Fic: LowLives part 4
LowLives
Word Count: 3726
NC-17 for sexual scenes. it's a little dub-con, because of drug use and misunderstood identities.
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It's almost 7 pm by the time we leave, and the sky outside has darkened to near black, with the barest glow coming from the west over the city. The sun's already set, and the air is getting colder by the second.
I walk alone along the streets that took me there in silence.
There's someone following me. The streetlights hum overhead as I wait for the lights to change, and I can feel their eyes on me.
If someone attacks me, kills me, I've got no I.D, just my cellphone, Arthur's notebook, and the package of po in my pocket - I didn't want anything incriminating on me when I first went to see Vincent. If the police ever found my body they might call Arthur, but more likely they'd just take the name out of the back of the jacket - A. Hayes - and file my brother's death report, a junkie and a thief, with no one to care.
Thankfully, it's not a threatening gaze, the kind that raises the hairs on the back of your neck and sends your spine tingling, just one of quiet observation. I don't know where they are, but I'm not willing to look around to find out.
The little crossing man lights up and it chirps at me to let me know I'm supposed to walk, but instead of continuing west to my house, I turn south and make my way back to Arthur's apartment through dark alleys and narrow cross streets, not making a show, but slowly figuring out exactly whether of not it's a coincidence that I felt those eyes.
It's not. Whoever it is, they know where I'm headed, which means they know where Arthur lives. So, someone from the warehouse. I'm glad I didn't just pass it off as paranoia, glad I didn't lead them back to Elle and Jack and Nate and Arthur, especially.
I take a short detour to a gas station convince store within view of the front of Arthur's apartment building, cursing myself for not grabbing the keys I'd seen in a little ashtray by the front door when I'd left the first time. But I hadn't planned on coming back. I use the extra time to buy milk and bread, peanut butter and jelly, and a six-pack of cheap beer. Classy dinner, right there.
I time it perfectly. As soon as the cashier rings me up from behind his bullet-proof glass, there's an old lady coming down the pavement. Someone stirs outside when I exit the store and sinks into the shadows behind a parked car. I cross the street, looking back and forth for any cars, and just as the old lady's unlocking the door, I jog up to catch the door, holding open for her with a polite smile on my face.
She smiles, recognising my face, and nods to me in thanks. She's got hearing-aids in, so I don't say anything, because she looks like she still can't hear very well anyway.
I linger in the door for a moment and stare into the shadows across the street making sure my follower knows I know they're there.
Then I close the door between us, and pound my way up the stairwell. The bolt of the door is shit, obviously, but the chain guard works well enough, and I slide it in place just in time for the buzzer to go off.
I take a moment to catch my breath, watching the intercom like it'll bite me, and determine to ignore it until I've put down my groceries, though whoever is down there must be leaning on the button.
"Who is it?"
"It's me."
The intercom is crap, and crackles with silences and static, but I know it's a man at least. I'm obviously supposed to know more than that, which, fuck that, it's been a long fucking day and I really don't want to deal with whoever that is.
"What do you want?"
"Can I come up?" and I can just barely hear that accent. Fuck, it's him. My eyes slide shut and I sort of just collapse against the wall with my finger on the intercom button.
Do you need to? I want so badly to ask it, just leave him out there in the cold and pass out on Arthur's futon. But I still don't know what they're supposed to be like together - at the warehouse I could pass it off as professional distance, possibly brought on by the new makeover - but in private, it might be anything. Arthur might fuck boys - we've shared appreciation for them before when we go out drinking together, but he's never really expressed any interest in picking them up, so I don't even know.
"Give me a second," I say instead, and the intercom goes silent.
I drag my jacket off my shoulders, throwing it down on the little table by the door. The keys are exactly where I remembered them being, and I make a mental note to take them with me the next time. I pull out the bag of po that Vincent gave me - not Arthur's stash, I might need to show I've been appreciating it properly - and take another hit. This way, any irregularities can be blamed on the drug, and not on my pretending to be my brother.
