The Lightness of the Touch

We'd met somewhere neither of us had ever been before or would ever go again.

Now we were here again in this room in the old colonial house with the chittering sounds of monkeys, working their way through the jungle outside, coming in through the open windows.

He lay there under me as he had each night, holding his hands over his head waiting for me to tie them to the steel frame of the old bed.

"This is what you want?" I asked again.

"Yes," he said, his voice husky.

He'd told me he needed it to be like this. It set him free.

I wrapped the straps around his wrists and tied him lightly to the painted steel frame. I wanted him there because he wanted to be like that. He needed to be there, unable to leave, to let me have him. With each movement I made as I tied him I felt what I had been afraid I'd feel, I felt his complete rejection.

"Good," he said when I was done, suddenly wanting me to have him, looking at me with lust.

I wanted it to be slow and loving, he wanted to be taken. I wanted to feel our bodies twist and slide against each other, our hands on each other. He denied me his hands. He denied me.

I bent to him, I kissed his eyes, I breathed his scent, I tasted his lips. I'd agreed to this each time because I wanted him.

"Suck me," he begged.

I slid down his body, slick with sweat in the humid heat. The fan clicked and whirled above me, cooling my back, drying me and leaving the parts of him I sheltered damp.

His cock was hard and standing vertical, rising from its curly nest. I kissed the tip, I tasted the liquid drops leaking from him. I ran my tongue over the thick shaft, along the veins, down through his curly hair, catching one in my teeth and stopping to free it. I reached his hairy sac and licked it lovingly, taking it in my gentle mouth in parts and washing it for him, letting it out damper than before.

"Yes," he moaned, "Oh yes."

Sweat had pooled down there between his parted thighs. I licked the crease at the top of his leg behind his balls, I licked under his sac. I dampened him and he moaned. He twisted against the straps, spreading his thighs wider, lifting his knees for me. He was impatient to be taken.

"God," he groaned, "please fuck me."

I entered him slowly, watching his face, still denied his hands, his caress. I plowed him with long deep strokes, then quickly, watching myself now, glancing at his face, his lost look. Watching him arch and spout as he came, before filling him myself.

Spent I collapsed along his body, my face at his neck, my mouth moving to his. He joined my kiss, but it was reluctant, and I knew he'd denied me too much.

I needed to take my price for having done what he'd wanted me to. I needed to mark him as owing me.

I turned him over on his stomach and began to kiss his spine, then I leant over and took it from the bag and tore the plastic wrap. I trailed it across his shoulders from the left to the right, up and down, then lifting it off, drawing a complicated simple pattern on his skin.

"Oh god that's fabulous," he said, gasping with the electric thrill of it. "Christ what are you doing.? It tickles, no it ..Oh God. Don't stop."

He writhed and moaned beneath me, my thighs straddling his waist, my balls resting on his back, my cock hard and bouncing as I moved across him. I used the lightest touch. I was almost perfect in my delicate drawing with the isposable scalpel, never cutting through his skin.

When I was done I hid it, and he sat up and we embraced, he wanted to kiss now, a last moment of sharing before he left, thanks for the final thrill I'd given him. I wanted him to stay but he insisted on returning to his room. There was till a chance for me to warn him.

In the morning we went to the airport together, he to take a flight home to Adelaide, me to return to Sydney. I watched him walk away into the invisible world of somewhere else, a wife, all those things. I headed to the lounge to wait for my turn.

My plane arrived late and it was cold, the airport taxis were gone and I stood for a few moments wondering if he knew yet how I had claimed him. If he knew yet that written across his shoulders in a fine broken line of thin scabs was my name.