Obedience 17
Author: timrod Rating: NC17 overall Pairing: Billie Joe/Mmmmike
Disclaimer: I don't own Green Day, but they are on my birthday list
Part seventeen of fuck knows. As many as it takes.
Goes hand in handcuffs with
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We soon got back into the swing of touring, only now we had the additional routine of the call home once or twice a day to speak to Mom and the monsters. Billie was also well and truly back on track both in his head and in bed - my gamble had paid off, thank the god of fuck, because blue is a very unflattering colour for my balls.
Now, every day revolved around the concerts. On a show day, breakfast was the law, lunch was flexible depending on local commitments, and dinner was at 5.00 - everything geared towards keeping us healthy and the show running to schedule. But on a free day like this one, it was hard to drag ourselves away from the computer and contact with home, although today, our Skype time was limited because Mom was taking the children to some relation or other for the weekend.
All things considered, we’d toughed it out pretty well. We were just over half way through this leg of the tour, with four weeks to go before the break for the holidays, and just eight days before we were reunited with the kids. Four shows. That’s all we had to get through before they came out to meet us, and we were as excited as they were getting about the build-up to Christmas. But for now, the backlash of their trip meant that we were left at 10.30 in the morning with no show to focus on, a further 400 mile drive, and no tour buddies to distract us from the sheer boredom of life on the road. Frankie’s fiancee had flown out earlier in the week, so he was pretty well permanently occupied, and most of the rest of the crew had wives and lovers with them, so we were left Mike-and-Billie-no-mates. It made everything a little weirder because we were travelling by day - a small problem with our bus had stopped us leaving the night before. Luckily, it happened on a no-show date, but it meant our precious day off being tourists wasn’t going to happen. We were stuck on the bus, fed up with watching mile after mile of nothing roll past from the lounge area, and all coffee’d out. We’d had breakfast, it was too early for lunch and the next break for the drivers to swap wouldn’t be for hours. We had to find something to occupy us before we went completely mad. When the last I love yous were said and Mom finally hung up, I closed the lid of the laptop with a loud click, and we were left staring into each other’s slightly sulky faces.
“Now what?”
“Poker?”
“No fun with just two of us, and anyway, you owe me a fortune already. Do you really want to be humiliated again?”
“Fair point.” Money never changed hands between us, but my virtual bank account showed a healthy balance every time we played. One day he’ll realise that I can see the reflection of his cards in his reading glasses. He flopped back across the sofa with a loud sigh, bright re-blonded hair falling like a halo where it escaped from his ever-present beanie. He’s going to need to have that surgically removed one day. “So, Genius, what do you suggest?”
“Well, there is something upstairs I want to show you …”
He giggled, the pitch not a million miles away from the tone of Glory’s laugh. “Yeah, been caught like that before. You trying to get into my pants, Michael?”
“Don’t have to try. You’re a fucking pushover.” As if to underline my observation, he rolled onto his stomach, managing to make his flannel shirt and the tee under it ride up and his jeans slip down a little at the same time, exposing the very top of his crack. “No sex, not this time. I got a bass line in my head.”
“Okay.” His eyes sparked, and he was on his feet in an instant, adjusting clothing, as he headed for the staircase mid-way along the bus. “Come on. What you waiting for?”
At the top of the stairs there was a tiny landing, our bedroom to the right, the spare room to the left, and that was where we headed. It was being used as storage space for all the stuff we’d picked up for the kids for Christmas, plus our guitars, and a couple of amps. Billie cleared the bed enough for us to sit, flicked on the old reel-to-reel tape recorder he always uses when he’s composing, and plugged in my bass, turning the volume down so that we didn’t frighten the shit out of our driver below. It was pretty much in tune, and I played the riff that had been running through my head for hours, watching his face for his reaction.