It burns through me like a wildfire in my veins, filling my head like a balloon and I feel like I might pop, giddy and breathless and fucking high. All the aches and pains that have been plaguing me all day just fade away, leaving glowing embers in their place, warming my skin from inside. The euphoria is so much stronger, so much more and I'm on the floor when I come back to myself, on my back writhing like there's bugs all over my skin and I just want to scratch them off.
I can't breathe. I pull off my over shirt, but I'm too hot, I'm burning, sweltering, melting. I'm being boiled in a pot, or maybe I'm just made of ice, lying out to thaw, but whatever it is, it's too much, and I drag my t-shirt over my head, messing up my hair, and throw it over to the futon. I'm aroused again, which is probably the most disorienting part about it. If I get hard every time I take a hit off this thing, it's gonna inevitably lead to some awkward situations
I stumble to my feet and balance against the wall, groping at the intercom for the right button. I can't see it, there's auras and haloes all around everything, and the little green light keeps blinking at me, telling me something.
I don't know Morse code, I tell it, so it buzzes instead.
Then there's a knock on the door, and I have to figure out how the chair guard works again, fumbling with it as it keeps trying to get away, sneaky slippery little bastard.
By the time I manage to get the door open the hit's mellowed a bit and I can actually focus on the man in front of me.
"Fuck. You did Vincent's new batch, didn't you?"
I grumble - something. It might have been English.
"Oh, hell. You're gonna be useless all night, aren't you? I told him it was too strong for you."
"Y' fuckin' know 'bout me?" I ask, listing to the right. The world's a bit wobbly still. I feel a bit drunk more than high, but it's still pretty new to me - considering I started using today. I hit the support of his arm before I can go too far, and then he's hoisting me upright and dragging me over to the closest of the two chairs in the apartment, letting me flop down gracelessly.
I feel his eyes running over the bare skin of my chest. It's mottled with pale blue and purple marks from Alyssa's various body parts, and I'm thin and muscled, and I know I'm hot, but he's not really paying attention to that. His eyes are fixed for a moment a little lower, before he drags them up again.
I'm still hard. He can probably see my dick through the stiff fabric of my jeans, and it's weirdly arousing with the added edge of the drug. I'd come on to him if I wasn't so sure he was probably a murderer.
He sits in the other chair across the little fold-down table, and crosses his legs like he's in a business meeting.
"So," I say, concentrating really hard on not slurring. "Did Vincent send you? Tell you to follow me?"
He looks startled, but not in a way that means I'm off the mark - he just wasn't expecting me to be so perceptive.
"Saw you talking," I clarify.
"I didn't know you'd noticed."
"I don't think you know me all that well."
He laughs. "No, Arthur, I guess not."
"So what?"
"He was interested. You're different, you know. He wanted to know what happened."
I try to nod my head, but it's heavy so I just leave it there, chin on my chest. "Took a personal weekend. I'm just surprised you're being so honest about it."
He threads his hand through my hair and props my head back up. I glower at him, and force my muscles back into submission enough to sit up straighter in my chair, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable sprawled and limp like I was.
"Well, you were good enough to catch me tailing you."
He doesn't elaborate.
"And?"
"You've never been before. I got curious."
"You fuckin' followed me before?"
He smiles, and it's not as nice as his laugh, cold and thin lipped and he looks dangerous.
"Early on, yes. Needed to know what you did on your off time." He casts his eyes up and down my body again, and looks disdainful. "And that hasn't changed much. I'll be honest, Arthur, you've never been even remotely interesting to me until today."
I flip him off, and glare harder, but don't say anything because this means there really wasn't much social interaction between them, which will make it easier for me to improvise. "Maybe you just weren't paying attention."
"Could be," he nods, "but I'm thinking not. I think you've gone and cleaned up your act for some reason, and I don't know what it is - don't think I want to know, not right now, it's too much fun. But rest assured - I'll be watching you."
He gets up, pushing off with his hands on his knees, a heavy, but practised movement - there's an injury somewhere there, nothing when he walks, but when he stands, that shift is difficult. I can see it. I know it's there. When he was a teenager, that's when he got it.
And all of a sudden I'm scared.
I reach out and snag his wrist as he goes to pass me and leave Arthur's shitty apartment. He jerks to a halt, looking down at me with wide eyes. There's no excuse for it, I don't have any reason to pull him back, but I stand up, holding him in place. His pupils are enormous and shining with just the barest strip of grey encircling them - we're about the same height, so there's nowhere else to look.
