A Winter Symphony: A Christmas Novella Page 3

  Søren ordered him to undress. Kingsley obeyed, but slowly. He wanted everything to be slow tonight. No rush. No hurry. Make the evening last as long as possible.

  He took off his suit jacket, tossed it over the back of the chair. Then the button-down, deftly freeing one button at a time. Meanwhile, Søren had unlocked the big steamer trunk. Hidden under the neatly folded sheets and quilts were all of Søren’s toys. Floggers. Whips. Handcuffs. Misery sticks. Leather cuffs. Snap hooks. Spreader bars. Ankle cuffs.

  Kingsley grew more and more aroused as the seconds passed and the silence grew heavy with possibility. Shoes off. Socks off. Trousers off. Then there was nothing left to take off.

  Søren emerged from the chest with a ring. A large metal ring. Definitely not a cock ring, unless the cock in question belonged to a bull elephant.

  “What’s that?” Kingsley asked.

  “You wanted to leave marks on my bed,” Søren said, placing the metal hoop over the top of the wooden spindle, where it stayed like a ring tossed onto a peg during a carnival game. “Your own marks. She can’t reach that high. I think you can.”

  Søren picked up two leather wrist cuffs. Kingsley was six feet tall, but even so, he would have to stretch if he were cuffed to that ring. The higher his hands were tied, the less secure footing he would have, and the more vulnerable he would be—no doubt precisely why Søren had thought of it.

  Søren casually tossed the cuffs onto the bed, then unbuttoned his shirt. He threw it at Kingsley, who knew what to do. He neatly folded the shirt and laid it over the back of the chair, and just like that, he was sixteen again. This was how it had been. This is how it would be. Only this time, he hoped, without the terrible ending.

  From the toy box, Søren removed a flogger with oiled leather tails. Kingsley closed his eyes, breathed a silent “Merde.” Oiled leather was bad. Oiled leather meant sharp, stinging sensations. Oiled leather was not for beginners, because oiled leather could cause serious pain.

  “You don’t use that on Nora, do you?” Kingsley asked.

  “Never. Though she’s been threatened with it. Keeps her in line, more or less.”

  He gave Kingsley a wicked, almost demonic grin. Then Søren moved closer, pressed his bare chest to Kingsley’s. The skin to skin contact was delicious, electric. Kingsley’s cock stiffened. It ached for touching and sucking, but the night had only just begun. Relief was hours away.

  The flogger hung on Søren’s wrist by the strap, and when he cupped Kingsley’s neck lightly—and then not so lightly—Kingsley felt the tails gently brushing his naked back.

  “I would never use this on Eleanor,” Søren said, meeting Kingsley’s eyes. “I’ve been saving it for you.”

  “What did I do to deserve the honor?”

  “You showed up.”

  Søren’s mouth found his again, kissed him deeply but too briefly. He raised Kingsley’s wrist to his lips and bit him hard, over the pulse point, hard enough to break the skin. Just a nip of teeth, but it sent a jolt of sharp pain through his entire body. The blood welled up, not much more than a pinprick, but Søren’s pupils dilated at the sight of it until there was more black in his eyes than gray.

  Slowly, Søren lowered Kingsley’s hand and placed it flat against the center of his chest. Kingsley could feel Søren’s steady, strong heartbeat against his palm. Then Søren picked up one leather cuff and wrapped it around Kingsley’s wrist, buckling it with his quick, agile fingers…fingers that had done this so many times, on so many nights, that surely he could have done it in his sleep. The leather cuff abraded the small bite wound on Kingsley’s wrist. With every flinch, every twist, he would feel it again.

  Which was, of course, precisely why Søren did it.

  When both wrists were cuffed, Søren took out a snap hook and ordered Kingsley to face the bedpost and raise his arms. He could just barely reach the ring, standing on his toes. Søren, four inches taller, had no difficulty strapping him in and stretching him further in the process. Kingsley clenched his teeth as the muscles of his arms and back went taut and lengthened as if pulled on a rack.

  In a proper flogging, the top warms the submissive up with a light start. The pain goes slowly and gently from a one to a two, a two to a four. Gradually, carefully, and with respect.

  But this was Kingsley, a whore for pain.

