Song of Oestend (22 page)

“Is this what you want?” Aren asked, his voice a whisper.

Deacon’s voice was just as quiet when he answered. “Yes.”

“Everybody settle down!” Jeremiah suddenly called from the head of the table,

shattering the fragile walls of the silent place where Aren and Deacon had been. “We have a lot of work to do today. The sooner we eat, the sooner we get started.”

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Aren pulled his hand away, and Deacon turned away without a word. They barely

spoke for the rest of the meal, but it didn’t matter. Aren had his answer.

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Aren was happy when the meal ended, almost giddy with excitement and pent-up

sexual energy. He knew Deacon wouldn’t have much time before he had to start work, but he suspected they wouldn’t need much time to find a bit of relief together.

Deacon was already headed for the door, and he glanced back at Aren. His cheeks were

red, but there was no missing the nervous hope in his eyes. Aren wondered how he’d missed it over the last two weeks. He wondered how he’d looked at Deacon and seen disapproval instead of longing.

Deacon’s eyes asked a question—the same question they’d been asking all along—but

this time Aren recognised it for what it was. He nodded at Deacon and felt his heart flutter a bit at the broad smile his assent elicited from the big cowboy.

“Deacon, wait up,” Jeremiah called. “I need to talk to you.”

The disappointment Aren felt was mirrored in Deacon’s expression, but there was no

arguing with Jeremiah. Deacon stepped out of the way so the rest of the hands and family could get past him out of the door, his gaze glued on Aren.

There was still enough commotion to give them some semblance of privacy. Still, Aren

kept his voice low. “I’ll be in the barn,” he said, and Deacon smiled again.

Once inside the big barn, he went to the stall at the end, which Deacon used as a

bedroom of sorts. There was no mattress. Only a pillow, clean straw, and a couple of rough horse blankets. Deacon’s clothes hung on pegs on the wall. There was a small, low table. It held a brush and a handful of tools, none of which were familiar to Aren. Although Aren was reluctant to search too thoroughly, a cursory inspection of the rest of the stall revealed nothing that could be used as lubricant.

Aren had been planning nothing more than a quick tryst, but as he sat on a bale of hay waiting for Deacon to arrive, his plan began to evolve. For those brief moments at the table, Deacon had felt like putty in his hands. He’d seen a hint of submission in Deacon’s eyes, and it thrilled him. He found himself wanting desperately to explore how far that submission went.

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“I’m glad you waited,” Deacon said when he finally entered the stall, “but I only have a few minutes.”

“That’s fine.” Aren contemplated Deacon’s strong, muscular frame and the bulge that

was already forming in the cowboy’s pants. He knew Deacon only owned three or four pairs of pants, and about as many shirts. The ones he wore now were his nicest ones, kept aside for dinner with the family. “You’re not wearing those to work, right?” Aren asked.

“No.”

“Good.” Aren stood up and closed the door to their stall. They still wouldn’t have total privacy—the walls only came up to Aren’s shoulder—but it somehow served to underline the point that they were finally alone. He turned to find Deacon watching him. His

expression was exactly as it had been at the dinner table—hopeful, aroused, and completely submissive. “Take off your pants,” Aren said.

Deacon smiled at him. “Have to take my boots off first.” But he didn’t argue. He pulled his boots off, tossing them into the corner. Then he slowly took his pants off. He didn’t toss those on the floor. He folded them and placed them on a hay bale before turning back to Aren. His shirt hung down past his hips, although the front of it was caught on his rather impressive erection.

Aren stepped up close to him and began to unbutton his shirt. “We don’t have enough

time to do this right,” he said as he worked his way down the front of Deacon’s shirt. “But I’m not letting you hide from me anymore.”

“I wasn’t the one hiding.” Of course that was true. Aren hadn’t thought of it as hiding, but he could see now that was exactly how it had looked.

“I was trying to give you space if you wanted it.”

“Seemed like you didn’t want to see me.”

“I woke up in the morning and you were gone. I figured that was your way of telling

me you didn’t want it to happen again.”

“No,” Deacon said, looking amused. “That was my way of telling you I had chores to

do before breakfast.”