And what he can see in my eyes, well it's probably more than I'd like, considering the way his face changes, growing concerned and alarmed.
"What?" he asks, barely above a whisper. He doesn't need to speak any louder, what with how close we are.
"I - I don't. I can't."
"Is it the po? Is it bad?"
I shake my head and nearly topple over. He catches me again - it's becoming a thing, isn't it, fuck - and I don't even try to think beyond basic instinct when I pull his face down to mine and sink my teeth into his bottom lip. He makes a startled noise, arms loosening abruptly, but he tightens them before I can fall and squeezes me tighter against his chest, sucking my tongue into his mouth.
He's a good kisser.
I'm sloppy, disoriented, but I straighten myself and grip his jaw with my hands, digging my short fingernails into the hair at the base of his head and he opens his mouth with a groan, letting my tongue free to thrust up against his palate and explore over his gums. It's hot and slick, and he tastes like Chinese food and whiskey.
I draw back long enough to breathe and run my tongue over his full bottom lip, swollen already, and it's enough to make him pull back.
"What the fuck is this?"
It's not homophobia, he's not surprised by my being gay, but it's a serious question.
"I don't care," I say, looking at his nose. It's straight and broad and looks good on his face. "I'm just - I need this, just let me get you off, and then you can leave, okay?"
He looks speechless, like no one's ever offered him a free orgasm before.
"Well?" I ask. I'm going for impatience, because if he stops and thinks long enough, he'll notice the trembles in my hands and then he'll ask more questions. Also, it's easier to count it off as unwanted drug-induced arousal if I act as indifferent to the end results as he seems to be.
"Okay - okay, all right, then," he says, and then his hands are sliding down to cup my ass through my jeans, and they're big and strong, squeezing and kneading as he leans in at just the right angle for a deep, long, wet kiss, pushing his tongue into my mouth with a steady rhythm that matches the way he pulls on my hips and starts grinding against me.
The drug, which had just been humming at the back of my mind since I regained control of myself, all of a sudden sings along my veins. I shudder all over and he shoves a leg between mine, pressing up and pulling on my ass until I'm practically humping his thigh, hard and strong and hot, and gasping into his mouth.
I'm riding the seam of my jeans and it's rough through my boxers, but it feels so good, balls pressed up tight against my pelvic bone and it hurts, but I can't get enough, pleasure racing through my cramping thighs and up the tightened muscles of my back.
Somehow or other we end up horizontal on Arthur's futon, and he's big and heavy and hot on top of me, gazing down at my face with something like wonder etched across his features.
We're just rubbing off on each other, but I wanna feel his hands on me, thick fingers and warm palm, so I grab one of his hands and pull it to my mouth, sucking and licking, getting it wet and nibbling on the pads of his fingers just to make him squirm.
I pull off with a sucking noise, and he closes his eyes, his mouth dropping open, and he shivers, then tears it from me, tracing wet trails down my chest, over my nipples, which fuck, I hate it when guys do that because I'm never prepared for how good it feels. He smooths his hands down my ribs and side, sending my nerve endings tingling with pleasure. My back arches hard, and my hips work in frantic little circles, but he lifts up and pushes me back down with his other hand, pinning me in place.
He fumbles when he gets to my fly, working it opened one handed, but soon enough it's open and then he's shoving his hand down my pants, past my dick to hold my balls in his hot, strong palm, squeezing gently and rhythmically, making me writhe.
He does that long enough for me to get used to it, long enough for me to get my bearings and start reaching for the button on his pants, and then yanks his hand up and closing it over my dick.
Oh, God, if I thought his hands were big earlier.
It's huge, wrapped all the way around it, spanning the whole length, jerking with quick efficient movements, and fuck if that's the size of his hand, how big must his cock be? I can't even think, my spine arches until the muscles in my back seize, thighs burning with how wide I've spread them around his hips, just want to spread them wider. I clench down on nothing, just imagining how he would feel pressed all the way up inside me, the burn and stretch, how deep he'd go, and how good he'd be.
