Habit of A Lifetime Ch. 03

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SadieRose
SadieRose
426 Followers

Amazingly, Ray seemed unhurt this time, apart from the minor cuts and bruises on his lithe body and handsomely sneering face. Whipsnade slowed the furious tempo via ‘Hoodlum Lovesong’ (from the singer’s favourite album, the skewed and opulent Silver Line Park); the icy contempt of ‘Needle Tracks’, and one of their finest B-sides, (in Simon’s opinion) ‘She Cries in Her Sleep’.

By the time they played ‘She’s Got Stars...’ Rayne was flagging, coming to sink on the monitors like a wounded animal; his ribs heaving under the tatters of his shirt as he curled up by the front of the stage. His chin came to rest on the back of his hand, and his eyes closed; wooing the microphone in broken, husky tones. Dark curls were plastered flat to his head with sweat and blood and his slight body trembled as he forced out the breathless lyrics. Hands reached out from the crowd to tug and pull at him, immune to his helplessness, unheeded by the object of their desire.

Simon had realised then that Rayne was seriously hurting. If he had been able to, he would have thrown down his sticks and dragged the other man from the stage. A frantic glance into the wings located Matty Greening, poised on the edge of an amp-case, his gold-flecked, hazel eyes watching every move just as surely as Whipsnade’s drummer did. Matt checked his watch and tapped his fingers nervily against the pitted silvery flanks of the box and Si had known then that the show was in trouble.

If Simon Hathaway seemed protective of his bandmate and childhood confidante, then Matt Greening was doubly so. For almost two years before Whipsnade took off, Rayne and Matty had been so much more than just friends. They came together in Manchester when Rayne was a student there, caught up in a drug-fuelled spiral of mutual passions, which pushed everything else to the perimeters of their hedonistic young lives. Astoundingly, pure lust fired their on and off relationship for over seven heady years until the inevitable implosion came. Sheer pressure of being in each-others’ pockets night and day as Whipsnade began to ascend the dizzy heights took its predictable toll, and the fallout was spectacular and tear-drenched on both sides. Most amazingly, Simon thought now, Whipsnade survived it.

Matt was still the consummate businessman, suited and booted for his meetings with the SOLD Board. Nonetheless, he was not so far from his humble origins in Tottenham that he could not strip down to ripped jeans and a vest in order to help with the stage lighting or fix an amplifier.

Neither he nor Rayne had been involved with anyone else since, save for the occasional fling. Matt still cared about his ex though, in spite of everything Ray had put him through. Simon had seen desperation that night at the Oxford Apollo, in every line of the younger man’s creased brow; in every tensed fibre of his casually suited body. Ray had dumped him cruelly, clearly and publicly, and Simon knew that their young manager had not forgotten it, but on Tuesday night Matt Greening had eyes for no-one on stage but Rayne Wylde. Moreover, there had been genuine concern in that watchful gaze - concern for more than just a solid business investment.

When Matt started to circle the air with his right hand shortly before the closing bars of the ballad, Ciar and Simon recognised the call for a break at once. Rayne did not see it, nor did Court, who was bent low over his Strat, picking heart-stoppingly pure notes from the strings to accompany the fragility of his partner’s smoky voice. As the song faded down, so did the lights. Predictably, the crowd went crazy for more, but Matt and big Chaz Collister were already hustling Rayne off-stage. Si leapt down from the riser, just able to make out his friend’s protestations as he was helped backstage and sank down on a box with his head in his hands.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he had demanded, glancing up sharply as Simon appeared before him. “Get back out there, now!”

“Are you okay?” Simon asked him, ignoring the command implicit in his old friend’s words. “You look fucking terrible, Ray.”

Pale eyes met his own through the tangle of sweat-soaked hair. Bluntly, Rayne Wylde said; “If you don’t get back on that stage now, Hathaway, I’m looking for another fucking drummer!”

They had managed two more numbers, culminating with an ear-splittingly violent rendition of their ‘96 hit, ‘Cattlemarket’ before Rayne called a halt of his own accord. None of it seemed to matter. The Oxford crowd was won over.

“Shambles?” he murmured again now from behind the shower screen. He paused for reflection, then shook his head, knuckling water from his eyes and casting droplets all around from his close-cropped russet hair. “It wasn’t 'that' bloody bad!”

