Control Freak

The bristle of whiskers against my bare shoulder draws me from my sleep. Cool fingers graze my hip, forming slow, tight circles. Reminding me why I sleep naked. This is a recent thing, my bedding in the buff. Mark drove me to it. He gave me two choices: Go au natural at night or he would take a razor blade to my pajama bottoms.

Two pairs of pants later, I learned my lesson. The big fink has yet to reimburse me.

I've found that the one drawback to our sleeping arrangement is traveling to the bathroom in the middle of the night. It's a real gamble. I can either wet the bed or freeze my ass off.

"You awake?"

I ignore his question. It's more fun that way.

Mark whispers, "I know you're awake." His breath tickles the hair on the back of my neck. "You're not snoring your head off like you usually do."

If I position my elbow just right, I can probably catch him in the ribs. Knock the wind right out of the old windbag.

His hand slides up my side, then down across my chest. His strong, thick arm wraps around me. Holding me tight to his body. This, too, is recent. Until my… relationship with Mark, I never considered myself a cuddling type of person. I still don't and neither does he.

Mark is a heat sponge.

"God, you're so warm!" The man's got his whole front plastered against my back. Which is how I know he's slept naked, too. "I just can't believe how… warm you are."

"That's because you're cold-blooded." I can't resist taunting him. It's what makes us special. Because I'm sure I'm the only one both willing to put up with him and brave enough to test his patience. "It's so chilly in here, my balls are hiding in my throat. And if you make a dirty joke, I am kicking you out of my bed."

"Empty threat." The press of his lips on the back of my neck is the only thing keeping me from proving him wrong.

Mark is a toucher. A quality I usually do not tolerate. Simply because I don't like to be touched. Not even a congratulatory clap on the back. If it weren't for my job – which allows me to chokeslam and clothesline folks to my heart's content – I would probably be about two steps from living in one of those plastic bubbles.

Mark is different. Partly because he doesn't' give a damn about my "issues". If they're not his issues, then he's not going to bother caring. That's my brother. If I thought I could get rid of him, I would. The only reason I haven't sold him to the gypsies is I actually like it when he touches me.

To clarify, Mark is not my first lover. I've had my fair share, despite my aesthetic shortcomings. That being said, I'm used to being in the driver's seat. Giving the orders. Running the show. From the top.

Mark does not bottom. Not now, not ever. And, until recently, I used to be the same way. I suppose it was inevitable. We can't both be top dog. However, that doesn't mean I'm going to make it easy for him. If he wants my ass, then he has to work for it. Considering the way he's grinding into my back, there isn't a doubt in my mind how urgently he wants it.

Mark is not a morning person. Yet he is always up for morning sex. Go figure.

"If you're cold," I suggest, "you could always turn the air down." It's sad how I have to remind him of these things.

His grinding subsides to subtle rocking. Against my neck, he mumbles, "I like having the room cold and you hot. It balances things out."

"Anybody ever tell you you're a few elephants short of a circus?" Arguing with my brother is one of my favorite ways to pass the time. We cover a lot of road in our line of work. All work and no play makes Kane much more demented than usual.

Mark's gently nips turn to longer, harder bites. Applying just enough pressure to leave indentations, but not break the skin. This is his specialty. Straddling the border between intense pleasure and extreme pain. I trust him not to go too far. Explaining bloody sheets and pillowcases to the staff would expend too much energy.

Which is why Mark has to go to the trouble of mussing up the spare bed before the cleaners come in. Two men sharing a room with only one bed appearing slept in would raise a few eyebrows. Including Vince McMahon's. Our relationship is no one's business but our own. We intend to keep it that way as long as possible.

Lying back-to-front leaves me at a disadvantage. He gets to grope me all he wants while I'm left empty-handed. This will not do.

It takes a moment to release myself from his kung-fu grip. Mark's always had a possessive streak. Hoarding all the good candy for himself at Halloween. Stealing the prize out of the cereal box before I could get to it. Never sharing his favorite toys with anyone. I suppose I fall into that toy category. Mark loves to play with me. Since we don't have a show tonight and the weather has been absolute garbage, I have a feeling we'll be playing throughout the day.

There are worse things we could do.

As soon as I'm settled, his arm locks around my waist again. I welcome the cool press of his chest against my own. In bed, Mark has no sense of personal space. If it were possible, he would simply assimilate my mass into his being. I figure that's the next step of his possessive nature. Complete consumption.

To prove my point, he attacks my lips. Kissing Mark is a full-body experience. It goes beyond lips and teeth and tongues. There's the stroking of any and all skin within reach. The clutching of hair and arms and shoulders. Our legs rub and bump, sliding up, down, and between. Ultimately, I end up throwing a leg over his hips, forcing him onto his back.