"Are you close?" he asks, and his voice is wrecked, all hoarse and gravelly.
Now, I'm normally quiet in bed. I don't talk much or moan a lot. Most people just go with it, but I've been told it's a bit unsettling, had guys too nervous to perform and girls a little weirded out, not knowing if they're doing things right.
But when he speaks, breathing hot and loud in my ear, I just start fucking wailing, "Oh, god, oh fuck, yeah, yeah, so good - I'm so fucking close, fuck yes, aah - aah - ahh" whimpering and moaning like I'm in a fucking porno.
He swoops down and bites hard over my collarbone, and his hand stops jerking me off, and squeezes and it's tight, too tight, so fucking tight I'm left gasping and moaning into his hair, and then he shifts his grip and goes even tighter, swiping his thumb over the head, and I fucking come like a gunshot, almost throwing him off with how hard my hips buck up into his hand. I throw my head back against the ratty pillows hard enough to make myself see stars - though that might be the mind-staggering orgasm this man just wrenched out of me - babbling constantly until it just drones off into a wordless howl I can barely hear over the rush of blood through my ears. My vision whites out and I think he bruised my dick, but I've never had such a good orgasm, it reaches down into the pit of my stomach, wrenching my guts into knots and then liquifying them, flooding my body with heat and sparks and fire.
My muscles don't want to work right when I can finally open my eyes, I can just gasp blankly at the water stained ceiling. My head is lolling back, and it must be really awesomely attractive, but
"Oh my God," I say out loud, and don't even care. "Wha - oh, Jesus."
I'm vaguely hoping he'll make some sort of cheesy joke, about thanks for the compliment, but you can call me sir, but he doesn't. He snuffles a laugh into my throat against the obscene mark he's just drawn up on my skin, and flexes his hips against my leg once, letting me know he's still hard and wanting.
"I just. Fucking give me a minute, yeah?"
When I manage to get back enough motor function I push him flat back on the futon, crawling over him with my jeans still open to straddle his knees, pinning his legs down with my weight. I undo his pants finally, good quality wool slacks, but not so expensive to mourn over in the morning from the wetness seeping into them from his arousal, and reach in. He's a sticky mess beneath his classy black boxer-briefs, straining and pulling at the fabric until I tug them up and over him.
I bend over and he makes a choked noise that trails off into a deep satisfied groan as I take him all the way in, lips stretched wide around the width of his cock.
His hips twitch so I fit my hands over his hipbones, well cut and hard, and bury my nose in the damp heat of his pelvis. I bob my head, dragging up and pressing down, groaning around the hard flesh invading my mouth, until he's shuddering and arching and coming with a shout, grinding his hips against my face.
His come is bitter and thick going down, and burns strangely.
I'm half asleep by the time he's got all his clothes back in the right order, curled up on the futon. He turns to look at me, as he tucks his shirt tails into the back of his slacks.
"Well, I'll see you around then, Arthur?"
Oh, hell. I just had sex with a man on my brother's bed, in my brother's apartment, using my brother's name, while high on my brother's drugs, with my brother's co-worker. Well done, me. That's not weird at all.
I sit up, trying to cover how incredibly awkward I feel all of a sudden. "Will you be at the warehouse tomorrow?" I'm really trying to not sound clingy and desperate for attention, but there's no other way to ask it really.
He chuckles like he knows what's in my head, and says "No, I've got work out of town for the next few days - I'll be back on Thursday, if all goes well."
"I'll see you then." I fold my arms over my knees and rest my head on them, gazing up at him.
He pauses, a strange look crossing his face. "Wish me luck?"
So I figure what the hell. I shove off, standing on wobbly legs and patter across the lumpy surface of the futon until I'm right at the edge, looking down at him from a few inches higher. I reach out to cup the back of his head, and pull his face up to mine, slotting my lips over his and pushing my tongue deep into his mouth. I still taste like his dick, like his come, and he licks back into my mouth with a pleased groan, but I don't let him take control of the kiss, using my grip to push his head almost painfully back, so I can ravage his mouth.
When I'm panting, unable to breathe, and he is too, I pull back, and whisper against his lips.
"Good luck."
He leaves, and I still don't know his name.
