Deconstructing channing, p.1
Deconstructing Channing, page 1
Deconstructing Channing (Stripped Bare 1)
BA Tortuga
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Copyright ©2018 BA Tortuga
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Editor: Crystal Esau
Cover Artist: Bryan Keller
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Table of Contents
Deconstructing Channing (Stripped Bare 1)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
BA Tortuga
Deconstructing Channing (Stripped Bare 1)
BA Tortuga
When they were young together back in their werecat pride, Bowie and Channing experimented with love and sex, as well as flirting with a threesome with their best friend Andy. Channing and Andy both ran from their needs, leaving Bowie to break away and find his own life. Now a confident Dom, Bowie discovers Channing again through a video of a consummate sub, one Bowie knows he needs to find once more.
When Bowie shows up on his doorstep, Channing feels like a teenager again, all confusion and need. He doesn’t date his own kind, only humans, and he’s not in the market for a full-time Master. Bowie is impossible to deny, a force of nature, and while both men know they’ll have to think about Andy eventually, now is the time to see if they can get to know and love each other all over again.
Chapter One
Bowie took the train to L.A. There was something so decadent about the Coast Starlight, especially when he got a private sleeper. The steady bub-bub-bub of the wheels on the track was oddly musical and he found himself nodding along with it at the oddest times. He only ventured out to eat in the dining car at first, before boredom took him, and he wandered around and played solitaire in the club car.
The trip was designed to give him time. Time to figure out what he was going to say to Channing Lanier when he saw the sorry son of a bitch again.
He could start with “Hey, you rat bastard. Amazing how you came out after you dropped me like a hot rock.” That would be fun. Or maybe, “I thought you weren’t into spanking and bondage, and your precious asshole was sacrosanct, but now you’re a bottom in the underground BDSM scene,” would work better.
Bowie wouldn’t even be going to see said bottoming asshole if it wasn’t for the flyer tucked neatly away in his briefcase.
Tommy Catnip.
Seriously?
Their Andy was a fucking stripper?
A Vegas stripper? The revue was touted as a classy burlesque show at a topless nightclub called Catnip Crazy.
Hell, the crazy thing was that both of his ex-lovers had called him a goddamn perv. Him. Because he’d wanted them both. Because he’d wanted Andy over his lap. Because he’d wanted to see Channing bound and on his knees between the both of them.
Fuckers.
Bowie guessed he’d been lucky, to be so damn young and know what he wanted, who he was. Andy had been the spark that set him alight, his beta, the one who would stand beside him forever and love him. And Channing -- their omega male -- was caring and real and nurturing and…
Right.
He’d bared his soul one night after an evening of beer and firelight and awkward, desperate kisses, wild humping under rough blankets, Andy caught between them. He’d told them what he’d seen in the depths of the flames during his initiation into the pride, what his heart had told him. Channing had been the first to go, shifting into the lean golden cougar that Bowie had loved since he was a child, spitting and hissing, refusing them.
Andy had left next, in the dull gray of early morning, tears streaking his face.
A triad couldn’t survive with just two, Andy had said. Better to be alone than fight. He wasn’t into kink anyway. He wanted his own life.
Bowie groaned, the pain from that night still fresh and raw.
He should have followed them both, but he hadn’t. He’d roared and screamed and then spent an entire summer in a bottle until the pride’s dominant male had run him off.
He’d gone north, found a life, found wealth and pleasure and control. Even a kind of happiness.
The thought dulled the anger, put out the fire of fury as if water on a candle. They’d been kids and scared, and he’d been sure that he could fix everything he didn’t understand with a paddle and a pair of cuffs. He’d been just as stupid as they had. Maybe more.
He wasn’t going to be stupid this time though. He was going to get his omega, and then, once he’d torn up that sweet little ass, they were going to see Andy. He could take off his clothes for other folks as much as he wanted, but he belonged with them.
He knew it, nose to tail.
After all, wolves weren’t the only beasts that mated for life.
He stretched, pleased with the little sleeper cabin. He’d been able to spread out and groom himself once he’d locked the door. You could never do that on a plane. His paws deserved special attention. He lapped at his claws, carefully groomed his whiskers. Soon they would bring him warm milk, and he’d have to be human then and wear a robe.
For now, though, he could let his tail go wherever it wanted.
He let his mind wander, let his imagination remember the information he’d seen on the Internet. Channing, lean and blond and lovely, bound in leather, bare ass crisscrossed with evidence of blows. He’d had to fight a fit of anger and hurt the first time he’d seen it. That was supposed to be his job after all, beating that ass rosy.
Then Bowie had decided he was grateful. Now he could find Channing and show the man what a really good beating felt like.
His cock filled, and he groaned, his toes curling at the thought. Yes. His body shivered, his tail disappeared, and he let his human form come. That was so much better when he was having daydreams like this one.