Upon coming into contact with his hard cock, my grip on reality momentarily slips. It's like an electric current running up my spine. Nothing should feel this good. Brain busy riding a wave of bliss, my body works on autopilot. Sandwiched between our bodies, our erections rub together. Striving for that perfect combination of friction and tempo.

Strong hands grip my hips. Stilling my motion. Breaking our kiss, I glare down at him. He was the one to wake me up. He was the one to start all this. Why was he putting on the brakes just as I started to have fun?

"Not like this," Mark says, reading my expression.

Like I'm about to dictate what we will and will not be doing. "Don't you like it?" A quick swivel of my hips delivers the answer. His jaw drops open and his eyes roll back.

Regaining control of himself, Mark's fingers dig into my hips. "You know I love it. Which is why you did that. You get feisty when you don't get your way."

"I'm not the only one, genius. Just least week you almost introduced Christian's head to his ass when he didn't say 'bless you' after you sneezed."

"That's different," corrected Mark. "I was teaching the boy some manners."

"And I'm sure that industrial-strength wedgie you gave him really did the trick."

The suddenness of the slap on my behind makes me jump. Mark plays mind-reader again. "Every bit of sass you give me earns you a smack on the ass." He actually has the nerve to wag his finger at me. I wonder how funny he'd find it if I bent it backwards a little. I wouldn't break it. Just bend it far enough to make his eyes water.

Another slap. Sternly, he warns, "I know what you're thinking."

I can only imagine the bright red handprints being left with every strike. Mark loves to make an impression. No one questions the bruises sometimes found on my arms and shoulders. People expect the two of us to be rough on each other. We're together nearly all the time, now. There's hardly enough elbow room for one of us. Plus, we're not the most stable of personalities. They chalk the marks up to simple sibling rivalry.

If they were to look closer… Take a peek beneath my clothes… My hips, my thighs, the backs of my knees… All adorned with the same signature: four fingers and a thumb. What would they make of that?

Let's be honest. Mark is a heavy-handed brute. Inside the ring. Outside the ring. It makes no difference. Consumed by passion, Mark often forgets his strength. The strength of his hands as well as his hips. Even when he's trying to be gentle, he can still pound me through the mattress.

Not that I ever want him to change. We're cut from the same cloth, him and me, so I can take it. Which is why Mark's the only man I would bottom for. There's nothing effeminate about it. Mark doesn't treat me like his bitch. Even though he knows he can get me to do just about anything.

I'm the man he loves. Plain and simple.

The light scratch of his fingernails up and down my thigh draws my attention. "Penny for your thoughts," he says.

If this were some overly-stylized romance novel cover come to life, Mark's hair would be an auburn corona on his lily white pillow. His eyes deep black pools set under the regal, golden arch eyebrows. Reality is seldom as kind. The man's hair resembles a bird's nest and as far as his eyes are concerned… Well, they are dark… And his brow does have a bit of a regal look… Not that I'm about to tell him that. The last thing Mark needs is a bigger ego.

I respond, "I thought you could read my mind."

"You were too deep in your own head." His hand cups my face, setting off an automatic wave of self-consciousness. I know how he feels about my defect – viewing it as only the slightest of imperfections – and it takes some time getting used to. Thumb stroking my lips, he whispers, "Tell me."

Kind. Gentle. Loving. Not words often ascribed to the Undertaker. Or myself, for that matter. It doesn't come naturally to us, given our history. We were brought up to be the stuff of nightmares. I'm sure if my father caught wind of our relationship, the news would give him a heart attack. Perhaps I should drop him an email… with a picture attachment.

It's hard to fight the urge to pull away and cover myself. I know Mark won't allow it. Instead, I kiss his palm and his wrist. Working my way up his arm. His fingers tug at my hair as I lean forward. We line up perfectly. Two puzzle pieces clicking together. Nose to nose. Chest to chest. Hearts practically beating in tandem.


Drawn like magnets, our lips meet again. Between pecks, Mark repeats, "Tell me."

No more thinking, I decide. No more discussions or arguments. I just want to be with him. Lose myself in the physicality of our bond. "Play with me, big brother."

This is my favorite time. Our alone time.

I feel Mark's lips curve into a smile. His fingers twist and pull in my hair. It's no surprise when his hand finds his way to my backside. Nothing like a bit of heavy petting to brighten up a work week. A stinging slap catches me off guard. His hand is quick to soothe the ache.

"Too rough?" he asks.

I blink at him, amazed, slightly alarmed, and a little light-headed. It takes me a moment to realize I've stopped breathing. A moan slips past my lips. Followed by a soft whimper as I draw in air. I had not pegged Mark as a spanker. Or myself as someone who might enjoy such treatment.

