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October 6, 2010

WARNING – FOR ADULTS ONLY! This story involves a man’s curiosity regarding his own gender, so if that sort of thing offends or upsets you, then please read no further!


 Curiosity…


Van was curious.

That was why he’d come to the House of M, because it was a place where curiosity was welcomed, embraced, and satisfied.

Van was not a person to be curious about many things—he lived in a physical world where things obeyed the rules and outlandish things were demolished by either himself or his demonic red-head of a partner. Things were normal, things were dealt with, paychecks were delivered and life was lived.

Unfortunately, he was curious.

He gazed at the structure from behind the shield of his sunglasses, frowning thoughtfully. Was he ready for this? The place had been built in Meridian with the first wash of restructuring, and the owners had lovingly modeled it in an old-fashioned motif. There were pillars, filched scroll-worked relief, wooden shutters—it looked extremely out of place amongst the shabby and dilapidated buildings surrounding it. No one hung about outside of it, the porch was empty and deep in shadow, only faint gas-light lamps on either side of the enormous double doors managed to give any life to the place. The shutters were fastened tight, the gates barred. Only this narrow entrance remained open, the cracked sidewalk and the pathetic remains of twisted, drought-starved weeds.

He pushed his way through the narrow, hip-high gate and closed it behind him. They were expecting him, the House of M worked on appointment only and took great pains to see that their patrons did not run across one another. It was Meridian’s best-kept secret, passed by word of mouth in whispers because if anyone disreputable got hold of it the entire House would disband and vanish, leaving their patrons sorely at a loss. It wasn’t something any of them were willing to risk, and so the secrecy prevailed.

The door swung open before he reached it, a young woman beckoning from behind. She matched the House in an odd sort of way—corseted and powdered, her eyes limpid, her bust mounded up in a rather formidable shelf that might, on another day, have tempted Van to stop for a better look. But his curiosity today was not of that sort, and she knew it.

“Welcome,” she murmured, and closed the door tightly behind him. She was alone, and that was risky considering his size, but the House didn’t take anyone without extensive interviews and they knew he was safe. Van had spent hours that added up into days speaking in low tones on the phone with the Mistress, answering her questions, supplying her with what documents she required to approve him. He’d been examined less to purchase his condo, and that amused him. “Please, Sir, come this way. Everything is ready…”

He followed her through a richly appointed but somehow abandoned foyer and down a hallway, having to peer over the top of his sunglasses in the gas-lit gloom. She opened a door for him and gestured him inside.

“This is Jean, she will be your Intermediary tonight,” the girl quietly told him, and quit the room with a small bow. Tipping wasn’t necessary, Van had been told that it was all taken care of out of his rather sizable fee.

Jean was masked, it was the way of things from this point on. Her hair was pulled back beneath a red hood, and all that Van could see of her face beneath the demi-mask was a small white chin and a full, incredibly red mouth. Her body was curvy but completely encased in a high-necked dress—she was not present to offer distraction, merely to be the link between Van and the person he was going to…satisfy his curiosity with.

Communication between patrons of the House was strictly forbidden—privacy was of the utmost importance and violators of their strict policy were banished from certain circles, which could be devastating. People came to the House to satisfy needs that they could not satisfy in other places, to do things their own lovers were too afraid to do or else to do things they were ashamed to ask their lovers to do. Van had come because of the nature of his curiosity. He had his lovers, and there was nothing he wished to do with them that he was too shy to ask since they tended to be adventuresome women who wouldn’t mind trying…But his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and they simply couldn’t satisfy it. He would try this evening, and discover whether he would add another dimension to his life.

“Please, remove your clothing and I will help you prepare yourself,” Jean softly intoned. She had a low, soothing voice. It was perfectly suited to her role.

Van removed his sunglasses, folded them carefully closed, and placed them on the low dressing table before he undressed. Nudity did not bother him under any circumstances and he was pleased with his own body, though not overly proud of it. That he was muscled and trim but still had that whipcord bulk of a pitbull was enough for him. He knew he was handsome, knew that his shaven head, dark eyes, and dark skin made a combination that was fairly pleasing to most, so he had no reason to be shy.

Jean’s eyes were hidden behind her mask, but she evinced no reaction—her place was to be removed, to be without judgment. She helped him put on the blindfold and secure it in place. Her touch was impersonal but expert, her fingers light against him.