Bowie would hear Channing yowl for him, would have that tiny little hole. He’d make Channing beg for it though, first, beg to be taken. He’d remind the man how damn wrong he’d been to leave, make him crazy with need, maybe bind that fine cock and plug that tight, tight ass.
His cock ached, and he wrapped his hand around it, moaning as he imagined it was Andy’s hand. Channing’s.
It had been so long. Oh he had plenty of subs who would do whatever he asked, but that was training -- something he got paid for. He missed having lovers.
Having his mates.
Andy’s scent… By the stars, Bowie longed for that. Andy had this spicy, deep, yet utterly masculine smell, which made him hard as a rock. His nipples were sensitive too. He’d made Andy come once, manipulating those hard pink buds alone.
Then there was Channing. That skin was such a pale gold, so wonderfully pliant. Long, perfectly sized prick, lips meant for cock sucking, and an ass… He growled. That ass made him want to write odes, and he was way more an action man than a word-slinger.
He stroked himself, base to tip, tugging his cock. His belly tightened, his balls aching a little in the best way. His heartbeat sounded loud in his ears.
He could see them, kneeling before him, kissing over the tip of his cock. They would be so beautiful -- Andy’s mouth candy pink, Channing’s a deeper red. They would turn to him, licking and sucking between kisses.
Teeth gritted, he jacked faster, working himself hard. He needed to come, needed to release the pressure deep in his belly. Bowie grunted, imagining fucking Channing while his boy licked Andy, tongue pushing deep into his ass.
He’d be able to see Andy’s green eyes. Watch him come.
He wanted to watch Andy’s face when he shot, feel the way Channing’s ass clamped down on him when he came. Fuck, that was good. Damn. His fingers brushed over the tip of his cock, rubbing the slit, working it.
That tiny electric shock was what he needed to send him over the edge. Bowie growled, his cock jerking as he came, his lovers’ names on his lips.
When the fantasy disappeared, he was left with memories, an address, and a flyer.
Suddenly Bowie wished he’d taken a quick commuter flight. He needed to see Channing as soon as possible. Thank God for the knock on the sleeper cabin door. Time for breakfast.
<
He couldn’t wait.
* * *
Channing lapped the strawberry juice off his fingers, humming at the sweet tartness. Yummy. It would go perfectly with that piece of bread he had left from this morning. Work had gone well -- he’d catered a dinner party for twenty, everything had gone off without a hitch -- even that damn white-wine jelly that wanted to melt at a hard look -- and now he was home, naked and standing in his kitchen, pondering a midnight snack.
Life was delicious.
He was reaching for the crusty, homemade bread when someone knocked at his door. He glanced around at the mess, pots and pans and some kind of sparkly ribbon that he’d obviously been playing with everywhere…
He frowned and padded over to the front door. “Who is it?”
The knock came again, and damn if there wasn’t something familiar about the impatient rap of knuckles on wood.
“Who the fuck is it?” He grabbed a baseball bat and unlocked the door. “Do you know what time it is?”
“It’s late.”
His mouth dropped open, and the bat clattered to the floor. Bowie Kittchner stood right there in front of him, wearing jeans and a dark-blue silk shirt, a pair of five-hundred-dollar boots finishing out the picture. Shaggy dark-gold hair. Eyes the color of Russian amber. Bowie.
“Uh-huh.”
Whoa.
Also, wow.
And uhn.
He shut the door. He couldn’t do this.
“Channing!” Bowie sounded amused, not angry. “I brought fish tacos. Figured that would convince you to give me ten minutes.”
He opened the door a crack, nose twitching. “Where from?”
“Via-Mar. I got you ceviche too.” The bag came up, waved just under his nose.
Channing purred, nostrils flaring. “Okay. Okay, ten minutes. Starting now.”
He stepped back, letting Bowie into his bungalow.
He loved that word. Bungalow. You could sing it if you --”Ow!”
The stinging slap to his hip made him jump, glaring at Bowie.
“If I only have ten you have to pay attention.” Bowie invaded his space, putting the tacos down on a table and opening a briefcase. “Did you send me this?”
“Nope.” He didn’t even have to look. He didn’t send things to Bowie. He didn’t speak to Bowie. They were estranged.
“Hey.” Bowie’s body blocked him when he reached for the bag of tacos. “I have nine minutes. I think you should take a look at this.” Bowie handed him the flyer.
He took it, eyes going wide, body reacting immediately. “Andy…”
Oh, Andy was stunning -- platinum blond where Bowie was gold, and the corset made his waist… Uhn. The Catnip thing was a little silly, but hey, a guy had to eat, right?
“Yeah. How is this okay?”
“How is what okay?” Channing just kept looking at him, at his hard, stacked body, his package in the tiny G-string, that smile.
