"Control" (c) 2002 Elaine Mae Estabrooks
"Do you want me to get these done or not, Gatti?" Dilandau snarled. Instantly the second thought of pulling away, but then. . . No tomorrow, he thought suddenly and softly bit his lord's neck, right where one of his sensitive spots lay. Dilandau drew in a quick breath, then the hand let go of his hair and softly stroked it. Gatti pulled away to find his lord looking at him, twin flames of desire glowing in the great red eyes.
"Something on your mind, Second-in-Command?" he asked, his voice a little husky; the sound causing Gatti's desire to become a raging flood. Dilandau pushed his chair away from the desk and Gatti immediately straightened and straddled him, bending his head down to kiss him while unfastening his jacket. The warlord returned his kiss, putting his hands around his waist, and Gatti gasped into his mouth when Dilandau suddenly thrust up hard against him. Oh, God, what he does to me! he thought, feeling those long fingers now urgently undoing his own jacket fastenings. How can one person have such power over me? Gatti wanted to die, he wanted him so badly, but he also wanted to make this time different. He wanted to be in control, just once. . . He pulled away from him, the movement surprising Dilandau enough that he could get free of him, pulling out of his grasp and taking a few steps back from the chair. Immediately the warlord was on his feet, his body tensed and rage flashing in his eyes. Gatti slid off his gloves, dropped his opened jacket and peeled off his undershirt as Dilandau walked slowly over to him, red eyes smoldering, then he surprised his lord again by grabbing his face in his hands and kissing him. Dilandau immediately grasped Gatti's wrists and pulled them down to his chest, pushing him back to break the kiss.
"What do you have in mind, Gatti-san?" he asked with quiet steel, letting go of his wrists, and the second felt a thrill of terror at the look on the white features. Dilandau could go either way right now: love or torture. Either way. But: no tomorrow. Gatti took his lord's hands and pulled off the red armored gloves, then gently finished unfastening his jacket, letting it drop to the floor, and pulled off his undershirt, his fingers caressing the perfect skin. Dilandau remained still, the look of love/torture hovering on his face, then one corner of his mouth twitched upwards and he walked over to his four-poster bed and threw back the blanket and sheet. He lay down and propped himself on his elbows, watching him with those blazing red eyes. Gatti pulled off his blue-armored boots and slid out of his pants, glad to be free of the constricting leather, then came over to where his lord waited. Gatti's mind was a little dazed: he couldn't believe Dilandau had allowed him to go this far, but he was going to take full advantage of his lord's continued acquiesence. He slowly unbuckled the red-armored boots and pulled them off, caressing his calves as he did so, not daring to look at him. He dropped the boots over the side of the bed and went for the pants fastenings. Two white hands stopped his fingers just as he came to the waistband, and he froze, certain he was about to break them. But Dilandau merely stroked his hands, then ran his fingers lightly up his arms, causing goosebumps to break out on his skin. His hands started trembling; he was barely able to unfasten his pants. Dilandau lifted his hips a little and Gatti drew off the tight leather, carefully pulling the pants down and off his legs, dropping them over the side of the bed. There his lord lay, perfect in his nakedness, his desire for his second plain to see. Gatti groaned softly, his own erection throbbing, his body aching to have Dilandau take him, to feel him inside of himself, thrusting into him while stroking him in perfect time. . .
But he wanted to be in control, just this once, and so he lightly ran his hands up his lord's legs, up his thighs, along his hips, up his stomach and up his chest to finally rest on his shoulders. Dilandau looked up at him, red eyes afire, still with that half-smile on his lips.
"This will be the only time I'll let you do this, Gatti," he said softly. "Do you understand?"
