Wicked Wednesday: Edge, Part 1, m/m

Framing the Arizona Desert

Back at Wicked Wednesday at long last! And back with my characters Marc and Brendan from my ongoing story thing (I kind of like just having them as characters who come out to play from time to time, but I think some back story and explanation would be nice to do some time) Water and Dust. This time, the story is in two parts, and is filling my still ongoing 2013 Kink Bingo card, for the orgasm control/denial square. Word count: 1000 approx.

The property was all theirs now, but it meant work. Just as they’d both brought their smarts to bear when they’d purchased the land – with Marc’s thoroughness, and Brendan’s wiley mind – now it was time for both of them to lay their bodies to the task. For the mess the previous owners had left was disastrous.

The land around the house, the part they could control, was either bushy scrub or tip; dried up underbrush left to grow into easy-to-burn piles, old tractor parts and other heavy-duty equipment discarded near the shed, left to rust. Neither Marc nor Brendan had visions of a European country garden or a genteel forest in the coarser Australian bush, but having driven past acres of fire-blackened land, leaves like crinkled paper and bone-like branches, they were determined to keep the place as fire safe as they could. And the sight of twisted, rusted metal was an aberration, regardless of landscape.

They spent a week on the scrub. Brendan theorised they might find more of the man-made junk underneath, and he was right – luckily, it was only a stack of three slashed tires. When the space in front of the verandah looked like a place they could put a table and deck chairs, they moved over to the shed. The shed itself was dirty but mostly empty. That proved a boon, for after they cleaned it up, they moved much of what was outside into it.

The metal frame was a different matter.

The frame stood to one side of the shed, near an old tin wash basin and a tap – they’d high-fived at the sight of the water source which the estate agent had promised was on the property, somewhere. It was made of metal cylinders, the outside smooth and flecked with only a bit of wear and rust. The top bar stood just above their heads, and it was wide enough that they could both stand under it.

“What do you think this was for?” Brendan asked, tracing the metal above his head with his finger.

Marc, standing by the shed with the wood they’d decided would be good for the fire, shrugged.

“Washing maybe. Hanging a rug over and beating it?”

“Hmm…” Brendan kept marking out the bar, and Marc went to the shed to move the firewood. When he came back, Brendan was still there, but he was now smirking, looking over his shoulder at Marc.

Marc folded his arms, and used his warning voice. “Brendan…”

Brendan turned, raising both hands onto the bar and letting his wrist flop over the top. He leaned forward, his back bowing and his neck arching up so his Adam’s apple jutted out, begging for a bite. Brendan’s tongue flicked across his lower lip.

Marc shook his head, went over to Brendan, and reached up to grab on of his wrists, holding it against the bar. “This what you’re after?”

Brendan looked up through his eyes lashes, coy, and he pretended to struggle against Marc’s hand. Marc held down, harder still. Brendan craned up, chuckling, and started to move his other wrist, but Marc swiftly grabbed it, and held Brendan in place. Brendan blinked, genuine surprise across his face. Marc was sure in a second he’d get serious and ask Marc to let go – Brendan was the last person who’d accept being held down, chained or tied. Whatever else they did in regards to sex, Marc had always assumed this would never be part of it.

Instead, Brendan swallowed and whispered, “Got some rope?”

There probably was some around. Marc looked. Sure enough, there was some coiled in the shed. He returned to Brendan, who was swaying on the frame, grinning at Marc’s discovery. Marc ran his thumb over the threads of the rope. It was scratchy to touch.

“It’s rough,” he said.

“It’ll leave marks, you mean.”


Brendan smiled. “Good.”

Marc swallowed the rebuke in his month. He’d learned there was no point in scolding Brendan for minor acts of self-destruction.

Marc tied both Brendan’s wrists to the bar, leaving a small loop between that hung between then. Brendan tugged and tried to slide his hands sideways but couldn’t.

Brendan smirked. “Good knots, for a good boy.”

It occurred to Marc in that instant that Brendan really couldn’t get away. That Marc was the one who had the power, and Brendan was in his control. A shard of fear ran through him, a sense that this wasn’t right, that he shouldn’t be the one in charge. But with it came a searing heat, and Marc knew those feelings came wrapped together, indivisible from each other.

Marc held Brendan’s chin, forcing him to look at him. “Boy Scout I was. Where lots of good boys learn all sorts of useful things…”

Brendan’s chuckled, the sound humming against Marc’s fingers, and he tried to lean forward, his lips forming for a kiss. But Marc pulled back sharply, leaving Brendan hanging and almost tripping over. Only the rope stopped him from falling. He thrashed, his hands flexing, like a caged tiger not yet tamed, still growling and lashing out, not aware that its efforts were ineffectual against the bars.

“Oi! Marc!”

“You wanted to be tied up. That means I’m in charge.”

Brendan righted his stance, and he glared at Marc.

Until that moment, Marc never thought he had a cruel streak. Never thought he’d not mind showing it either. The corner of his mouth curled, and he slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans, casual, cool.

“I could do anything to you, and you wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

Brendan sniggered. “But you won’t.” Defiant as his words were, his eyes were wide, and his breath a touch tremulous. Marc would never have thought he could have scared him.

“Won’t what?”

“Won’t do ‘anything.’ You won’t hurt me.”

Marc sauntered – what has happening, he never sauntered – forward, and laid his wrists either side of Brendan’s. He made use of the few inches height he had on Brendan, arching his neck up so he gaze down at Brendan, and he smirked.

“That’s quite an assumption, Brendan. Quite an assumption.”

And Brendan’s eyes flew open, the tiger seeing the master’s whip, and he sucked in all the air around them.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Photo Credit: Kevin Dooley
License: Creative Commons