Fic: How Sweetly the Night Bird Sings, GG/NS/WB, NC-17
Fandom: CSI
Title: How Sweetly the Night Bird Sings
Author: Abbie Strehlow
Category: Established relationship, PWP, BDSM, Hurt/Comfort
Spoilers: Takes place after the events of "Overload" - spoilers for that ep.
Rating: NC-17, with an emphasis on smut
Pairing: Gil/Nick/Warrick
Word count: Approx 8000 words
Summary: Gil takes and gives.
Author Notes: Gil's POV. This story takes place after the events of Like the Lilies of the Field and Boys Night Out. I'm not sure how well this one stands on its own -- it kind of relies on the others.
Heavy kink. This story has BDSM and toy play. If these are not your things, then don't bother reading any further.
Many thanks to kinghtmusic for the wonderful, thorough beta. Any remaining mistakes are all mine.
Disclaimer: Not mine. All theirs. Not diminishing canon. Expanding it.
How Sweetly the Night Bird Sings
Warrick is like a night bird, singing sweetly in the throes of passion. He teases Nicky by describing how he looks, what he tastes like, how good he feels -- a litany of sense pictures. He does the same for me on occasion. It pleases me, although I may not always show it.
Then Nick and I get a little rougher with Warrick. We tune him to a new pitch, one with no words. Yet he's still singing; fluted sighs, hitching moans and whimpers that are finer than any poetry.
And he's so beautiful when he comes, eyes glazed and mouth miming lyrics, body tightened and clenching. Though I agree that "Rarely do great beauty and great virtue dwell together," [1] they do in Warrick. He's a good man, better than he realizes. He has faults, flaws, but "The absence of flaw in beauty is a flaw in itself." [2]
Nick could be likened to a bird as well, though he barely sings. I've speculated that part of his silence comes from growing up with so many siblings; never having his own space, so the need for quiet started very young. I wonder, though, if it's a lingering side-effect of his coming out so late. He's still very shy about it, more comfortable with the false "Lady's Man" image that he'd so carefully built for himself. Encouraging him to vocalize more has become a game, asking him questions when he's sexually engaged, forcing out words in that husky drawl of his.
But maybe he could be likened to a bird because of his plumage. I love the full body flush that he gives when he wants contact and is forced to ask for it. His silence may hide his need, but his body can't.
We may never know another person, never completely. Nick has secrets and hidden depths that I'm still pluming. He has more voices with which to sing, as does Warrick.
I'm grateful for what they've let me hear so far.
#
"'Problems are only opportunities in work clothes.'" [3]
For some reason, Sarah doesn't seem to appreciate my observation. I think it's appropriate, particularly since our vic is found wearing the uniform of a cop, though he's been identified as a well-known bank executive.
Cause of death isn't immediately apparent. When the tox screen comes back we find that he died of an insulin overdose. We'd already expected foul play -- these findings merely confirm it.
It isn't until later, as Nick and I are going through the victim's second, hidden residence, that we discover that he actually died wearing his "play" clothes. However, his choice of playmates were pre-pubescent boys, between the ages of eight and thirteen, that he'd lured away with the promise of going to the station then silenced with threats of police action against their families and themselves.
Nick doesn't quite go ballistic at the discovery of the "playroom," or the video tapes. Not that I would blame him if he had -- nothing sets any of us off so much as uncovering the abuse of children.
But later that night he flinches when I touch him, wears his boxers to bed, and his nightmares return.
It isn't enough to tell us what happened. It certainly isn't some kind of warrant or mandate for Warrick or I to go prying into Nick's past. We argue about it; Warrick really wants to find out what the hell happened to his boy and do something about it. I tell him we can't, that it's completely inappropriate. Then he tells me of how discovering my past had been the impetus for bringing the three of us together.
Shock would be a mild way of describing my initial reaction. That anything, any part of me, was enough to motivate them -- it's quite beyond my reckoning.
I always worry that someday they'll slip away from me, that all I'll have in my old age will be mere memories of them, that they will have moved on to greener, younger pastures.
Maybe I need to be less doubtful.
I still insist, though, that this, this time with Nick, is different. He already has us. We just need to be there for him, to trust him to tell us -- to sing -- when he's ready.
#
Of course, pursuing the killer is the hardest part of the case. We can't chose the victim, and this one was a bastard. His death won't be mourned, and probably saved countless additional boys from becoming victims. But it isn't our place to deny a voice to the one who was killed, even if he was the scum of the earth.
The killer turns out not to be one of the man's victims, but one of the boy's girlfriends. I do not understand the selfishness of people. The boy had decided to confront the man, was pressing charges, and she'd gotten jealous of the time and money he was spending. She didn't understand why he hadn't taken the cash settlement the man had offered.
Even though the attacker isn't as sympathetic as she could have been, it isn't enough. Nicky is still . . . off. So Warrick restarts what he refers to as "The Game" to get Nick back into the fold, and back into our bed, where he belongs.
"Games are a compromise between intimacy and keeping intimacy away." [4] I think Warrick and Nick need games to reconnect, to actually lead them to intimacy. Warrick knows to leave me out of it. While I appreciate the attention, I do not need the distraction. They don't try to include me unless they're looking for, well, I guess, more, later on that evening. And besides, I've always favored a more direct approach.
It's a fascinating thing to watch, now that I'm officially included. How Warrick turns a simple pat on the back into a gentle ass grab, how he stares and smirks and makes Nick's blush bloom again and again. How eventually Nick starts to play back, making noises in the shower in the locker room when only Warrick and I can hear.
That's the night that Warrick proposes strip cribbage. After Nick agrees and heads back to Trace, I object -- cribbage is too long a game, it'll take hours before we end up being naked, and though I've only been without a naked Nick for five days, it's five days too long.
Then Warrick spells out the rest of the rules, how we'll be slamming shots of tequila with every "go."
I'm wary of the hangover that I'm certain will result from this evening. But Warrick asks me to trust him in this, and I know he's right. Nick needs talking more than stripping. It's too easy for all of us to hide behind our skin, even Nick.
#
At first, I think Warrick's plan isn't going to work. Nick laughs with us when he makes his first mistake adding his points together, but even Warrick can tell it's forced. It's a long six legs, Warrick prodding and poking at Nick, crowing about winning even when he's behind, claiming that he's just got us in his headlights and is planning on blinding us as he passes by.
When Warrick starts talking about learning to play cribbage from his Gram, I wonder if he notices the way Nick stiffens slightly. But after he prods my foot -- not too gently -- under the table, I tell of playing with my mother. I even go so far as to show them the Chinese finger-counting system, and how you can represent all the numbers from one to one hundred with a single hand.
I lose, of course. I'm too worried about Nick. Also, I suspect Warrick dealt the last two hands from the bottom of the deck, because even with his shortened attention span, Nick is still the winner. But before I can take off my shirt, Nick slams one, two more shots and stands up, swaying.
"She's not going to ruin this too," he says, fisting his hands, then opening them, looking like he wants to punch something as well as just let it go.
I don't remark when Nick flinches again at my touch. I direct Warrick to sit on the couch, then set Nick down, letting him use Warrick as a kind of pillow. I pull Nick's feet up into my lap and I start to rub them, using my thumbs and a lot of pressure, trying to get him to relax.
"I was nine," he starts, his voice cracked, broken, and raw.
All I can think at first is how startled I am. I didn't know that Nick possessed such a voice. It's harsh, rough, almost accentless. To be honest, I don't want to hear the things he has to say in this voice. I don't want such things to have happened to Nicky, my Nicky.
However, I can't help but love this voice, this song. It's a part of Nick, and I love all of him, even this part. I know I'm not good at love, at feeling it or showing it, but I do try. I watch and listen and rub at the tension I can feel even in his soles. I don't move closer to him: I arranged us in this configuration on purpose, letting Nick be supported by his one lover while he makes his confession to me, the pseudo father-figure.
He cries as he talks, cries harder when he finishes. Both Warrick and I are struck inarticulate by his tears, as usual. We can only hold him and love him through hands and chaste kisses and sincere platitudes about taking care of him and making it all better. I get up and get a cold washcloth and tissues for him, then we both continue to comfort him as best we can.
When Nick subsides, he snuggles back into Warrick's embrace with eyes closed and I'm sitting again at the end of the couch. Nick has a headache, he's exhausted, and it's another night without sex, but that's okay. That he's come this far is amazing. We can build back to where we were, and hopefully go beyond, now. I know I'm a fool, trusting as Tennyson said, that somehow good will be the final of ill. [5] Yet, I trust on.
It's only then that I notice that one of Warrick's feet is now touching mine -- that even though we're both concerned about Nick, both working to soothe and calm him, we're still connected. It's still all of us, all three of us, together, no matter what.
#
While Nick and Warrick, ah, reconnect in the shower the next day, I go through a week's worth of crossword puzzles, then cook breakfast, well, late lunch, for them. All we're looking forward to for the weekend is a couple of days of domesticity, getting back into the patterns and rituals of our life together, of shopping and eating and reading and lazing.
