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A Seditious Affair

By:K.J. Charles

told it, rather, because any bastard tried those on him would be going home with his teeth in his pocket and the butt end of a whip up his arse. Silas had been chained and flogged, and not for pleasure. It was ten years now, more, since he'd taken the whip, but the sight of the damned things-instruments of torture and oppression used as toys-still made him queasy and angry.

None of that for Silas. And not for the Tory, with him. He'd take them, Silas had no doubt, and like them too, but he didn't need them. He needed hard words and harder treatment; he needed to be made to kneel and beg and break. The Tory's manacles were in his mind.

He was on knees and elbows, an awkward position that let him clutch the rail, head bowed and breathing hard. "You don't let go," Silas told him, leaving the rest of the sentence unspoken, because they both knew it: unless you want me to stop. The Tory never had yet. It unnerved Silas sometimes, wondering if he ever would.

Silas walked to the head of the bed, to the curtain against the wall, and pulled the cord.

"Oh, no," the Tory said urgently. "No."

It sounded as though he meant it, and the odd thing was he probably did. He'd probably prefer whips. But his hands were still on the rail, albeit white-knuckled.

Silas moved back to the foot of the bed so he could see them both in the mirror he'd just revealed. He did look wolfish. Rough as hell, in his cheap fustian jacket, with his cropped salt-and-pepper hair so unlike the Tory's well-kept locks. He'd have to mess those up.

He stripped, taking his time, eyes on the Tory's in the mirror. Nothing but breathing in the room, and harsh need, and the smells. Other men's fucking, the Tory's soap, and Silas's sweat.

"Legs wider."

"Don't," the Tory said, staring at Silas in the mirror. He looked hopeless and desperate and agonizingly needy all at once. "Stop. Please." Fingers still tight on the rail.

Silas climbed onto the bed behind him and reached for the oil, supplied by the house, of course. He'd used a lot worse in his time. He poured it onto his own thick, calloused fingers, ran a dribble over the Tory's arse, and followed it with a slick, slippery touch that won a violent shudder from the kneeling man. He pressed a finger in.

The Tory gave a ragged gasp. Silas pushed harder. "Don't want it?"


"Going to get it, though, aren't you?" He turned his hand, probing into the Tory's tight heat and feeling him squirm against the invasive fingers. He didn't like this, the preparation, didn't like to be cared for, and sometimes Silas indulged that. He'd push in with no warning and see tears of pain starting in the Tory's eyes, and that was probably what he'd expected now. Which was all the more reason to do it different.

Silas could see the clear thread of liquid running from the Tory's cock to the sheets, glistening in the candlelight like a spider web in winter.

He moved his fingers around, taking his time, enjoying the view. The Tory's bare thighs and arse, the beautiful line of his back. His head, down again so that he couldn't see himself. That wouldn't do.

Silas pulled his hand away, reached for the oil again. He straightened up, so the Tory would be able to see him in the mirror. "Look at me. Look up." He waited for the dark head to rise with painful reluctance. "Look. See this?" His big rough hand, stroking and sliding over his big rough prick gleaming with oil. "That's what you're going to take. Every inch. And thank me for it."

"No." The Tory's lips were red and open with arousal.

"Thank me," Silas repeated. "Say, ‘Thank you for your cock, sir. Thank you for making me look.' "

"Go to hell." The Tory's shoulders were rigid, hands clamped on the rail. "Don't you dare-don't-"

"Watch me." Silas pushed in and heard the Tory's stuttering gasp like kisses on his skin.

"Oh God. No. Stop!"

Just words, Silas reminded himself, glancing at the hands tight on the rail. "I want you to see this. Watch your face."

The Tory didn't. His back was arched, hands clawed, head back, and his eyes were locked on the other man in the mirror. On Silas, fucking him.

"Fine Mary-Ann you are," Silas whispered. "You want this, don't you?"

"No. No. Ugh." A grunt of effort as Silas bore down on him, the Tory taking everything he had. "Please. I can't." Muscles tensing in his shoulders as he pushed back. "Oh God, God … "

The Lord's name in vain, from the Tory. Oh, he was breaking hard tonight. Silas ground down, forward, through the Tory's involuntary resistance. Grabbed those shoulders, digging fingers in. "Watch me fuck you. Watch your face."

The Tory twisted under him, as if trying to get away, hands still clamped on the rail. Silas grabbed his hair, one-handed, pulled his head up. His eyes were shut. "Look."

The Tory's eyes snapped open. He stared at himself, impaled, ridden, overpowered.

Silas pulled back slowly, thrust hard, slamming his hips in so that the Tory shuddered at the impact. "What do you say?"

His lips worked. No sound. Silas moved again, starting a rhythm, still gripping his hair, pulling his head back, exposing that beautiful column of throat. He wanted to worship it, kiss his way up from collarbone to those pleading lips.

All the things he could do to the Tory, and he wanted the one thing he couldn't.

So he didn't. He fucked the man like a dog, brutal as he could, until the Tory was crying out wordlessly with each thrust, almost sobbing, and Silas could tell that surrender was close.

"Let go." He wrapped his arm around the man's heaving chest and pulled him to an upright kneel, straightening himself, keeping their bodies locked. He behind, broad thighs splayed wide. The Tory between his legs, untouched prick weeping with need, skin marked red from Silas's fingers, nipples tight, the face of a fucked and fallen angel. Lost or found in lust, you couldn't tell, but he turned his head away, closing his eyes.

"Look," Silas whispered in his ear, saw him shudder. "Look at yourself." How can you not see what I see? "Tory whore." My Tory.

"Please." That sounded urgent. "I can't."

Silas let go of his hair, moved his own free hand down, and for the first time, took hold of the Tory's prick. The man's body clamped tight in response, and for a terrifying second, Silas thought he might spend before he was ready. He couldn't stop the strangled noise in his throat as he tensed everything he had to hold it off and felt the climax recede a little. He gave it a moment, flexed his hips, and, judging by his captive's flail, hit the spot.

"Oh, yes," Silas growled. "Want it now, don't you?" He rolled his hips, ignoring the strain on his back and thighs because he was too old for this, even relishing the discomfort, because it helped him keep going. The Tory was losing control altogether now, head jerking, moving spasmodically, kept upright by Silas's arm around his chest. Incoherent sobs. Silas grinned viciously into his neck.

"Say it."

The Tory moaned in protest. Silas tightened his other hand, feeling the swell of the Tory's cock, using his fist around it to restrict the man's movements more. "Say it."

"No. No." His hips canting and thrusting, sweat running, his prick and Silas's fingers wet with the leaking that showed just how close he was.

"Watch yourself say it. ‘Thank you for the fucking, sir-' "

And the Tory broke. "Oh God, please, thank you, thank you. Thank you for-for fucking-Christ."

Silas shoved him forward, lost himself in the capitulation, and the drugged, dizzy pleasure in the Tory's eyes. "Bloody harlot. This is what you want, isn't it? What are you?"

"Your whore. Anything, just, oh fuck no-"

And that was him gone, crying out helplessly with pain and shame and plea