-
previous / next
Word Count: 3726
NC-17 for sexual scenes. it's a little dub-con, because of drug use and misunderstood identities.
-
It's almost 7 pm by the time we leave, and the sky outside has darkened to near black, with the barest glow coming from the west over the city. The sun's already set, and the air is getting colder by the second.
I walk alone along the streets that took me there in silence.
There's someone following me. The streetlights hum overhead as I wait for the lights to change, and I can feel their eyes on me.
If someone attacks me, kills me, I've got no I.D, just my cellphone, Arthur's notebook, and the package of po in my pocket - I didn't want anything incriminating on me when I first went to see Vincent. If the police ever found my body they might call Arthur, but more likely they'd just take the name out of the back of the jacket - A. Hayes - and file my brother's death report, a junkie and a thief, with no one to care.
Thankfully, it's not a threatening gaze, the kind that raises the hairs on the back of your neck and sends your spine tingling, just one of quiet observation. I don't know where they are, but I'm not willing to look around to find out.
The little crossing man lights up and it chirps at me to let me know I'm supposed to walk, but instead of continuing west to my house, I turn south and make my way back to Arthur's apartment through dark alleys and narrow cross streets, not making a show, but slowly figuring out exactly whether of not it's a coincidence that I felt those eyes.
It's not. Whoever it is, they know where I'm headed, which means they know where Arthur lives. So, someone from the warehouse. I'm glad I didn't just pass it off as paranoia, glad I didn't lead them back to Elle and Jack and Nate and Arthur, especially.
I take a short detour to a gas station convince store within view of the front of Arthur's apartment building, cursing myself for not grabbing the keys I'd seen in a little ashtray by the front door when I'd left the first time. But I hadn't planned on coming back. I use the extra time to buy milk and bread, peanut butter and jelly, and a six-pack of cheap beer. Classy dinner, right there.
I time it perfectly. As soon as the cashier rings me up from behind his bullet-proof glass, there's an old lady coming down the pavement. Someone stirs outside when I exit the store and sinks into the shadows behind a parked car. I cross the street, looking back and forth for any cars, and just as the old lady's unlocking the door, I jog up to catch the door, holding open for her with a polite smile on my face.
She smiles, recognising my face, and nods to me in thanks. She's got hearing-aids in, so I don't say anything, because she looks like she still can't hear very well anyway.
I linger in the door for a moment and stare into the shadows across the street making sure my follower knows I know they're there.
Then I close the door between us, and pound my way up the stairwell. The bolt of the door is shit, obviously, but the chain guard works well enough, and I slide it in place just in time for the buzzer to go off.
I take a moment to catch my breath, watching the intercom like it'll bite me, and determine to ignore it until I've put down my groceries, though whoever is down there must be leaning on the button.
"Who is it?"
"It's me."
The intercom is crap, and crackles with silences and static, but I know it's a man at least. I'm obviously supposed to know more than that, which, fuck that, it's been a long fucking day and I really don't want to deal with whoever that is.
"What do you want?"
"Can I come up?" and I can just barely hear that accent. Fuck, it's him. My eyes slide shut and I sort of just collapse against the wall with my finger on the intercom button.
Do you need to? I want so badly to ask it, just leave him out there in the cold and pass out on Arthur's futon. But I still don't know what they're supposed to be like together - at the warehouse I could pass it off as professional distance, possibly brought on by the new makeover - but in private, it might be anything. Arthur might fuck boys - we've shared appreciation for them before when we go out drinking together, but he's never really expressed any interest in picking them up, so I don't even know.
"Give me a second," I say instead, and the intercom goes silent.
I drag my jacket off my shoulders, throwing it down on the little table by the door. The keys are exactly where I remembered them being, and I make a mental note to take them with me the next time. I pull out the bag of po that Vincent gave me - not Arthur's stash, I might need to show I've been appreciating it properly - and take another hit. This way, any irregularities can be blamed on the drug, and not on my pretending to be my brother.
It burns through me like a wildfire in my veins, filling my head like a balloon and I feel like I might pop, giddy and breathless and fucking high. All the aches and pains that have been plaguing me all day just fade away, leaving glowing embers in their place, warming my skin from inside. The euphoria is so much stronger, so much more and I'm on the floor when I come back to myself, on my back writhing like there's bugs all over my skin and I just want to scratch them off.