Later that evening Warrick goes to run some errands and to have dinner with his grandmother. I want to tell him he doesn't have to hurry back, Nick's doing better and better, falling more into himself, although he'd described himself earlier as still being fragile. I think Warrick gets the picture though, because he tells us not to wait up for him.
I try not to treat Nick any differently as we make dinner. Nick grills the steaks I'd been marinating all day while I chop, sauté and prepare the rest of our meal. I never thought to have such a home, a place where soul and heart alike can rest. The comfort buffers me from my work, which is strange, because for a long time I believed that I was my work, and that I couldn't be any good at it if there were a separation. I still fall into that trap sometimes, but luckily, I now have Warrick and Nick to remind me of life beyond death.
After we eat and clean up, I ask Nick what he wants to do for the evening. I know that I would like to reconnect, as Warrick has, but I still prefer for Nick to state a preference.
Unsurprisingly, he doesn't. Doesn't look me in the eye, just says, "Whatever." He knows that annoys me, but I let him have his way. Maybe I am still coddling him a little.
We end up on the couch, the TV tuned to some History channel special on cats and the Egyptians. Nick really is an inveterate snuggler, which I don't mind as much as Warrick seems to.
Except that while Nick's getting comfortable on top of me, he slips one hand under my shirt, then, after a bit, he starts stroking my ribs too lightly. It tickles.
"Stop it, Nicky," I tell him.
"Stop what?" he mumbles, not looking at me, eyes still glued to the program.
I press down on his hand to still the restless movement.
"Sorry," he says as he shifts a little.
After less than a minute, he starts again.
"Nick," I say again, more sharply than I should, I suppose. I grab his hand and wrap my fingers around his wrist.
"Sorry."
Am I imagining things, or is there some sort of amusement in his tone?
He wriggles around a bit. Then some more. I'm about to ask him if he needs something when I realize that he's managed to get his other hand down between the cushions and is starting to tickle my other side.
After a moment's struggle I get hold of both his wrists and tug them to my chest. Nick finally looks up, grinning, his eyes sparkling and mischievous. He wiggles a bit more, and now I can feel his cock, hard and ready, against my thigh.
So this is how he wants to play, eh?
I don't say anything, of course, merely kiss his fingertips, fold his hands under mine and place them safely on my chest, then turn my attention back to the screen, deliberately ignoring him. I'm curious to see how far he'll take this. He knows how to get to me, get me riled up. This sort of foreplay helps me determine where he actually wants to go.
Pretty far it seems, when he turns his head and after a bit of nuzzling, actually bites me. I jerk him up and off me, standing quickly and dragging him with me. Yet I have to be sure, even though he's staring at me with his pupils dilated and his breath coming quickly.
"What do you want?" I ask him. My lovers complain, now and again, at how mild my voice always seems to be, even in the throes of passion. They don't believe me when I tell them it's merely practice. They don't know my thoughts, how often I imagine the pair of them broken with need, strung out with want, and how I would have to care for them, how gentle and soothing I would have to be. They don't know how hard this scenario makes me, hard enough to fuck for hours, days.
"You," is all the response I get before he pushes himself forward for a kiss.
This, this, is what I wanted. I don't let go of his wrists; I don't allow him to bring his hands up to touch me. I just kiss him, roughly, possessing his mouth as surely as I'm about to possess his body. When he tries for more contact I step back, still kissing him but this is my show now -- something Nick still struggles with sometimes.
I finish the kiss abruptly, though a part of me wants it to go on and on, to melt into the heat of Nicky, to just do him there, on the floor. But I don't believe that's what he wants, and what they say about bottoms really is true: much of the time it is all about them.
Luckily for my two lovers, I get off on that.
"Strip," I say as I let go of his hands. I know this is a turn-on for Nick, to be naked and vulnerable while I'm still clothed. His hands are clumsy and trembling.
"Slower," I instruct, bringing my own hands up to unbutton the first two buttons of his shirt, showing him the pace I want. I make him finish on his own. I only let my eyes touch his skin, travel over chest and stomach muscles, wander across dark curls and proudly erect cock, then back up long fingers and strong arms to eyes black and yearning. He's panting, and a fine sheen of sweat has already sprung up on his upper lip. I know what it will taste like, sweet and salty and like Nick, but I refrain. It isn't time yet.
For Nick, submission isn't about serving, humiliation or pain. It's about control and trust, letting go of everything and just doing what he's told. So to help him "get in the mood," as it were, to start him down the path toward sub-space, I make him go down on his hands and knees and crawl in front of me to the bedroom, back arched, ass swaying. This is not punishment: I don't criticize or make him do it more than once. Instead, I tell him how fine he looks, how much I want to fuck his ass, how good it's going to feel when I do, and how I'm going to make him wait for it until it's all he can think about, until I'm all that makes up his world.
I'm tempted to keep him in this position, to blindfold him and tie him to the headboard and take him from behind. But even though his eyes are glazed and drooping just from the short crawl, I don't think that's what he wants. I think he needs to see me, be with me.
Or maybe that's what I need this time.
So I opt for slow torture. I lay him on his back, put his hands above his head and tie them to the headboard, then I get out the lube and toys -- a lovely set of stainless-steel anal balls, each about one and a half inches in diameter, as well as the bolo-tie cock ring. Nick gives me such a sweet whimper when he sees them. I merely chuckle in response, something my lovers tell me is evil.
I tie up Nick's cock, then set about preparing him and filling him with the beads. He controls himself fairly well until the third one goes in. Then he starts to moan. The sound goes straight to my own dick, but I don't let it show.
"You're doing so good Nick," I tell him as I push another one in. "You're going to take everything, aren't you? I'm going to make you take it -- take the beads and then me, once, maybe twice. But you're going to be good for me, aren't you Nicky? So good. Just let me take care of you. Let me do this for you." He's groaning almost non-stop by the time I push the last one in. I tease him, tug on the string a little. I know the six balls make him feel full, but not complete: he wants me, not a toy. And I want him, want to be engulfed in the heat that teased my fingers as I added one ball after another. I don't need a cock ring for myself, though I do briefly consider it. Nick is so beautiful, spread out like this on the bed, knees bent, flushed, panting. He doesn't understand what an incredible gift this is.
I start by sucking on his fingers, taking them deeply into my mouth and running my tongue over them, then nibbling and licking at the webbing between them. Nick's straining still, aching for more touch. I bite into his palm, then start licking his wrists, tasting leather, Nick and sweat -- a heady combination. I move slowly down his arm, my mouth the only point of contact between us, eventually stopping for a kiss, long, sweet and sloppy.
My pulse is racing by the time we finish and I find that I'm feeling brave enough for the words I can rarely say.
"I love you," I whisper against his lips. I bury my head against his neck, bite and suck while he's responding, then yank the first ball out. Nick yelps in surprise and continues his moaning as I play with the string. He's not lost, not yet -- there are still words lurking behind his lips -- but he will be.
While paying special attention to Nick's nipples I slowly pull out the second ball, making sure he feels how it opens him, how the ring of muscle of his ass irises to let it out. I get a low groan for my effort, such a beautiful burst of song.
By the time I make it to the inside of his knee I pull out the fourth ball. From the lovely purple color of Nick's cock, I'm sure he's ready to burst, and I want skin against my skin, not clothes.
I keep up a teasing pull on the string while I unbutton my shirt, watching Nick's eyes. He's barely there anymore. The sensation play -- the biting, licking, touching and talking -- has taken him down deep. After I slip my shirt off, I press hard against his perineum as I take out the next-to-the-last ball. Nick bucks against the restraints, no longer able to control himself. His harsh breathing gives a rhythmic background to our play.
"So, Nick," I say, tugging on the string while I open my pants. "Do you want me to put these back in? Then I can finish kissing, licking and biting every inch of your skin while I pull them out a second time. Or do you want something else Nick? Something more?" I stroke myself after I draw my pants and boxers down. "What do you want?"
Nick's mouth works while he tries to gather himself together. I let go of the string while I step out of my clothes, then pick it up again as I kneel on the bed between his legs.
"You know I don't like to guess," I mock scold him.
"Y-y-y-you," comes a stuttered reply.
"Good boy, such a good, good boy," I tell him. I kiss him then, wide and deep as I pull out the last ball, swallowing the groan that Nick gives with it.
"Now, while your ass is already nicely lubed up, I still need something." I tell him as I knee-walk up the bed. "Saliva isn't the best lubricant, but it will do in a pinch, don't you agree?" Nick can't answer, his mouth already full with my cock. I can't hold back a hiss as he takes me in further. He feels so good, so hot and wet. This isn't heaven, but it's so far beyond the mundane it feels sacred, somehow.
Nick tries gallantly to suck me, but he's pretty far out of it. Instead, I fuck his mouth gently, sliding in and out, letting his teeth scrape across me. Nick's closes his eyes and rocks his hips up and down in time with me, frustrated, I'm sure, by the lack of contact his dick's had tonight.
