stomachs and both he and Griffin paused mid-kiss.
“Wait…” Griffin pulled up and looked down at Michael. “Was that your stomach growling or mine?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t tell.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving. But I can wait.” Michael hadn’t eaten since last night, before the big drama explosion with Griffin running off to confront Father S.
Was that just last night? It seemed like another lifetime, like his entire existence needed to be divided into two parts: Before-Sex-With-Griffin and After-Sex-With-Griffin. This morning he’d woken up in Griffin’s bed and they’d had sex for the first time. Then the second time. They’d fallen asleep again and when he’d woken up, he’d seen the gauze staring him down.
“You can wait, but I can’t,” Griffin said. “I turn into a bear when hungry. Wait. Not a bear. Bad choice of words. I don’t suddenly look like a huge gay man with tons of body hair, do I?”
Michael pretended to study him. No excess body hair at all and not an ounce of fat on all those muscles. “No, you’re good. You still look metrosexual.”
“Thank God. I’m a busy trust fund baby without a real job. I don’t have time to get my back waxed. Come on, let’s get some food. I’ll fuck you later.”
“But not much later, right?”
“I mean like in half an hour. Can you wait that long?”
Michael mulled it over. “I’ll try. No promises,” he said with a ragged, melodramatic sigh.
Griffin laughed as he leaned across Michael and hit the call button on his intercom.
“Alfred!” Griffin yelled loudly enough the intercom box momentarily screamed with feedback. “Are you still awake?”
“No,” came the response. Jamison, Griffin’s butler, sounded irritated and murderous as usual. “I’ve died and you are here, Master Griffin. I am in hell.”
“Good,” Griffin said, not sounding remotely insulted by his butler’s bad attitude. “Could you run into Hell’s Kitchen and make us some grilled cheeses? Like with the fancy cheese? And some fruit and healthy shit?”
“Yes, Master Griffin. I will use the ‘fancy’ cheese. And rat poison.”
“Extra cheese on mine,” Griffin said. “Mick? That sound okay?”
“Sounds great.” He was hungry enough he’d even eat non-fancy cheese with rat poison.
“Mick’s fine with that.”
“I’m pleased to hear your infant approves of the midnight snack selection.”
“Can we have orange juice, too?” Griffin asked, winking at Michael. The thought of sixty-something Jamison knowing that he and Griffin were in bed together was slightly mortifying.
“No, you may not. Orange juice is liquid candy,” Jamison replied.
“It’s good for rehydration. I looked it up on Wiki.”
“Wikipedia,” Jamison began, his voice dripping with disgust, “is not a resource for researching one’s moral quandaries. It is pornography for pseudo-intellectuals.”
“Make that two OJ’s,” Griffin said.
“I pray nightly for the end of your tyranny, Master Griffin.”
“Thanks, we’ll be down in the dining room in fifteen.”
Griffin hit the call button again and the intercom went silent. Griffin threw the sheets off and started gathering their discarded clothes.
“Why does your butler hate you so much?” Michael asked as Griffin tossed him his boxers and t-shirt.
“Alfred? He doesn’t hate me.”
“He acts like it.”
“It only sounds like he hates me because he’s British.”
Griffin pulled his jeans on and buttoned them, not bothering with underwear. Michael experienced a brief and wonderful fugue state as he stared at Griffin’s flat and muscular stomach and that little line of hair disappearing into his low-slung jeans. He even had a little hipbone sticking out. Food… What food?
“Mick?” Griffin snapped his fingers.
“I’m here, I swear. I wasn’t in a bad place.” Michael forced himself to meet Griffin’s eyes.
“Where were you?” Griffin sounded suspicious.
“In your pants.”
“Oh…that’s okay then. Dinner?”
“Dinner.”
Jamison had their food waiting for them on the table in the dining room. He’d apparently cooked and returned to bed, so they were not greeted by his ever-charming presence.
“Oh my fucking God…” Griffin groaned as he finished his sandwich. “I love fancy cheese.”
“It’s amazing.” Michael ate a little more slowly than Griffin. He sipped at his orange juice as he watched Griffin peel grapes off a stem and pop them into his mouth. “Are you sure it’s not poisoned?”
