Chapter 10: Tie Knot Temptation
The dawn came gently, a slow seep of grey light around the blinds. Lucas woke to a profound, internal warmth. For a disorienting second, he didn’t remember. Then the memory of the night before—the glass, the choice, the swallow—crashed over him, vivid and impossible.
He lay perfectly still on the couch, one hand still resting on his lower abdomen. Inside, all was quiet. A deep, resonant quiet, punctuated by the normal, distant gurgles and shifts of his own body. But there was a weight there, a presence. A satisfied, sleepy fullness.
“Marcum?” he whispered, his voice gravelly with sleep.
No answer. No movement.
A thread of panic, fine as a spider’s silk, pulled tight in his chest. He’d been so tired. What if…
Then he felt it. Not a tap or a poke. A subtle, whole-body shift, a lazy, stretched sensation deep within him, as if a small cat were turning in its sleep. Followed by a soft, almost inaudible sigh that he felt more than heard. Asleep. Marcum was still asleep inside him.
The surreal tenderness of it stole his breath. He’d gone to sleep with his husband in his arms a hundred times, a thousand.Never like this. This was a new kind of closeness, a biological intimacy that should have felt horrifying but instead felt like a secret triumph.He had held him. He had kept him safe.
Carefully, he pushed himself up to sit. The movement stirred things internally. He felt a sluggish, sleepy resistance, then a slow settling. He waited, listening with his whole body. Another soft, internal shift.Good.
He stood, moving with the deliberate care of a man carrying a fragile, priceless cargo. He made his way to the kitchen, his bare feet silent on the cool tile. He drank a glass of water slowly, feeling the cool liquid trace a path down, wondering if Marcum could feel the distant tremor. He put the kettle on for coffee, then paused.Caffeine. That was probably a terrible idea.
He opted for toast. Plain, bland toast. As he waited for it, he leaned against the counter, his palm pressed flat below his navel. “You better wake up soon,” he murmured. “I can’t go to work like this. I have a ten o’clock with the Singapore distributors.”
A faint, fluttering pulse answered him. Not a word, just a sleepy, reflexive thrum of awareness.The toast popped. He buttered it, ate it slowly. The ordinary act felt absurd. He was eating breakfast while his four-inch-tall husband slept in his stomach. He almost laughed, a choked, bewildered sound that echoed in the quiet kitchen.
By the time he’d showered—a tense, overly cautious affair—and dressed in soft grey slacks and a crisp white shirt, he felt more alert internal activity. A series of gentle stretches, a press against his left side, then his right.Exploring.
Lucas stood before the mirror, tying his tie. His fingers, usually deft, fumbled the Windsor knot. He felt… watched. From the inside. It was the strangest sensation of his life.
“Are you awake in there?” he asked, staring at his own reflection.
A decisive, rolling pressure just below his ribcage.Yes.“Okay. Good. Listen, we need to… strategize. I have a very important video call in…” he checked his watch, “forty-seven minutes. I need you to be… still. And quiet. Can you do that?”
For a long moment, nothing. Then, a slow, deliberate slide downward, a sensation that made Lucas’s knees weaken. It stopped in a central, deep spot. Then, a pattern of taps.
T-I-C-K-L-E.
Lucas groaned, dropping his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror. “No.Absolutely not. This is a multi-million dollar account, Marcum. Be serious.”
Another series of taps, faster this time. P-R-O-M-I-S-E.It was meaningless. A promise from Marcum to be still was like a promise from the sun not to rise. But he had to try.“Promise? You swear on your… your tiny, precious hide?”
A single, firm push. Yes.
“You’re a liar,” Lucas whispered, but he finished the knot. He looked flushed, his green eyes unusually bright. He took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the expansion of his chest, the slight shift of weight within. “Just… just think quiet thoughts. Read a book in there. Meditate.”
The sensation that came back was unmistakably a laugh; a quick, internal vibration that felt like bubbles.
Lucas’s home office was his sanctuary, all clean lines, muted colors, and expensive silence. He settled into his ergonomic chair at the sleek glass desk, waking his laptop. The glow of the screen illuminated his focused face. He arranged his notes, his pen, his water glass. He looked every inch the competent, youthful branch manager. No one watching would guess.
He felt Marcum settle, too. The movement stopped. A watchful, patient stillness took its place. It was, if anything, more unnerving than the activity.
The call connected. Three faces in little boxes on his screen: Mr. Zhang and two associates in a sterile-looking conference room in Singapore. Greetings were exchanged, voices crisp and polite over the fiber-optic line.
Lucas began his presentation, clicking through slides on projected Q3 revenue, market penetration for their interactive plush lines. His voice was steady, confident. He talked about logistics, throughput, demographic appeal. Inside, all remained quiet. He began to dare to hope.
He was fifteen minutes in, explaining a key partnership, when he felt the first movement. Not a tap or a shift. A slow, sinuous crawl. It was the sensation of something—someone—moving with deliberate stealth along the inner landscape of his abdomen, heading north.
Lucas’s breath hitched, just for a fraction of a second. He covered it with a sip of water, his hand only slightly trembling. “As you can see,” he continued, “the synergy with the animation studio is expected to boost holiday sales by…”
The crawling sensation stopped. It was now… high. Very high. Centered just under his sternum. A familiar, faint pressure began, subtle and insistent, right against the bottom of his ribcage. It wasn’t painful.It was distracting. Incredibly, intimately distracting. He could feel the exact shape of it—the press of a small back, the curve of a head.