“You may speak,” she told him, cinching the blindfold tight and tucking the loose end of the strap in. “Your partner this evening is completely deprived of hearing, so there is no danger there.”

“What else?” Van asked. He wasn’t really sure of what to expect. It was why he had come to such a place, to be guided.

“Gagged,” she murmured, and took him by the hand to lead him. “Be careful of the doorway. Gagged and blindfolded with earplugs and a hood, waiting in the sling as the Mistress deemed fit.”

Van said nothing for a moment, adjusting to feeling things instead of seeing them. He reached out with his free hand and brushed the rough wood of the doorway as they passed through. Their footsteps echoed slightly as they moved into a larger space.

“I don’t…” he started, and trailed off, not sure of how to approach the question.

“Please continue,” Jean whispered, and paused, stopping him.
“This isn’t their first time?” he asked.

There was a long silence from Jean as she considered what he asked and whether it was a violation of the other’s privacy to answer it. Finally, she decided and murmured to him, “This isn’t the first time they’ve been in the sling, no. You’ll do no harm.”

Van was relieved. The last thing he wanted to do was make someone else’s experiment into a nightmare and put them off of something they might otherwise enjoy, simply because he had no experience in it.

“You were worried?” Jean asked. It was her place to soothe fears, to instruct, to assist.

“I didn’t want to upset anyone,” Van answered, and heard his own low voice echo around the place, bouncing off of the walls.

There was a soft rustle before him and he turned his blind face towards it, a startled reaction to the sudden sound.

“Hush,” Jean told him. “It’s your partner this evening, just. The Mistress explained that you’ve expressed a curiosity regarding your own gender. I want to be sure that this is so before we proceed.”

Van swallowed once, audibly. Was he ready for this? The curiosity had been eating at him and eating at him for some time, and he might never work up the nerve to do this again. Here in this House, amongst strangers, blindfolded and anonymous, he could work through it and discover for himself if it was merely a fleeting thing or something to be dealt with. After all, Van lived in a physical world where uncertainty was absolutely unwelcome…

“Yes,” he said, and the word rumbled through his tight chest.

“Then please step forward,” Jean said, and guided him by the hand.


His hands shook when he reached out.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but the first thing he felt was warm, bare skin, completely smooth, soft as silk. He brought his other hand to the one that rested on warm flesh, hesitating when the body before him shifted, making the sling creak. They hadn’t been able to hear him approach, hadn’t been able to see him—touching the person had startled them, but they settled almost immediately.

He wasn’t sure what he was touching, just that it was a person. His big hands spread out and felt the contours of a muscled calf. When he swept his questing fingers towards himself, he ran up against what felt like a heavy leather cuff. Curious, he explored it and found a slender ankle in a thick cuff which was attached to a chain that rose upwards and out of his realm of caring. His hands stopped shaking and he felt his way down the sharp tibia and the graceful, clearly defined muscle below, his hands cupping that slim lower leg, so large they spanned it entirely. He came to the moist bend of their knee and found another, smaller restraint with another chain—ankles and knees, keeping this person spread out.

Now wondering how on earth they were suspended at such an accessible level, Van moved closer and let his questing hand push before him, finding and analyzing the vinyl (slippery, thin, malleable) sling that cradled their slender back.

“It’s perfectly safe,” Jean softly assured him, her tone neutral, neither hurrying him nor seeking to intrude. “He won’t fall, however you touch him.”

Van nodded a little, though the Mistress had said that acknowledging the Intermediary was only necessary if he was directly ordered to cease.

“He has few limitations,” Jean informed him. “The House rules cover him for the most part—no blood, no breaking skin, no branding, no bare entry.”

“But he’s gagged,” Van said, and groped blindly for their face. He found it, slender and soft, the lips stretched wide over a ball-gag buckled tight. Breath wafted out from beneath the leather hood, spilling over his hand in warm, stuttering rushes. He let his fingers linger there above the man’s upper lip, feeling the moist, soft skin and that excited pulse of breath skitter over his fingers.

Jean took his free hand and placed it on something tight and knobby. He closed his fingers around it and found a small, almost delicate fist in his own.

“He’s holding a red ball,” she softly told him. “If at any point he cries off, he will open his hand and drop it and I will stop everything immediately.”