I can't breathe. I pull off my over shirt, but I'm too hot, I'm burning, sweltering, melting. I'm being boiled in a pot, or maybe I'm just made of ice, lying out to thaw, but whatever it is, it's too much, and I drag my t-shirt over my head, messing up my hair, and throw it over to the futon. I'm aroused again, which is probably the most disorienting part about it. If I get hard every time I take a hit off this thing, it's gonna inevitably lead to some awkward situations
I stumble to my feet and balance against the wall, groping at the intercom for the right button. I can't see it, there's auras and haloes all around everything, and the little green light keeps blinking at me, telling me something.
I don't know Morse code, I tell it, so it buzzes instead.
Then there's a knock on the door, and I have to figure out how the chair guard works again, fumbling with it as it keeps trying to get away, sneaky slippery little bastard.
By the time I manage to get the door open the hit's mellowed a bit and I can actually focus on the man in front of me.
"Fuck. You did Vincent's new batch, didn't you?"
I grumble - something. It might have been English.
"Oh, hell. You're gonna be useless all night, aren't you? I told him it was too strong for you."
"Y' fuckin' know 'bout me?" I ask, listing to the right. The world's a bit wobbly still. I feel a bit drunk more than high, but it's still pretty new to me - considering I started using today. I hit the support of his arm before I can go too far, and then he's hoisting me upright and dragging me over to the closest of the two chairs in the apartment, letting me flop down gracelessly.
I feel his eyes running over the bare skin of my chest. It's mottled with pale blue and purple marks from Alyssa's various body parts, and I'm thin and muscled, and I know I'm hot, but he's not really paying attention to that. His eyes are fixed for a moment a little lower, before he drags them up again.
I'm still hard. He can probably see my dick through the stiff fabric of my jeans, and it's weirdly arousing with the added edge of the drug. I'd come on to him if I wasn't so sure he was probably a murderer.
He sits in the other chair across the little fold-down table, and crosses his legs like he's in a business meeting.
"So," I say, concentrating really hard on not slurring. "Did Vincent send you? Tell you to follow me?"
He looks startled, but not in a way that means I'm off the mark - he just wasn't expecting me to be so perceptive.
"Saw you talking," I clarify.
"I didn't know you'd noticed."
"I don't think you know me all that well."
He laughs. "No, Arthur, I guess not."
"So what?"
"He was interested. You're different, you know. He wanted to know what happened."
I try to nod my head, but it's heavy so I just leave it there, chin on my chest. "Took a personal weekend. I'm just surprised you're being so honest about it."
He threads his hand through my hair and props my head back up. I glower at him, and force my muscles back into submission enough to sit up straighter in my chair, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable sprawled and limp like I was.
"Well, you were good enough to catch me tailing you."
He doesn't elaborate.
"And?"
"You've never been before. I got curious."
"You fuckin' followed me before?"
He smiles, and it's not as nice as his laugh, cold and thin lipped and he looks dangerous.
"Early on, yes. Needed to know what you did on your off time." He casts his eyes up and down my body again, and looks disdainful. "And that hasn't changed much. I'll be honest, Arthur, you've never been even remotely interesting to me until today."
I flip him off, and glare harder, but don't say anything because this means there really wasn't much social interaction between them, which will make it easier for me to improvise. "Maybe you just weren't paying attention."
"Could be," he nods, "but I'm thinking not. I think you've gone and cleaned up your act for some reason, and I don't know what it is - don't think I want to know, not right now, it's too much fun. But rest assured - I'll be watching you."
He gets up, pushing off with his hands on his knees, a heavy, but practised movement - there's an injury somewhere there, nothing when he walks, but when he stands, that shift is difficult. I can see it. I know it's there. When he was a teenager, that's when he got it.
And all of a sudden I'm scared.
I reach out and snag his wrist as he goes to pass me and leave Arthur's shitty apartment. He jerks to a halt, looking down at me with wide eyes. There's no excuse for it, I don't have any reason to pull him back, but I stand up, holding him in place. His pupils are enormous and shining with just the barest strip of grey encircling them - we're about the same height, so there's nowhere else to look.
