He�s sleeping.
There is the fine line from his neck down to his arm, a perfect curve separating black from silver that your fingers ache to follow. And there is moonlight in his hair and on his shoulder, a shimmering, silent white. You wonder if you can taste it on his skin.
He�s breathing steadily, though you can hardly hear him, so soft, so light are the sounds he�s making. His mind�s at rest, forsaken, faraway, dwelling in places where you can�t follow. You wonder who�s in his dreams.
He looks so peaceful, pure, untouchable. And that�s what irks you. It�s not enough for you to watch him sleeping. You are wide awake. Blame it on the many sleepless nights when you knew you couldn�t have him. Blame it on his Sleeping Beauty looks. Because of them, merely looking at him never was enough, nor will it ever be. Or blame it, if you must, on the full moon tonight.
Yes, it�s the moon that makes you do things you wouldn�t dare to do in bright, dazzling sunshine. It�s the moon that makes you search under the bed and in the drawers for a scarf that somehow found its way there, very mysteriously, for you certainly didn�t buy it. The cloth feels silky smooth; it sails over his skin like a whiff of cloud.
He stirs in his sleep, lost deep in dark and muddy waters. A stifled sound comes from his lips; he rolls onto his back, facing you now. His eyes are closed.
You sigh.
The moonlight has transformed him - his skin, suntanned during the day, appears alabaster white at night. He lies like a pristine, marble statue, spread out for you, yet far too still, too perfect for your taste.
Without thinking, you quickly take his hands, slide one over the other, and tie them together to the headboard behind him. Fast, expert moves. The knots sit tight.
He�s still asleep. It is time to wake him up.
You cast off the covers, no need for them. The night is warm, the air so sweet and sultry. If you stepped out on the patio, the stones would still be warm, radiating heat even at this hour. Like you. Your skin is burning and your mouth is dry and it�s not water that you need.
Lying on your stomach and resting on your elbows, you move towards him until you almost touch him. You hold your breath and look, just look at him. Finally, you run a finger down his arm, very lightly, just to make sure he�s really the one lying there, not a product of your wishful imagination. You need to feel him to believe.
You never know when you�ll see him next. But that�s how you wanted it, or at least that�s what you thought you wanted. Be careful what you wish for.
And yet, your heart still skips a beat or two each time you see him. Like when you�re drifting with closed eyes in the lukewarm waters of your little backyard pool, weightless, dreaming clear blue summer dreams.
With each little move you make to keep floating, the back of your head bumps against the pool�s edge. Suddenly, there�s a hand on your shoulder, and before you can open your eyes, you hear his voice. �Hi. Can I stay?�
�Sure you can,� you answer. And in your thoughts, you almost add, �Forever.�
No, you don�t want to let him go. And yet, you have to, if only to see him come back. He always comes back to you.
That knowledge makes you smile. Now you know how you want him to wake up, all naked and with your mouth around his cock. And you will make him shudder and tremble and come all over your face. He needs to know that he belongs to you and you to him. You are his slave and he is yours. Slave to love.
You reach for another scarf and fix it over his eyes � it�s dark in the room, but not dark enough with all this silvery light coming through the glass doors. He mustn�t see. You only want him to feel.
But you can see him, blindfolded, tied, limbs stretched and slightly twisted. Your cock swells at the sight and at the idea that you can do anything with him now, anything you want. For an instant, you consider gagging him, too, but then you couldn�t hear him moan and plead and beg for you to fuck him. Don�t stop, harder, don�t stop, don�t �
You adore him when he begs so shamelessly.
Sweet memories, but you don�t need them now. He�s here.
Your fingers slip under the waistband of his pyjama pants and pull them down, your thumbs pressing the sharp hipbones while your tongue follows the trail that leads you to his half-hard cock. Again you wonder what he�s dreaming. Or of whom.
You taste his flesh. Soft, salty sweetness swells in your mouth and fills you. You hear him breathe loudly, he must be awake now, yes, he calls your name. But you close a hand over his mouth, trying to silence him, though not very effectively. He whimpers into the palm of your hand, his tongue lapping at the skin there that�s so sensitive and soft. And you could come from that alone, fucking his mouth with your fingers while he fucks your mouth with his cock.
You notice he�s close in no time at all, so very close. And it�s the same with you. But no, it�s not time yet.
You pull back, panting, and he slips out of your mouth, lingering wet and heavy against your lips. Your tongue trails lazily along the vein and curls around the tip. He shudders and instantly you stop. Instead, you cover his body with yours and kiss him on the mouth. Your lips start tingling and you feel light-headed - no wonder, because he kisses you as if the world were ending tomorrow, and because his cock and yours grow more and more impatient, grinding against each other, sweetest friction.