“And if I won’t stop?” Van asked, interested. He kept his hand on the man’s face and slid the other down his slender wrist to where he was cuffed again, arms slightly bent for comfort but secured all the same.

“Then I make you,” Jean sighed, and Van had no doubt that she meant exactly what she said. He also had no doubt that she could do exactly what she said—Van hadn’t examined her for weapons earlier, but her clothing could’ve hidden any amount of armaments and he was at a distinct disadvantage. Considering that he had no intentions of doing anything to provoke her, he was satisfied. He’d merely been…inquisitive.

“What else?” he asked.

Jean waited a moment, allowing him to brush his fingers down a soft forearm to the corded muscle of a bicep.

“He enjoys pain,” she finally said. “But then, the Mistress informed me that this was appropriate for you. We pair our patrons on the basis of compatibility—he is everything you requested, Sir.”

“Am I everything he requested?” Van wondered aloud.

Another long pause, and then, “Yes.”

“How can I do…do things to him if I can’t see him?” Van asked, finding his first dissatisfaction with their arrangement. He wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted to do to this helpless body before him, but he’d expressed his curiosity to the Mistress and she’d made a decision regarding his request. ‘Dominant,’ she’d told him, naming what it was. ‘We will try it for you, Sir…’

“If this session goes well and it is agreeable to both parties and the Mistress agrees,” Jean listed, her voice still neutral. “Then perhaps something can be worked out regarding that issue. For now, Sir, he is here merely to satisfy your curiosity and that point has been made known to him.”

First things first, then. He might change his mind. Perhaps this was a fleeting fancy and this one time would work things out for him. There was only one way to find out.

He ran his hands—his eyes now in the blinding darkness of his blindfold—over what felt like a supple and rather small body. Well, smaller than Van, anyway. The head was entirely encased in a leather hood, from the crown to just above his lips. The ball-gag distorted the shape of his slender face out of proportion, hollowing his cheeks. All that Van could be certain of was that the man’s chin was small and fine, with the faintest trace of a dimple when pressed. He had a long, graceful throat that worked convulsively when Van’s hands lingered on it, reaching beneath to find the damp nape of his neck, letting his thumbs rest lightly just beneath their Adam’s apple. The man twitched and made a soft sound that was muffled by the gag, but it made Van relax a little. This he knew from his fantasies. He squeezed lightly and got a shudder before feeling his way down a wide, strong chest. Their nipples were hard little nubs, the skin of them even silkier than the rest of the man’s skin. He had the slightest furring of hair beneath his arms, barely what Van himself had had at puberty. Indeed, their entire body so far was strangely hairless, almost pre-adolescently so.

“How old is he?” he asked, concerned. One thing he had not agreed to was dealing with a minor.

“He is of age to consent,” Jean assured him. “All of our patrons must undergo the same interview process that you yourself did, Sir.”

“He doesn’t feel grown,” Van said, disturbed.

In an unanticipated quirk of humor, Jean wryly murmured, “Perhaps you are simply lucky, Sir?”

Van almost smiled at her comment.

He rather liked Jean for that.

Without further antagonizing his Intermediary, Van continued his blind assessment of his partner for the evening. Both arms were muscled and strong, all of his slender limbs strung with wiry muscle. His chest was hairless but hard, his sides rippling with strength. His stomach was curved to accommodate the sling cradling his back, folding his belly into washboard creases. The small hole of his belly button was smooth and sweet, but there was no trace of hair on his warm skin.

The lower his hands traveled the more that body writhed in the sling, making fretful noises that only slowed Van’s questing fingers, only made him draw it out. It wasn’t new, this side of him, but he’d never deeply explored it with another, never in such a way. He idly wondered what precisely it was about their reaction that drew this from him, why those softly muffled and somehow helpless noises made him linger overlong in places which would normally hold little interest. Van kept his fingers busy at the man’s sharp hips, rolling the supple skin between his fingers while that body wriggled in a rather demanding way, as if their supplication could urge him to touch where they wanted to be touched. He trailed the barest tips of his fingers down to the crease of his groin, where his slim legs spread wide, wide enough that Van wasn’t in danger of supplying an inadvertent touch.

The body bucked against its restraints, pushing to brush against him.

Van frowned a little at its presumption, and laid his palm flat against their corded inner thigh to gauge placement before he landed a firm, stinging slap on their tender skin.