“You’re forgiven,” Aren said, even though it hadn’t actually been an apology, and he

was pleased when Deacon laughed. Aren undid the bottom button and pushed the shirt

backwards off Deacon’s shoulders.

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“You have to undo the cufflinks,” Deacon said.

Aren smiled and shook his head. “Not this time.” He pulled the shirt down Deacon’s

arms, and just as he’d planned, the sleeves turned inside out, but stopped before Deacon’s big hands escaped from the cuffs. Aren moved behind him. He pulled Deacon’s hands together and used the fabric of the shirt to bind Deacon’s hands behind his back. It wouldn’t be enough to hold him if he really wanted to get free, but Aren was pretty sure Deacon didn’t want to escape anyway.

He walked back in front of Deacon, tracing his fingers down the scar that started at

Deacon’s collarbone and trailed towards his navel. Deacon’s eyes were closed, his breathing heavy, his cock hard and tipped with a bead of moisture.

“You don’t get to come right now,” Aren said. He leant forwards to tease one of

Deacon’s nipples, flicking his tongue over the bud of flesh. “You’re going to have to wait.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Deacon asked.

Aren reached down to cup Deacon’s heavy sac in his hand, squeezing gently, and

Deacon moaned. “I want you to be thinking about me all day.”

“That won’t be anything new.”

Aren smiled, undeniably pleased by the confession. He slid his fingers backwards,

towards Deacon’s taint, but his access was blocked by Deacon’s muscular thighs. “Spread your legs for me.”

Deacon did, widening his stance so that Aren’s hand slid easily between his legs, and Aren felt that same bolt of excitement lance down his spine. Deacon’s ready compliance made him breathless. He massaged the thick cord of flesh between Deacon’s legs. “Has anybody ever done this for you?”

“No,” Deacon breathed.

“Wait until you feel my tongue on it,” he said, and Deacon moaned.

Aren pulled his hand from between Deacon’s legs. He slowly moved around Deacon’s

muscular, trembling body, trailing his hand over Deacon’s hip as he did. “You don’t get to jack off today,” he said. “I want you feeling desperate all day.”

“I’m feeling desperate
now
.”

Aren smacked his flank playfully, and noted the groan it elicited from Deacon. “You

don’t know what desperate is,” Aren teased. Deacon’s bound hands and the bulk of his shirt SONG OF OESTEND

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hid most of his ass, and Aren crossed slowly behind Deacon until he stood at his other side.

His right hand rested on Deacon’s firm ass. His left hand fingered his erect nipple. “I want you squirming in your saddle all day.” He pinched one of Deacon’s nipples, and the cowboy’s gasp of pleasure made him moan.

He slid his right hand down Deacon’s ass, his fingers probing between his cheeks. He

pushed gently when he found what he sought, and he felt Deacon’s muscles tighten

instinctively. “I won’t hurt you,” Aren whispered as he nipped at Deacon’s shoulder with his teeth. He slid his left hand down Deacon’s stomach, skirting his erect penis, and rubbed his fingers back again onto Deacon’s taint. “You’ll learn to love this,” he whispered as he started to move both hands at the same time. He didn’t try to gain entrance with the fingers of his right hand. He only rubbed gently, moving in tandem with the fingers between Deacon’s legs. “I’ll teach you how to relax,” he said as he massaged Deacon. “You won’t believe how good it can feel.”

Deacon made a sound, something close to a whimper. “Please,” he said.

“‘Please’ what?” Aren teased, his fingers still moving together on Deacon’s body.

“Please,” Deacon said again. “Let me touch you. Or kiss you. Or…
something!
”

His desperation made Aren smile. Aren took a step back, taking both of his hands off

Deacon’s body, and Deacon moaned in frustration.

“Not yet. Come to my house tonight.”

“Aren—”

“Don’t forget what I said. No masturbating today.”

“You can’t leave me like this.”

“I can,” Aren told him. He moved to stand again in front of Deacon. The unmistakable

desire and frustration in Deacon’s eyes made his heart race. “Tonight. Say you’ll be there.”

“I will,” Deacon said.

Aren only doubted him a little.