We goof about a lot. We act like we’ve never grown up, basically because we never had to - we were living our dream before we left high school - but if one thing makes Billie come over all serious, it’s music. His overgrown eyebrows almost met in the middle as he frowned, pulling inspiration from the notes I’d played and from the depths of his creative brain. I never get tired of watching him - Frankie has been quoted as saying it’s the closest thing to magic he has ever seen, and I agree. He stared at a blank wall for a while, hummed quietly, then picked up a battered acoustic and produced the perfect melody to fit my tune. He ran it through again, then gave me a subtle nod, and I played along with him, several times over before he was satisfied enough to switch off the tape recorder. Even after the music faded I could see he was still working on the newborn song, possibly adding harmonies, drum lines or other layers to it in his head, and I sat in silence, my bass at my feet, until he was ready to interrupt himself. It took a few minutes, but I wasn’t going anywhere. I could watch this process all day and not get bored. Finally, he propped his guitar against the wall, lifted his face to mine and smiled.
“It’s good, got a great feel to it. Love it …”
“Yeah, me too. You did it again, Billie.” I returned his smile, kissing him lightly on the cheek as a thank you for his approval. His reaction was adorable - a faint blush, a slight dip of his head that demonstrated how hard it is for him to take a compliment, even from me. It’s so far removed from the arrogant little shit on stage, but it’s the real Billie, the one I fell in love with almost thirty years ago. “How about lyrics? Got any ideas?”
“Not sure. Maybe, in my book.”
“I’ll go get it, yeah?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
I knew exactly where I would find it. There are two things he never trusts to checked luggage when we fly - his precious Blue guitar, and this book, which is more a collection of loose scraps of paper held together by a combination of tape, staples and a thick rubber band, all stuffed into a plastic wallet along with an assortment of pens. In it are the words to pretty well all of our songs, plus a hundred or more completed lyrics waiting for the right musical accompaniment, and page upon page of random phrases and words. It was, as always, in his backpack, and it took mere seconds to find it.
Once more at his side, I handed over the wallet, and together, we flicked through pages, skipping the entries with ticks by them, the ones we’d already used or he’d rejected in favour of an improved version, but nothing really stood out as appropriate. We killed a handful of miles trying, though, which was a bonus, but after checking every page twice, he snapped the rubber band around the battered cover, and laid himself down, eyes closed, I guessed all the better to direct his mind to writing something new. I lay next to him, almost falling off the edge of the limited amount of bed available to me, and I was instantly transported back to his room in 1988, equally short of space, and just as unsure of my next move.
It was as if he could hear what I was thinking. Vivid green reappeared for the briefest moment, and he brushed his lips over mine, sweet and soft, before switching back into deep concentration. The silence belonged to him - the last thing I wanted to do was break his train of thought - if there is one thing I have learned since being with Billie, it’s patience - and I let a few more minutes pass, until a faint noise escaped from him, and I realised he was trying and failing to suppress a yawn. Because I am not a sociopath, that made me do exactly the same thing.
We’d been up early to call Mom, now only three time zones away, and the show the night before had been a particularly physical one. Add to that the bus refusing to start, we were much later getting to bed than we wanted, and it was catching up on us both, slowly and sneakily. On a normal morning-after-a-gig, we rarely wake before noon and the over-heated bus with no natural ventilation was sapping what little energy we had, so the temptation to slip back under the sheets was strong. I made the suggestion that we crash for a while, and just a couple of minutes later, after closing the window blinds to shut out most of the glare of the day, I crawled into our regular bed next to a fully clothed Billie.
When I say fully clothed, I mean it. He had the decency to kick off his shoes, but he kept the flannel shirt on, and the head on the pillow next to me still had its curls crammed under the maroon beanie - I did at least take off my hoodie as a token gesture towards being appropriately dressed for sleep. Our privacy was assured, not only by the fact that we were travelling at fifty miles per hour, and that we were behind a locked door, but getting naked in the middle of the day seemed so odd. Yeah, even for me. He was turned away from me, and I couldn’t resist the urge to spoon him, one arm around his waist, the other wriggled under his neck, despite the fact that I knew his weight would make it go dead, but hey, it’s Billie and he loves cuddles. Come to mention it, i’m Mike, and I love a good hug too. He made a contented little purr, and within a minute or two, the drone of the engine and the stifling warmth of our private cell lulled hm to sleep.