The man made a low keening noise in his throat, almost an animalian whine, but he fell still.

“Good,” Jean encouraged, a whisper that Van might not have heard if he hadn’t been straining so hard to use all of his senses. Her approval made him relax even more. Though the House rules had been explained and his questions had been answered sufficiently, he hadn’t known how deeply involved he would become and still had trouble reconciling something that might, in a normal situation, be frowned upon. The Mistress had said that physical punishment was acceptable within limits and she’d given him some rather wide boundaries at that. She’s also said that, considering what he’d paid for, such a thing would not only be accepted, it would be expected on his partner’s part.

“He requires a firm hand,” Jean said, noticing his pause.

Van had merely paused, however, to analyze things, his big hands resting lightly on his partner’s slimly muscled thighs. That somewhat small and slender body was radiating a startling amount of heat, and he found himself glazed in a sheen of sweat already. When he ran his rough palms back down the man’s legs to his hips, he chased a light film of perspiration that made his skin slippery to the touch. He suddenly wondered what a man tasted like. He’d tasted his own sweat in absent moments, when it trickled down his face to tease the corner of his mouth—it was automatic, something everyone did. He’d tasted his lovers’ sweat before when knotted together with them in their beds, lapping it from the dewy surface of their necks and breasts to fill his mouth with salt and the sweetness of their lotions and soaps.

He let his hands rest against the slender knobs of his partner’s hipbones, his thumbs sliding down to the juncture of his groin in such a way that the man made another low, mournful sound and wriggled a little, stopping only when Van tightened his grip.

He turned his head and let his cheek brush against the man’s bound ankle, feeling the smooth but rough surface of the leather that bound it, the slick chill of metal links, the warm satin of the man’s skin. He pressed his cheek to the man’s ankle and let his tongue dart out to taste the hairless skin of his lower leg. When he wriggled, Van absently lifted one hand to grip his rather dainty foot and hold it still.

He tasted a little salty, and also faintly of his soap—which was that neutral, clean scent preferred for men’s soap as opposed to the overwhelming floral concoctions of most women’s. He lapped his way lower, bending as he did so, tasting the taut muscle of his calf, tasting the smooth skin of his inner thigh and closer still…

Curiosity on that count satisfied, he straightened to the tune of the man’s keening, frustrated whimpers.

Van smiled to himself.

So far, so good…


 

And now, for the next question to be answered.

“Can I take his gag off?” Van inquired.

He heard Jean stir, moving closer. The body shifted a little in his grasp and there was a soft sound as his Intermediary unbuckled the gag. He heard the man draw a ragged, deep breath before it was softly muffled for a moment.

“His mouth is free,” Jean told him.

Van moved from between those spread legs, feeling his way around the man’s hanging body—slender side, corded arm, until he found his hooded head. His fingers, nimble despite their size, found the lip of the sling and pushed it down, easing the man’s head to fall back. He felt the rush of their unfettered breathing, excited and broken. He spread his fingers up their slender neck to the clean line of his jaw and up to brush that open, panting mouth. Full lips wrapped around his questing fingers, sucking and frantic. When he drew one hand away, blindly guiding his swollen cock towards those sucking lips, the man abandoned his fingers for something far more substantial, making keening, moaning noises in his throat.

Van sighed a little, cupping the nape of his neck to help support his head as that adventurous mouth encircled him, sucking hungrily. His girlfriends had made similar little noises of soft, delighted discovery—but none of them had been blind to what they were committing to. This man, deprived of his sight, could only imagine what was currently in his mouth, but from the sounds he was making he was in no way displeased.

That mouth tipped back further and his tongue slid up, wrapping around Van’s head in silent invitation to press deeper. He preferred this position to any other for blowjobs, his considerable size requiring the full cooperation of a relaxed and open throat. Apparently, the man now bound before him had experience in such things—he opened wide and swallowed easily as Van pushed deep.

It was like any other tight, convulsively constrictive throat; warm and wet, tongue pressing and caressing. Van took a deep breath, resisting the urge to shudder, and let one hand rest on the front of that long, graceful throat. So tiny beneath his palm, so slender that his hand felt huge in comparison…it was an effect not lost on the man now greedily sucking his cock—he whimpered and arched his neck to Van’s palm, offering his acquiescence, his utter surrender to Van’s rough but gentle hand and the slow thrust of his hips. He was careful of him, considerate enough to let him draw a hasty, gasping breath between plunges, generous enough to bestow some small token of encouragement by squeezing that throat softly just to make the man whimper around the thick flesh in his mouth.