Aren returned to his house feeling as if he could fly. The encounter in the barn had left him painfully aroused. He debated masturbating to relieve the pressure but decided that SONG OF OESTEND

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wouldn’t be fair. Not after forbidding Deacon the same form of relief. He wondered if Deacon would do as he’d said or not.

He worked on Jeremiah’s books for an hour, but the golden sunlight outside seemed to

call to him. It was a bright, warm day, the birds sang an invitation, and Aren knew he’d see fewer and fewer such days over the coming weeks. It would be winter before long. His chances to sketch outdoors would be limited.

After some debate, he closed the accounting books. He took his sketchpad, his penknife, and his satchel of pencils and headed for the south pastures.

He knew it was silly to look for Deacon, but he did it anyway. It wasn’t hard to find him. He and Garrett were stringing barbed wire between two poles. Garrett waved at him.

Deacon didn’t seem to know he was there.

Aren settled down in the grass. To the south was an abandoned grain silo, its roof gone and its walls beginning to crumble. The north side of it was covered with crawling vines, and behind it, the sun reflected off the shining ribbon of the river. Aren took out his pencils, and as he sketched, he forgot about Deacon and Garrett. He forgot everything except the strokes needed to bring the picture to life.

His hands flew over the paper. His mind retreated to a place comprised only of lines

and edges and colour. He thought vaguely of trying to paint the scene later, but for now, he had only his pencils.

The silo was straight and rigid and hard, but its strength was gone. The vines were alive and moving and seemed so fragile, and yet in time, they would bring the stone silo crumbling to the ground. The grass beyond the silo was an ocean, waves cresting and

breaking with the wind, creating a soft, rippling song. The wind itself couldn’t be seen, which made it hard to draw.
Like trying to draw a wraith
, Aren thought. Yet it had its place in the picture as well. It had to be shown in the bend of the trees and the trailing of the clouds.

He could smell the grain in the field. He could smell a distant tang of cattle and

manure, and the bright freshness of the river. He could have sworn he could smell the sunlight. He tried to pour all of it onto his paper. He tried to make the lead in his fingers take on the smells of the day. He wanted people to see his drawing and be able to feel and smell everything here in front of him. He wanted them to be as lost seeing it as he was drawing it.

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The toe of a hard, leather boot nudged his thigh, breaking his reverie. Returning to the real world was shocking. It was like surfacing from a deep pool, or waking suddenly from the deepest slumber. It was disorienting and more than a bit annoying. Aren shook his head and examined the work in his hand. It wasn’t bad. Not his best, but decent.

The boot nudged him again, and Aren forced himself to look around. His neck had a

kink in it from the awkward way he’d bent over his sketchpad, and he massaged it with one hand as he turned his head from side to side, trying to work the stiffness out. He had no idea how long he’d been drawing. The sun had definitely fallen lower in the sky. The shadows were longer. Garrett was nowhere in sight. Aren shaded his eyes with his hand so he could squint up at Deacon, who towered above him.

“What?” Aren asked.

Against the bright sun, Deacon’s face was hidden in shadow, but Aren could hear

desperation in his voice when he said, “I sent Garrett back to the barracks.”

Aren tried to keep from smiling. His eyes travelled down Deacon’s strong, muscular

body to the giant bulge at his groin. “So?” he asked.

Deacon moaned. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean,” he said. Before Aren

could react, Deacon was on him.

He wasn’t rough. He wasn’t forceful. He wasn’t mean, as so many boys in Aren’s past

had been. He was gentle yet firm as he pushed Aren back into the grass. He ground himself against Aren’s thigh. “Aren, please,” he whispered against Aren’s neck. “Please don’t make me wait any longer. I can’t even
think
when I’m like this.” He ground against Aren again, harder this time. His hand gripped Aren’s ass, squeezing hard. “
Please
,” he said again.

“If I get you off now, you won’t have any reason to come to my house tonight.”

“I will.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Deacon moaned, grinding against him again. “I swear I’ll be there.”

“That’s not enough.”

“Then what? Saints, tell me what I need to give you, Aren, before I lose my mind.

Please!”

“I want you to do everything I say while you’re there.”