  And this was Søren, a man who made pain sluts cry for their mothers.

  The first strike was brutal. Brutal and beautiful, just like the man who delivered it. Kingsley was caught so off guard by the pain that he cried out. When no second strike immediately followed, he knew he was in trouble.

  “We’re in the rectory of a Catholic church, Kingsley,” Søren reminded him in his most insufferable tone. “Let’s keep it down, shall we? Or do I need to gag you?”

  Kingsley gave that question serious thought. Oiled leather flogger? No way to move into or away from the pain?

  “Better gag me,” he said.

  Søren silently retrieved a gag from his toy box and tied it around Kingsley’s head.

  “Shall I continue?” Søren asked in his ear. “Oh, you’re gagged. You can’t answer. I’ll take your silence for consent.”

  Kingsley’s silence was his consent. His presence was his consent. When it came to Søren, Kingsley’s existence was his consent.

  “I promise I’ll stop if you pass out from blood loss,” Søren added.

  This was a joke. At least Kingsley hoped it was. With Søren, one could never be sure…

  The second strike was as hard and as harsh as the first. A line of fire burned across Kingsley’s back. Then the third strike, and the fire went wild.

  Kingsley braced himself as well as he could against the bedpost, shoulder to oak, and let the fire rain down on him. On his shoulders, on his sides, on his ass, thighs; even the tender skin on the back of his knees wasn’t spared. The sensation went beyond stinging and burning to a place of absolute obliterating conflagration. If someone had doused him in gasoline and thrown a match on him, he might not notice. His body was a sacrificial bonfire and Søren the god for whom he burned. Everything turned to ash in the fire: His fears for the future. His dark memories of the past. His ego. His needs. His wants. His hopes. He was nothing but a body.

  Then it was over, the cool air kissing his raw skin. He hung limp from the bedpost, covered in sweat and shivering, panting against the gag.

  Søren pushed his bare chest against Kingsley’s back. Kingsley almost passed out from the sudden wave of pain as Søren’s sweat stung his wounded flesh.

  But it was worth it. God, was it worth it when Søren wrapped his arms around his stomach, put his lips to his ear, and said, “Thank you.”

  Søren kissed him on the back of the neck where the strap of the gag had rubbed his skin red. He kissed Kingsley’s shoulders, still burning, and the back of his head. Søren’s lips dug hard into Kingsley’s skin like he was close to coming, and it was true—he could feel his lover’s powerful erection against his back.

  This was one of those rare and perfect moments when Kingsley felt Søren’s need, so much greater than his own. No matter how much Kingsley wanted it—and he did want it, beyond love or money—Søren needed it, like food, water. Like air. And if you needed air and didn’t have it, wouldn’t you put your lips to the ear of the man who’d given it to you to whisper your thanks?

  Søren finally unbuckled the gag and pulled it gently out of Kingsley’s mouth before dropping it onto the rug. Then he reached up and unhooked the snap hooks. Kingsley’s arms fell down to his sides like deadweight. His knees nearly buckled. But he didn’t have to worry that he’d fall. Søren had him. Kingsley leaned back against him, resting there. Søren’s arms were around him, his chin on Kingsley’s shoulder.

  “Happy now?” Søren asked softly, laughter in his voice. “Now that you left your mark on the bed?”

  Kingsley opened his tired eyes and saw the steel ring had cut gouges into the top of the bedpost, gouges so deep they’d expose
d the pale wood underneath the dark stain and varnish.

  Blissfully, he smiled.

  “Very, very happy.”

  Chapter Six

  Kingsley stood on his feet, steady again, and turned around, kissing Søren with hunger and need. But kisses weren’t enough to satisfy the craving. He went onto his knees and kissed and licked Søren’s bare and beautiful stomach, tasting the sweat.

  As much as Kingsley wanted his cock and wanted it right then, he made himself slow down. Made it last and last. If he’d learned anything this year, it was that everything could change in an instant. Everything could, with a knock on the door or a call on the phone, just…disappear.