And what he can see in my eyes, well it's probably more than I'd like, considering the way his face changes, growing concerned and alarmed.
"What?" he asks, barely above a whisper. He doesn't need to speak any louder, what with how close we are.
"I - I don't. I can't."
"Is it the po? Is it bad?"
I shake my head and nearly topple over. He catches me again - it's becoming a thing, isn't it, fuck - and I don't even try to think beyond basic instinct when I pull his face down to mine and sink my teeth into his bottom lip. He makes a startled noise, arms loosening abruptly, but he tightens them before I can fall and squeezes me tighter against his chest, sucking my tongue into his mouth.
He's a good kisser.
I'm sloppy, disoriented, but I straighten myself and grip his jaw with my hands, digging my short fingernails into the hair at the base of his head and he opens his mouth with a groan, letting my tongue free to thrust up against his palate and explore over his gums. It's hot and slick, and he tastes like Chinese food and whiskey.
I draw back long enough to breathe and run my tongue over his full bottom lip, swollen already, and it's enough to make him pull back.
"What the fuck is this?"
It's not homophobia, he's not surprised by my being gay, but it's a serious question.
"I don't care," I say, looking at his nose. It's straight and broad and looks good on his face. "I'm just - I need this, just let me get you off, and then you can leave, okay?"
He looks speechless, like no one's ever offered him a free orgasm before.
"Well?" I ask. I'm going for impatience, because if he stops and thinks long enough, he'll notice the trembles in my hands and then he'll ask more questions. Also, it's easier to count it off as unwanted drug-induced arousal if I act as indifferent to the end results as he seems to be.
"Okay - okay, all right, then," he says, and then his hands are sliding down to cup my ass through my jeans, and they're big and strong, squeezing and kneading as he leans in at just the right angle for a deep, long, wet kiss, pushing his tongue into my mouth with a steady rhythm that matches the way he pulls on my hips and starts grinding against me.
The drug, which had just been humming at the back of my mind since I regained control of myself, all of a sudden sings along my veins. I shudder all over and he shoves a leg between mine, pressing up and pulling on my ass until I'm practically humping his thigh, hard and strong and hot, and gasping into his mouth.
I'm riding the seam of my jeans and it's rough through my boxers, but it feels so good, balls pressed up tight against my pelvic bone and it hurts, but I can't get enough, pleasure racing through my cramping thighs and up the tightened muscles of my back.
Somehow or other we end up horizontal on Arthur's futon, and he's big and heavy and hot on top of me, gazing down at my face with something like wonder etched across his features.
We're just rubbing off on each other, but I wanna feel his hands on me, thick fingers and warm palm, so I grab one of his hands and pull it to my mouth, sucking and licking, getting it wet and nibbling on the pads of his fingers just to make him squirm.
I pull off with a sucking noise, and he closes his eyes, his mouth dropping open, and he shivers, then tears it from me, tracing wet trails down my chest, over my nipples, which fuck, I hate it when guys do that because I'm never prepared for how good it feels. He smooths his hands down my ribs and side, sending my nerve endings tingling with pleasure. My back arches hard, and my hips work in frantic little circles, but he lifts up and pushes me back down with his other hand, pinning me in place.
He fumbles when he gets to my fly, working it opened one handed, but soon enough it's open and then he's shoving his hand down my pants, past my dick to hold my balls in his hot, strong palm, squeezing gently and rhythmically, making me writhe.
He does that long enough for me to get used to it, long enough for me to get my bearings and start reaching for the button on his pants, and then yanks his hand up and closing it over my dick.
Oh, God, if I thought his hands were big earlier.
It's huge, wrapped all the way around it, spanning the whole length, jerking with quick efficient movements, and fuck if that's the size of his hand, how big must his cock be? I can't even think, my spine arches until the muscles in my back seize, thighs burning with how wide I've spread them around his hips, just want to spread them wider. I clench down on nothing, just imagining how he would feel pressed all the way up inside me, the burn and stretch, how deep he'd go, and how good he'd be.