He almost didn’t notice that his breath was stuttering, broken, that his muscles were tightening. He wasn’t finished with this yet, he had questions still to be answered—but this one was, now. Male or female, a good blowjob was a good blowjob, no matter the sex.

Van shoved deep and stayed there for a moment, hips straining, long enough to make that body writhe a little in the beginnings of breathless panic. When they made a soft sound that was both distress and petrified arousal, he pulled away entirely, feeling a ribbon of saliva pull taut and break, threading its way down his hard sex.

The man made another fretful, piteous noise and Van slid his hand up from their throat to their wet mouth, squeezing until they fell still, breathing hard. Cradling the man’s nape, Van eased the edge of the sling back up to support his hooded head, wiping his wet, panting, kissing mouth with one large and calloused hand.

“Gag him, I’m done with that,” he said, and gracefully retraced his steps to slide back between the man’s spread legs, merely running his hand down their body to feel them as opposed to finding his way. He was already growing accustomed to being blind, and noticing things that he hadn’t before—like the patch of slightly raised, rougher skin on the man’s sinewy hip that was probably either a scar or a tattoo, like the sounds he made when he got thoroughly aroused, like the way his body moved. These were things that might, perhaps, be noticed afterward, in unguarded moments, though Van doubted that this person was anything more than simply a stranger he would never chance upon.

He heard Jean gagging the man, heard the little protesting noises get muffled as that body wriggled a little, resisting. There was a soft slap and the man fell still, chastened, allowing Jean to finish her work.

Van waited patiently until Jean moved away, indicating that she had done so by murmuring softly from her place just out of reach.

“Are the things I asked for here?” he questioned.

“They are, Sir,” Jean softly informed him. “What do you wish?”

“In a moment,” Van told her. He just wanted to make sure what he needed would be available. Turning his attention once more to the man bound before him, Van let his hands rest on the taut, trembling muscles of their inner thighs and rubbed his fingers in slow circles, considering, weighing his own inclination to withhold himself against his curiosity. If this went well, there would be other occasions, he imagined. And he had, after all, arranged this specifically to satisfy his curiosity. If he still felt the need to exert his will over someone he could always call one of his girlfriends later, it wouldn’t be an issue…Decision made, Van brushed one large, cautious hand up to find the silky, sweaty skin in the crease of the man’s groin, letting his calloused fingertips skim along that heavy place where his balls met his body.

The man made a low sound and Van felt the sling shift as they writhed, though they were very careful not to interrupt him, to not risk changing his mind about his current course of action.

Van’s attention narrowed to the tips of his fingers, his breathing slow and easy, his eyes closed behind his blindfold, Jean a forgotten and silent observer. Even here they were as smooth as silk; the kind of baby-softness that only long years of professional wax-jobs can give a man. Van knew; he, too, was finicky about his body hair and preferred to have it removed. He ignored their trembling, their soft cries—these things meant nothing for now. The man was here solely for Van to understand the workings of his flesh, not to be catered to.

Taut and full, it filled his cupping palm with weighty, delicate fragility. He slid his fingers around it, judging it, comparing it to himself. When they made that distressed noise again and distracted him, Van frowned and gave it a squeeze that made the man’s back arch, muffled sobs working around the gag.

“Did I hurt him?” Van asked, knowing that he had.

“Not in the way that you mean,” Jean lowly answered. Again, she reminded, “He requires a firm hand.”

He slid his palm up to assess the length of them, pleased to find the man stiff and pulsing. It felt just as pretty and perfect as the rest of them, not overly large but rather thick, curving softly to his left. It lay in a wet puddle of the man’s arousal and throbbed up sharply in Van’s grasping palm, the heavy veins pounding with blood. He caressed it with calculated and misleading gentleness, rubbing the rough pad of his thumb just beneath the swollen head until those hips squirmed like he’d been wanting. When the man broke his stillness, Van let go of him and slapped his hand down, catching cock and balls in a soft slap that sent that body into spasms, rocking in the sling and crying out against the gag.

Van smiled, pleased.

