Charley felt the gentle pulse under his lips before tearing into it with his teeth. Blood coursed over his tongue, sliding down his throat in a salty, coppery shower. He hated it, but most especially he loathed his own dependence on it. What he was doing was wrong, his lips working against Johnny’s flesh, taking his sanguine communion.
Johnny’s hands tugged at his shirt, slipping it off and he rather hated that, too. Charley knew what Johnny always hoped for even if his master wouldn’t force it. How long could a man hold out hope? Maybe as long as Charley could dream of a final redemption back into God’s graces.
Johnny lounged back, trailing his fingers down his belly before undoing his trousers, still ever-hopeful. Charley would take blood there, and even at that the guilt rocked through him. Seeing the bared flesh, Charley licked his lips, residual blood trapped in the corner of his mouth, sticky like taffy made of pennies.
Johnny arched ever so slightly. “You know what you want,” he said throatily.
Charley definitely knew. He always knew and he would take what he wanted.