Page 17 of First Snow

“Okay,” Arttu manages, cringing at how breathless he sounds.

Faeling chuckles. “You say ‘yes, sir’, and you’re only allowed to speak when answering a question or alerting me of an issue.”

“O—yes, sir.”

“Better. Now do as I told you and make yourself comfortable. I prefer your hands behind your back.”

Arttu complies. The position is awkward, but he never expected that vulnerability would feel so arousing. He has no idea how to make himself comfortable, though, unless…

Arttu tries to calm his stuttering breath. Making up his mind, he shuffles a little and places his head on Faeling’s thick thigh. This whole scenario is going to come down to a blowjob anyway; putting his face next to Faeling’s cock shouldn’t freak him out, all things considered.

Faeling looks down at him with a raised eyebrow. What is it now? Considering the circumstances, the position is at least quite comfortable.

Faeling seems to recover from his surprise, and his hand wanders from Arttu’s neck a little upward, where he starts to rub away the tension from the base of Arttu’s skull. The soft touch compels Arttu to utter a small sound of pleasure, almost a purr. God, this is embarrassing.

“You’re something else, sweetheart.” Faeling smiles. “Now, I want you to hold still. You can adjust your position if it gets too uncomfortable, but see to it that you don’t distract me by moving all the time. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Arttu manages. That shouldn’t be a problem. The way Faeling is playing with his hair actually feels quite nice. All he needs to do is sit here for a while.

This is a huge problem. Scratch that; this is torture. Arttu has no idea how long he has been kneeling between Faeling’s thighs. A more rational part of his brain estimates that it can’t be more than ten, maybe fifteen minutes, but Arttu feels like he’s slowly losing his mind. The touch of Faeling’s hand on his neck and in his hair is entrancing. Objectively, Faeling probably isn’t doing much more than stroking a little here and massaging a little there, but Arttu feels like his whole body is one raw nerve craving more. He had no idea it was possible to get so turned on by so little, but Arttu is so hard he just wants to push Faeling to keep touching him.

Maybe he should’ve gotten laid before traveling to London. Through the haze of desire, Arttu tries to remember when he last hooked up with someone. He darkly recalls drunkenly making out with a guy at aJuhannusparty. But that couldn’t have been last summer, because he spent that one with Pekka and Sofia. The summer two years ago, then? Damn, he really has no social life.

Arttu is pulled out of his spiraling thoughts as Faeling puts down the papers he’d been studying and reaches between them to flick Arttu’s nipple. A needy moan escapes Arttu's lips much to his own surprise. He had no idea he was sensitivethere. Faeling smiles down at him smugly, one hand continuing to softly caress Arttu’s hair and the other pinching his nipples none too gently. The contrast between tenderness and the electrifying sparks of pain-pleasure has Arttu’s head swimming.

His breathing is picking up, and he’s desperately trying to prevent himself from squirming. But with every passing minute, Arttu is getting more impatient. What is Faeling waiting for? Judging by the bulge in his trousers, he isn’t unaffected by their game, even if he looks the epitome of calm and in control otherwise. Arttu licks his lips and nuzzles Faeling’s thigh, inching closer to his groin. Maybe he can coax him to move on with their play.

“Impatient, are we?” Faeling’s grasp on his neck tightens, and he pulls Arttu backward a few inches again.

A soft whine of protest slips past Attu’s lips. He needs some release. His fingers twitch with the urge to touch himself, to relieve some pressure from his leaking cock, but he knows he isn’t allowed to.

Okay, so he gets what the appeal of subbing is; maybe he has been missing out in the past. But it’s also terribly frustrating. Arttu shifts in his restricted position, trying to take the edge off somehow. It doesn’t help.

Faeling’s hands travel from Arttu’s chest to cup his jaw, then slowly lower to his throat. Arttu chokes on another mewling sound. Why does having a potential killer wrapping his hands around his throat turn him on? What’s wrong with him?

Faeling stares at him as if he’s cataloging Arttu’s reactions for future reference. He increases the pressure of his grip ever so slightly—not cutting off Arttu’s air, only hinting that he could. Arttu’s breath hitches. This has no right being so hot.

“Hmm, breath play wasn’t among the kinks you ticked,” Faeling says.

Of course, the creep read the questionnaire Arttu filled out.The Worshipasks for kinks and limits so the guests of their parties don’t have to waste time on lengthy negotiations. They can just compare their forms on an app, especially designed for this purpose, and see if they’re compatible. Arttu has ticked all boxes he was reasonably comfortable with. He wanted to appear interesting for Faeling, after all. But asking a suspected murderer to choke him seemed too suicidal even for Arttu’s standards.

“I don’t think it’s in line with the privacy guidelines that you read my profile,” Arttu gasps. He didn’t intend to rile Faeling up, but the man is just so infuriating. Arttu can’t keep his mouth shut.

Faeling’s grin turns malicious as his grip around Arttu’s throat tightens even more, forcing Arttu to abandon his relaxed position sitting on his heels and lift himself until he kneels upright instead. He can still breathe, but only because Faeling lets him. Barely. Arttu’s heart is hammering. Still some shameless, reckless part of him is desperately turned on.

“What did I say about only answering when asked?”

Arttu blinks. He feels a little disconnected, a little high on danger and arousal. All the witty retorts that would have come to him a few seconds ago suddenly seem out of reach.

“Well?” Faeling’s thumb is rubbing at a sensitive spot just beneath Arttu’s ear, where his jaw meets his throat. It’s a little painful and plenty gratifying, like a masseur digging into a pressure point to release tension.

“I’m sorry…sir?” is all Arttu can come up with. The words sound like a question even in his own ears.

“You’re in over your head, sweetheart, aren’t you?”

“I—No. That’s not what I—”

Faeling shushes him and leans down until their noses are almost touching. “That’s exactly what it is. Now relax. Let me take care of you.”