MoiraColleen
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Summary: Rise of the Guardians universe; Pitch turns Jack's revenge on its head and the two begin to come to an understanding.
Uncommon Ground
It was the silence that woke Jack up.
The Guardians’ monthly meeting had run long, thanks in no small part to the bickering over the comparative importance of holidays that always seemed to spring up these days (and was definitely not instigated by Jack at every opportunity). Tooth had long since given up trying to get the meeting back on track, while Jack and Sandy sat on the sidelines and made sly observations to keep the ball rolling whenever the argument flagged. Then, just before the fun could end and everyone went their separate ways, a blizzard came howling up the mountain and surrounded the Workshop in a swirling wall of white that even a certain legendary reindeer would hesitate to venture into. There was no question of anyone leaving after that. (There were also no questions about where the storm had come from, for which Jack was grateful.) The companions had adjourned to one of the Pole’s residential wings for a meal and a card game that shifted over to a chess match between Tooth and Bunny as, one by one, the other Guardians dozed off.
Jack had fallen asleep to the clicking of chessmen and the distant shouting of yetis and jingling bells of elf hats. No part of the Pole was ever truly quiet; one shift or another was always busy in the Workshop twenty-four hours a day. Now, though, all Jack could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat. The air felt cool and damp and smelled faintly musty, quite unlike the warm, slightly arid atmosphere of the Workshop, with its mingled scents of paint and pastries. The surface he was lying on didn’t feel much like the sofa where he had dozed off, and it definitely wasn’t one of North’s guest beds, either. It was cushioned, certainly, but strangely firm and angled under his back like a physician’s examination table.
Jack opened his eyes and tried to sit up, only to be held in place by restraints around his wrists and ankles. Directly in front of him stood Pitch, appreciatively scanning Jack’s nude body. Jack craned his neck to look down at himself, and then thumped his head back against the padding with an annoyed scoff.
“Oh, man, did you seriously shave me? Do you know how slowly my hair grows? I’m gonna be bald for a couple of years!”
“Only in a few strategic areas,” Pitch said unrepentantly.
“Fine.” Jack rolled his eyes. “So, what’s it gonna be tonight? We playing ‘living doll’ again, or what? You realize I’m just gonna get you back for it, whatever it is.”
Pitch leaned in close to look into Jack’s eyes. “I’m counting on it,” he whispered with an intensity that made Jack’s breath catch. Then he drew back and went on as if he had said nothing at all, “No, I thought we might pick up where we left off last time. You were in such a hurry that you left before you could have your turn.”
“My turn?” Jack echoed, perplexed.
“Yes, of course, Jack,” Pitch purred, circling around Jack as he talked. Jack tried to turn his head to follow the boogeyman’s movements, but a band of black sand flowed around his forehead to keep him facing straight ahead. “It was very clear to me that you wanted one. All that talk about things you wanted to try but you couldn’t do alone. That means you must have tried at some point. You even said as much: ‘you can’t tickle yourself.’ It must have been such a frustrating discovery.”
Pitch stopped and pressed his lips so close to Jack’s ear that the winter spirit could feel the heat of his breath. “Everything you did to me was something you secretly dreamed of someone doing to you, wasn’t it, Jack?” he whispered. “You talked as though you couldn’t do those things with your friends because it was impractical, but your fears give you away. The truth is, you didn’t dare ask them, did you? You were afraid to admit that what you really wanted was to be stripped naked and strapped down and tickled until you can’t breathe for laughing. That’s the real reason you came to me, isn’t it, Jack? Because you knew I’d understand.”
Pitch moved back around to study Jack’s face. Jack stared back in a mixture of apprehension and excitement. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he breathed through parted lips. Pitch raised a hand into view and gracefully crooked his long fingers one by one in the air just above Jack’s belly. Jack’s breath came faster; his body seemed to strain hungrily toward the gesture. His pale member was already growing pinker as it stirred and stiffened. Inwardly, Pitch crowed in triumph.
Outwardly, though, he looked resigned. He shrugged his shoulders and gestured curtly; the nightmare sand that bound Jack to the table fell away. Jack sat up, looking deliciously bereft.
“What – what are you doing?” Jack asked, almost plaintively.
