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"I want you to choke me," von Stalhein said.
He said it in a matter-of-fact tone as he unbuttoned his shirt. It was so offhand, in fact, that Biggles—sitting naked on the edge of the turned-down bed in von Stalhein's small flat, entranced by the play of the graceful fingers and gradual emergence of the lean, muscled body—took a moment to register what he had said.
Von Stalhein had time to remove his shirt and hang it up with his usual precision in the open wardrobe before Biggles managed to find his voice.
"You mean—during?" Biggles asked.
Their regular lunches and dinners had taken this new turn about a month ago. It was enough time for both of them to grow less clumsy with an intimacy that they were both rusty at, but there was still a lot about it that was new. Biggles had never had a lover long enough to learn all of their wants and needs and dislikes, the delicately plotted flight plan of their individual desires.
He had certainly never had anyone ask for this.
"Oh come now, Bigglesworth," von Stalhein said, eyes turned down and half-lidded as he unbuttoned his trousers. "You were a soldier, not to mention a young man in the libertine Twenties, as was I. You've surely heard of these practices."
They had never undressed each other, but now that they had been through this enough times for it to become familiar, von Stalhein's careful and precise undressing had the cadence of a slow and graceful dance, one that Biggles loved to watch. It was very rude of him to keep interrupting it with lewd suggestions.
"I have," Biggles admitted, a slight flush heating his face. "But I've never had any desire to engage in that kind of play. I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't. I've done this before. I can show you how."
Von Stalhein slid his underwear down his lean hips, and Biggles's mouth grew dry. Erich's prick was as finely shaped as the rest of him, and Biggles had come to know it well. Its interest in the proceedings was clear.
Biggles's own equipment was less sure.
"I've never seen you back down from a challenge, Bigglesworth," von Stalhein added. He removed his socks one by one, folding each one neatly before placing it in the hamper in the half-open wardrobe.
"It isn't—that is—"
Biggles drew a breath. Von Stalhein rarely asked for anything specific, in bed or out of it. He was willing to take whatever Biggles wanted to give him, with a strange mix of tenderness and hunger that suggested to Biggles a lifetime of starvation for gentle touch. If he wanted more touch, and harder, it was cold of Biggles to deny it to him.
"All right," Biggles said. "Show me what you want."
A quick smile flashed across von Stalhein's face, taking Biggles's breath away, as always, with its unselfconscious sweetness. Von Stalhein closed the wardrobe door. The room was very small; with only a couple of steps, he crossed it, and with swift grace only slightly inhibited by his stiff leg, he knelt between Biggles's knees.
Biggles caught his breath. The lean hips touched his spread thighs. They were on eye level now, their height difference vanishing with von Stalhein kneeling and Biggles seated, and von Stalhein leaned forward to kiss him, gently at first, then with greater heat.
Biggles's prick was definitely interested now. He cupped his hand behind von Stalhein's head, running his fingers through the short hair, and for long moments they enjoyed the heat and delight of each other's mouths.
Then von Stalhein took Biggles's hands, holding them in his own for a moment, with his thumbs running across their backs. Biggles looked down at their hands: the stark contrast of them, his own hands square and smaller against von Stalhein's long and slender fingers. Von Stalhein's knuckles were swollen from the cold and damp of Sakhalin, but that was all right. Both of their bodies were maps of a lifetime's scars.
"Like this," von Stalhein said quietly.
He lifted Biggles's right hand, tilted back his head, and set Biggles's palm against his throat. There was the slightest hesitation, and Biggles felt von Stalhein's throat work as he swallowed. Then he smoothed Biggles's fingers down, settling them against his neck.
Biggles could feel the flutter of von Stalhein's pulse in his neck. It was beating rapidly—excitement, arousal, fear? Biggles cast a quick glance downward: arousal was part of it, certainly.
Von Stalhein dropped his hand away. Biggles was left with his fingers curled around von Stalhein's slender throat.