He shifted in his chair, trying to adjust his posture. The pressure adjusted with him.Mr. Zhang was asking a question about shipping tariffs. Lucas blinked, forcing his brain to engage. “The… the tariff situation is fluid, but our local agents assure us…”
A new sensation. A pinpoint of warmth. Then, the faintest, most ghostly flick of a tongue.
Lucas jerked as if zapped. His knee slammed into the underside of his desk. The microphone picked up the thud.
“Is everything alright, Mr.Thorne?” Mr. Zhang’s digitally conveyed voice was concerned.
“Yes!Fine. Sorry. Ankle… cramp.” Lucas’s smile felt plastic. He reached for the mouse, his fingers clumsy. He muted his microphone. The green light on his webcam died. On their screens, he would simply be frozen, a polite smile on his face.
He leaned into the dead mic, his voice a strangled hiss. “Marcum.Stop. I’m begging you.”
The response was immediate. Not with taps, but with action. The tiny, warm mouth opened wider. Lucas felt the gentle suction, the soft, wet lapping against the sensitive inner lining of his body. It was a kiss. A deep, internal, impossible kiss. His skin prickled with heat. A flush crawled up his neck.
“You… unbelievable…” he gasped, gripping the edge of the desk.
The kissing stopped. In its place came a whisper. It wasn’t heard with his ears. It was a vibration transmitted through tissue and bone, a husky, felt-whisper that resonated in the very core of him.
You taste like toast.
Lucas choked on air. He squeezed his eyes shut. “I will… I will ground you. I will never let you near the good whiskey again. I swear to God.”
A low, internal chuckle vibrated through him. The sensation began to move again, sliding sideways now, seeking. It found the soft, unprotected hollow at the base of his throat, just above his collarbone, visible in the open collar of his shirt. The journey there, across the terrain of his chest, was an exquisite, torturous exploration.
He unmuted. His image came back live. “My apologies again. A minor spasm. Now, regarding the tariffs…” He was talking nonsense. He could hear it. The words were empty shapes falling from his mouth.
Marcum had reached his destination. Lucas felt him nestle into the hollow of his throat, a tiny, living knot resting just above his sternum. He was right under the skin here, separated from the world by a thin layer of muscle and Lucas’s white cotton shirt. And he began to lick again.
Slow, wet, deliberate strokes. Not tickling. Tasting.
Lucas’s concentration shattered. A full-body shiver, violent and uncontrollable, wracked him. His hand shot out and hit the mute button again. The green light died. He dropped his forehead onto his stacked fists on the desk, his shoulders trembling.
“Please,” he whispered, sweat beading at his temples.
The whisper came back, a felt-sigh against his pulse point. I’m being so quiet. They can’t hear me.
“I can’t… I can’t think.”
You don’t need to think. You just need to sit there and look pretty.
Another slow, luxurious lick. Lucas groaned, the sound muffled by his arms. His body was responding, a traitorous heat pooling low in his gut, entirely separate from the nervous panic. The duality was maddening.
Somehow, he unmuted. He apologized for a poor connection, his voice notably hoarse. He clicked to the next slide, discussing safety certifications. His body was a battlefield. On the surface, a manager giving a presentation. Beneath, a man being unraveled from the inside out by a playful, relentless god.
The call stretched, an eternity in hell. Marcum varied his torment. He would lie still for minutes, letting Lucas almost believe it was over, only to resume with a sudden, devastating flick of his tongue or a gentle scrape of tiny teeth that made Lucas see stars. He whispered more filth, promises of what he would do when the call ended, of exploring further down, of finding more interesting, sensitive places to map with his mouth.
Lucas answered questions on autopilot, his voice a strained monotone. He was damp with sweat. His knuckles were white where he gripped his pen. Every muscle in his body was clenched tight, a dam holding back a flood of sensation.When Mr. Zhang finally said, “I think that covers everything for now, Lucas. We’ll await the revised projections,” Lucas almost sobbed with relief.“Thank you. Yes.Excellent. Goodbye.” He ended the call without ceremony, slamming the laptop lid shut with a force that echoed in the quiet room.
The sound was a starting pistol.
For a moment, there was only the sound of Lucas’s ragged breathing. The watchful stillness inside him was gone, replaced by a buzzing, anticipatory energy.Then, Marcum moved. He didn’t crawl. He pushed. A firm, deliberate pressure outward, against the inside of Lucas’s throat.
The message was clear. Let me out.
Lucas’s hands were shaking. He fumbled with the top button of his shirt, then the next. He leaned back in his chair, his head tilting back, exposing his throat. He opened his mouth, a gasp already forming on his lips.
He didn’t need to cough. The contraction was involuntary, a deep, convulsive heave born of pure, overwhelmed reflex. His body shuddered, and Marcum was carried upward on the tide.
He spilled into Lucas’s waiting palm, not with a slide, but in a sudden, wet arrival. He was slick, gleaming with natural fluids, his dark curls plastered to his forehead. He lay on his back, panting, a brilliant, triumphant grin splitting his face. He smelled of salt and skin and something deeply, uniquely internal.
Lucas stared down at him, chest heaving, his own face a mask of spent tension and awe.
Marcum pushed himself up on his elbows in Lucas’s trembling hand. He was utterly, vulnerably exposed, yet he wielded all the power. His voice was rough, a tiny echo of the whispers from within.
“So,” he breathed, his eyes glittering. “How were the projections?”
Lucas’s response was not a word. It was a low, gut-deep sound of surrender. He brought his hand, and the impossibly precious, maddening creature in it, up to his face. He didn’t kiss him. He just pressed his forehead gently against Marcum’s tiny, damp body, his eyes closed, his own laughter—hysterical, relieved, utterly conquered—bubbling up from a place Marcum had just vacated.