Pitch kept his expression carefully neutral. “I brought you here for revenge, Jack,” he explained evenly. “It wouldn’t be vengeance to give you what you want, now, would it?” He tossed a loose ball of fabric to Jack. “You can get dressed before I send you back if you want. No? Very well.” The shadows on the stone floor began to converge around the table.
“Wait!” Jack burst out, just before the darkness reached him.
Pitch arched a hairless brow at him. “Yes, Jack?” he drawled.
Jack worried his lower lip between his teeth, while Pitch waited in concealed glee. Finally, Jack came to a decision. “Look, you’re right, okay?” he said. “I can’t ask anybody else. I mean, what’re they gonna think? But you already know. Please, just… please, will you please do it?”
Pitch grinned openly. “Do what, Jack?” he asked. “What is it that you want me to do? You’ll have to tell me.”
Jack’s head shot up at the echo of his own words. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I want you to tie me up and tickle me. I don’t even care how you do it; I just want you to do it. Please, Pitch.”
Pitch stalked closer, bending down until he and Jack were almost nose to nose. Holding Jack’s gaze, he took back the wad of clothing and tossed it aside. “Lie down,” he commanded. Nervously, Jack obeyed.
Pitch reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out several strips of soft fabric. The first pair he used to wrap Jack’s ankles; the second went around Jack’s forearms halfway between the elbows and wrists. “To make sure your skin isn’t scraped raw when you struggle,” Pitch answered Jack’s unspoken question. Nightmare sand flowed over the strips to shackle Jack’s arms up beside his head and his legs a little more than shoulder width apart. “And you will struggle,” Pitch added, voice full of dark promise.
“Forgive me if I forego a gag, but I’ve always appreciated vocal feedback.” Pitch returned to his original position, once more studying Jack’s bound body. “So… you don’t care how I tickle you? Oh, Jack, what a dangerous invitation that is.”
Pitch raised his hands again, this time bringing the tips of his forefingers into light contact with Jack’s inner wrists at the very base of his palms. Jack gasped in anticipation, but Pitch kept still for a long moment, letting the tension build. Several times he made sudden changes in his expression, quirks of the mouth and eyelids, as though he were about to begin in earnest, and reveled in the way Jack twitched every time. Finally, trembling with pent-up nerves, Jack opened his mouth to protest, to tell Pitch to get on with it, but the words came out as an explosive cackle as Pitch’s fingertips abruptly fluttered over his skin from wrists to elbows and back again.
The tickling stopped far too soon for Jack’s liking. Pitch pulled his hands away, smirking meaningfully at Jack’s now prominent arousal, while Jack self-consciously pressed his lips shut, trying vainly not to blush. Pitch’s hands moved back in to trace lazy figures over Jack’s upper arms and shoulders. Jack wriggled and snorted with suppressed giggles as Pitch’s fingers spider-walked along the sides of his neck and down the center of his throat. His very skin shivered when Pitch reached his clavicle and traveled back out toward his shoulders. Then Pitch dove into the soft hollows under Jacks arms. Like the breaking of a dam, Jack’s self-control crumbled, and a cascade of musical laughter poured out to echo through the silent halls of Pitch’s lair.
Pitch’s fingertips danced up and down in erratic patterns, making the winter spirit jerk from side to side. Jack chuckled breathlessly as Pitch traveled toward the front of his torso. Pitch slotted his fingers into Jack’s ribs on one side and strummed the other, switching back and forth without warning. Every pass brought him higher on Jack’s chest until he brushed the areolae. Jack’s struggles redoubled as Pitch focused on this area, skirting the very edges of the candy-pink disks and gradually spiraling inward until they crinkled like tiny labyrinths around the nipples.
“Do you like this, Jack?” Pitch said, swirling his blunt fingernails in a holding pattern that just barely missed touching those tight peaks. “I do. There’s a kind of fear in tickling, you know,” he went on. “Can you feel it, Jack? The faint, insidious terror of being totally at my mercy? Never knowing where I’ll tickle you next? No matter how many times you’ve felt it, no matter how much you enjoy it, you’re never really prepared for the intensity of the tickling, and on some level your body knows that. Can you guess what I’m going to do next, Jack? Oh, no need to tell me; once again, your fear gives you away. And you’re right… but you’re also wrong.”