"Are you close?" he asks, and his voice is wrecked, all hoarse and gravelly.
Now, I'm normally quiet in bed. I don't talk much or moan a lot. Most people just go with it, but I've been told it's a bit unsettling, had guys too nervous to perform and girls a little weirded out, not knowing if they're doing things right.
But when he speaks, breathing hot and loud in my ear, I just start fucking wailing, "Oh, god, oh fuck, yeah, yeah, so good - I'm so fucking close, fuck yes, aah - aah - ahh" whimpering and moaning like I'm in a fucking porno.
He swoops down and bites hard over my collarbone, and his hand stops jerking me off, and squeezes and it's tight, too tight, so fucking tight I'm left gasping and moaning into his hair, and then he shifts his grip and goes even tighter, swiping his thumb over the head, and I fucking come like a gunshot, almost throwing him off with how hard my hips buck up into his hand. I throw my head back against the ratty pillows hard enough to make myself see stars - though that might be the mind-staggering orgasm this man just wrenched out of me - babbling constantly until it just drones off into a wordless howl I can barely hear over the rush of blood through my ears. My vision whites out and I think he bruised my dick, but I've never had such a good orgasm, it reaches down into the pit of my stomach, wrenching my guts into knots and then liquifying them, flooding my body with heat and sparks and fire.
My muscles don't want to work right when I can finally open my eyes, I can just gasp blankly at the water stained ceiling. My head is lolling back, and it must be really awesomely attractive, but
"Oh my God," I say out loud, and don't even care. "Wha - oh, Jesus."
I'm vaguely hoping he'll make some sort of cheesy joke, about thanks for the compliment, but you can call me sir, but he doesn't. He snuffles a laugh into my throat against the obscene mark he's just drawn up on my skin, and flexes his hips against my leg once, letting me know he's still hard and wanting.
"I just. Fucking give me a minute, yeah?"
When I manage to get back enough motor function I push him flat back on the futon, crawling over him with my jeans still open to straddle his knees, pinning his legs down with my weight. I undo his pants finally, good quality wool slacks, but not so expensive to mourn over in the morning from the wetness seeping into them from his arousal, and reach in. He's a sticky mess beneath his classy black boxer-briefs, straining and pulling at the fabric until I tug them up and over him.
I bend over and he makes a choked noise that trails off into a deep satisfied groan as I take him all the way in, lips stretched wide around the width of his cock.
His hips twitch so I fit my hands over his hipbones, well cut and hard, and bury my nose in the damp heat of his pelvis. I bob my head, dragging up and pressing down, groaning around the hard flesh invading my mouth, until he's shuddering and arching and coming with a shout, grinding his hips against my face.
His come is bitter and thick going down, and burns strangely.
I'm half asleep by the time he's got all his clothes back in the right order, curled up on the futon. He turns to look at me, as he tucks his shirt tails into the back of his slacks.
"Well, I'll see you around then, Arthur?"
Oh, hell. I just had sex with a man on my brother's bed, in my brother's apartment, using my brother's name, while high on my brother's drugs, with my brother's co-worker. Well done, me. That's not weird at all.
I sit up, trying to cover how incredibly awkward I feel all of a sudden. "Will you be at the warehouse tomorrow?" I'm really trying to not sound clingy and desperate for attention, but there's no other way to ask it really.
He chuckles like he knows what's in my head, and says "No, I've got work out of town for the next few days - I'll be back on Thursday, if all goes well."
"I'll see you then." I fold my arms over my knees and rest my head on them, gazing up at him.
He pauses, a strange look crossing his face. "Wish me luck?"
So I figure what the hell. I shove off, standing on wobbly legs and patter across the lumpy surface of the futon until I'm right at the edge, looking down at him from a few inches higher. I reach out to cup the back of his head, and pull his face up to mine, slotting my lips over his and pushing my tongue deep into his mouth. I still taste like his dick, like his come, and he licks back into my mouth with a pleased groan, but I don't let him take control of the kiss, using my grip to push his head almost painfully back, so I can ravage his mouth.
When I'm panting, unable to breathe, and he is too, I pull back, and whisper against his lips.
"Good luck."
He leaves, and I still don't know his name.
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