SUBlime: Collected Shorts (Master Class, #2)

Caution: The following details may be considered spoilerish. Click on a label to reveal its content.

Length: Novelette (10k to 15K words)

Heat Wave: 4 - On-screen and mildly explicit love scenes

Erotic Frequency: 4 - Fairly frequent

Genre: BDSM, erotica

Gender: cisgender

Orientation: gay

Pairing: male/male

Age: 20s, 30s

Ending: happily ever after

Tone: intense, realistic, sweet

Themes: romantic elements

Kinks: barebacking, biting, bondage, breath play, CBT, chastity, cross-dressing, edge play, exhibitionism, flying, impact play, insertables, knife play, marking, masturbation, mummification, pony play, power exchange, public play, role play, sadomasochism, sensory deprivation, shaving / plucking, size, slavery (consensual), spanking

Era: contemporary

Settings: America, city, Manhattan, New York City

Careers: actor / media personality / entertainer

Species:

All-Nighter

I have pulled all-nighters more times in my life than I can count—study sessions in college, night shoots through five seasons of Prey, a few too many after-parties. I’m used to it, occasionally thrive on it. I’m even good at it, one of the few of my contemporaries who can still go five or six days on just a few hours’ sleep.

But never until tonight had I looked forward to it with quite such . . . zeal.

Sir had been warning—promising, teasing—the whole damn week that I’d better get my sleep, because once Sunday night rolled around, there’d be no time for such frivolities. I got out of the matinee around seven, grabbed a quick bite, and came home to a note on the door that said simply, “Strip.” So I shed my clothes right there in the foyer, settled on my heels, laid my hands palms-up on my widespread knees, and waited.

And waited. And waited.

I’m still waiting, but that’s okay. I know he’ll come soon. In the meantime, I distract myself with the chill of the apartment, with the hardness of the tile floor beneath my knees, with delicious thoughts of what he will do to me—or, if I’m a very lucky slave, what he will allow me to do to him—when finally he deigns me worthy of his attention. I know I mustn’t fall asleep, though the pull grows strong as the hours stretch. I know I mustn’t touch myself, though my cock aches with need at the slightest thought of him.

When at last he comes, I do not hear him. I do not even see him. One moment there is cold and hardness and a world filled with him inside my head, and the next there is warmth and softness and his chest to my back in the real world, his arms around my waist, his lips on my neck and his breath in my ear. I gasp my surprise, moan my pleasure, melt back into him and shudder with the force of my need.

“What a good boy you are,” he rumbles near my shoulder, follows it with a bite that makes me hiss even as the knowledge that he’s praising me, marking me, claiming me makes me glow. “Do you know how long you waited for me?” Another bite, gentler, soothed immediately after by a lick, a suck, a kiss. “Do you know how long you kneeled there, naked, cold, resisting sleep?”

“No, Sir,” I breathe, unable to find my voice as one of his hands presses flat and tight to my stomach and the other snakes down between my legs. His lips work my shoulder, my neck, my ear, while his hand works my balls, my cock, spreading tingling warmth and bright white sparks of pleasure from my toes to the tips of my hair. The sensations meet in the middle, coil tight in my belly beneath his hand. I moan again, bite down on my lip and clutch at my thighs to keep them still, to stop myself from thrusting into his fist.

“Five hours,” he whispers, his tongue following the words, making its own vibrations across the shell of my left ear. God, no wonder I’m so stiff. “You waited five hours for this”—he squeezes my cock and pulls, just the way he knows will drive me crazy—”and this”—a soft bite to the corded tendon of my neck, a hot sweep of tongue across the skin pinched between his teeth—”and this”—a jut of hips, his hard cock pressing against my ass, promising the wild heights of pleasure to which only he can take me. “You waited all night for me. Such a good boy,” he purrs. “Such a good boy.”

He stands then, his cloak of warmth falling away, and it’s all I can do not to follow him, to cling to his leg, to whimper my protest at the loss. But then he puts his hand out and says, “Five hours ‘til daybreak. And I plan to break you at least three times between now and then.”

This time I cannot hold back the whimper as he takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. For a moment he has to hold me there, my knees weak from my long night of immobility and the mere thought of so many orgasms.

As he guides me to our bedroom, binds my hands and feet to the bedposts with soft well-worn leather and thoughtfully fingers his selection of favorite paddles and crops, I squirm with anticipation and habitual mischief—has there ever been a bond I haven’t tested, even when the last thing I want is to escape?—and think to myself, Best. All-nighter. Ever.

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