Blood Sacraments Read Free

prison’s straw and dung and wrapped their mighty arms about my feet and begged me for release. Will you sob for me?”
    “No,” I say, teeth gritted. “I’m no slave.”
    “But you will submit?”
    “Yes.”
    “You might sob yet. We shall see.” The cuff snaps over my right wrist, painfully tight. The leather saves me from that terrible burn, but the poisonous silver’s near enough to cause my knees to buckle. I would drop to the ground, but Marcus wraps an arm around my neck and heaves me upright. His knuckles graze my ass cheeks before the cuffs lock just as tightly about my other wrist. He releases me; groaning despite myself, hands firmly secured behind me, I sink to my knees and fall on my side in the grass. The silver weakness shudders through me, nauseating.
    Marcus nudges my chin with his elegant shoe. Then he steps back, toes off each shoe, and strips, very slowly, laying each article of clothing in the grass with such care you’d think the fabric was fragile as glass. I roll with discomfort onto my cuffed hands to watch as his muscular body, as hard and perfectly defined as a gymnast’s, is revealed. Entirely naked, he stands over me, astride my waist. His body is pale, smooth, gleaming like the face of the moon, a study in Carrara marble, with a dusting of gold. “I was quite the athlete when I died,” he says, running hands over his curved pectorals, big brown nipples, and ridged stomach before taking his fur-clouded cock in hand. It lengthens rapidly in his grasp, escaping its skin-sheath. It is intimidatingly huge. The head glistens, slick and knobby, moonlit pommel of a sword. I am, I suspect, soon going to be hurting bad.
    By now I’m hard as well. “I can see your appreciation, boy.” Laughing, Marcus presses a bare foot against my cock. “Stiff with shame, I see. I know men like you. I know them and I love them. There is a secret slave, very frightened yet very hungry, inside that coarse Scots warrior, is there not? Something tender, submissive, shy? A boy eager to suffer, to endure, to be enveloped and devoured and rocked like a child?”
    I shake my head, but my denial has no power. There’s my body’s unarguably honest answer, beneath Marcus’s foot, hard between my thighs. He presses down, and I gasp.
    “Not much fight in you with those cuffs, highlander?” He presses harder.
    “No, sir. Silver saps my strength almost entirely. How did you—?”
    “Handle silver without consequence? After my first thousand years it lost its power over me. Now it barely makes me tingle.” He lifts his foot from my crotch only to press his sole against my mouth. “Lick, boy. Let Caledonia at last give Rome her due.”
    I run my tongue over his foot. Hard as embossed steel. Smooth and taut as the skin of ripe fruit. He nudges me onto my side. I moan as he pushes his big toe into my mouth.
    “Suck, barbarian.”
    I do. I suck, lick, nibble. More toes join the first, my mouth crammed full. He tastes like metal and wind. I stretch my jaw, taking him in further.
    Abruptly he pulls his foot from my face and steps back.
    “Get up here, wild one, my Enkidu. It’s time to show your fealty.”
    With effort I rise to my knees, and, kneeling, shuffle over to him. I’ve hardly opened my mouth before his bulky cock’s thrust inside me to the hilt, balls pressed into my beard. His hands grip my long hair, holding my head still while he rides my face. My throat expands, contracts. I choke and slobber. My gorge rises; I force it back. He pounds my mouth steadily, his pre-cum streaking my tongue with salt. Drool drips off my chin. I try to bring subtle techniques into play, try to lick the head, run my tongue up and down the shaft, but to no avail. Marcus wants nothing but a hole, a deep one. He batters the back of my throat the way Hebridean oceans batter sea cliffs, unceasing, inexhaustible.
    Just when I think the savage throat-beating I’m getting will soon ensure me a white mouthful of foam, Marcus