“That Andy is stripping in Vegas! That you’re here and he’s there, and we’re not being mates!”
“We’re not mates.” He pushed the picture back at Bowie. “Go get him if you can. Where are my tacos?”
He wasn’t bonded to anyone. Period. He was a free agent.
“No. I have four and a half minutes.” Bowie touched him, hand on his shoulder. “I’ve seen what you do, Channing. What you told me I was a fucking freak for wanting.”
“I was young. Stupid.” He had the good graces to be ashamed of himself for it, and that made him honest. “Scared.”
“Well, none of us are young and scared now.” Bowie chuckled. “Stupid, maybe.”
“That hasn’t changed.” Channing looked at Bowie, letting himself eat up the fine, hot form, just for a moment. “What do you want, Bowie?”
“You. I want to be the one laying stripes on your ass, baby.” Those dark-gold eyes were lasers, burning into him, seeing all his secrets.
“I --” His whiskers twitched, purely metaphorically.
His cock was way less metaphorical.
“Come on, Channing. Give me more than the next minute, huh? Have your tacos, let me love on this.” Bowie slid that hand right down Channing’s back to his ass.
His back arched as he went on tiptoe, and he remembered suddenly that he was still naked. “That’s cheating.”
Hot, but cheating.
Erotic as fuck, but cheating.
Eye crossing, but cheating.
“I’m willing to cheat and steal. I’ve never lied to you, and I won’t start now.” The stiff denim of Bowie’s jeans brushed his cock.
“Bowie.”
Fingers traced circles on his lower back, making his knees weak.
“Say yes, baby. Then we can go get our Andy. Did you see how amazing he looked?”
“I did. He’s perfect.” Was he rubbing on Bowie? Was that a good idea? Surely it wasn’t, if all he really wanted was tacos. He did love tacos, but he loved the way his nerves fired even more.
This was Bowie though, and that way lay madness. He did scenes for pleasure and kept his emotions out of it. He saved his passion for cooking.
“I don’t… This isn’t my scene.”
“It should be.” Bowie leaned close, lips next to his ear. “It so should be, baby. You were made for this.”
His growl bubbled up in his chest, low and immediate, instinctive. Challenging.
This wasn’t how it worked with their kind. It was so much easier with a human who just didn’t know how messed up Channing was.
Bowie chuckled. “Gonna bite me, baby?”
“Don’t call me baby.” He did, though, sink his teeth right into Bowie’s shoulder. That was going to leave a mark in the silk for sure.
Growling, Bowie turned and flipped him, sending him crashing facedown on the floor. That heavy body came down on top of his, pressing against his ass and back. Teeth fastened on his nape, the shake he got none too gentle, dizzying.
He wanted to rowl, to push up and run. He also wanted to stay right there and let Bowie have him.
His nape was shaken again, and he yowled low, his eyelids going heavy. “Let me go.”
Fuck me.
Hard.
Over and over.
“No. No, I won’t make that mistake again, you know.” That heavy cock prodded his ass, even through Bowie’s jeans. “Mine.”
“Go home. Go to Andy.” His body was rejoicing, heart pounding as his hips pushed back, rasping his ass on denim.
“I came to you, baby. I’m not leaving.” Bowie spread him, one long thigh pushing up against his cock and balls.
Channing pressed back, gritting his teeth against the ache. “What if I have someone? A Dom?”
“You don’t. I’d smell him on you. You haven’t mated with anyone else.”
Bastard. So logical. “I hate you.” Okay, he’d regressed to pouty teenager. He was going to put that down to lack of oxygen from the big lug lying on him.
“No. No, you want me.” Bowie lifted them up just enough to reach under him and grab his cock. He fit in that huge hand perfectly, Bowie squeezing him hard enough that he gasped, spread.
Of course he didn’t hate Bowie, but how could he let this man back into his life?
He couldn’t. It was insane. Crazy. Wro --
Bowie’s thumb pushed into the slit of his cock and he roared with the sudden sting. The burn of it distracted him, sent him reeling. He could feel those sharp teeth on his neck, worrying his skin. Suddenly they were rocking, humping together on the floor as he drove into that firm hand.
Squeezing, Bowie gave him friction, sting, the perfect amount of encouragement. God, they fit so well together.
His fingers clawed at the ceramic tile, and damn, they should have done this on the bed. Bowie always did have to do things the fucking hard way. He wanted bare skin against his, but he didn’t want to lose that touch on his cock.
“Jesus Christ, baby. Hasn’t anyone shut that mind of yours up? Even for a second?”
“Not a chance.” Asshole.
“You think? I’m going to blow your mind.” Bowie pulled up, kneeling between Channing’s spread legs, and smacked his ass so hard he cried out. Bowie kept him in place, writhing, with his other hand settled on the small of Channing’s back, working the incredibly sensitive bundle of nerves there.