He teased them over and again, and each time the man trembled with the fight to remain still until he could stand it no more and would shove against Van’s hand, earning himself slaps that fell with sharper precision and greater force than the ones prior. And yet that flesh stayed solid in his working hand, straining and eager. He finally gave him a break for a few moments, turning his attention to slapping those hard thighs, only able to imagine the pretty colors his skin must be turning by now. He kept one hand on that heated, hard cock while his free hand laid blows up and down his tender thigh. The man twitched with each hit, moaning in piteous pleasure.

“I need a glove, please,” Van said, soothing his hand up the man’s taut, caving belly, stroking his sides to calm his frantic panting. He’d never had someone so abjectly submissive in his grasp before—his women tended to be just as implacable as he himself was. Van felt it made things more of a challenge, and yet it didn’t satisfy quite as much as this fragile and sweating little body strung up for his pleasure.

Jean touched his arm and he held his right hand out, feeling her slip the latex glove on with the surety of long practice. Without Van even having to ask her, she generously coated his fingers with cool, slippery oil.

Cautiously, he slid his slick fingers down below the tight bulge of the man’s sac and found him, tiny and tight, clenched against intrusion. Van meditatively gave him a rather forceful slap to the balls and waited out the resulting spasm, pleased to find that the man relaxed into boneless acquiescence. This time when he pushed against him, his fingers slid in easily and pressed deep.

“He is close,” Jean warned. It was part of her job to tell him such things.

Van’s free hand curled tightly around the base of the man’s pulsing cock, buying himself some time, though how much depended on how aroused he was. That helpless body was vibrating with tension, making soft, rhythmic noises. Van ignored him, focused on his exploration. He twisted his big hand around, index and middle finger in deep, and pressed with his thumb just below the man’s balls, rubbing softly to find a reference point for what he was searching for. He squeezed his fingers towards his thumb and the man’s body jerked once, arching in a hard spasm.

Destination reached, Van let go of his cock and lightly slapped it while he thrust his slick, gloved fingers in and out of him, rubbing against the little mass of his prostate each time he passed it.

Those cries reached a fevered, frantic pitch, the man’s body writhing and rocking in the free-moving sling.

“He is begging,” Jean murmured.

Van grunted a little.

“He cannot ask permission,” she explained. “So he has a signal—he opens and closes the hand that is not holding the ball…He is doing so rather frantically.”

Van ignored her, just shoved his fingers deeper, adding a third, and wrapped his heavy fist around the man’s engorged cock.


Those muffled, hopeless cries were beautiful to him, his will made solid through another’s flesh, that body shuddering in his squeezing fist as he plunged his fingers deep. He considered forcing him to cum without permission, but he wasn’t feeling cruel. Cruelty could come another day.

“Condom,” he said, letting go of the man with a final squeeze and stepping back to strip the glove off, idly enjoying those whimpering, muffled wails.

Jean’s impersonal hands turned his hips and slipped the condom on with surprising ease. Van had assumed he would have to do it himself—he never allowed his girlfriends to do so, they always wound up wasting at least one because they didn’t remember to stretch it over their fingertips and hook it first. Jean had, apparently, spent her fair share of time saddling larger men.

She slathered him with oil and stepped away again with a soothing pat to his flank, oddly calming and appreciated.

“How do I give him permission?” Van asked, wanting to clarify. The last time he had spoken to the Mistress she was still trying to decide which patron to choose for him so she didn’t give him specifics about their signals and habits, she had simply said that the Intermediary would inform him at the appropriate times.

“Just squeeze his palm,” Jean softly told him.

Van held those trembling hips in his large, capable hands, frowning a little. So far, there was nothing here that differed from his play with his girlfriends, except this was far more intense. The man was uninhibitedly responsive, eager for whatever Van tossed his way. Van wasn’t used to submissive people, but he rather liked this, and knew that he would be back to the House at a later date…hopefully, if things went well, with this same person. As much as he enjoyed his own nature and was comfortable with his own healthy libido, Van wasn’t one to spread himself around much. With his tastes, it did him no good to have a new lover every week.

The man made a low, keening noise again, pitiful and precious.

Van used one hand to guide himself against that soft flesh and pushed carefully inside of him, easing into that constricting, lube-slick heat.

That helpless, lithe body went utterly still, even his sobbing breath pausing. Van expected last-second tensing, sudden fear, or even panic—but they relaxed with a deep sigh and he found that he could push all the way in without trouble. That was a definite advantage of anal sex—way more depth to work with.