It takes all my willpower to pull all the way out. My moan echoes his as I do, the air suddenly chilling my dick. I position myself back between his legs and instruct Nick to look at me.
I fall into his eyes as I push into him, become one with him.
"Nothing can pierce the Soul as the uttermost sigh of the body." [6] Even as I penetrate Nick his song enters me, wraps my bones with his contentment, sets my heart to singing. I lean forward to share more -- more skin, more sweat, more breath and heated kisses. I lose myself in him as he loses himself in me, our grunts and cries mingling and straining together.
I reach that plateau where my mind is free and Nicky just seems to radiate, every drop of sweat like a glowing tear. But he doesn't have the stamina I do, so I let myself follow the light, streak a blazing trail across the stars and come shooting out the other end into soft dimness.
Nicky doesn't come, of course, mainly because I didn't want to waste his essence. I need something more of him as well.
As soon as I can move I slide down his body and take him into my mouth. He cries and whimpers -- such beautiful sounds -- he's so sensitive and desperate. I don't string him along for long, though I've been known to do this for hours, fucking and coming and denying my lovers then fucking again, tuning their bodies to massive, trembling need. I do push him a little higher, licking and nibbling before I swallow him and undo the cock ring.
Nick shouts as he comes, bucking up hard and long. I love the sea-sweet taste of him, the keening whine that he gives as I continue to hold him intimately in my mouth, the shudders that wrack him as he gives everything he has, everything he is, to me.
When he stills, I stop, unsurprised to find that he's passed out. Another gift on top of so many others. I release the restraints, rub and chafe his wrists, then curl around him so when he wakes he'll feel safe, warm, loved.
Treasured.
Not like a caged bird, but rather, a wild one, who deigns to join me at my window sometimes.
#
The next afternoon, Warrick and I set up the chess board in the living room. Chess is serious business for us, and we both roll our eyes at Nick's suggestion of "strip chess." However, after Nick leaves to go to some car show with Greg, Warrick suggests that we could make the game more exciting.
"How is that possible?" I ask. "It's chess." Mental stimulation at its finest.
"You get to blow me when you lose."
I raise an eyebrow at his implication. Warrick's good, but he's not that good. "And when I win?"
"I'll blow you."
I don't pause to give Warrick time to add any conditions to his prize. "Agreed."
He looks at me suspiciously, probably wondering why I agreed so readily. I merely smile at him, projecting as much innocence as possible, even though this ploy never seems to work on my lovers.
"What did I just agree to?" he asks.
"A blow job," I tell him, with a grin. "Choose," I say, holding my hands out to him, a pawn in each. I have to keep him distracted or he might figure out the flaw in his plan, namely, that he didn't place a time limit on the blow job. He's forgotten how long I can hold him at the edge.
He picks white and goes first. Soon we're into the rhythm of the game. Worries of whether I'll win or lose the game don't distract me: either way, I'm going to win. However, Warrick hesitates more, makes a few mistakes, loses some pieces he shouldn't. It isn't until we're halfway through before he finally looks up at me and says, "Damn."
"Hmmm?"
"If I win, you're just going to leave me hanging on that cliff as long as you can, aren't you?"
"Possibly. Your move."
He takes his turn, then stares at me, considering while I examine the board. He knows it's too late to change the rules. He also knows that if he wins and I blow him, even if I make him wait the rest of the afternoon before I let him orgasm, it will still be spectacular. I'm certain, though, that isn't what he'd been thinking about when he proposed the challenge.
Surprisingly, we play to a draw. He's down to just his king, while I still have a pawn, my queen and my king.
"So," he says after a moment. "Two out of three?"
I nod. "We could do that. Or we could play by the numbers."
"Numbers?"
"Either assign an arbitrary numeric value to each piece captured and select the winner as the one with the most points. Or, we could just choose a number." I pause and watch his eyes narrow. "Like sixty-nine."
He laughs and shakes his head. "Damn. I like how you think." He stands and offers me a hand up, then pulls me close enough for a kiss.
Kissing Warrick is different than kissing Nick. Not better, not worse -- comparing them is like comparing apples and orangutans. I still love doing it, kissing Warrick, kissing Nick.
Maybe even more than playing chess.
We slowly make our way to the bedroom, stopping to touch, kiss and taste, letting the heat build bit by bit. It still feels as urgent as always, but I want to take the time to worship Warrick properly. We're all still finding our feet again since Nick's implosion, and I'm grateful for this time to reconnect with Warrick as well.
Eventually we make it to skin, and end up laying side by side on the bed. I traverse Warrick's body with lips and tongue, delighting in the shifting planes and changing surfaces. I give the stiff curls that lead down to his cock extra attention, laving then blowing on them, watching the goose bumps chase across his skin. Of course I get soft, ticklish strokes up my sides for my efforts, a way of keeping us balanced.
I swing my hips up closer Warrick at his urging, then settle in for my treat. The first taste of him is always so good, more bitter than sweet, but with pepper and smoke. I hold him in place with my hands and lap at the head of his cock, long strokes with the flat of my tongue. He's doing the same to me, then switches when I do, from licking to drilling into the slit. I can't help the moan he teases from me. It all feels wonderful.
Greedy hunger spikes through me suddenly, and I'm desperate to taste all of him. Normally, I tease my lovers, make them wait. Not this time. I yank Warrick closer to me, licking down the length of his cock to his balls, nuzzling into them and pulling them into my mouth. Warrick doesn't follow my movement this time, instead just keeps sucking on my dick, bringing heaven closer to earth, making me pant around my mouthful.
I still want more.
I force his legs open, apart, and head further back. All the skin from behind his balls up toward his hole is soft and slick, puckered and salty. I play some with his perineum, pressing against it with fingers and tongue, while at the same time I keep one hand gently caressing his cock. I can just imagine the waves of heat coming off it as I slide my fingers up and down its silky length. And Warrick keeps rewarding my efforts, sending chills up my spine, trying to shatter my concentration by sucking on the head of my dick while slowly jerking me off with his hand, squeezing me just right.
Finally I get myself in position. Warrick's skin is lighter in color here and sensitive. I lick his pucker, then blow against it, fascinated by the way it flutters. Of course, Warrick's fingers start to travel at that point, tapping against my own ass. I want him in me, surrounding me, completing me.
I push myself forward, my rolled tongue leading, spearing Warrick. He stiffens and moans, and I start to thrust my tongue in and out as hard and fast as I can. He doesn't take too long to recover, though, and soon he has one, then two, fingers inside of me while still sucking and bringing the disparate parts of me back together, coalescing in my gut, sparking down my limbs.
When he presses against my prostate I moan, long and deep into him, getting an echoing groan in kind.
Neither of us are going to last long this way, which I think became the challenge at some point, to see how fast I could send Warrick off the cliff. I start pumping his dick more firmly with my hand, ending with that twist that he likes, that gives extra pressure to the bundle of nerves just below the head. He's starting to shake, trying so hard to hold himself together, singing with slurps and moans, while his fingers play like live wires across my skin.
The muscles in the thigh under my head clench until I think they're going to break. I feel my own body tightening in sympathy. Warrick abruptly removes his mouth from my dick and squeezes it tightly. I'm certain that he's too far gone to do anything but ride his own wave, but he thrusts a third finger into me as he comes.
The chain effect sets me off and I follow him into the breach, shouting with surprise as my orgasm crashes down on me.
Cleanup is slow and lazy, with satiated kisses and drooping fingers. Nick finds us curled up, napping together when he returns. I wake to find two warm bodies in the bed with me, and know that the world is found not just in a single grain of sand, but in three. [7]
#
The McAllen case takes four long days and somehow stretches out the hours so that it feels like it's been four weeks by the time it's over.
It turns out that the mother's death, Susan's, was accidental. The son, Keith, hadn't meant to kill her. However, after the accident, instead of reporting it, he tried to frame his abusive father.
All of us wanted to believe the evidence that Keith had planted -- who better to put into jail than a wife-beating, child-molesting monster?
But the father is innocent of her murder.
By the end of the case I want to scream. I'm disgusted with supporting a system that so spectacularly failed Keith, and is now going to fail him again. His father is insisting on the worst possible representation money can buy, and as he's a minor, there isn't much anyone can do. "There is no such thing as justice -- in or out of court." [8]
I head for the Stratosphere -- I don't like the jerkiness of the Manhattan Express. It's a Tuesday, and one of the operators who knows me still works there, so it isn't a problem to ride, then ride again, and again. The lights streak off the yellow cars, and the padding cushions my body as we go down the first hill and gravity slams back into me. I'm a little breathless by the fifth time through, but it isn't enough. So I go home.
Warrick and Nick are there, have been there for a while. Evidence of their popcorn fight is scattered all over the carpet and the couch they're still sprawled on. Beer bottles are scattered everywhere. Towels used for some kind of mop up job lay on the floor just beyond the end table.
"Hey Gil," Nick calls.
"Come join us!" Warrick says.
I just stand, unable to process what I'm seeing.