Pitch ceased his attentions to press Jack’s shoulders back against the table. Jack had time to draw a single ragged breath that burst out again in a squeal as Pitch leaned forward to flick his tongue against the very tip of one of Jack’s pebble-hard nipples. The tongue lapped the nipple again and again, drawing out a series of breathless squeaks. The edges of Pitch’s robe swung forward and brushed the sides of Jack’s erection. Jack bucked his hips forward and whimpered when the fabric just slid away.
Pitch laughed and moved to give the other nipple the same treatment. He lowered one hand to gather up his robe and rub the hem over Jack’s penis, then pulled it away when Jack arched forward again.
“Oh, come on, Pitch!” Jack gasped.
“All in good time, Jack,” Pitch said. “Maybe,” he added, planting a teasing kiss on the tip of Jack’s nose. “I’m not nearly finished playing. You’re such a marvelous instrument.” He splayed his hands on Jack’s belly and began to tap his fingers as though playing a keyboard. He moved bit by torturous bit into the recently shaved flesh of Jack’s pubic area. Jack convulsed, caught between the conflicting instincts of trying to get away and press into the touch at the same time. Pitch continued relentlessly lower, skirting the base of Jack’s penis to wiggle his fingers in the creases of Jack’s inner thighs.
Jack giggled madly. Pitch treated his upper thighs to long, continuous strokes from groin to knee; Jack stiffened and squeaked. Pitch directed the nightmare sand around Jack’s ankles to pull his legs up so Pitch could reach the cleft of Jack’s buttocks; Jack shimmied his hips and whimpered when the movements made his neglected erection bounce against his belly.
Finally, Pitch let the nightmare sand shackles lower Jack’s legs back to a resting position. He stood back, watching appreciatively as Jack caught his breath. Jack’s eyes were wide and dark, and his lips were swollen with the intensity of his arousal. His nipples stood out, stiff and dusky against the pallor of his heaving chest. Most prominent, though, was the flushed member that echoed Pitch’s own excitement. It seemed to pulse as Pitch watched, as though he could actually see the throbbing sensation that he knew the winter spirit must be suffering and that Pitch remembered so vividly from his own tickling torture.
Jack looked imploringly at Pitch. “Please,” he begged, “I can’t stand it anymore. Please, Pitch, I really need to come. Tickle my dick if you want to; just make me come, please.”
“Oh, no, Jack.” Pitch grinned evilly. “You said you didn’t care how I tickled you. That means I decide what to do to you. And I’ve decided I won’t touch your dick at all tonight.”
Jack spluttered in desperate, pleading protests, almost incoherent. Pitch clapped a hand over Jack’s mouth. “I didn’t say I absolutely wouldn’t let you come, Jack,” he soothed. “But it’ll happen only one way—if it happens at all.
“Do you remember how long you tickled my feet, Jack? How that was all it took to make me so very hard? You said you’d like to play with my feet all night, and to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have minded if you had. There was a spot you kept touching—I remember exactly where it was—that went straight between my legs. I honestly think I could have come from that alone, if you’d kept it up long enough. And maybe you will.”
“But my feet aren’t ticklish,” Jack protested as soon as Pitch released his mouth. “They never have been. They’re all callus, remember?”
Pitch chuckled darkly and moved to the end of the table. “Are they?” he asked, running a fingertip along one sole. Jack’s leg spasmed, and he laughed in astonished delight at the sensation.
“Sand makes a marvelous exfoliant,” Pitch explained. He formed a high chair of nightmare sand and settled comfortably into it. “I hope you’re ready.” He attacked the soles of Jack’s feet with the most ferocity he had shown all night.