My brain would not shut off. I still had the melody Billie had created just a few steps away running through my head, and a couple of times I had to concentrate hard to stop myself humming it out loud. It was almost infuriatingly catchy, and the fact that we had no words to go with it was niggling me. Add to that the fact that I was so damn hot in my tight-fitting day clothes, I was anything but relaxed, and now, as I had guessed it would, my fucking hand was tingling. I flexed my fingers to try and get the blood circulating again, my tensing bicep disturbing Billie enough to make him turn over onto his other side with a huge sigh. I took the chance to free my arm, hardly even daring to breathe in case I woke him fully, but his eyelids didn’t as much as flicker as he rolled into me, his head ending up wedged under my chin. I at least had my arm back, but face to face and in layers of clothing, the heat in the bed soon became overwhelming.
After what seemed like ages, his body sagged against me enough for me to risk moving. Billie needed his rest - our next two shows were on consecutive nights, and those are always hard on us, although the crew love the chance to have a day off from assembling or dismantling the stage. Carefully, I pulled the pillows from under my head and stuffed them between us, until they were supporting him sufficiently for me to ease myself out of bed. I stripped to my underwear at first, but before I climbed back in, I decided that they had to go, too - I needed to get naked for a shower before dinner, anyway. I then had the fun of trying to get my pillows back and take their place, but there’s a reason why they call me Ninja Mike.
Okay, nobody calls me Ninja Mike.
Cooler, and much more comfortable than before, I was soon as lost to the world as Billie was.
***
I woke with another blood circulation issue, only this time it wasn’t in my arm.
It was still just about light outside, the low winter sun striping the bed through the blinds, so I guessed it must be late in the afternoon. We’d probably missed the chance to see the outside world at the driver swap, and when I became aware of my surroundings, the air I dragged into my lungs to fuel a yawn was anything but the fresh stuff we both craved. It smelled of warm bodies, apple shampoo and a faint hint of the laundry detergent that Billie’s beanie had been washed in several weeks earlier. That was because he was once more jammed under my chin, forcing my head into an odd position, but what had disturbed me were his fingers, which were tugging at my balls. As a result, I had a pretty impressive example of middle-of-the-afternoon wood going on, and I lay still, enjoying the moment for as long as I could resist making some sort of encouraging noise. To be honest, that wasn’t long.
“Fuck, yes …” He leaned back to grin at me and the beanie slipped down to almost cover his eyes. I grabbed the chance to pull it off completely and dropped it to the floor, kissing his forehead before it became covered with freed curls. “Feels great.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m doing it to you, Dumbass.”
“You say the most romantic things.” We giggled together, he kissed my chest and I tried to grope his balls as a thank you. I’m well known for my manners. Trouble is, there was thick, resistant denim over a layer of soft jersey in my way, secured in place by a strip of studded leather. Ever helpful, he rolled his hips far enough away from me to allow me to start work on his buckle.
It never gets old, getting Billie naked. I’ve seen his nude body thousands of times, but the sight of his skin appearing from under his clothes still makes my insides feel like home to a hundred restless butterflies. It wasn’t an easy job, the bedding clinging to the cotton like it was trying to preserve his modesty, but he lost every last shred of that three decades ago. He wriggled and twisted until the pants were at his knees, then worked on getting those off completely using just his feet while I started on his top half.
After a lot of squirming, the deed was done, and there was no obstacle between me and his nipples, ass, but most tempting of all, his balls. They got a generous, gentle squeeze before I pulled the sheet back and took a good long look at my own personal playground. He was unnaturally pink after his semi-roasting, his flattened hair damp at the roots from that fucking beanie, but his eyes seemed to glitter more brightly because of his darkened skin, which I would swear went a deeper shade of crimson with a sweet, shy blush under my intense examination. He went from staring at me directly to looking up through his lashes, and murmured.
“Ya like?”
“Yeah. I like.”
“Ya want?”
I grabbed a buttock to pull him in closer. I admit it, Billie wasn’t the only pushover in the bed. “You know I do. So much for no sex.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been thinking about that.” He looked so serious, like he’d just been contemplating the solution for world peace. “We can’t do this on a show day…”
“Fuck, no.”
“… and the kids will be with us next week, so we gotta take the opportunity to do this kind of shit while we can.” His indecent proposal was paired with the most misleadingly innocent of smiles.
“Yeah, I get the point.”