  Slowly, he opened Søren’s black trousers and lowered them down past his jutting hipbones. Kingsley had to bite them, or he would die right there on the floor of the rectory’s bedroom, which would undoubtedly put Søren in an awkward position. So he did them both a favor and bit them, nipping the pale flesh with the tips of his teeth. Søren flinched and caught his breath. Søren had a sadist’s respect for pain. A connoisseur of it, really, and happy to be on the receiving end if and when the pain was inflicted on him by an overly enthusiastic submissive.

  Søren was hard, his cock stiff and thick. Kingsley slid his palm up the shaft and wrapped his fingers around it, holding it as he bit Søren’s left hip a little harder. Not too hard. Just hard enough to leave teeth marks and a bruise that Nora might see in a day or two. Kingsley was in a mood to leave his mark on Søren tonight—his bed, his body. He’d tattoo his name on the man’s soul if he could find his way to it.

  Kingsley brought the tip of Søren’s penis to his lips, licked it, and circled it with his tongue. Then he slowly….slowly….slowly….drew it into his mouth. He held it by the base and took as much of it as he could. He tasted salt again, but not sweat. He forced his jaw to relax so he could take as much as possible into his throat, and once it was there he pumped his mouth around it.

  Søren’s hands found Kingsley’s hair and stroked it, then gripped it to hold him in place.

  He tilted Kingsley’s head back slightly, and Kingsley let it happen without protest or struggle. He let Søren use his mouth as he knelt there and took it. This was what he’d craved for years, this giving up of self and will and autonomy. It wasn’t always good to be a king. There was much to be said for being a servant, especially with this man as his master.

  Kingsley opened his eyes and looked up. Søren was astride him practically, his legs parted and his hands holding Kingsley’s head right where he wanted it. His bare chest glistened in the lamplight, his tight stomach muscles moving with each of his breaths. His eyes were closed as if in prayer.

  Kingsley slid his hands up Søren’s thighs and to his back, his long and muscled back. He dug his fingers into the tender skin, wanting to draw Søren deeper into his mouth.

  Søren gasped—a sound as wild and welcome as sudden thunder on a stifling summer night—and released into Kingsley’s mouth. Søren’s come filled his throat, and he had to swallow fast or choke. He swallowed every drop and licked his lips when it was done. Søren stood over him, hands still in Kingsley’s hair.

  Kingsley leaned his head against Søren’s hip and rested there. When Søren laughed softly, Kingsley looked up.

  “I didn’t plan on doing that,” Søren said.

  “Good,” Kingsley said, resting his head again on the center of Søren’s stomach. “I liked making you lose control.”

  “Doesn’t happen very often.” Søren ran his fingers through Kingsley’s hair. “Did you do that on purpose?”

  Kingsley sat back on his knees and watched as Søren zipped up his trousers. “Suck your cock like my life depended on it? Yes.”

  “Make me come.”

  Kingsley shrugged. “If I didn’t make you come now, I knew you’d fuck me. And I didn’t want you to fuck me now. I wanted you to fuck me later.”

  “Usually you want me to fuck you immediately.”

  “I suppose I’m in the mood to take things slower tonight. I don’t want it to be over too soon.”

  “No matter what, you can stay as long as you like.”

  Hearing those words made him feel almost as good as swallowing every drop of Søren’s come had.

  “I told you…I’m still getting used to us being together again. I may never get used to it,” Kingsley said.

  Søren reached down and stroked Kingsley’s now-swollen bottom lip. His face was solemn, his eyes stern.

  “Get used to it.”

  Chapter Seven

  Søren sent Kingsley downstairs to find a bottle of red wine and two glasses. While in the kitchen, Kingsley checked his phone and found Juliette had sent him a photo of her and Nora at the theater in their box seats, both women looking elegant in their evening gowns. They’d be out late, so Kingsley didn’t have to hurry home. Juliette was always happy to have a night off from his hovering attentions. Yesterday he’d tried to convince her to move their bedroom to the ground floor so she wouldn’t have to climb the stairs. To that she said, “I’m pregnant, not dying.” And that was the end of that.

  He started up the stairs with the wine. From down the hall, he heard Søren on the phone. Kingsley walked quietly to the office and peeked inside. Søren was standing behind his desk, phone to his ear. While Kingsley had been downstairs, Søren had changed into a soft gray t-shirt and black and gray plaid flannel pants. How did he still look like a priest even in his pajamas?