He settled deep inside of him, surprised to find that he was close himself. He’d been so focused on what he was doing, so intent on the sweaty little body before him that he’d totally ignored his own growing need. Encased to the hilt in squeezing, hot, wet flesh, Van suddenly understood why the man had been gesturing so frantically, and, in a rush of empathy, he slid his big hand up their sharp hip, up the ripple of their belly, past the ticklish skin of their arm, and over the cuff to wrap his large fingers around the man’s wildly waving hand.

Long, slender fingers clamped down over his and the man’s back arched as those sobbing cries started again. Van leaned over him, slipping one huge arm under sling and narrow hips alike, bracing that slender body.

They wailed behind the gag with the first deep, rocking thrust, small fingers so tight on Van’s that his grip had to hurt. His muscled body bucked in Van’s grasp, wild and savage with his reactions.

Van tightened his arm around his slim hips, pulled back, and shoved forward harder.

The man arched, thighs tightening, trying to draw together, hips popping up to strain against Van’s own sweaty body. Those fragile little fingers clamped tight and his cries sounded strangled and thick. A scant second later there was a spurt of liquid heat that splattered up with such force Van’s own belly caught the backwash. He hitched those hips up higher, crushing the man’s body against his, working his own hips in short, sharp thrusts so that his toy’s pulsing cock twitched between the hard press of their bellies, wetting them both with cum.

He heard Jean move and, after a moment, the man’s sobbing, gasping cries were unfettered and deep, breathless. She muffled them a little, probably with her hand, and softly told Van, “We don’t want him choking…”

Van didn’t respond. Between that hot flood, those musical cries, and the spastic clenching of the man’s muscles—including the ones currently squeezing down around Van’s heavy cock—he found himself hurtling towards climax. When the man’s warm fingers relaxed a little and started petting his own, grateful and gentle in response to his intensity, Van lowered his head to their slick chest and shoved deep, coming with a soft gasp against their skin.

His big body shuddered convulsively, his restrained reaction by no means a reflection of what he was feeling—a wash of rippling pleasure from the tips of his bare toes to the top of his sweaty head. Every nerve in his body blazed with it, his muscles twitching beneath his skin as he rode it, pulsing into the man’s ass so hard it almost hurt. But that, too, was pleasure. His teeth clenched hard in an effort not to groan, tempering that amazing sensation with the need to stay aloof, to not give the entirety of himself. Still, it was just as—if not more so—electric and utterly satisfying as any strong orgasm he’d had before. Van was one of those rare people who had never had the misfortune to experience bad sex…he simply didn’t allow it or allow for the possibility of it. Even with the most vanilla of partners he always found his satisfaction, and the tight, squeezing body cradling his was certainly satisfying.

He squeezed his fingers around the ones so sweetly caressing his and heard the man sob a little, still out of breath and transported.

As soon as the last shiver faded, Van eased out, one hand around the lip of the condom just in case. He slipped it off and dropped it on the floor with a wet splat, caressing the man’s trembling thighs.

“Is he alright?” he asked, finally able to speak. It would’ve been better, he knew, if he’d been able to see them, to see how affected they were, to see their body offered up to his control.

“He’s perfectly fine,” Jean said, sounding pleased. “He tends to get a little lazy afterward. Do you still—”

“Yes,” Van answered. This was one part of his lovemaking that he never left out, no matter the lateness of the hour or how tired he was. It was important to him, as important as any of the rest of it. The Mistress had questioned him on this practice quite closely, shrewdly, but Van refused to bend. When someone put their trust in him, when they gave him control of their helpless body even in the lightest of ways, when they put their faith in the fact that he would only do what they allowed and would not abuse them, he felt they deserved to be thanked for it.

He heard Jean move towards him and she took his hand, leading him a little ways away and backing him up until the back of his calves touched something.

“The seat is just behind you,” Jean said. “Stay here. I will bring him.”

Van waited. He could hear the man’s soft protests, quickly stifled, and the creak of the sling as Jean somehow got him out of the contraption. There was a soft pad of footsteps, one set smooth and gliding, the other hesitant and shuffling, aware of their own blindness.

He felt cool fingers touch him and lift his hand and Jean said, “Here he is,” as she settled his hand on a smooth, sturdy shoulder.