Spreading his legs, he whispers. �Please, Viggo, please.�
�Were you a good boy while you were away?�
�Yes. Always.�
�I don�t believe you.�
�I�d never lie to you ...�
�Who knows what you were up to on deserted sets or in empty hotel rooms at night?�
�But, Viggo ...�
He�s become such an actor, you marvel silently. Sounding so shy and timid now, like the boy he was when you first met him, nervously fiddling with his hands whenever he thought no one was looking, listening to each of PJ�s orders while frowning with uneasy apprehension, mortified that he would not be able to deliver what was being asked of him. He was such a boy then.
His shyness was quickly gone, though. At least with you. You love to remember how you fucked him hurriedly between takes, roughly, up against a tree. The hobbits would plague him with sniggers, wolf whistles, and the occasional whooping catcall when they found moss or tree bark remnants in his elf wig. Ah, New Zealand. Sometimes, on the verge of sleep, you think you can remember how the forests smelled at night or the scent of his leather tunic.
�I want you on your knees.�
�I can�t move.�
�Oh, yes, you can, the scarf has some give to it. Just twist a little. I know how flexible you are.�
You help him to turn over, your hands running up and down his sides admiringly, embracing him from behind while your tongue follows the curve of his spine and caresses his scar. You feel him relax, the marble statue turning to flesh. He trusts you. He knows that you will go only as far as he wants. He knows that you will never hurt him. And yet, a little pain can be so sweet.
He waits with lowered head, not looking at you; his back is long and lean, a fine sheen of sweat glistens between his shoulder blades.
You reach down and free the belt from the crumpled heap of your trousers on the floor. He listens to each little sound you make, holding his breath, completely motionless, but it�s as if you can feel the blood singing in his veins. He knows what�s to come.
Nevertheless, he winces when you strike him, and you strike him hard. The belt instantly leaves a mark. Once more, the belt comes down on his buttocks, and again after that. You don�t give him time to recover. The sound of flat, sharp leather hitting his skin seems to fill the room.
Enough.
There is no blood, but even in this light, you can see that the skin is reddened, the once untainted perfection marred. He almost sobs in pain.
�Does it hurt?� you whisper in his ear.
He sucks in his breath. �Yes, it hurts,� he replies shakily. The belt falls to the floor. You blow air on the marks, soothingly, gently, and then start to lick the newly formed patterns, as tenderly as a kitten would lick your hand. His breathing becomes irregular. His cock�s so hard now. Like yours.
You can�t wait any longer.
Your slick fingers do quick work before you take him. Brutally fast, hard, right up to the hilt. You feel the scream that�s stuck in his throat, but you hear only a harsh gasp coming from him. God, he�s so tight. But soon he becomes restless, starts moving to meet your thrusts, and quickly your coupling becomes more and more frantic. You need to grip his hips firmly to hold him in place, as he�s almost thrashing in his bonds.
The moonlight�s almost blindingly bright, all of a sudden. There is nothing else but you and him and him and you. And then there�s nothing any more as both of you dissolve in liquid silver.
At some point, you realize that the sweat on your skin has started to feel cold. You still cling to him, embracing him from behind. His breathing is gradually coming back to normal, but he�s still trembling. Swiftly, you untie the knots, turn him over, and lay him down gently, as if he were made of precious porcelain. There�s such a fragility to him now.
He has never stopped being the boy he once was, you realize with crystalline clarity, and your heart might explode at that thought. All you want is to hold him, close to your heart. You slip the blindfold from his head.
And he opens his eyes and says, �Viggo.� And everything is in that one word. Above all, love.
�I�m here. I�ll always be here, Orlando,� you reply simply, gently sweeping the damp curls from his forehead, caressing his checks before you kiss him softly. You stretch out next to him, and he snuggles up to you, settling against your body with a small sigh. White, silver and black mingle before your eyes, then fade, fade, fade away. Sleep claims you.
The next morning, you wake up dizzy, feeling weight on your stomach. Someone�s straddling you.
You crack open your sleepy eyes.
�You know,� he says, smiling. �I had the strangest dream last night.�
�Yeah? What?�
�I dreamed that someone bound me. With a rope like this.� He holds up the crumpled scarf in mock wonder. Then he lifts your arms above your head and quickly ties your hands to the headboard. His smile turns to a smirk. Positively impertinent.
He lowers his body over you, skin touching skin, and your cock wakes up instantly.
�You won�t believe what happened next.�
�Tell me anyway.�
He just laughs and fixes the blindfold over your eyes and it doesn�t matter that you can�t see him now.
Sweet are the pains of love.