Even at the most intense moment so far, Jack had never felt anything like it. In all his fantasies, Jack had never dreamed anything like the feeling of Pitch’s fingertips fluttering against the length and breadth of skin that was feeling properly for the first time in three hundred years’ memory. The tiniest flick of Pitch’s nails sent thrills up Jack’s legs and along his spine; from the tips of each toe to the curve of his heels, Pitch treated every millimeter of flesh to relentless tickling that had Jack convulsing with ecstatic agony. Soft tapping to the webbing between his toes elicited squirms and a dry, rapid cackling. Sinuous trails from the blades to the arches made his feet try to flail and drew out longer whines. Eventually, though, Pitch settled in to a rhythmic lengthwise stroking near where the arches met the heels, which had Jack thrusting uselessly against the empty air while he chuckled deep in his belly. Every stroke of Pitch’s fingers went right to his erection like the touch of a phantom. The pleasure grew, torturously slow, pressure building until Jack was sobbing with the need for release. He remembered with a pang of terror how he had delayed Pitch’s orgasm, and he wondered if the boogeyman intended to return the favor. Jack dragged his eyes open to find Pitch watching with an expression that said he knew exactly what Jack was thinking, but it didn’t give away what Pitch intended to do.
The orgasm began almost softly, a bloom of warmth that unfolded by degrees, then rushed with ever-building momentum along his shaft. The feeling shot up into his abdomen, into his spine. It poured down his legs like a torrent. Jack’s eyes squeezed shut and his mouth opened wide, but only a hoarse cry escaped as his back bent like a bow. He hung like that for a heartbeat or an eternity, paralyzed by the intensity of the sensation, then fell limply back onto the padded table.
Gradually, Jack’s sight and hearing returned. The pressure of the nightmare sand shackles had disappeared at some point. He tried once more to sit up, but fell back grimacing and wrapping his arms around himself as his overworked stomach muscles made their complaints known. Broad hands pressed him to lie down. Jack kept his eyes shut and lay still as a wet cloth washed away sweat and semen and cooled his overheated skin. Another gently patted him dry. When he felt a light blanket settle over him, Jack opened his eyes to give Pitch a questioning look.
“What about you?” Jack said, wearily gesturing toward the bulge in his companion’s trousers.
“I can wait,” Pitch assured him. “I have every confidence that you’ll make it worth my while.”
Jack nodded, too tired to think about the implications of all of this. He closed his eyes again as the shadows converged on him once more, depositing him on a broader, softer surface in a room full of the sounds and smells of North’s Workshop.
Uncommon Ground
It was the silence that woke Jack up.
The Guardians’ monthly meeting had run long, thanks in no small part to the bickering over the comparative importance of holidays that always seemed to spring up these days (and was definitely not instigated by Jack at every opportunity). Tooth had long since given up trying to get the meeting back on track, while Jack and Sandy sat on the sidelines and made sly observations to keep the ball rolling whenever the argument flagged. Then, just before the fun could end and everyone went their separate ways, a blizzard came howling up the mountain and surrounded the Workshop in a swirling wall of white that even a certain legendary reindeer would hesitate to venture into. There was no question of anyone leaving after that. (There were also no questions about where the storm had come from, for which Jack was grateful.) The companions had adjourned to one of the Pole’s residential wings for a meal and a card game that shifted over to a chess match between Tooth and Bunny as, one by one, the other Guardians dozed off.
Jack had fallen asleep to the clicking of chessmen and the distant shouting of yetis and jingling bells of elf hats. No part of the Pole was ever truly quiet; one shift or another was always busy in the Workshop twenty-four hours a day. Now, though, all Jack could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat. The air felt cool and damp and smelled faintly musty, quite unlike the warm, slightly arid atmosphere of the Workshop, with its mingled scents of paint and pastries. The surface he was lying on didn’t feel much like the sofa where he had dozed off, and it definitely wasn’t one of North’s guest beds, either. It was cushioned, certainly, but strangely firm and angled under his back like a physician’s examination table.
Jack opened his eyes and tried to sit up, only to be held in place by restraints around his wrists and ankles. Directly in front of him stood Pitch, appreciatively scanning Jack’s nude body. Jack craned his neck to look down at himself, and then thumped his head back against the padding with an annoyed scoff.
“Oh, man, did you seriously shave me? Do you know how slowly my hair grows? I’m gonna be bald for a couple of years!”
“Only in a few strategic areas,” Pitch said unrepentantly.