Questing fingers travel down the crease between my ass cheeks. Once… Twice… Three times across my hole. So sensitive to the attention he gives it, I can't control my shivers. I wonder if I'll ever get used to him touching me all the time.

"Kane, you're shaking." Mark worries my earlobe between his teeth. "Are you alright?"

Am I alright? His husky voice vibrating through my body sets me humming like a plucked guitar string. My scalp tingles with every scrape of his fingernails. Those adventurous digits continue to stroke my opening, occasionally pausing to press inside. Only a fraction of an inch, yet still deep enough to keep me interested. The heat of his open-handed slap lingers on my cheek. A reminder of that brief, fleeting moment where agony met bliss.

Am I alright? No. No, I am certainly not alright. I love this man more than is safe or reasonable. He has me in the palm of his hand – quite literally – and there's no going back to the way things used to be.

I lean back, tossing away the covers. Welcoming the blast of cool air against my overheated, over stimulated skin. It's time to take the reins and get back in control.

While Mark still wears a confused look on his face, I maneuver a quick one hundred eighty degree turn. Until Mark's hard cock is inches from my lips. In the past, before Mark…

It's difficult to recall the period of time before this madness began. That there had ever been others to share my bed. I never gave them my heart, though. Never allowed them this amount of trust. Only Mark. My brilliant lunatic of a brother.

Those less than significant others perceived blow jobs as a means to an end. A way to get the ball rolling, so to speak. When it came to "returning the favor", I treated them in kind. I went through a long line of half-assed cocksuckers before stumbling onto Mark. If I had known all it would take was a bottle of liquor and one hell of a dry spell…

One stroke is all it takes to have Mark bucking on the mattress. Hot, thick, and throbbing. Using my hands and mouth, I worship him. Drawing him as deep as I can. Savoring the taste and texture that is uniquely his.

"Is this the way you wanna play?"

His voice barely penetrates the fog surrounding my brain. I am, essentially, deaf and blind to all things outside my current task. Lips sliding along his shaft. Hands massaging his balls. Tongue flicking across the top and along the edge of that helmeted head. All that action leaves little room for unnecessary thought.

The resounding smack of flesh against flesh fills the room. It's his palm bouncing off my ass. Gripping the sheets, I gasp. Struggling for breath as that blessed concoction of pleasure and pain sizzles through every nerve and fiber. Blazing a path up and down my spine. Seconds pass like hours as my heart finally stutters back into its normal rhythm. Blood pounds in my ears, nearly drowning out Mark's devious chuckle.

This is an evil man I'm dealing with. I must never forget that.

Groaning around that glorious thickness down my throat, I barely have time to recover before a merciless series of slaps rains down on my backside. Spaced between each blow is the possessive caress of my injured flesh. I'm so far gone, I don't even remember taking Mark out of my mouth. His slick shaft brushes against my cheek, my hand continuing to slide along its length.

A solitary finger slides deep inside me and my whole world blows apart. I bite my lip in an attempt to stifle my cries, but they cannot be held back. All that pressure and exertion breaks the skin. That final blast of pain pushes me over the edge. Blood trickling down my chin, I come.

The bristle of whiskers against my cheek draws me back to consciousness. My vision is blurry. It takes me a moment to focus. Mark looms overhead, face pale, regal eyebrows knit together.

"Kane?" I notice a slight tremble in his voice. "You back with me?"

"Didn't know I went anywhere." Speaking is a difficulty. Probably because my bottom lip throbs fiercely and my head feels like it's full of oatmeal. I'd really like to go back to sleep.

"Don't close your eyes," he says. Again, there's that wobbly note of concern. "I didn't think you'd ever open them again and I'd like to stare into those baby blues for a little while longer."

The man makes no sense. "I'm gonna have to blink sometime." My remark is rewarded with a kiss. The pain in my bottom lip keeps me from enjoying it fully. It also reminds me of the other pain I endured. "Mark?"

"Yes, baby?"

If anyone else ever called me baby, I'd shove a stick of dynamite up their ass and blow them to kingdom come. "My butt really hurts."

"I know, baby. I'm sorry." He kisses my forehead since my lips are currently off-limits. "I guess I got a little carried away. I promise to make it up to you."

It's relaxing, the way his fingers massage my scalp. Makes sleep harder to fight off. However, I'm not about to tell him to stop. "Does that mean you'll wear the outfit?"

If Marks' face got any paler, I'd have to check for a pulse. "Kane…"

"The outfit, Mark." I press the subject only because I know I can get away with it.

As expected, he crumbles under the pressure. Us lying naked next to each other doesn't hurt, either. "Fine," Mark grumbles. "I'll wear the damn outfit. But you will not be taking any pictures!"