There had never been a lot of heft to him—he was lean wiry muscle over a narrow frame—but since Sakhalin, even after all these months, he bordered on painfully thin. His neck felt corded, rather than soft. When Biggles spread his fingers slightly, his fingertips settled against the fine-boned jaw—and von Stalhein's eyelids fluttered, his eyes half closing.
"Now," he said quietly, his voice hoarse. "Please touch me." His other hand guided Biggles's left hand down between his lean, muscular thighs.
Biggles leaned forward and wrapped his hand around the heat of von Stalhein's erect member. This, at least, was familiar, and von Stalhein's interest in the proceedings was evident. Biggles stroked him, and felt the gratifying response of slickness and the slight give in von Stalhein's lean body as he sank into the touch.
It was holding his throat that was strange, but not entirely unwelcome. Biggles found that having a grip on him in that way was gratifying, like a grounding point of contact.
"And now, press," von Stalhein murmured. He sounded as if he was drifting, as he often did in the throes of sex, rousing himself with reluctance to give instruction. He raised a hand to tap the back of Biggles's where it was still wrapped around his throat.
Biggles tried a little cautious pressure. Von Stalhein's eyes fluttered open. His voice, this time, was less abstracted and more annoyed.
"Bigglesworth, do you not know how to choke a person?"
"It's not something I do regularly!" Biggles said, stung. And never in bed, he could have added. His other hand paused on von Stalhein's prick; he couldn't concentrate on the conversation and do that too. "How hard should I—? You can't want me to cut off your air entirely?"
"Bigglesworth." With the change in their positions, von Stalhein had moved lower, so that Biggles could reach both his throat and his prick easily at the same time. Von Stalhein was now looking up at him with dilated ice-blue eyes. "That is exactly what I want. Please."
"You've done this before," Biggles said cautiously. "And it didn't hurt you."
Von Stalhein huffed out something like a faint laugh; it vibrated against Biggles's palm. "It is not entirely painless, but that's the pleasure of it. Yes, I have done it before, and I would like to try it with you. If you don't want to—"
Von Stalhein was starting to pull away, his cock softening in Biggles's loose grip, and Biggles had a horrifying premonition that he might just go and find someone who would do it for him. "No, no, wait, I will," he said quickly.
Von Stalhein settled back into his kneeling position, muttering as he did so, "You should be glad I'm not asking you to do the other things he did."
Von Stalhein's voice was low enough that Biggles wasn't sure if he was supposed to hear, but he asked anyway, "You and who?" He had been thinking that the alluded-to previous experiences likely involved prostitutes. Now he wasn't so sure.
Von Stalhein went suddenly closed-off and cagy. "It doesn't matter," he said. "It's a simple enough thing. It won't hurt me. Go ahead."
Biggles hesitated with his hand wrapped around von Stalhein's throat. He was thinking now that von Stalhein was remembering someone like Zorotov. And he was increasingly sure, from all he knew of von Stalhein over the years, that it had been someone like Zorotov—someone without an ounce of tenderness, someone for whom bruises were far more satisfying than caresses, for whom von Stalhein's pleasure was very much an afterthought to his own.
But von Stalhein had asked for it. And for him, asking something for his own pleasure was rare.
Biggles had to steel himself to do it, but he tightened his hand around von Stalhein's neck. Not gentle this time, but harder, digging the side of his palm into the soft skin under von Stalhein's chin with a merciless intensity that made him feel faintly ill.
He was unprepared for the reaction. Von Stalhein sagged forward, going almost boneless in his grasp. He sagged so abruptly that Biggles ended up taking some of his weight on the hand around his throat, all but holding him up by it.
Biggles's own response shocked him as well. Von Stalhein's instant, boneless surrender was like an electrical impulse triggering a massive rush of heat throughout Biggles's entire body. His reluctant prick reacted as if it, too, had been galvanized, leaping up and finally taking an interest in the matters at hand.
Then von Stalhein made a soft gagging sound that shocked Biggles into jerking back and easing off the pressure. Biggles ended up having to steady him with his other hand, because von Stalhein was slightly wobbly. His lips were parted, and he blinked a few times and then looked more coherent, which was the only thing stopping Biggles from slamming him onto the bed, covering him with a blanket, and plying him with tea until he started acting more normal.