Before his next comment, a pointy bit of me go some attention, and I swear I saw him struggle to stop himself making the obvious pun. “So, the question is, what do you want to do with me, Mikey?”
Where does a guy start with a question like that? The answer, in truth, was anything and everything, but being alone together would be cut short when we arrived at our next venue, where a special dinner date had been arranged. Our anniversary had prompted Frankie to finally pop the question to Sara, and although there had been a long and lavish engagement party, tonight was an intimate double-date to celebrate the upcoming wedding. I had no clue of the time, my phone buried in a pocket of some item of clothing piled on the floor, or even how close we were to reaching our destination, but it was safe to assume there would not be a lot of foreplay involved. That would have to wait until tonight. He muttered my name again, and I kissed him to give myself some thinking time.
Luckily, where sex is concerned, I have two thinking organs, the heat radiating from his body, his words, even his silences helping me decide. We were tasting and stroking whatever we could reach, which for me involved contact with his cheek and his erection, resting hot and hard against my palm. It felt so good, the way the velvety-textured, stretched flesh slid through my gentle grip, and he helped make my decision an easy one when he started getting carried away. I squirmed down the bed to give him the briefest of sucks on my way to retrieving the lube from the depths of my holdall, pressed it into his hand and fell onto all fours next to him.
He made the most fabulous noise as the meaning of my body language hit home. Before he opened the bottle, warm fingers skimmed over me, firm enough not to tickle, just as if he was trying to work out his next moves, because we all know what a novice he is in bed. The air was heavy with sexual tension already, the thrum of the engine a sort of echo for my heart, which was thumping hard against my ribs. It’s amazing how fast I flipped from interested to desperate, but that is precisely what I’d just done. He was touching me close to where I wanted contact, but never quite close enough, teasing, but so good. He knew what he was doing. He’d realised that the clock was not on our side, and this was the nearest thing to a warm-up I was going to get, and by god, it was working. So soon after I had woken up with him fondling me, I was begging for him, in a high, whiny voice that very few people have ever heard, my cock hanging heavy under me. He was sitting cross-legged, the lube cradled in the crease of his knee, and he kissed my lips as his circling fingers finally homed in on my hole. My whine dropped a few octaves, and the air filled with the faint scent of strawberries as he popped the cap from the bottle and drizzled me with it, like a chef adding oil to a pan.
For once, the lube was not a cold shock. The holdall was lying next to one of the heaters that ran around the room at ankle height, and so any reaction made was not to the chill, but to the sensual way in which Billie applied it, inside and out. He was deliciously thorough, and probably making as much noise as I was as he coated my skin. Within a minute, I was pushing back onto his fingers, and doing a pretty good impression of a total whore. The fingers that weren’t inside me were stimulating the sensitive flesh surrounding my ass, and it was nothing short of divine. My head hung low, my cock, too, swaying slowly in sync with his circles and the rhythm of the road, and every so often our eyes met and our faces crinkled into smiles. When he finally gave in to the temptation of a kiss, he took the chance to whisper his instructions into my mouth.
“You’re done. Lie down.”
Snatching another kiss, I unbalanced myself, half-rolling onto my back as the bus hit a series of ridges in the concrete, and yeah, the crap road surface was going to make this even more interesting. I pulled the pillows from his side of the bed to add to the heap of my own, spreading my legs sluttishly wide to make room for him to kneel between them. He set his features in his concentration face and filled his palm with lube, stroking it over his erection in a way that made us both gasp, then he shuffled forward until I was lifted onto his thighs, guiding his cock until our closeness made his hand redundant. My ass gave in to him instantly, his back hollowed and his stomach stretched as he savoured the glorious intensity of our physical union.
“Oh, god. Fuck …”
“Okay?”
“Okay. Perfect. Love you.”
“Love you more. Feels fucking awesome.”
He managed to close his mouth for a second, already panting after so little effort, but it was just for a second. Small, shallow thrusts started to build the friction we both needed, and in less than a minute I was breathing as heavily as he was. He sat straighter, pressing down on my hips to help the rhythmic slide of our bodies, and all I could do was lie back and enjoy it.