I want to strike out at them. I know I'm being irrational. How can I be angry that they're enjoying themselves? I still want to beat some sense into them, turn pink and white skin red and blistered, make dark bruises blossom on darker hide.
I will never touch them in real anger, though.
I don't hear the questions they're asking as they rise off the couch and slowly approach me, as if they're afraid I might skitter off.
And maybe that's exactly what I need to do.
Run away for a while.
"I, I need. . ." is all I manage to say. To my surprise I find that I, too, have a voice, a song. It's cracked and bleeding.
Luckily, my lovers understand what I need.
Warrick reaches me first. "Shhh," he says, taking my hands, kissing the tips, the palms. "It's okay, man."
"We got you," Nick adds, coming up from behind, pulling me in close for a hug, cradling me with his heat.
Warrick kisses me then, possessing my mouth, pushing me down and back against Nick. My first instinct is to struggle. I don't often let go -- I don't usually feel the need -- but sometimes, I have no choice. It's either let go of myself for a while, or lose everything that makes my life worth while.
I surrender to Warrick, let him take every bit of me, lose myself for a while in him and the smoky richness of his taste.
When I come back up I find that we're moving. Nick already has me half undressed and efficiently strips the rest of my clothes off. I stand before them, shivering and naked, waiting on their pleasure.
Warrick heads straight for the toy box, pulls out the under-the-mattress restraints, a blindfold and the Velcro cock ring.
I don't say a word, just let Nicky cover my mouth with sweet kisses while he covers my eyes with the blindfold. First one leather wrist cuff goes on, then the other. I must be shaking by now, because Nick keeps soothing me, kissing me, telling me that it's going to be okay, that they'll take care of me, take me out of my head for a while.
They lay me down on my back, my head pointing toward the foot of the bed and my arms spread wide, then they attach the ropes and run them under the foot of the mattress, stretching them tight until I can't move, can't even lift my shoulders.
They know that I hate this position. Spread-eagle this way, there's no place to hide. I feel too vulnerable.
It doesn't matter what I want right now. Or so I tell my greedy soul when I feel Nick's weight leave the bed. I hear the whisper of clothes sliding onto the floor followed by soft sighs and kisses. They're supposed to be focused on me, damn it. Or if they're making out like that, they should at least let me see.
I try to strangle the needy moan that sneaks its way out of my throat, only to get a chuckle, an evil chuckle, from Warrick for my effort.
"Think he's feeling left out?" Warrick asks.
"I don't know, man. His face is kind of turning red, though. Wonder what color it'll change to when I do this?"
Oh god. I don't have to hear the slurping noises that Nick's making, the hungry, suckling sound he generally starts when he takes Warrick's dick in his mouth. The stifled moan that Warrick makes is more than enough indication of what the hell they're doing.
But I will not give them the pleasure of more noises from me. I've come this far, but I'm not ready to let everything go. I can't. Not yet.
Still, I tell myself that they're doing this for me, to get me needy and wanting and hard, hard enough that they can take me to the next level.
Their attention shifts: I don't know if it's not soon enough or too soon. My cock and balls are now mercilessly strapped together -- I won't come until they're good and ready, or until I break and start to plead.
Warrick isn't gentle as he prepares me, the rough stretch making me more ready than soothing touches would. He almost draws a moan from me when he pushes in. The hard scratch of his dick does make me tense for a moment, before I'm pushing back, wanting more, wanting it hard, wanting Warrick to drive everything else from my head.
But Warrick has other ideas. He takes it slow, easy after that initial thrust, dancing with his hips, making me follow his rhythm. I'm still fighting, still wanting too much control.
Then I feel another weight on the bed. Nick's come to join us. I hear more sloppy kisses before I feel pressure on either side of my torso, followed by something warm and wet pressing at my lips.
I open widely, happy to take him in. Nick and Warrick aren't synchronized; they fuck my mouth and my ass to the pulse of their own songs. They pause, now and again, to kiss each other. I can feel Nick leaning back, Warrick leaning forward, as they take their pleasure with me, with each other. I can't get lost in them but I am slowing down, my thoughts no longer racing.
Finally Warrick starts into a faster rhythm. He angles my hips so that he's brushing across my prostrate with every stroke. I'm tossing my head but still refusing to speak. I can hear his panting breaths, the words he struggles to give to Nick, telling him how beautiful his boy is, how the muscles in his back are shining and how he wants to trace them with his tongue. They're still ignoring me, using me, beating down my sense of self.
Working to break me.
Warrick finally comes and Nick pulls out, unfinished. I'm not sure what's going to happen next. My legs fall back together, my thighs aching with how they've been stretched. I hear kissing, then softer words I can't make out.
Warm hands are now on my thighs, pulling my legs into a wider, more uncomfortable angle
A new cock slides into me.
"Oh, yeah, Warrick, you're right," Nick manages to grit out. "So good," he adds.
Nick is pushing harder into me, driving me onto the bed, thrusting with his hips and thighs, forcing the air out of me with each punishing jerk. Then he slows for a moment. I can hear him gulping air and kissing, and what might be the sound of Nick licking Warrick's stubbled chin. I want to touch them, I want to kiss them. I pull at the restraints but it's useless.
"Oh yeah, baby, just like that," Warrick says. I know he's touching Nick, gliding his fingers on Nick's sweat-slick pecs, maybe leaning down to tongue at a nipple. "You look so hot that way."
"You must like it," Nick manages to say after another moment. "You're getting hard again."
I don't think I make any noise, but I must have done something to garner their attention.
"He's st-st-stroking himself," Nick says, his song stuttered and caught up with his own thrusting body.
"Bet you'd like that Gil. Like for us to tag-team you all night," Warrick says in a husky whisper.
I don't quite groan at the image, but possibly I do give a quiet whimper at the thought of having to take the pair of them, over and over again, forced to be their toy and nothing else, submitting to them for hours, days. It burns out the other images in my head until it's the only thing left.
"Next time Nick? I think we should turn him over. Tie his legs wide too, so he can't do anything but take it."
Nick laughs -- not quite as evilly as Warrick can, but he's working on it. "And tag team him," he adds before he pulls me up and starts fucking me hard, his breath hitching, his cock seeming to grow wider, filling me more.
I can't help the moan that's dragged out of me as I truly start to give up.
Warrick's hand is suddenly at my nipple, pulling hard. "What's that? Can't quite hear you." He tugs at my cock, licks and tortures the sensitive skin, then he's gone.
"Please," I whisper, broken by the pounding in my ass, the sound of the pair of them kissing, the images they've put in my head for the next time.
It's enough. Warrick's there, a soft hand in my hair, breath puffing over my face. "What's that baby? You want to come?"
I nod, but I suspect it's too soon. I'm far from babbling yet.
"In a while," Warrick replies, and his cock is suddenly pushing against my lips. I make his cock wet and sticky while Nick rides. I'm losing breath and air, I can't move, can't come, can't think, can't do anything but be with them, be a part of them. Nothing exists outside of them and this room and the way my ass is being filled like the way my mouth is and the remnant sparks from how Warrick pulls my nipples.
With a final shuddering thrust Nicky freezes as he comes, collapsing on top of me while his cock continues to twitch inside of me. Warrick pulls out and kisses Nick, who finally, finally, kisses me. I'm lost in his taste, his touch.
Then Warrick fills me again. I cry out, surprised and shattered.
"Please, god, please, let me come. Please. So hard. I need to. Please." As my song fills the room Nick leans over and kisses Warrick, kisses me, kisses my still bound cock.
"Well, I don't know," Nick drawls, his voice deep and sleepy. "'Rick? What do you think?"
"I think you should kiss the man again. Give me more incentive to finish."
Nick skims his hands over my sides. I'm too turned out to be ticklish -- it's as if all my nerve endings have migrated to my cock. Then Nick kisses me, again to a different rhythm than the one Warrick's using. He's slow and sweet and the disparity makes my head swim. It's as if I'm torn in two: two different people with two different sets of needs. I need Nicky's kisses like I need breath and soul, and I need Warrick pounding into me to keep my heart going, my blood racing -- both keep me alive.
When Warrick's ready he rips the cock ring off me. I shout as the denied blood flows back into my dick. Maybe two seconds later, I'm coming, and that action consumes my world, churning through my guts and coalescing in my balls and shooting out my cock.
It doesn't surprise me that the next thing I know I'm being coddled by my two lovers, my hands already released, my sight no longer blocked. I blame the lights for the tears in my eyes, though the scientist in me knows that I wasn't in the dark that long, that it's just part of the emotional release. No one says anything, though -- they just continue to hold me, pet me, cherish me.
It appears that I have a song too, like my night birds. A song that contains little beauty or hope, but one that Nick and Warrick seem to love, just the same.
{end}
[1] Petrarch
[2] Havelock Ellis
[3] Henry Kaiser
[4] Eric Berne
[5] Alfred Tennyson -- full quotation: Oh yet we trust that somehow good/Will be the final goal of ill.