“Nope.”
“I’m still going to eat this sandwich though.”
“I would. I did. I’m going to see if there’s any more left.”
Michael sat back and pulled his feet into the chair as he peeled the crusts off the grilled cheese. Alone at the table, Michael finished eating. He felt entirely calm now, at peace, contented. He still couldn’t believe this had all happened…that Griffin had fallen in love with him and they’d slept together and Griffin even seemed determined they were going to be together now and no one could or would stop them. Nora had even left them earlier that day, left them alone, left Michael in Griffin’s care. She saw them as a couple. It was real.
“Are you done eating?” Griffin asked from behind Michael’s chair.
“Yeah. That was awesome. Even if Jamison did poison the food, it was a great last meal.”
“Want some dessert?”
Michael looked up and saw Griffin standing behind the chair with a wicked smile on his face.
“You’re not talking about food, are you?”
Griffin shook his head slowly. The smile got wickeder.
“You know I call this the anal table, right?”
“Right…”
“You want to find out why I call it the anal table?”
Griffin took a few steps back, shut the dining room door and locked it behind him. He seemed to have something in his hands.
“Clear the table, Mick,” Griffin ordered and Michael rose immediately and started gathering all the plates. He stacked them on the sideboard as Griffin stood by the table and waited, watching him. He’d have to get used to this, jumping at Griffin’s command to do whatever he was told. He could get used to this. Truth be told he probably already was used to it.
“Good boy,” Griffin said once the table was clear and clean. Griffin crooked his finger at Michael and pointed at the table.
Okay, yeah, he was definitely used to this.
He went to the end of the table and waited. Griffin stood in front of him and put something down behind Michael’s back. Michael started to look but Griffin raised his chin.
“Your eyes on my eyes,” Griffin said and Michael obeyed.
“Yes, sir.”
Michael already felt his blood starting to stir.
“Listen to me…” Griffin gathered Michael’s t-shirt in his hands and lifted, pulling it off and tossing it on the floor. He ran his hands up and down Michael’s shoulders, chest, and stomach. “I’m going to tie you up and I’m going to fuck you. And I’m going to use this to tie you up, okay?” He reached behind Michael and held up a roll of white gauze.
“You are?” Michael’s stomach tightened.
“I am. You can safe out now and we’ll just go back upstairs and fuck in my bed. But if we’re going to do it here we’ll use the gauze. You need some better associations. I want to give you and gauze one good, long, hard ass…..ociation. How does that sound?”
“Amazing, sir.”
“Good. Get naked.”
Michael slid his boxer shorts off and kicked them aside. Griffin pushed him back onto the table. The cool polished wood beneath his back made him acutely aware of his own body.
Griffin went to the sideboard and opened a drawer. He brought a bottle of lube over and set it next to Michael’s hip.
“You keep lube in the dining room?” Michael asked, as Griffin started to unwind a few feet of gauze.
“Trust me, the anal table has earned its name.” Griffin grabbed Michael by the forearm and wound two feet of gauze around his already-wrapped wrists. “Tell me if anything gets too tight,” Griffin said as he wrapped the gauze around one table leg.
“It’s good. I promise, I—” Michael said, but Griffin had disappeared. “Wait. Where—?”
“I’m here.” Griffin popped up on the other side of the table. He’d gone under it with the gauze to get to the other side. He took Michael’s other wrist and wound the gauze around it.
“Pull a little,” Griffin said. Michael tugged, feeling the give in the gauze but also the strength of it. He couldn’t get out without cutting it. That was fine. He was okay. Not scared. Not scared at all. “Plenty of give?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now stay there.” Griffin gave him a wink that caused Michael to melt like candlewax onto the table. “It’s good for the gauze to have some stretch to it since I need to move you…right…here.”
With a gentle tug, Griffin pulled Michael by his thighs to the very edge of the table.
“Pull your knees to your chest,” Griffin ordered and Michael obeyed, feeling embarrassed and self-conscious as Griffin applied the lube to him. It felt so weird just lying there while Griffin prepped him. This act, more than anything else so far, made him feel like a piece of property, a body to be used by Griffin for his pleasure, not Michael’s. And for some reason that made no sense in his mind but perfect sense to his heart and his body. Being used for Griffin’s pleasure gave Michael more pleasure, not less. The more he gave up of himself, the more he got in return.