"What was that?" Biggles asked anxiously, holding him by the shoulders.
"What was what?" Impatiently, von Stalhein squirmed out of his grasp and firmly replaced Biggles's hand on his neck, where Biggles was horrified to see the lurid imprints of his fingers on the pale skin. Biggles tried to pull back, but von Stalhein held his hand in place.
"Bigglesworth," he began, then coughed again, and Biggles's fingers jerked in horrified sympathy. Von Stalhein looked annoyed. "I am not suffering. I asked you to do this, didn't I? Harder, please."
"Harder?" Biggles said in disbelief, staring at his own fingers slightly displaced from the livid marks branded on von Stalhein's throat.
"Yes. Harder. I cannot really get the sensation I want without the ..." He seemed unsure what word he wanted to use. "The asphyxiation. The risk." There was an edge of excitement to his expression now, and Biggles recognized it because he'd seen it before, in Palestine and a dozen other places worldwide. "I know you don't enjoy it as I do, but even if you don't, it's not such a large thing to ask for, is it?"
"No," Biggles admitted. If nothing else, there was the evidence of von Stalhein's body that he did truly want this. "But if I—press harder, I may hurt you seriously."
"It won't," von Stalhein said earnestly. "Please. Don't stop."
There was an abjectness to him now—not begging, not exactly, but an intensity of wanting that Biggles was unsure how to deal with. He could tell that von Stalhein's emotions were very near the surface, as if not just his physical sensation but all the rest of him was peeled raw. This could devolve easily, explode into a fight, or simply subside into disappointment.
Biggles wondered if von Stalhein would ever ask for anything from him again, if something this simple was something he could not give.
"All right," he said softly. "I won't stop. Like this?"
He leaned down to touch von Stalhein's softened member, simultaneously tightened his hand around his throat, and felt von Stalhein's prick jerk and stiffen in response. The lean body sagged against him, but this time he was ready for it and managed not to reflexively tighten his grip.
But his mind, which was always looking for patterns, trying to understand, was now struggling with this new puzzle, searching for the exact nature of what this was about. If von Stalhein was looking for cruelty, he knew Biggles wouldn't give him that; he had sought it before without finding it.
Biggles's grip had stilled with the intensity of his thoughts, and von Stalhein's eyes opened again. "Not now," Biggles said impatiently, because he felt as if he was on the verge of some epiphany—and the lust-dark blue-grey eyes closed, the throat in his hand jerked once with a swallow, and it was in that moment that he finally did get what von Stalhein wanted.
And with that understanding came a sudden mental clarity. It was like breaking out of a muddling fog into clear air. Biggles knew, in one of the leaps of intuition that he was aware he was prone to. He leaned forward then, across his own hand, and kissed von Stalhein on the slightly parted lips.
Those lips reacted under his. Von Stalhein blinked. "Bigglesworth—"
"Don't talk," Biggles murmured, and von Stalhein went silent. A shudder rippled through his lean frame. Biggles felt another soft rush of inner heat at the instant response.
"Good," he whispered, on pure autopilot, and felt von Stalhein all but collapse in response. So he liked to be told that he had done well, something he surely had heard little in his professional life. Biggles filed that, and all its implications, away in a corner of his mind for future reference.
He leaned forward and began working von Stalhein's prick again. Despite all of this strangeness and newness, he felt as if he had found his way back to his own self-confidence. Things made sense again. His hand had loosened on von Stalhein's neck, and the blue-grey eyes opened.
"Harder," von Stalhein whispered. "Choke me harder."
"No," Biggles said.
Von Stalhein's sleepy eyes widened, far from cold now, but warm and dazed and muddled, sharpening gradually back into coherence.
"No?" he repeated, sounding muzzily baffled.
"No. You've put me in charge. I'll tell you what happens next—all right?"
Biggles tacked on this last in desperate hope that he wasn't breaking whatever existed between them now, the tentative new thing that he desperately did not want to destroy. But he got his confirmation in the form of von Stalhein's eyes fluttering closed again and the feel of him sagging into Biggles's receiving hand, as if his body had gone nearly limp.