[6] George Santayana
[7] William Blake -- "To see a world in a grain of sand/And heaven in a wild flower/Hold infinity in the palm of your hand/And eternity in an hour"
[8] Clarence Darrow
Title: How Sweetly the Night Bird Sings
Author: Abbie Strehlow
Category: Established relationship, PWP, BDSM, Hurt/Comfort
Spoilers: Takes place after the events of "Overload" - spoilers for that ep.
Rating: NC-17, with an emphasis on smut
Pairing: Gil/Nick/Warrick
Word count: Approx 8000 words
Summary: Gil takes and gives.
Author Notes: Gil's POV. This story takes place after the events of Like the Lilies of the Field and Boys Night Out. I'm not sure how well this one stands on its own -- it kind of relies on the others.
Heavy kink. This story has BDSM and toy play. If these are not your things, then don't bother reading any further.
Many thanks to kinghtmusic for the wonderful, thorough beta. Any remaining mistakes are all mine.
Disclaimer: Not mine. All theirs. Not diminishing canon. Expanding it.
How Sweetly the Night Bird Sings
Warrick is like a night bird, singing sweetly in the throes of passion. He teases Nicky by describing how he looks, what he tastes like, how good he feels -- a litany of sense pictures. He does the same for me on occasion. It pleases me, although I may not always show it.
Then Nick and I get a little rougher with Warrick. We tune him to a new pitch, one with no words. Yet he's still singing; fluted sighs, hitching moans and whimpers that are finer than any poetry.
And he's so beautiful when he comes, eyes glazed and mouth miming lyrics, body tightened and clenching. Though I agree that "Rarely do great beauty and great virtue dwell together," [1] they do in Warrick. He's a good man, better than he realizes. He has faults, flaws, but "The absence of flaw in beauty is a flaw in itself." [2]
Nick could be likened to a bird as well, though he barely sings. I've speculated that part of his silence comes from growing up with so many siblings; never having his own space, so the need for quiet started very young. I wonder, though, if it's a lingering side-effect of his coming out so late. He's still very shy about it, more comfortable with the false "Lady's Man" image that he'd so carefully built for himself. Encouraging him to vocalize more has become a game, asking him questions when he's sexually engaged, forcing out words in that husky drawl of his.
But maybe he could be likened to a bird because of his plumage. I love the full body flush that he gives when he wants contact and is forced to ask for it. His silence may hide his need, but his body can't.
We may never know another person, never completely. Nick has secrets and hidden depths that I'm still pluming. He has more voices with which to sing, as does Warrick.
I'm grateful for what they've let me hear so far.
#
"'Problems are only opportunities in work clothes.'" [3]
For some reason, Sarah doesn't seem to appreciate my observation. I think it's appropriate, particularly since our vic is found wearing the uniform of a cop, though he's been identified as a well-known bank executive.
Cause of death isn't immediately apparent. When the tox screen comes back we find that he died of an insulin overdose. We'd already expected foul play -- these findings merely confirm it.
It isn't until later, as Nick and I are going through the victim's second, hidden residence, that we discover that he actually died wearing his "play" clothes. However, his choice of playmates were pre-pubescent boys, between the ages of eight and thirteen, that he'd lured away with the promise of going to the station then silenced with threats of police action against their families and themselves.
Nick doesn't quite go ballistic at the discovery of the "playroom," or the video tapes. Not that I would blame him if he had -- nothing sets any of us off so much as uncovering the abuse of children.
But later that night he flinches when I touch him, wears his boxers to bed, and his nightmares return.
It isn't enough to tell us what happened. It certainly isn't some kind of warrant or mandate for Warrick or I to go prying into Nick's past. We argue about it; Warrick really wants to find out what the hell happened to his boy and do something about it. I tell him we can't, that it's completely inappropriate. Then he tells me of how discovering my past had been the impetus for bringing the three of us together.
Shock would be a mild way of describing my initial reaction. That anything, any part of me, was enough to motivate them -- it's quite beyond my reckoning.
I always worry that someday they'll slip away from me, that all I'll have in my old age will be mere memories of them, that they will have moved on to greener, younger pastures.
Maybe I need to be less doubtful.
I still insist, though, that this, this time with Nick, is different. He already has us. We just need to be there for him, to trust him to tell us -- to sing -- when he's ready.
#
Of course, pursuing the killer is the hardest part of the case. We can't chose the victim, and this one was a bastard. His death won't be mourned, and probably saved countless additional boys from becoming victims. But it isn't our place to deny a voice to the one who was killed, even if he was the scum of the earth.
The killer turns out not to be one of the man's victims, but one of the boy's girlfriends. I do not understand the selfishness of people. The boy had decided to confront the man, was pressing charges, and she'd gotten jealous of the time and money he was spending. She didn't understand why he hadn't taken the cash settlement the man had offered.
Even though the attacker isn't as sympathetic as she could have been, it isn't enough. Nicky is still . . . off. So Warrick restarts what he refers to as "The Game" to get Nick back into the fold, and back into our bed, where he belongs.
"Games are a compromise between intimacy and keeping intimacy away." [4] I think Warrick and Nick need games to reconnect, to actually lead them to intimacy. Warrick knows to leave me out of it. While I appreciate the attention, I do not need the distraction. They don't try to include me unless they're looking for, well, I guess, more, later on that evening. And besides, I've always favored a more direct approach.
It's a fascinating thing to watch, now that I'm officially included. How Warrick turns a simple pat on the back into a gentle ass grab, how he stares and smirks and makes Nick's blush bloom again and again. How eventually Nick starts to play back, making noises in the shower in the locker room when only Warrick and I can hear.
That's the night that Warrick proposes strip cribbage. After Nick agrees and heads back to Trace, I object -- cribbage is too long a game, it'll take hours before we end up being naked, and though I've only been without a naked Nick for five days, it's five days too long.
Then Warrick spells out the rest of the rules, how we'll be slamming shots of tequila with every "go."
I'm wary of the hangover that I'm certain will result from this evening. But Warrick asks me to trust him in this, and I know he's right. Nick needs talking more than stripping. It's too easy for all of us to hide behind our skin, even Nick.
#
At first, I think Warrick's plan isn't going to work. Nick laughs with us when he makes his first mistake adding his points together, but even Warrick can tell it's forced. It's a long six legs, Warrick prodding and poking at Nick, crowing about winning even when he's behind, claiming that he's just got us in his headlights and is planning on blinding us as he passes by.
When Warrick starts talking about learning to play cribbage from his Gram, I wonder if he notices the way Nick stiffens slightly. But after he prods my foot -- not too gently -- under the table, I tell of playing with my mother. I even go so far as to show them the Chinese finger-counting system, and how you can represent all the numbers from one to one hundred with a single hand.
I lose, of course. I'm too worried about Nick. Also, I suspect Warrick dealt the last two hands from the bottom of the deck, because even with his shortened attention span, Nick is still the winner. But before I can take off my shirt, Nick slams one, two more shots and stands up, swaying.
"She's not going to ruin this too," he says, fisting his hands, then opening them, looking like he wants to punch something as well as just let it go.
I don't remark when Nick flinches again at my touch. I direct Warrick to sit on the couch, then set Nick down, letting him use Warrick as a kind of pillow. I pull Nick's feet up into my lap and I start to rub them, using my thumbs and a lot of pressure, trying to get him to relax.
"I was nine," he starts, his voice cracked, broken, and raw.
All I can think at first is how startled I am. I didn't know that Nick possessed such a voice. It's harsh, rough, almost accentless. To be honest, I don't want to hear the things he has to say in this voice. I don't want such things to have happened to Nicky, my Nicky.
However, I can't help but love this voice, this song. It's a part of Nick, and I love all of him, even this part. I know I'm not good at love, at feeling it or showing it, but I do try. I watch and listen and rub at the tension I can feel even in his soles. I don't move closer to him: I arranged us in this configuration on purpose, letting Nick be supported by his one lover while he makes his confession to me, the pseudo father-figure.
He cries as he talks, cries harder when he finishes. Both Warrick and I are struck inarticulate by his tears, as usual. We can only hold him and love him through hands and chaste kisses and sincere platitudes about taking care of him and making it all better. I get up and get a cold washcloth and tissues for him, then we both continue to comfort him as best we can.
When Nick subsides, he snuggles back into Warrick's embrace with eyes closed and I'm sitting again at the end of the couch. Nick has a headache, he's exhausted, and it's another night without sex, but that's okay. That he's come this far is amazing. We can build back to where we were, and hopefully go beyond, now. I know I'm a fool, trusting as Tennyson said, that somehow good will be the final of ill. [5] Yet, I trust on.
It's only then that I notice that one of Warrick's feet is now touching mine -- that even though we're both concerned about Nick, both working to soothe and calm him, we're still connected. It's still all of us, all three of us, together, no matter what.
#
While Nick and Warrick, ah, reconnect in the shower the next day, I go through a week's worth of crossword puzzles, then cook breakfast, well, late lunch, for them. All we're looking forward to for the weekend is a couple of days of domesticity, getting back into the patterns and rituals of our life together, of shopping and eating and reading and lazing.