His partner of the last eighteen months tossed him a towel as he turned off the controls and stepped out of the cubicle. Thom was a slender, striking boy of twenty one, currently perched on the lip of the oval bath tub in rumpled blue jeans and a crimson chenille sweater with a scooped neckline that showed off his slim, pale neck and most of one shoulder. He was barefoot, running a nervous hand through his blond-streaked mahogany hair, the paper still spread across his knees.

Simon eyed him with weary speculation. Right now, the lad was just too tempting to be true. He cursed himself silently and towelled his hair, then rubbed himself down casually and discarded the bath-sheet.

“You should do that properly, you’ll get cold,” Thom admonished. “You know the doctors said you should take better care of yourself.”

Simon caught him in a drowning, sidelong, cobalt stare.

“It hardly matters, does it?” he said, perhaps more sharply than he had intended. “If you’re not gonna sleep with me anymore why should you worry?”

“Not fair,” the boy countered, his fine dark brows coming down in a petulant scowl. “You know how worried I am.”

His partner reached towards the hook on the back of the door and pulled on a heavy, towelling gown in deepest ultramarine, but not before he had surveyed his naked body in the slowly de-misting mirror on the wall. He still looked pretty fit, he thought. There was no sign of physical deterioration in the firm musculature of his stocky, sun-kissed frame. He was reasonably good-looking; fit; in the prime of his life. The friction of the towel had left his uncut seven inches of chunky cock semi-hard and he posed self-consciously in front of the glass for a moment.

His flesh was still lightly bronzed from that holiday in Mauritius last year - before his test results came back - in a far-off time when Thom was still willing to be fucked by him. They had spent a fortnight in bed, or in the private hot tub, or late at night on the beach, just kissing and stroking and sucking and screwing. It was the most fantastic sex of his entire life. Simon bent his head, avoiding his own resentful eyes in the mirror.

“Well... you know the answer to that as well as I do,” he said mildly.

“I can’t...” Thom choked on the words and turned his head away. “Si, you know I can’t. I’m frightened.”

“You need to know,” his boyfriend replied, turning to face him. “So do I.”

Eyes the colour of brandy, shot through with firelight, darted to meet his own. Simon shook his head at the vulnerable, ‘little-boy-lost’ stare and Thom bit his lip like a recalcitrant child. “Why?”

“Because I want to know that I haven’t given it to you,” Simon told him bluntly. “It’s bad enough...” He stopped, clearing his throat slightly. “I just want to know that you’re all right, love.”

Thom looked down at the quivering paper in his hands. A little tumble of his coffee and cream forelock fell forward over his eyes and Simon smiled, remembering how it had been a similar reaction that brought the boy to his attention in the first place. He reminded Si of Rayne at that age, although they were nothing alike in looks or temperament.

Rayne would not have sat here fighting tears because he was asked to take an HIV test. He would not have been happy, but he would have done it.

Sometimes Simon wondered why Thom even bothered to stay with him. It was not that he was ungrateful, Thom was fucking gorgeous and he had no idea how he would go about rebuilding his life after three years together if his lover walked out now. However, if he searched his own thoughts he knew that he could answer that question too.

Thom knew that Simon Hathaway was a wealthy and generous mate, and this was a beautiful apartment, overlooking the Thames, in the shadow of Tower Bridge. Moreover, Simon was an only child, with no progeny of his own and a distant relationship with his parents (at least it had been ever since he came out and told them he was queer!) Oh… Simon knew why the kid stayed, all right. Thom Woodford was well aware which side his bread was buttered.

He felt cynical, then guilty for even considering it. Guilty and sick to his stomach.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said at last, shaking his damp head. “The pills are okay. My T-cells are looking fine. Besides this place is superheated right now, I’ll be sweating by the time I get to the bedroom.”

He shook his head again, laughing softly and humourlessly.

“Those fuckin’ Guardian bastards, though...? Heh?”

Thom looked a little bit sheepish, he thought, as the kid murmured; “There’s worse, Si.”

Blue eyes met brown across the bathroom and Simon Hathaway prompted his younger lover firmly; “Well?”

“Ciaran’s been on the phone every twenty minutes for the last three hours,” Thom whispered almost tremulously. “Matt’s in A&E at St.Mary’s. They took him in this morning.”

RAYNE

Last night with Matty had been the final straw.

For a very short while, Rayne let himself believe that once he was home in his Ladbroke Grove apartment nothing could touch him. It was good to be back. Skye, still had the cats down in Sandlingford, and the place was empty and quiet. He bought several bottles of mineral water and a Chinese meal when Charley dropped him on the corner of Barlby Road, near the railway bridge, and walked all the way back to the flat to contemplate the last few days in peace.