“Fine.” Jack rolled his eyes. “So, what’s it gonna be tonight? We playing ‘living doll’ again, or what? You realize I’m just gonna get you back for it, whatever it is.”
Pitch leaned in close to look into Jack’s eyes. “I’m counting on it,” he whispered with an intensity that made Jack’s breath catch. Then he drew back and went on as if he had said nothing at all, “No, I thought we might pick up where we left off last time. You were in such a hurry that you left before you could have your turn.”
“My turn?” Jack echoed, perplexed.
“Yes, of course, Jack,” Pitch purred, circling around Jack as he talked. Jack tried to turn his head to follow the boogeyman’s movements, but a band of black sand flowed around his forehead to keep him facing straight ahead. “It was very clear to me that you wanted one. All that talk about things you wanted to try but you couldn’t do alone. That means you must have tried at some point. You even said as much: ‘you can’t tickle yourself.’ It must have been such a frustrating discovery.”
Pitch stopped and pressed his lips so close to Jack’s ear that the winter spirit could feel the heat of his breath. “Everything you did to me was something you secretly dreamed of someone doing to you, wasn’t it, Jack?” he whispered. “You talked as though you couldn’t do those things with your friends because it was impractical, but your fears give you away. The truth is, you didn’t dare ask them, did you? You were afraid to admit that what you really wanted was to be stripped naked and strapped down and tickled until you can’t breathe for laughing. That’s the real reason you came to me, isn’t it, Jack? Because you knew I’d understand.”
Pitch moved back around to study Jack’s face. Jack stared back in a mixture of apprehension and excitement. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he breathed through parted lips. Pitch raised a hand into view and gracefully crooked his long fingers one by one in the air just above Jack’s belly. Jack’s breath came faster; his body seemed to strain hungrily toward the gesture. His pale member was already growing pinker as it stirred and stiffened. Inwardly, Pitch crowed in triumph.
Outwardly, though, he looked resigned. He shrugged his shoulders and gestured curtly; the nightmare sand that bound Jack to the table fell away. Jack sat up, looking deliciously bereft.
“What – what are you doing?” Jack asked, almost plaintively.
Pitch kept his expression carefully neutral. “I brought you here for revenge, Jack,” he explained evenly. “It wouldn’t be vengeance to give you what you want, now, would it?” He tossed a loose ball of fabric to Jack. “You can get dressed before I send you back if you want. No? Very well.” The shadows on the stone floor began to converge around the table.
“Wait!” Jack burst out, just before the darkness reached him.
Pitch arched a hairless brow at him. “Yes, Jack?” he drawled.
Jack worried his lower lip between his teeth, while Pitch waited in concealed glee. Finally, Jack came to a decision. “Look, you’re right, okay?” he said. “I can’t ask anybody else. I mean, what’re they gonna think? But you already know. Please, just… please, will you please do it?”
Pitch grinned openly. “Do what, Jack?” he asked. “What is it that you want me to do? You’ll have to tell me.”
Jack’s head shot up at the echo of his own words. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I want you to tie me up and tickle me. I don’t even care how you do it; I just want you to do it. Please, Pitch.”
Pitch stalked closer, bending down until he and Jack were almost nose to nose. Holding Jack’s gaze, he took back the wad of clothing and tossed it aside. “Lie down,” he commanded. Nervously, Jack obeyed.
Pitch reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out several strips of soft fabric. The first pair he used to wrap Jack’s ankles; the second went around Jack’s forearms halfway between the elbows and wrists. “To make sure your skin isn’t scraped raw when you struggle,” Pitch answered Jack’s unspoken question. Nightmare sand flowed over the strips to shackle Jack’s arms up beside his head and his legs a little more than shoulder width apart. “And you will struggle,” Pitch added, voice full of dark promise.
“Forgive me if I forego a gag, but I’ve always appreciated vocal feedback.” Pitch returned to his original position, once more studying Jack’s bound body. “So… you don’t care how I tickle you? Oh, Jack, what a dangerous invitation that is.”