Later that evening Warrick goes to run some errands and to have dinner with his grandmother. I want to tell him he doesn't have to hurry back, Nick's doing better and better, falling more into himself, although he'd described himself earlier as still being fragile. I think Warrick gets the picture though, because he tells us not to wait up for him.
I try not to treat Nick any differently as we make dinner. Nick grills the steaks I'd been marinating all day while I chop, sauté and prepare the rest of our meal. I never thought to have such a home, a place where soul and heart alike can rest. The comfort buffers me from my work, which is strange, because for a long time I believed that I was my work, and that I couldn't be any good at it if there were a separation. I still fall into that trap sometimes, but luckily, I now have Warrick and Nick to remind me of life beyond death.
After we eat and clean up, I ask Nick what he wants to do for the evening. I know that I would like to reconnect, as Warrick has, but I still prefer for Nick to state a preference.
Unsurprisingly, he doesn't. Doesn't look me in the eye, just says, "Whatever." He knows that annoys me, but I let him have his way. Maybe I am still coddling him a little.
We end up on the couch, the TV tuned to some History channel special on cats and the Egyptians. Nick really is an inveterate snuggler, which I don't mind as much as Warrick seems to.
Except that while Nick's getting comfortable on top of me, he slips one hand under my shirt, then, after a bit, he starts stroking my ribs too lightly. It tickles.
"Stop it, Nicky," I tell him.
"Stop what?" he mumbles, not looking at me, eyes still glued to the program.
I press down on his hand to still the restless movement.
"Sorry," he says as he shifts a little.
After less than a minute, he starts again.
"Nick," I say again, more sharply than I should, I suppose. I grab his hand and wrap my fingers around his wrist.
"Sorry."
Am I imagining things, or is there some sort of amusement in his tone?
He wriggles around a bit. Then some more. I'm about to ask him if he needs something when I realize that he's managed to get his other hand down between the cushions and is starting to tickle my other side.
After a moment's struggle I get hold of both his wrists and tug them to my chest. Nick finally looks up, grinning, his eyes sparkling and mischievous. He wiggles a bit more, and now I can feel his cock, hard and ready, against my thigh.
So this is how he wants to play, eh?
I don't say anything, of course, merely kiss his fingertips, fold his hands under mine and place them safely on my chest, then turn my attention back to the screen, deliberately ignoring him. I'm curious to see how far he'll take this. He knows how to get to me, get me riled up. This sort of foreplay helps me determine where he actually wants to go.
Pretty far it seems, when he turns his head and after a bit of nuzzling, actually bites me. I jerk him up and off me, standing quickly and dragging him with me. Yet I have to be sure, even though he's staring at me with his pupils dilated and his breath coming quickly.
"What do you want?" I ask him. My lovers complain, now and again, at how mild my voice always seems to be, even in the throes of passion. They don't believe me when I tell them it's merely practice. They don't know my thoughts, how often I imagine the pair of them broken with need, strung out with want, and how I would have to care for them, how gentle and soothing I would have to be. They don't know how hard this scenario makes me, hard enough to fuck for hours, days.
"You," is all the response I get before he pushes himself forward for a kiss.
This, this, is what I wanted. I don't let go of his wrists; I don't allow him to bring his hands up to touch me. I just kiss him, roughly, possessing his mouth as surely as I'm about to possess his body. When he tries for more contact I step back, still kissing him but this is my show now -- something Nick still struggles with sometimes.
I finish the kiss abruptly, though a part of me wants it to go on and on, to melt into the heat of Nicky, to just do him there, on the floor. But I don't believe that's what he wants, and what they say about bottoms really is true: much of the time it is all about them.
Luckily for my two lovers, I get off on that.
"Strip," I say as I let go of his hands. I know this is a turn-on for Nick, to be naked and vulnerable while I'm still clothed. His hands are clumsy and trembling.
"Slower," I instruct, bringing my own hands up to unbutton the first two buttons of his shirt, showing him the pace I want. I make him finish on his own. I only let my eyes touch his skin, travel over chest and stomach muscles, wander across dark curls and proudly erect cock, then back up long fingers and strong arms to eyes black and yearning. He's panting, and a fine sheen of sweat has already sprung up on his upper lip. I know what it will taste like, sweet and salty and like Nick, but I refrain. It isn't time yet.
For Nick, submission isn't about serving, humiliation or pain. It's about control and trust, letting go of everything and just doing what he's told. So to help him "get in the mood," as it were, to start him down the path toward sub-space, I make him go down on his hands and knees and crawl in front of me to the bedroom, back arched, ass swaying. This is not punishment: I don't criticize or make him do it more than once. Instead, I tell him how fine he looks, how much I want to fuck his ass, how good it's going to feel when I do, and how I'm going to make him wait for it until it's all he can think about, until I'm all that makes up his world.
I'm tempted to keep him in this position, to blindfold him and tie him to the headboard and take him from behind. But even though his eyes are glazed and drooping just from the short crawl, I don't think that's what he wants. I think he needs to see me, be with me.
Or maybe that's what I need this time.
So I opt for slow torture. I lay him on his back, put his hands above his head and tie them to the headboard, then I get out the lube and toys -- a lovely set of stainless-steel anal balls, each about one and a half inches in diameter, as well as the bolo-tie cock ring. Nick gives me such a sweet whimper when he sees them. I merely chuckle in response, something my lovers tell me is evil.
I tie up Nick's cock, then set about preparing him and filling him with the beads. He controls himself fairly well until the third one goes in. Then he starts to moan. The sound goes straight to my own dick, but I don't let it show.
"You're doing so good Nick," I tell him as I push another one in. "You're going to take everything, aren't you? I'm going to make you take it -- take the beads and then me, once, maybe twice. But you're going to be good for me, aren't you Nicky? So good. Just let me take care of you. Let me do this for you." He's groaning almost non-stop by the time I push the last one in. I tease him, tug on the string a little. I know the six balls make him feel full, but not complete: he wants me, not a toy. And I want him, want to be engulfed in the heat that teased my fingers as I added one ball after another. I don't need a cock ring for myself, though I do briefly consider it. Nick is so beautiful, spread out like this on the bed, knees bent, flushed, panting. He doesn't understand what an incredible gift this is.
I start by sucking on his fingers, taking them deeply into my mouth and running my tongue over them, then nibbling and licking at the webbing between them. Nick's straining still, aching for more touch. I bite into his palm, then start licking his wrists, tasting leather, Nick and sweat -- a heady combination. I move slowly down his arm, my mouth the only point of contact between us, eventually stopping for a kiss, long, sweet and sloppy.
My pulse is racing by the time we finish and I find that I'm feeling brave enough for the words I can rarely say.
"I love you," I whisper against his lips. I bury my head against his neck, bite and suck while he's responding, then yank the first ball out. Nick yelps in surprise and continues his moaning as I play with the string. He's not lost, not yet -- there are still words lurking behind his lips -- but he will be.
While paying special attention to Nick's nipples I slowly pull out the second ball, making sure he feels how it opens him, how the ring of muscle of his ass irises to let it out. I get a low groan for my effort, such a beautiful burst of song.
By the time I make it to the inside of his knee I pull out the fourth ball. From the lovely purple color of Nick's cock, I'm sure he's ready to burst, and I want skin against my skin, not clothes.
I keep up a teasing pull on the string while I unbutton my shirt, watching Nick's eyes. He's barely there anymore. The sensation play -- the biting, licking, touching and talking -- has taken him down deep. After I slip my shirt off, I press hard against his perineum as I take out the next-to-the-last ball. Nick bucks against the restraints, no longer able to control himself. His harsh breathing gives a rhythmic background to our play.
"So, Nick," I say, tugging on the string while I open my pants. "Do you want me to put these back in? Then I can finish kissing, licking and biting every inch of your skin while I pull them out a second time. Or do you want something else Nick? Something more?" I stroke myself after I draw my pants and boxers down. "What do you want?"
Nick's mouth works while he tries to gather himself together. I let go of the string while I step out of my clothes, then pick it up again as I kneel on the bed between his legs.
"You know I don't like to guess," I mock scold him.
"Y-y-y-you," comes a stuttered reply.
"Good boy, such a good, good boy," I tell him. I kiss him then, wide and deep as I pull out the last ball, swallowing the groan that Nick gives with it.
"Now, while your ass is already nicely lubed up, I still need something." I tell him as I knee-walk up the bed. "Saliva isn't the best lubricant, but it will do in a pinch, don't you agree?" Nick can't answer, his mouth already full with my cock. I can't hold back a hiss as he takes me in further. He feels so good, so hot and wet. This isn't heaven, but it's so far beyond the mundane it feels sacred, somehow.
Nick tries gallantly to suck me, but he's pretty far out of it. Instead, I fuck his mouth gently, sliding in and out, letting his teeth scrape across me. Nick's closes his eyes and rocks his hips up and down in time with me, frustrated, I'm sure, by the lack of contact his dick's had tonight.
It takes all my willpower to pull all the way out. My moan echoes his as I do, the air suddenly chilling my dick. I position myself back between his legs and instruct Nick to look at me.
