Hammer & Air Read Free

perspiration, and now, when he smelled of both sweat and come?
    It were all I could do not to moan as he stepped into my personal space.
    “You lied!” he accused, and his hand cupped my crotch without apology. “It made your prick hard, I can feel it!”
    At the attention from his hand, the thing tightened to the point of pain and jerked in his grasp, and he looked at me, surprised.
    “Not her,” I said roughly, although I figured that should be obvious by now. “Not her, idiot. You.”
    He pulled my sketchbook and dropped it, letting it fall to the ground in its bindings, and I gave thanks that they held. Still holding my shoulder with one hand, he pulled me to him then, and thrust his other hand, the one that were cupping my swollen prick, down my pants.
    I groaned, and he pulled my face into his shoulder and grabbed it, wrapping his fist around it and feeling the slickness that preceded climax with his thumb.
    I whimpered against his shoulder, and he jerked on it. It weren’t rough, exactly, just… excited. Enthusiastic. I whimpered again, and he started a rhythm. I collapsed into his arms and clung to him, just clung to him, while my vision went white with the summer sun, and my whole body convulsed around his grasping, pumping fist.
    When he were done, the only thing I could hear were the hot wind in deep yellow summer grasses, and our labored breathing as he held me around the shoulders and pumped my now flaccid, dripping cock.
    He pulled his hand from my pants, and we both stared at it, almost in wonder. It were covered in fluids both clear and thick white, and he held it to his mouth and sucked on the webbing again. Then he wrapped that big, broad, blunt-fingered hand around my jaw, leaving his thumb, covered in my spend, to thrust inside my mouth.
    “Taste,” he ordered, and I closed my eyes and suckled, and he thrust against me and grunted. His enormous cock were, unbelievably, becoming hard again. I suckled harder, the taste bitter and salty, and he clutched me by the hips and rutted against me. I felt the thing grow large and stiff against my stomach, and then he rutted it harder and harder, biting my shoulder and crying out as it spat one final blast inside his trousers, and then I were supporting him, only I couldn’t, and we both sank into the grasses at the bole of the old, great maple.
    Our breathing seemed never to still.
    “Mine,” he grumbled in my ear. “You stay in my bed. I’ll fuck you. No other boys.”
    “No women,” I snapped waspishly, and he grunted affirmative.
    “Not even if you’re here to watch.”
    I laughed a little, without humor, and he pulled back, meeting me with his brilliant blue eyes. “Next half-day then. You be here. Blanket, olive oil. You’re mine, Eirn. I’ll make you feel it, ye ken?”
    An old expression. He used them sometimes; mostly, I think, because they meant he didn’t have to use many words at all.
    “I’ll feel it,” I told him earnestly. “Anything. You do anything you want to me.” And then, I gave him something. It were an important something, something he clung to later, when anything I gave him seemed in doubt. “All I’ve wanted my whole life is for you to do anything you want to me.”
    He grinned then, his eyes hooded, and the clutch of his hands on my shoulders promising all sorts of joys. “Right, then. I promise.”
    He kissed me then, his mouth hard and bruising—more a sock in the arm than a kiss—but it were what he had. That were Hammer. Sometimes he’d have to bruise a thing before he learned to stroke it nice. I were no exception.

Part II The Arc of the Swing
     
    My next half-day were in four days. Nothing seemed to change between us in that time, but it didn’t seem to change at the same time the world rumbled, re-made at our feet.
    He didn’t attack me at night, pin me to the bed by the neck and drive himself into me like a piston in an engine. I’d heard the sobs of some of the boys who lived this, so I were