Biggles leaned forward to gently kiss each closed eye. Von Stalhein stirred. "Stay still," Biggles whispered. "Don't move." He was both surprised and gratified with the sudden cessation of movement, a brief rigidity followed by von Stalhein relaxing back into his grasp.
"Good," Biggles whispered. "Good." He felt a little shiver from the body touching his.
Carefully he kissed around the soft skin of von Stalhein's eyes; he kissed each corner of the mouth that had such an unexpected ability to display joy, when it was willing to show it. Whenever von Stalhein showed signs of tensing again, whenever his mouth tightened to speak, Biggles gave a slight twitch of the hand on his throat, not enough to hurt him, and he subsided instantly.
And so Biggles kissed his way across von Stalhein's face, kissed the jaw where his own fingertips were imprinted in darkening bruises. He gave quick strokes to von Stalhein's increasingly eager prick throughout all of this, felt the rapid and responsive jerks of the narrow hips, but when he whispered, "Not yet," he was startled to feel von Stalhein go still, his body trembling with the desire not to respond to Biggles's touches.
What Biggles wanted to do next would be difficult in their present positions, so he urged von Stalhein up onto the bed. "Lie down," he whispered, and von Stalhein went down with a languorous slowness to his movements.
When he was flat on his back, Biggles lay on top of him, chest to chest. He kept one hand on von Stalhein's throat, and kissed the rest of him, everything he could reach. He was trembling with eagerness himself now, and though von Stalhein barely moved, his prick was erect and eager, beaded with moisture.
Biggles slid down his body. He had to stretch to do what he wanted to do, which was to take von Stalhein's prick into his mouth while keeping one hand on the slender, corded throat.
Von Stalhein had always been reluctant to have Biggles pleasure him by mouth. Biggles had thought, from von Stalhein's eagerness when he had accepted once or twice, that it wasn't that von Stalhein disliked it; he seemed to like it very much. For him, it was almost too much, an intimacy he didn't seem to want to receive.
Now, Biggles lapped him up while also holding his throat in a tight but not painful grip—he hoped—until Biggles whispered, "Now," and von Stalhein gave in to his release very suddenly, with a sharp upward arch of his body and a rush of heat in Biggles's mouth. When it was done, Biggles hesitated not at all, but wriggled upwards again, and this time, not giving von Stalhein time to react, straddled his face.
He had never done it like this before, and at this point he was going on pure instinct. From what he had seen already, he thought von Stalhein would like this—and he was right, from the eagerness of the hot mouth that closed on his erect prick.
Biggles grasped the headboard and lifted his hips so as not to smother him. Von Stalhein was very good at this, as Biggles knew already; it was clearly the skill of experience, and it was over for him in just a few strokes of von Stalhein's skilled and agile tongue. Biggles was so close to the edge already—with the salt in his mouth, the memory of von Stalhein's boneless surrender—that he fell rapidly into a long and shuddering climax that had him pressing his forehead to the cheap headboard, sweat prickling his shoulders, breathing hard.
He belatedly remembered to pull himself up to avoid suffocating his lover, and carefully wormed himself down to rest along von Stalhein's side. After a moment he sat up and pulled the duvet over them both, and then they lay for a while, holding each other.
Biggles felt as if he was coming back from some great white space in his head, like an infinite sky with nobody there at all. He ran his hand up and down von Stalhein's side until von Stalhein rolled onto his side and buried his face in Biggles's shoulder, and then Biggles caressed his back. The slow strokes seemed to give Biggles something to lean into, and after a while he asked quietly, "Can I see your neck?"
Von Stalhein's reaction was slow, but after a long pause he rolled back a little. The imprints of Biggles's fingers were clear on his neck, purpling lightly in a way that suggested the bruises would persist for a time. Biggles ran his fingertips lightly over them. His chest felt tangled with an odd mix of feelings, a proprietary pride combined with an intense guilt.