Pitch raised his hands again, this time bringing the tips of his forefingers into light contact with Jack’s inner wrists at the very base of his palms. Jack gasped in anticipation, but Pitch kept still for a long moment, letting the tension build. Several times he made sudden changes in his expression, quirks of the mouth and eyelids, as though he were about to begin in earnest, and reveled in the way Jack twitched every time. Finally, trembling with pent-up nerves, Jack opened his mouth to protest, to tell Pitch to get on with it, but the words came out as an explosive cackle as Pitch’s fingertips abruptly fluttered over his skin from wrists to elbows and back again.
The tickling stopped far too soon for Jack’s liking. Pitch pulled his hands away, smirking meaningfully at Jack’s now prominent arousal, while Jack self-consciously pressed his lips shut, trying vainly not to blush. Pitch’s hands moved back in to trace lazy figures over Jack’s upper arms and shoulders. Jack wriggled and snorted with suppressed giggles as Pitch’s fingers spider-walked along the sides of his neck and down the center of his throat. His very skin shivered when Pitch reached his clavicle and traveled back out toward his shoulders. Then Pitch dove into the soft hollows under Jacks arms. Like the breaking of a dam, Jack’s self-control crumbled, and a cascade of musical laughter poured out to echo through the silent halls of Pitch’s lair.
Pitch’s fingertips danced up and down in erratic patterns, making the winter spirit jerk from side to side. Jack chuckled breathlessly as Pitch traveled toward the front of his torso. Pitch slotted his fingers into Jack’s ribs on one side and strummed the other, switching back and forth without warning. Every pass brought him higher on Jack’s chest until he brushed the areolae. Jack’s struggles redoubled as Pitch focused on this area, skirting the very edges of the candy-pink disks and gradually spiraling inward until they crinkled like tiny labyrinths around the nipples.
“Do you like this, Jack?” Pitch said, swirling his blunt fingernails in a holding pattern that just barely missed touching those tight peaks. “I do. There’s a kind of fear in tickling, you know,” he went on. “Can you feel it, Jack? The faint, insidious terror of being totally at my mercy? Never knowing where I’ll tickle you next? No matter how many times you’ve felt it, no matter how much you enjoy it, you’re never really prepared for the intensity of the tickling, and on some level your body knows that. Can you guess what I’m going to do next, Jack? Oh, no need to tell me; once again, your fear gives you away. And you’re right… but you’re also wrong.”
Pitch ceased his attentions to press Jack’s shoulders back against the table. Jack had time to draw a single ragged breath that burst out again in a squeal as Pitch leaned forward to flick his tongue against the very tip of one of Jack’s pebble-hard nipples. The tongue lapped the nipple again and again, drawing out a series of breathless squeaks. The edges of Pitch’s robe swung forward and brushed the sides of Jack’s erection. Jack bucked his hips forward and whimpered when the fabric just slid away.
Pitch laughed and moved to give the other nipple the same treatment. He lowered one hand to gather up his robe and rub the hem over Jack’s penis, then pulled it away when Jack arched forward again.
“Oh, come on, Pitch!” Jack gasped.
“All in good time, Jack,” Pitch said. “Maybe,” he added, planting a teasing kiss on the tip of Jack’s nose. “I’m not nearly finished playing. You’re such a marvelous instrument.” He splayed his hands on Jack’s belly and began to tap his fingers as though playing a keyboard. He moved bit by torturous bit into the recently shaved flesh of Jack’s pubic area. Jack convulsed, caught between the conflicting instincts of trying to get away and press into the touch at the same time. Pitch continued relentlessly lower, skirting the base of Jack’s penis to wiggle his fingers in the creases of Jack’s inner thighs.
Jack giggled madly. Pitch treated his upper thighs to long, continuous strokes from groin to knee; Jack stiffened and squeaked. Pitch directed the nightmare sand around Jack’s ankles to pull his legs up so Pitch could reach the cleft of Jack’s buttocks; Jack shimmied his hips and whimpered when the movements made his neglected erection bounce against his belly.
Finally, Pitch let the nightmare sand shackles lower Jack’s legs back to a resting position. He stood back, watching appreciatively as Jack caught his breath. Jack’s eyes were wide and dark, and his lips were swollen with the intensity of his arousal. His nipples stood out, stiff and dusky against the pallor of his heaving chest. Most prominent, though, was the flushed member that echoed Pitch’s own excitement. It seemed to pulse as Pitch watched, as though he could actually see the throbbing sensation that he knew the winter spirit must be suffering and that Pitch remembered so vividly from his own tickling torture.