Van reached out with his other hand and drew that shaking body to him, reaching up to cup their hooded head and press their face into the crook of his throat. He felt them settle against his body, smaller than he and powerfully built, but so slender, trembling with something that might be fear.

“Sh,” he soothed, knowing they couldn’t hear him, but they could feel the rumble of his voice in his chest. He stroked the soft curve of their back, holding them tightly to him. They shuddered hard, sobbed softly against his neck, and tucked their slender arms up, wedging them between their bodies. “Sh…”

He murmured nonsense to him, rocking him from side to side. The embrace was Van’s way of telling them that he was pleased, that they were safe, and that they had done well. When the man’s grateful, soft cries stilled, he hefted that light little body into his arms and carefully sat down with them in his lap, curled against his chest like a child.

He heard Jean come closer.

“Is our time up?” he asked, teasingly, because he knew the House charged by the encounter, not by the hour.

“I’ve never seen him so relieved,” Jean said. It was clear from her voice that she took a personal interest in her charges. Van knew that any more sessions he would have at the House would be under Jean’s watchful eye. The Intermediaries were as involved and personal as the acts they witnessed.

Van hugged that softly snuffling and blindly nuzzling little body, tipping his head down to press against their throat, smoothing his soothing hands against their soft skin.

“Perhaps he isn’t used to being thanked,” he whispered.

“Perhaps,” Jean murmured, sounding thoughtful.

Van felt their little fingers curl against his chest, gently patting in a way that was almost child-like—he felt safe, Van could feel that in his touch.

“I want to see him again,” he decided, rocking the man’s body slowly, gently.

“I will send it through the Mistress,” Jean said. “I have no reason to believe that your partner would be adverse to another encounter.”

Van held him awhile longer, aware that this soothed him nearly as much as it did his toy. So much concentrated effort, so much emotional intensity and strain was poured into such a short amount of time that Van felt this was necessary, a moment to cuddle and comfort and reassure. He always felt easier afterward, knowing that nothing he had done was hurtful to the other person.

He heard their breathing turn deep and even, felt that body growing more and more relaxed.

“Is he asleep?”

Jean laughed a little and said, “Nearly. As I told you, Sir, he tends to get rather…lethargic afterward, especially when he’s enjoyed himself as much as he just did. You’d best put him back on his feet before he does fall asleep.”

Van leaned forward, startling them a little, and stood. Gently, he eased the smaller man down onto his feet. He felt one small hand skitter up his throat to rest on his face. Smiling, Van cupped that small face and, referencing his thumbs at the corners of their wet, lush mouth, he bent down and cautiously kissed him. Just once, just a gentle kiss on the mouth. When he straightened, he heard Jean move next to him. Those fingers stayed against his face until, with a soft brush, they were eased away.

He stood there in darkness and silence, considering what he’d just done. A little while later, Jean returned and led him back to the room he’d changed in, where she promptly removed his blindfold.

“There is a bathroom through that door. I will remain here for you.”

Van nodded and left to shower in the small but opulently appointed bathroom. He made quick work of it. He wanted to go home and think about some things.

As he dressed, Jean softly inquired, “Did it meet your requirements, Sir?”

Van lifted one eyebrow. “Customer survey?” he asked, and was pleased when her full red mouth twitched in a smile. “Yes, Jean. I find that my curiosity is satisfied.”

“Good,” she murmured, inclining her head. “The Mistress will be in contact with you. She expressed a personal interest in what went on tonight.”

Van said nothing, but he gave her a questioning look.

“She seems to think that you have a natural talent,” Jean explained. “And I have to agree with her.”

“And what difference does that make?” Van asked, buttoning his cuffs before drawing on his jacket and zipping it up.

“I have no idea what she has planned,” Jean admitted. “Only that, perhaps, you interest her.”

“Hm.”

He slipped his sunglasses on and followed Jean out and to the main entry.

Before he left, he thoughtfully asked, “He’s…”

“Sleeping like a baby and will wake up happy and ready to go home,” Jean said, smiling at him. “I think it is a good idea for you to return here, Sir.”

Van pushed his sunglasses up on his nose and smiled a little at her.

“Me, too.”


– I hope you enjoyed Van’s foray into the unknown as much as I enjoyed writing it! Please don’t be shy here, I love to know what you’re thinking and what you’re looking for!

                                                                  Kisses from Momma Jade

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