Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“It would.” His Master swayed into him, lithe body pressing against him, pure molten warmth through the thin, gauzy caftan. “Do you want it to?”
“M-maybe.”
“Let’s find out.” All it took was a single finger against Vic’s chest to send him backward, uncoordinated but letting Amani press him back until the backs of his thighs hit the easy chair and he nearly fell into it, wincing as his cock and balls jounced against the straps, pulling at him in devilish and awful ways. Digging his fingers into the arms of the chair, he pressed himself back, taking a moment to just breathe, trying to hold out or he’d collapse. He could barely keep his eyes open when he just wanted to close them and writhe, caught in the grip of these torturous sensations—but he stared, as Amani sank smoothly to his knees before him.
No. That was wrong. His Master shouldn’t be kneeling, shouldn’t—
His mind slammed to a halt as Amani pressed his palms to the insides of Vic’s knees, and shoved his legs firmly apart.
He cried out. He couldn’t help himself; the sharp jerk on his inner thigh muscles shot straight up to his cock as he was spread open, hips jerking upward, cock leaking in dribbles and spurts of pre-come that felt like tiny dripping tongues running over his full length. He couldn’t breathe—and he bit down roughly on his lower lip to stifle another cry as padded leather snapped around one ankle, before the length of the bar forced his legs farther apart still as the other cuff enveloped his other ankle. His cock twitched, spasmed, and wrenching pain shot through him as for one explosive moment he hit that peak where he could have come without even touching himself, spontaneous and hot.
But the strap kept him locked in, choking it off, until he was caught on the verge and shaking hotly.
Amani straightened, rubbing his cheek to Vic’s inner thigh like the cat he was. “Is that too wide?” he asked gently.
“N-no…” Vic shook his head sharply, twisting his hips, nearly clawing furrows in the leather of the chair to keep from giving in to the roaring, powerful urge to touch himself, to rip the straps free, to ease the tension inside him when it would feel so good, so fucking good, but his Master hadn’t given him permission. “No, ah, it’s…i-it’s…just right…”
“Good.”
Amani flowed to his feet, fingertips just barely grazing the underside of Vic’s cock in passing, and Vic thrashed violently as that hard spurting charge of pressure came again, building hot only to stop, trapping him at this vicious peak. He hissed through his teeth, trying to get his breathing under control, watching through hazed eyes as Amani picked up his Ficker from its stand and settled it between Vic’s legs, holding it delicately.
“Take it,” he commanded.
Vic reached for the cello with trembling hands, leaned it against his chest, then curled in with a gasping moan and pressed his burning forehead to the cool wood of the upper bout as his cock dragged against the back of the cello’s body. He was defiling this instrument, dripping against the wood, smearing it with himself, but right now he couldn’t care, not when Amani was watching him, watching him suffer, watching him struggle to even coordinate himself and shift his fingers into the proper position on the cello’s neck. The bow, next, Amani easing it into his shaking fingers.
“Sit up straight,” he ordered, and Vic tensed his entire body, trying to comply. “Duo No. 1 for Two Cellos. Do you know it?”
“I…mmn.” Vic racked his hazed brain, coming up with half-remembered threads of melody, and nodded stiffly. “I’ve…I’ve heard it enough times to mimic it.”
“Very well, then.” Amani snapped his cello case open and lifted out his Stradivarius, sinking down with it in perfect posture as naturally as breathing, poised and lovely and gripping his cello between parted thighs, the caftan falling open to bare his legs completely and offer shadowed glimpses of soft, smooth fabric cupping thick hardness. Yet he remained calm and in control as he slipped its bow from its case, laid it against the cello’s strings, and met Vic’s eyes across the space between them.
“Play with me,” he whispered—then stroked the bow and made it sing.
For breathless moments Vic could only watch, listen, transfixed as that sound vibrated over him and immersed his body in whispers of audible touch. Yet even if he was falling apart, even if need had hold of his body in powerful jaws that bit down hard and held him trapped, those notes were an invitation, a command, a beckoning hand calling him to Amani, calling him to his song. And after a few more shaky inhalations, waiting, listening, catching the thread…
Vic gripped his bow more firmly, and set life to his strings.