Jack looked imploringly at Pitch. “Please,” he begged, “I can’t stand it anymore. Please, Pitch, I really need to come. Tickle my dick if you want to; just make me come, please.”
“Oh, no, Jack.” Pitch grinned evilly. “You said you didn’t care how I tickled you. That means I decide what to do to you. And I’ve decided I won’t touch your dick at all tonight.”
Jack spluttered in desperate, pleading protests, almost incoherent. Pitch clapped a hand over Jack’s mouth. “I didn’t say I absolutely wouldn’t let you come, Jack,” he soothed. “But it’ll happen only one way—if it happens at all.
“Do you remember how long you tickled my feet, Jack? How that was all it took to make me so very hard? You said you’d like to play with my feet all night, and to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have minded if you had. There was a spot you kept touching—I remember exactly where it was—that went straight between my legs. I honestly think I could have come from that alone, if you’d kept it up long enough. And maybe you will.”
“But my feet aren’t ticklish,” Jack protested as soon as Pitch released his mouth. “They never have been. They’re all callus, remember?”
Pitch chuckled darkly and moved to the end of the table. “Are they?” he asked, running a fingertip along one sole. Jack’s leg spasmed, and he laughed in astonished delight at the sensation.
“Sand makes a marvelous exfoliant,” Pitch explained. He formed a high chair of nightmare sand and settled comfortably into it. “I hope you’re ready.” He attacked the soles of Jack’s feet with the most ferocity he had shown all night.
Even at the most intense moment so far, Jack had never felt anything like it. In all his fantasies, Jack had never dreamed anything like the feeling of Pitch’s fingertips fluttering against the length and breadth of skin that was feeling properly for the first time in three hundred years’ memory. The tiniest flick of Pitch’s nails sent thrills up Jack’s legs and along his spine; from the tips of each toe to the curve of his heels, Pitch treated every millimeter of flesh to relentless tickling that had Jack convulsing with ecstatic agony. Soft tapping to the webbing between his toes elicited squirms and a dry, rapid cackling. Sinuous trails from the blades to the arches made his feet try to flail and drew out longer whines. Eventually, though, Pitch settled in to a rhythmic lengthwise stroking near where the arches met the heels, which had Jack thrusting uselessly against the empty air while he chuckled deep in his belly. Every stroke of Pitch’s fingers went right to his erection like the touch of a phantom. The pleasure grew, torturously slow, pressure building until Jack was sobbing with the need for release. He remembered with a pang of terror how he had delayed Pitch’s orgasm, and he wondered if the boogeyman intended to return the favor. Jack dragged his eyes open to find Pitch watching with an expression that said he knew exactly what Jack was thinking, but it didn’t give away what Pitch intended to do.
The orgasm began almost softly, a bloom of warmth that unfolded by degrees, then rushed with ever-building momentum along his shaft. The feeling shot up into his abdomen, into his spine. It poured down his legs like a torrent. Jack’s eyes squeezed shut and his mouth opened wide, but only a hoarse cry escaped as his back bent like a bow. He hung like that for a heartbeat or an eternity, paralyzed by the intensity of the sensation, then fell limply back onto the padded table.
Gradually, Jack’s sight and hearing returned. The pressure of the nightmare sand shackles had disappeared at some point. He tried once more to sit up, but fell back grimacing and wrapping his arms around himself as his overworked stomach muscles made their complaints known. Broad hands pressed him to lie down. Jack kept his eyes shut and lay still as a wet cloth washed away sweat and semen and cooled his overheated skin. Another gently patted him dry. When he felt a light blanket settle over him, Jack opened his eyes to give Pitch a questioning look.
“What about you?” Jack said, wearily gesturing toward the bulge in his companion’s trousers.
“I can wait,” Pitch assured him. “I have every confidence that you’ll make it worth my while.”
Jack nodded, too tired to think about the implications of all of this. He closed his eyes again as the shadows converged on him once more, depositing him on a broader, softer surface in a room full of the sounds and smells of North’s Workshop.
