It feels odd doing this in daylight but the spill of sunlight across Daniel's back is warm and he was too drowsy to have asked for the curtains, flimsy, thin cotton, faded by washing, to be pulled.
No one can see in, anyway.
Miles away from anywhere that isn't lake and woods.
No one can hear.
And after months of holding in every howl until just biting his lip makes his cock twitch and fill, remembering a score of near-silent climaxes, he wants to be noisy.
Just not sure he can.
Not sure he can let go of the habits he's learned over the months; discretion, distance, separate cars, arrivals, departures...
Even driving here with Jack had him half-hard, hard-fearful.
He can't relax. Can't give Jack what he wants. Can't let go.
He's got a head full of images; sucking Jack off in a alley, clean cock in his mouth, kneeling in filth, not caring -- getting fucked up against a wall, palms rubbed raw as he grinds them against brick... All of them fast, furtive, quiet fantasies.
Now they're here, together, safe, and the peace around them, birdsong and breeze, seems church-like, dense and thick, and he's whispering, muted, coming the night before with a stifled, polite groan that had Jack cursing and rolling off him, back stiff with frustration.
Which is why he's lying here gagged and bound and waiting.
Jack's gone out to find the perfect tree. Gone out to cut a switch.
Daniel smiles, his tongue testing the limits of the clean, soft rag Jack's used.
Already feeling the scream he'll give rising up.
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