"Hai, my lord," he whispered, wanting with all his might to call him his love, his only, true love. But he knew better: such terms of endearment did not sit well with him. And so, quelling the stab of disappointment in his heart, Gatti reached over to the nightstand and pulled out a bottle of scented oil, something that he used during those too few times Dilandau allowed him to massage his back. The warlord's eyebrows rose quizzically, but he made no comment as Gatti poured a generous amount onto his hand. The second carefully put the bottle back onto the nightstand, then softly rubbed his hands together. He straddled his hips but kept off of him and rested his hands upon his lord's stomach. He slowly ran them upwards to his shoulders, gently pushing down so that he could feel the supple muscles slide under his fingers. When he reached his shoulders he reversed direction; running his hands slowly, firmly back down to his stomach, spreading his fingers a little so that they ran over Dilandau's hardened nipples. Then he started back up again. The warlord closed his eyes, leaned his head back and began to undulate with Gatti's slow strokes, sinuous as a young lion, surrendering himself completely to the sensual pleasure. Gatti continued, his breath quickening, watching his lord as his own desire became unbearable and his hands sliding, sliding so slowly over that wonderful body. Would anyone believe this if I told them? he thought suddenly. Guimel would think I was mad, or dreaming, if I told him that our lord, the Terror of Gaia, had writhed under my touch like the most willing of women. . .
Dilandau groaned, the first time Gatti had ever heard him give voice to his pleasure, and the second couldn't take any more. He took his hands from him and, after rubbing one of them dry on his own chest, picked up the bottle and poured some more oil onto the hard, white belly. He set the bottle back, then slicked up his hands and moved himself down until his member was in line with his lord's. Dilandau gasped as he touched him but didn't move; Gatti smoothed the warm oil over both of them, then lay down directly upon him, propping himself on his elbows as his lord sank down onto the mattress. He could feel their twin erections pressed between them; two long, hot stones lying along their stomachs. He didn't know if this would work, but he was at the point of no return, now. Dilandau opened his eyes and looked at him, the red irises darkened to magenta.
"Gatti-san," he breathed, and the second's heart leapt at the absolute pleasure in his voice. He slowly moved up and down, keeping his body pressed firmly against him so that their throbbing members were in constant contact with each other and their stomachs. Dilandau groaned again and ran his hands down Gatti's back, stopping to cup his buttocks. Suddenly the his hands clenched and he thrust up against him, givng out a strangled gasp and freezing, welding them together. Gatti felt Dilandau's seed spurting between them and his own body jerked, his hips thrusting hard against him as he came himself. He cried out as the orgasm poured through him, never seeming to end, then he collapsed upon him, utterly drained. He felt Dilandau wrap his arms about his middle and hold him close. The warlord always did that after coming, and Gatti supposed that that meant he was very content. Happy, too, perhaps, but somehow the second didn't think so. Dilandau was only truly happy when he was destroying something. Gatti shivered, his face lightly buried in his lord's neck, and Dilandau immediately let go of him to pull over the sheet and blanket so that it covered them. It's almost as if he thinks I'm cold and wants me to be warm, Gatti thought incredulously, then inwardly laughed the idea away. He knew his lord better than that.
"Domo arigato, Dilandau-sama," he whispered, sliding off to lie beside him, looking down upon that loved, feared face. His lord looked up at him, the great red eyes troubled, and Gatti's lips trembled, wanting to tell him. . . Then Dilandau smirked.
"Not bad, Gatti," he said and stretched, pushing the second away from him. Then he yawned and fell instantly asleep. Gatti reached over and stroked the silver hair, ignoring the familiar pain in his heart, cursing himself for the fool that he was.
THE END
Gatti watched as Dilandau growled to himself, initialing the parchment before him here and there. They were in the warlord's bedroom in the Vione; Folken-sama had had Gatti bring over the latest reports for Dilandau to sign that afternoon. The second-in-command had to give the strategos credit: Dilandau was required to read and sign each report, and Folken had designed the forms in such a way that it would be impossible for the warlord to cheat his way out of the task. Gatti smiled to himself: not that his lord hadn't tried, the first few times. He studied Dilandau, admiring the silver hair gleaming in the lamplight, the long gloved fingers as they held the pen and absently stroked the scar along his face, the sharp canines that appeared as the pale lips drew back in an irritated snarl. He's so beautiful, so perfect, Gatti thought softly, and he's mine. Only for now, his heart added sorrowfully, but he refused to consider that. He was a soldier: for him there was no tomorrow. He drew closer, mesmerized by a drop of sweat that was running slowly down one pale cheek, continuing down the long neck and into the high color of the red-armored jacket. Gatti bent down beside the wooden chair and nuzzled Dilandau's neck, licking the sweat, taking in the perfect spice that seasoned the wonderful taste of his skin. He immediately felt an armored glove grabbing the hair on the nape of his neck, twisting it painfully. He froze, his lips still resting upon the soft skin.