He started to relax as Griffin inserted two fingers and then three, gently thrusting them in and out. Griffin knew all the right ways to touch him inside.
“You’re really good at that,” Michael said between breaths.
“I’ve had some practice.”
“Have you…” Michael couldn’t bring himself to ask the rest of the question.
“Bottomed?” Griffin could apparently speak the language of embarrassed. “Yeah, when I was younger. Never really loved it though. Born to give.”
“Born to take.” Michael smiled at him.
“You’re totally thinking about it now, aren’t you? Me getting it up the ass?”
“I really am,” Michael said as Griffin opened his jeans and freed his erection. He’d seen a couple pictures of Griffin in his teens and early twenties. Just as gorgeous but with a lot less muscle. “Anyone I know?”
“Let’s just say the very last time was about seven years ago. I sort of failed Kingsley’s ‘Have you ever had sex in the back of a Rolls Royce?’ test.”
“Awesome.”
Michael started to laugh but the laugh died as Griffin started to push into him. For whatever reason–the force, the thrust, the type of lube–the sex felt mind-blowingly good, better than it had even the first and second times they’d done this today.
“God…” Michael’s back arched off the table.
“Told you this was the anal table for a reason. It’s got ass magic, I have no idea why.”
“I think it’s the angle. Good thrusting angle.”
“Good fucking angle,” Griffin corrected and Michael smiled at the ceiling.
He closed his eyes as Griffin started to move in him harder and deeper. Every thrust worked that magic on him. With each stroke Griffin ran his hands up and down Michael’s thighs.
Griffin gave a shuddering breath as he dug his fingers into Michael’s skin. “You feel so good, this should be illegal.”
“What if it was?”
“I don’t care. I’d go to the chair for this.”
“The chair…like for chair sex?” Michael suggested, raising his head off the table to smile at him.
“Chair sex is on our to do list.”
Griffin thrust a few more times before pulling completely out of Michael.
“Come here, sub. I want a new fucking angle.”
Michael laughed as Griffin dragged him off the table. The gauze stretched just far enough for Michael to stand at the end of the table with his hips against the edge and his chest and stomach flat on the wood. As soon as Griffin had him in place, he pushed into him again.
“God damn…” Griffin groaned as he clamped a hand onto the back of Michael’s neck and proceeded to shake the table with thrusts.
Michael could do nothing but relax and take everything Griffin had to give him. Through the haze of sex and sweat, Michael stared at the gauze wrapped around his wrists. It was pretty really, the white crisscrossing pattern, the fabric the color of snow. It was soft, too. Every time he saw it from now on he’d think of this moment bent over a table with the sexiest, funniest, most incredible guy on earth inside him making him feel amazing ten times over.
Griffin’s breathing grew heavier, more desperate. His hands scored Michael’s back. The pain brought Michael nearly to orgasm, but he held back knowing he shouldn’t come without Griffin’s permission.
The final few thrusts were so hard they almost hurt. Michael closed his eyes tight as he took them. With a soft grunt, Griffin came inside him. He pulled out slowly and Michael did nothing but lay there on the table breathing.
“Okay,” Griffin said, caressing Michael’s side from his hip to his shoulder. “That was pretty incredible. Was that incredible for you, too? Because I think my cock is ringing. Is that normal? I don’t care. Never mind. Rhetorical question.”
Griffin brought out a sharp kitchen knife from the sideboard and sliced through the gauze. He did it far away from Michael, a consideration Michael greatly appreciated. As soon as Michael was free he stood up on shaking legs. Griffin stood behind him and wrapped him up in his tattooed arms.
Griffin started to stroke Michael’s erection. “I think we forgot something…”
“I hadn’t forgotten,” Michael said, turning his head for a kiss. “My dick won’t let me forget something like that.”
“We better head to the living room to take care of this then.”
Griffin turned Michael to face him and they lost themselves in one more kiss.
“What’s in the living room?” Michael asked as Griffin bit and kissed his neck.
“The oral ottoman.”