It wasn’t a hard, or deep, or desperate fuck to begin with. It was beautifully calm, controlled, the slight curve of his cock working perfectly in this position to give me the best, the most rewarding sensations. If we leaned in for a kiss, he nearly slipped out of me, but that just meant I had the deliciousness of him sliding in once more to nudge me a little closer to the edge. I was aware of every inch of my insides, in particular the small area that Billie kept coming back to, getting a louder and wilder reaction from me each time. Each and every stroke of my prostate made my cock lift or twitch, and soon my belly was spotted with clear, wet patches that glistened in the fading light, evidence that my body was preparing itself for what was to come.
Billie couldn’t take his eyes off me, nor me him for that matter. He murmured praise at each of my reactions, deceptively strong hands holding me in place half-in his lap as he rocked our bodies together. In a voice that was soft and low, he urged me to touch myself, but I didn’t want to be the one to spoil the party by coming too soon, and instead reaching for my cock, I stretched to caress his face, shaking my head. He covered my hand with his own and let his swollen bottom lip drag the length of my fingers, watching my reaction with wide eyes. A heartbeat later, his touch transferred to my straining prick, and I gave in a little too easily, sighing my permission for him to carry on, because it felt just too damn good to ask him to stop. He seemed to get as much enjoyment as I was from this intimate, purposeful act, and I could never deny him that.
Stroke by stroke, the pressure built in my balls, the bus creaking and lurching around us like a ship in high seas, and when one particularly bad patch of road made Billie almost topple, he gripped me harder. I barely had time to whimper a warning before hot, creamy strands began to zigzag over my belly, as surprised as he was by the suddenness of my climax. My muscles clenched around him repeatedly, making him catch his breath and it was absolute, utter heaven, hearing him coo my name in between noisy gulps of stale, over-heated air. Even when the stream stopped flowing, he continued to rub, sticky fingers once more loose around me, and I scanned his face for the signs that would betray his orgasm, now that he had no need to be the nice guy. The signs weren’t there. He was chewing on his lip, eyes sort of aimed at me, but it was as if he was looking through me, his jaw set square. Before I could muster the oxygen to ask if anything was wrong, he rose up from his haunches, flipped and folded my boneless body as if I weighed nothing, and I was as I was before the fuck began, ass-up on my knees.
It certainly was a case of no more mister nice guy. It was my turn to struggle to keep my balance on wobbly legs against a barrage of powerful lunges, his grasp not the steadying one I was expecting around my hips, but on my butt cheeks, squashing them together almost to the point of discomfort as he propelled himself into an drawn-out orgasm that sounded more like pain than pleasure. At the moment of his release, he squeezed harder, completely motionless apart from the twitching and flexing organ buried balls-deep inside me, and, weak from my own climax, I could do nothing but take it, forcing myself to relax as much as I could until his grip diminished, and his world came back into focus. I could hear him struggling to fill his lungs, and I let him slip from me so that I could lie flat and drag him down to recover in my embrace.
We lay together in near-silence, hot and tired and stupidly happy. Our kisses were snatched, short, spluttery affairs, slotted in between wheezing breaths, that became gentle laughter when he apologised, unapologetically. I punished him by gnawing on a hickey I’d left on his neck a day or so earlier, making him buck and writhe in my arms, his cries reaching a crescendo when I finally broke the skin and tasted blood. I licked at the spot until the taste faded, and worked my way from his neck to his lips, where I calmed us both with more kisses, to the point where, in other circumstances, we would have slowly drifted back to sleep. It would have been easy - the sun had apparently dropped below the horizon, restricting vision to shadowy outlines, but there was one more reason why we couldn’t close our eyes. The bus had stopped.
It took a while to realise that we were no longer moving, but still we lacked the motivation or the energy to get up, until my phone started vibrating under the heap of laundry on the floor. I prised myself away from Billie’s sublime, sticky frame and found it after a little bit of delving, but not quick enough.
It was Frankie, but by the time I’d worked out who it was that had called, he’d left a voicemail. I put the phone on speaker, and laid it on the sheet between us to listen to the message.
“Hey, guys. Your bus was rockin’, so I didn’t go knockin’ but the car’s here to take us to dinner in thirty minutes if you could possibly drag yourselves out of bed. Sounded good from where I was. Hope you filmed it.”
*******