  Søren waved him inside the office.

  “Did she ever wake up?” Søren was saying to whoever was on the other end of the line. Then a pause. “I’m so sorry, John. Your mother was an incredible woman.” Another pause. “Go home. Get some sleep. Your mother’s not there anymore. The nurses will take good care of her.” Pause. “No, I wouldn’t tell the girls tonight. Let them sleep. Tell them after breakfast tomorrow morning.” Another long pause. “I’ll be over at ten. You don’t have to do anything tonight but rest up for tomorrow. Everything else can wait.”

  With quiet compassion and the subtle note of command in his voice, Søren counseled the man. It was always so strange to witness this side of Kingsley’s enigmatic lover. How did he reconcile such compassion and kindness with his sadism? Kingsley wondered if Søren had invisible grooves on the bottom of his feet from walking that tightrope his entire adult life.

  “John, you know as well as I do that if your mother were still here, she would tell you to go home and take care of her granddaughters. Put them first, and you’ll get through this.” Pause. “Yes, Diane and I will see you in the morning. We’ll take care of everything.”

  Another pause. Søren said goodnight and hung up the phone, setting it down lightly on the desk.

  Søren met Kingsley’s eyes. “Parishioner lost his mother. He’d taken her into the ER on Tuesday, when she was having a stroke. He said he couldn’t bring himself to just leave her there in the hospital with strangers.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “He knows, but it hasn’t quite sunk in yet. He just needed someone with a little authority to give him permission to do what he already wanted to do.”

  “You’re his dominant.”

  Søren softly laughed, winced. “I admit that thought has occurred to me on more than one occasion when it comes to my parishioners.” Søren accepted a glass from Kingsley and took a deep drink of wine. “I needed that, thank you.”

  “You’re a good priest.”

  “Not as good as they deserve,” he said with a shrug, settling down behind his desk. “But I do my best. I need to call Diane about John’s mother. Give me two minutes, and you’ll have my full attention again.”

  “No rush. I’ll let you—”

  “You can stay,” Søren said, picking up his phone again.

  Kingsley decided he would do that. He’d rarely had a reason to go into Søren’s office. In fact, he’d probably been in this room only half a dozen times in the seventeen years Søren had been at Sacred Heart. Although he vague
ly recalled a time they’d crawled out of the large picture window with the bench seat behind his desk, the easiest route to the roof of the rectory. Window to ivy-covered iron trellis to roof. Was that how they’d gotten back in again? No, they’d broken the trellis, he remembered. The rest of the memory escaped him.

  As Søren spoke with his secretary, Kingsley studied the office. Seemingly nothing had changed since the last time he’d been in here—and it had been years. Years and years. The walls were painted a creamy white and the hardwood floor was covered by a large faded Persian rug that had once been blue and gold, he would guess, but was now a dull gray and an even duller yellow. Floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases held Bibles and dense theological tomes, some in Latin and Greek, languages that Søren read as comfortably as he read English and French. The desk was large, but not grand. Honey-colored oak, like an old-fashioned schoolteacher’s desk with an antique brass lamp on top. None of the decor seemed particularly “Søren,” and Kingsley assumed everything in the office had been here when he’d moved in and would stay here if he ever moved out. Except Kingsley couldn’t imagine Søren anywhere but in Wakefield, celebrating mass six days a week, presiding over funerals and weddings, and coaching a ragtag team of co-ed intramural soccer players—the Sacred Heart Attacks, their mascot a cartoon heart brandishing a broadsword.

  The Heart Attacks’ second-place trophy from the 2010 church league tournament was perched on a small metal box on the shelf. Fucking First Presbyterian had taken the championship. Again.

  The trophy wasn’t the only addition to the office, though. Hanging on the wall was a small round sampler Kingsley hadn’t seen before.

  Truth makes love possible; but love makes truth bearable.

  — Achbishop Rowan Williams.

  A gift from a parishioner to Søren, Kingsley guessed, reading the tiny sewn-on letters at the bottom: To Fr. MS from KJ.

  Søren got off the phone with Diane and sat in his office chair, swiveling it to face Kingsley who stood at the bookcase by the window.