"It doesn't hurt," von Stalhein murmured, and Biggles jerked a little at the sound of his voice, and especially the hoarseness in it. He realized that in the throes of his own pleasure, especially toward the end, he had no idea how hard he might have pressed, or how far down von Stalhein's throat he had thrust himself.
"Are you sure?"
There was a slight laugh, a faint cough. "Very well, it does hurt a little, but I have experienced enough of love to know that it often hurts. The ache of bruises can feel good ... can't it?"
"Not always," Biggles muttered, unwilling to admit that von Stalhein was right about this—sometimes.
"Not always," von Stalhein conceded.
Biggles lay back down and turned his caresses of von Stalhein's back into gentle touches to his chest and light strokes down his shoulders. Biggles just wanted to touch him, a grounding touch that seemed to ease both of them. But he also had an entire world of questions pressing at the inside of his mind, and finally he gave voice to one of them.
"Who was he?"
Von Stalhein's dark-lashed eyes dipped nearly closed, and Biggles regretted asking the question, especially when he felt the subtle drawing back in the narrow form lying against his own. But after a silent moment von Stalhein said, "A lover of mine, back when I was with the Soviet service. On and off."
He pushed himself up on one elbow, and hesitated again—as if with some sort of inner question that he was able to answer for himself, eventually, when his fingertips lightly floated across a series of pale scars on his upper chest, just below his collarbone. They looked like they had been cut with a knife. "These were his, for example."
Biggles didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say. He touched the white lines of the scars, brushed the light ridges, and von Stalhein held still for a moment, and then leaned into his touch.
"Why?" Biggles asked at last. It was the only thing he could think to ask.
Von Stalhein was quiet for a little while. Then, gazing toward the wall, he spoke.
"There is a—floating feeling, I can't quite describe it. It takes me entirely out of myself. Perhaps for you, flying is similar." He hesitated, then went on with a kind of fierce intensity. "With—him, I could only do it when he really hurt me. I wasn't going to ask that from you. Choking was the fastest way to that feeling, so I thought it might work for us. But ... I didn't ..."
He had twisted away, as if he couldn't look at Biggles while he spoke of that other lover. But now he turned towards Biggles and reached out to gently brush his fingertips across Biggles's cheek.
"With you," he said quietly, "it's not the pain, it's not the—the lack of air. Although I like it. But I don't need it. It's just your hand on my throat. It's you telling me to stay still, that you can do whatever you like with me. It's just that. That's everything I need to get me there."
He sounded wondering. Soft.
Biggles gazed at the beloved, fine-boned face so close to his, the half-lidded, dazed storm-grey eyes. He cupped his hand carefully along the side of von Stalhein's face, trying not to allow himself to think about the bruises rising on the narrow neck, and the intensely mixed feelings of arousal and shame that they raised in him. The scars on his shoulder—those, Biggles wished he could wipe away. But when he put his hand over them, cupped his palm over the slight roughness and felt von Stalhein arch against him, he felt almost as if he had. Or had made them his, which right now felt almost like the same thing.
"You liked it?" Biggles asked softly.
"Yes. Yes, of course." Von Stalhein's voice was quiet but fervent. He leaned in for a kiss. His lips were salty and soft.
Biggles drew him close, held him for a while, stroked his hand up and down von Stalhein's back across the knots of old scars. After a while, Biggles said softly, "I don't know if I—have the mental forbearance to do this every time."
Von Stalhein's laugh was no more than a breath against his shoulder. "Nor do I. One doesn't want dessert with every meal."
"No," Biggles said against his hair. He ran his hand up the back of von Stalhein's neck. "Just a moment, I'll turn out the light."
He rose from the bed and fetched them a damp cloth for what cleanup was needed, though there wasn't much. After that was done, he turned out the lamp and climbed back into bed, where von Stalhein had moved against the wall to make room for him. Lean and scar-corded arms welcomed him back, and Biggles rolled into that welcome embrace.
Careful, long fingers stroked through his hair. Biggles turned his face into von Stalhein's shoulder.
The knife scars were beneath his lips, he realized after a moment, and he kissed them, feeling their faint ridges. The gentle petting of his hair faltered briefly and, after that, never paused.