I fall into his eyes as I push into him, become one with him.
"Nothing can pierce the Soul as the uttermost sigh of the body." [6] Even as I penetrate Nick his song enters me, wraps my bones with his contentment, sets my heart to singing. I lean forward to share more -- more skin, more sweat, more breath and heated kisses. I lose myself in him as he loses himself in me, our grunts and cries mingling and straining together.
I reach that plateau where my mind is free and Nicky just seems to radiate, every drop of sweat like a glowing tear. But he doesn't have the stamina I do, so I let myself follow the light, streak a blazing trail across the stars and come shooting out the other end into soft dimness.
Nicky doesn't come, of course, mainly because I didn't want to waste his essence. I need something more of him as well.
As soon as I can move I slide down his body and take him into my mouth. He cries and whimpers -- such beautiful sounds -- he's so sensitive and desperate. I don't string him along for long, though I've been known to do this for hours, fucking and coming and denying my lovers then fucking again, tuning their bodies to massive, trembling need. I do push him a little higher, licking and nibbling before I swallow him and undo the cock ring.
Nick shouts as he comes, bucking up hard and long. I love the sea-sweet taste of him, the keening whine that he gives as I continue to hold him intimately in my mouth, the shudders that wrack him as he gives everything he has, everything he is, to me.
When he stills, I stop, unsurprised to find that he's passed out. Another gift on top of so many others. I release the restraints, rub and chafe his wrists, then curl around him so when he wakes he'll feel safe, warm, loved.
Treasured.
Not like a caged bird, but rather, a wild one, who deigns to join me at my window sometimes.
#
The next afternoon, Warrick and I set up the chess board in the living room. Chess is serious business for us, and we both roll our eyes at Nick's suggestion of "strip chess." However, after Nick leaves to go to some car show with Greg, Warrick suggests that we could make the game more exciting.
"How is that possible?" I ask. "It's chess." Mental stimulation at its finest.
"You get to blow me when you lose."
I raise an eyebrow at his implication. Warrick's good, but he's not that good. "And when I win?"
"I'll blow you."
I don't pause to give Warrick time to add any conditions to his prize. "Agreed."
He looks at me suspiciously, probably wondering why I agreed so readily. I merely smile at him, projecting as much innocence as possible, even though this ploy never seems to work on my lovers.
"What did I just agree to?" he asks.
"A blow job," I tell him, with a grin. "Choose," I say, holding my hands out to him, a pawn in each. I have to keep him distracted or he might figure out the flaw in his plan, namely, that he didn't place a time limit on the blow job. He's forgotten how long I can hold him at the edge.
He picks white and goes first. Soon we're into the rhythm of the game. Worries of whether I'll win or lose the game don't distract me: either way, I'm going to win. However, Warrick hesitates more, makes a few mistakes, loses some pieces he shouldn't. It isn't until we're halfway through before he finally looks up at me and says, "Damn."
"Hmmm?"
"If I win, you're just going to leave me hanging on that cliff as long as you can, aren't you?"
"Possibly. Your move."
He takes his turn, then stares at me, considering while I examine the board. He knows it's too late to change the rules. He also knows that if he wins and I blow him, even if I make him wait the rest of the afternoon before I let him orgasm, it will still be spectacular. I'm certain, though, that isn't what he'd been thinking about when he proposed the challenge.
Surprisingly, we play to a draw. He's down to just his king, while I still have a pawn, my queen and my king.
"So," he says after a moment. "Two out of three?"
I nod. "We could do that. Or we could play by the numbers."
"Numbers?"
"Either assign an arbitrary numeric value to each piece captured and select the winner as the one with the most points. Or, we could just choose a number." I pause and watch his eyes narrow. "Like sixty-nine."
He laughs and shakes his head. "Damn. I like how you think." He stands and offers me a hand up, then pulls me close enough for a kiss.
Kissing Warrick is different than kissing Nick. Not better, not worse -- comparing them is like comparing apples and orangutans. I still love doing it, kissing Warrick, kissing Nick.
Maybe even more than playing chess.
We slowly make our way to the bedroom, stopping to touch, kiss and taste, letting the heat build bit by bit. It still feels as urgent as always, but I want to take the time to worship Warrick properly. We're all still finding our feet again since Nick's implosion, and I'm grateful for this time to reconnect with Warrick as well.
Eventually we make it to skin, and end up laying side by side on the bed. I traverse Warrick's body with lips and tongue, delighting in the shifting planes and changing surfaces. I give the stiff curls that lead down to his cock extra attention, laving then blowing on them, watching the goose bumps chase across his skin. Of course I get soft, ticklish strokes up my sides for my efforts, a way of keeping us balanced.
I swing my hips up closer Warrick at his urging, then settle in for my treat. The first taste of him is always so good, more bitter than sweet, but with pepper and smoke. I hold him in place with my hands and lap at the head of his cock, long strokes with the flat of my tongue. He's doing the same to me, then switches when I do, from licking to drilling into the slit. I can't help the moan he teases from me. It all feels wonderful.
Greedy hunger spikes through me suddenly, and I'm desperate to taste all of him. Normally, I tease my lovers, make them wait. Not this time. I yank Warrick closer to me, licking down the length of his cock to his balls, nuzzling into them and pulling them into my mouth. Warrick doesn't follow my movement this time, instead just keeps sucking on my dick, bringing heaven closer to earth, making me pant around my mouthful.
I still want more.
I force his legs open, apart, and head further back. All the skin from behind his balls up toward his hole is soft and slick, puckered and salty. I play some with his perineum, pressing against it with fingers and tongue, while at the same time I keep one hand gently caressing his cock. I can just imagine the waves of heat coming off it as I slide my fingers up and down its silky length. And Warrick keeps rewarding my efforts, sending chills up my spine, trying to shatter my concentration by sucking on the head of my dick while slowly jerking me off with his hand, squeezing me just right.
Finally I get myself in position. Warrick's skin is lighter in color here and sensitive. I lick his pucker, then blow against it, fascinated by the way it flutters. Of course, Warrick's fingers start to travel at that point, tapping against my own ass. I want him in me, surrounding me, completing me.
I push myself forward, my rolled tongue leading, spearing Warrick. He stiffens and moans, and I start to thrust my tongue in and out as hard and fast as I can. He doesn't take too long to recover, though, and soon he has one, then two, fingers inside of me while still sucking and bringing the disparate parts of me back together, coalescing in my gut, sparking down my limbs.
When he presses against my prostate I moan, long and deep into him, getting an echoing groan in kind.
Neither of us are going to last long this way, which I think became the challenge at some point, to see how fast I could send Warrick off the cliff. I start pumping his dick more firmly with my hand, ending with that twist that he likes, that gives extra pressure to the bundle of nerves just below the head. He's starting to shake, trying so hard to hold himself together, singing with slurps and moans, while his fingers play like live wires across my skin.
The muscles in the thigh under my head clench until I think they're going to break. I feel my own body tightening in sympathy. Warrick abruptly removes his mouth from my dick and squeezes it tightly. I'm certain that he's too far gone to do anything but ride his own wave, but he thrusts a third finger into me as he comes.
The chain effect sets me off and I follow him into the breach, shouting with surprise as my orgasm crashes down on me.
Cleanup is slow and lazy, with satiated kisses and drooping fingers. Nick finds us curled up, napping together when he returns. I wake to find two warm bodies in the bed with me, and know that the world is found not just in a single grain of sand, but in three. [7]
#
The McAllen case takes four long days and somehow stretches out the hours so that it feels like it's been four weeks by the time it's over.
It turns out that the mother's death, Susan's, was accidental. The son, Keith, hadn't meant to kill her. However, after the accident, instead of reporting it, he tried to frame his abusive father.
All of us wanted to believe the evidence that Keith had planted -- who better to put into jail than a wife-beating, child-molesting monster?
But the father is innocent of her murder.
By the end of the case I want to scream. I'm disgusted with supporting a system that so spectacularly failed Keith, and is now going to fail him again. His father is insisting on the worst possible representation money can buy, and as he's a minor, there isn't much anyone can do. "There is no such thing as justice -- in or out of court." [8]
I head for the Stratosphere -- I don't like the jerkiness of the Manhattan Express. It's a Tuesday, and one of the operators who knows me still works there, so it isn't a problem to ride, then ride again, and again. The lights streak off the yellow cars, and the padding cushions my body as we go down the first hill and gravity slams back into me. I'm a little breathless by the fifth time through, but it isn't enough. So I go home.
Warrick and Nick are there, have been there for a while. Evidence of their popcorn fight is scattered all over the carpet and the couch they're still sprawled on. Beer bottles are scattered everywhere. Towels used for some kind of mop up job lay on the floor just beyond the end table.
"Hey Gil," Nick calls.
"Come join us!" Warrick says.
I just stand, unable to process what I'm seeing.
I want to strike out at them. I know I'm being irrational. How can I be angry that they're enjoying themselves? I still want to beat some sense into them, turn pink and white skin red and blistered, make dark bruises blossom on darker hide.
I will never touch them in real anger, though.
I don't hear the questions they're asking as they rise off the couch and slowly approach me, as if they're afraid I might skitter off.
And maybe that's exactly what I need to do.
Run away for a while.
"I, I need. . ." is all I manage to say. To my surprise I find that I, too, have a voice, a song. It's cracked and bleeding.
Luckily, my lovers understand what I need.
Warrick reaches me first. "Shhh," he says, taking my hands, kissing the tips, the palms. "It's okay, man."
"We got you," Nick adds, coming up from behind, pulling me in close for a hug, cradling me with his heat.
Warrick kisses me then, possessing my mouth, pushing me down and back against Nick. My first instinct is to struggle. I don't often let go -- I don't usually feel the need -- but sometimes, I have no choice. It's either let go of myself for a while, or lose everything that makes my life worth while.
I surrender to Warrick, let him take every bit of me, lose myself for a while in him and the smoky richness of his taste.
When I come back up I find that we're moving. Nick already has me half undressed and efficiently strips the rest of my clothes off. I stand before them, shivering and naked, waiting on their pleasure.
Warrick heads straight for the toy box, pulls out the under-the-mattress restraints, a blindfold and the Velcro cock ring.
I don't say a word, just let Nicky cover my mouth with sweet kisses while he covers my eyes with the blindfold. First one leather wrist cuff goes on, then the other. I must be shaking by now, because Nick keeps soothing me, kissing me, telling me that it's going to be okay, that they'll take care of me, take me out of my head for a while.
They lay me down on my back, my head pointing toward the foot of the bed and my arms spread wide, then they attach the ropes and run them under the foot of the mattress, stretching them tight until I can't move, can't even lift my shoulders.
They know that I hate this position. Spread-eagle this way, there's no place to hide. I feel too vulnerable.
It doesn't matter what I want right now. Or so I tell my greedy soul when I feel Nick's weight leave the bed. I hear the whisper of clothes sliding onto the floor followed by soft sighs and kisses. They're supposed to be focused on me, damn it. Or if they're making out like that, they should at least let me see.
I try to strangle the needy moan that sneaks its way out of my throat, only to get a chuckle, an evil chuckle, from Warrick for my effort.
"Think he's feeling left out?" Warrick asks.
"I don't know, man. His face is kind of turning red, though. Wonder what color it'll change to when I do this?"
Oh god. I don't have to hear the slurping noises that Nick's making, the hungry, suckling sound he generally starts when he takes Warrick's dick in his mouth. The stifled moan that Warrick makes is more than enough indication of what the hell they're doing.
But I will not give them the pleasure of more noises from me. I've come this far, but I'm not ready to let everything go. I can't. Not yet.
Still, I tell myself that they're doing this for me, to get me needy and wanting and hard, hard enough that they can take me to the next level.
Their attention shifts: I don't know if it's not soon enough or too soon. My cock and balls are now mercilessly strapped together -- I won't come until they're good and ready, or until I break and start to plead.
Warrick isn't gentle as he prepares me, the rough stretch making me more ready than soothing touches would. He almost draws a moan from me when he pushes in. The hard scratch of his dick does make me tense for a moment, before I'm pushing back, wanting more, wanting it hard, wanting Warrick to drive everything else from my head.
But Warrick has other ideas. He takes it slow, easy after that initial thrust, dancing with his hips, making me follow his rhythm. I'm still fighting, still wanting too much control.
Then I feel another weight on the bed. Nick's come to join us. I hear more sloppy kisses before I feel pressure on either side of my torso, followed by something warm and wet pressing at my lips.
I open widely, happy to take him in. Nick and Warrick aren't synchronized; they fuck my mouth and my ass to the pulse of their own songs. They pause, now and again, to kiss each other. I can feel Nick leaning back, Warrick leaning forward, as they take their pleasure with me, with each other. I can't get lost in them but I am slowing down, my thoughts no longer racing.
Finally Warrick starts into a faster rhythm. He angles my hips so that he's brushing across my prostrate with every stroke. I'm tossing my head but still refusing to speak. I can hear his panting breaths, the words he struggles to give to Nick, telling him how beautiful his boy is, how the muscles in his back are shining and how he wants to trace them with his tongue. They're still ignoring me, using me, beating down my sense of self.
Working to break me.
Warrick finally comes and Nick pulls out, unfinished. I'm not sure what's going to happen next. My legs fall back together, my thighs aching with how they've been stretched. I hear kissing, then softer words I can't make out.
Warm hands are now on my thighs, pulling my legs into a wider, more uncomfortable angle
A new cock slides into me.
"Oh, yeah, Warrick, you're right," Nick manages to grit out. "So good," he adds.
Nick is pushing harder into me, driving me onto the bed, thrusting with his hips and thighs, forcing the air out of me with each punishing jerk. Then he slows for a moment. I can hear him gulping air and kissing, and what might be the sound of Nick licking Warrick's stubbled chin. I want to touch them, I want to kiss them. I pull at the restraints but it's useless.
"Oh yeah, baby, just like that," Warrick says. I know he's touching Nick, gliding his fingers on Nick's sweat-slick pecs, maybe leaning down to tongue at a nipple. "You look so hot that way."
"You must like it," Nick manages to say after another moment. "You're getting hard again."
I don't think I make any noise, but I must have done something to garner their attention.
"He's st-st-stroking himself," Nick says, his song stuttered and caught up with his own thrusting body.
"Bet you'd like that Gil. Like for us to tag-team you all night," Warrick says in a husky whisper.
I don't quite groan at the image, but possibly I do give a quiet whimper at the thought of having to take the pair of them, over and over again, forced to be their toy and nothing else, submitting to them for hours, days. It burns out the other images in my head until it's the only thing left.
"Next time Nick? I think we should turn him over. Tie his legs wide too, so he can't do anything but take it."
Nick laughs -- not quite as evilly as Warrick can, but he's working on it. "And tag team him," he adds before he pulls me up and starts fucking me hard, his breath hitching, his cock seeming to grow wider, filling me more.
I can't help the moan that's dragged out of me as I truly start to give up.
Warrick's hand is suddenly at my nipple, pulling hard. "What's that? Can't quite hear you." He tugs at my cock, licks and tortures the sensitive skin, then he's gone.
"Please," I whisper, broken by the pounding in my ass, the sound of the pair of them kissing, the images they've put in my head for the next time.
It's enough. Warrick's there, a soft hand in my hair, breath puffing over my face. "What's that baby? You want to come?"
I nod, but I suspect it's too soon. I'm far from babbling yet.
"In a while," Warrick replies, and his cock is suddenly pushing against my lips. I make his cock wet and sticky while Nick rides. I'm losing breath and air, I can't move, can't come, can't think, can't do anything but be with them, be a part of them. Nothing exists outside of them and this room and the way my ass is being filled like the way my mouth is and the remnant sparks from how Warrick pulls my nipples.
With a final shuddering thrust Nicky freezes as he comes, collapsing on top of me while his cock continues to twitch inside of me. Warrick pulls out and kisses Nick, who finally, finally, kisses me. I'm lost in his taste, his touch.
Then Warrick fills me again. I cry out, surprised and shattered.
"Please, god, please, let me come. Please. So hard. I need to. Please." As my song fills the room Nick leans over and kisses Warrick, kisses me, kisses my still bound cock.
"Well, I don't know," Nick drawls, his voice deep and sleepy. "'Rick? What do you think?"
"I think you should kiss the man again. Give me more incentive to finish."
Nick skims his hands over my sides. I'm too turned out to be ticklish -- it's as if all my nerve endings have migrated to my cock. Then Nick kisses me, again to a different rhythm than the one Warrick's using. He's slow and sweet and the disparity makes my head swim. It's as if I'm torn in two: two different people with two different sets of needs. I need Nicky's kisses like I need breath and soul, and I need Warrick pounding into me to keep my heart going, my blood racing -- both keep me alive.
When Warrick's ready he rips the cock ring off me. I shout as the denied blood flows back into my dick. Maybe two seconds later, I'm coming, and that action consumes my world, churning through my guts and coalescing in my balls and shooting out my cock.
It doesn't surprise me that the next thing I know I'm being coddled by my two lovers, my hands already released, my sight no longer blocked. I blame the lights for the tears in my eyes, though the scientist in me knows that I wasn't in the dark that long, that it's just part of the emotional release. No one says anything, though -- they just continue to hold me, pet me, cherish me.
It appears that I have a song too, like my night birds. A song that contains little beauty or hope, but one that Nick and Warrick seem to love, just the same.
{end}
[1] Petrarch
[2] Havelock Ellis
[3] Henry Kaiser
[4] Eric Berne
[5] Alfred Tennyson -- full quotation: Oh yet we trust that somehow good/Will be the final goal of ill.
[6] George Santayana
[7] William Blake -- "To see a world in a grain of sand/And heaven in a wild flower/Hold infinity in the palm of your hand/And eternity in an hour"
[8] Clarence Darrow