Less than an hour later, tormented by the memories of Oxford and with the contents of his temporarily sated stomach floating in the toilet bowl, he started to despair. What if the dream he thought he had in Manchester was true? What if he genuinely ‘was’ dead?

It was too ridiculous even to consider. Rayne needed something to affirm his status as one of the living. So he telephoned Matty.

Matt Greening had come round just after seven, with a bottle of Chianti and a smile that said he was glad Rayne wanted to confide in him. Before eight they were in bed together for the first time in over five years. The sex was fantastic - as it had always been. Rayne discovered that there were benefits to this enhanced perception of his. He was able to feel when Matt was close to coming and so control their lovemaking, prolonging the experience. For nearly two hours the pleasuring worked.

Firstly in the kitchen, where he drank wine from Matty’s soft, warm mouth whilst the younger man unfastened his pants and masturbated him urgently. Then in the bedroom, where he massaged sweet, jasmine oil into Matty’s pale, silken flesh whilst his miraculous lover cooked up a tiny rock of excellent Pakistani junk by the side of the bed. Deftly the younger man shot him up with a freshly unwrapped needle whilst he lay sprawled in the soft folds of the duvet with his eyes closed tightly.

He had not used Heroin since he and Matt split up but the ever-tactical Matt ‘knew’ that it kept him hard. Rayne was aware (by the time the needle slipped under his flesh) that Matty had come here willing (even eager) to be screwed senseless by him.

The younger man stripped off completely before shooting up into one slim thigh. Watching him, Rayne wondered privately if he was still using on a regular basis. Not that it made a difference right now! He had never hesitated to share anything with Matty in all the time they had known one another. It was as if he considered their love to give them some immunity from the horrors of the real world, although he knew that was ridiculous. So far his trust had been repaid, the three tests he had taken for HIV all came back negative, which was a miracle considering his lifestyle - and Matt’s.

But as the skinny youth sank down lazily on the vast bed beside him, such grave considerations gave way to the compulsive urge to fuck him hard. Firstly, in his hot, wine-dark mouth, then up his sweet and tender arse. The Heroin, coupled with his enhanced sensory faculties, made this a curiously intense and frighteningly lucid experience. His lover’s every gasp of delight inflamed him further as he eased the younger man down onto the mattress and sank into his arms.

Drawing Matt’s long legs up above his narrow, thrusting hips, Rayne kissed him so deeply that he could taste the wine on his bed-mate’s tongue. It was the most alive he had felt since before the tour began and he threw himself into the endeavour with a vigour that made Matty cry out loud in ecstasy and agony long before he was through. This was one of the pleasures of being with a lover he knew as well as he knew himself.

There were few words between them. Rayne shifted position restlessly throughout, pushing himself upright to kneel between Matt’s long, lean thighs; then pulling sharply out of him and turning him roughly onto his belly to straddle him and plunge back into his receptive body.

Matty felt tight and wet inside, skilfully milking his lover’s thrusting cock with the muscles of his rectum as they sprawled together on the mattress. Incoherent whimpers of pleasure escaped his lips with every stab and Rayne nuzzled his hot, lanky body greedily, overwhelmed by the delicious musky scent of his skin and the coppery tang of his blood. With almost deliberate languidness, he let the pulsing slow until each slippery incursion felt like an endless caress around his tumescent prick. Matty let out a long, tremulous sigh each time he pushed himself back in and Rayne basked in the other man’s enjoyment, sliding fondling hands over his mate’s sweat-slick flesh.

He exploded with a gasp of strangled relief, after nearly two hours of incessant fucking, kneeling back on his heels. Matt was seated astride him, pushing his firm, white arse cheeks back into Rayne’s throbbing crotch; impaling himself urgently on his lover’s erection. Rayne’s arms were wrapped tightly around the lad’s skeletal, naked torso, pulling him down hard. He bucked upward, flooding his lover’s snug, superheated anus with semen, as he buried his face in Matt’s waist-length, shaggy mane. His long blond hair was the alternating colour of every kind of honey. Rayne felt so good that he could have wept. The sustained pleasure emanating from his cock and balls was angelic relief after the tension of the last few days. He could almost forget how hungry he had been feeling.

Almost.

Matty leaned back against him with his head on Rayne’s shoulder as the older man uttered a throaty growl of satisfaction and kissed his neck, loving the sweat-slicked, saline flavour of his skin. Maybe it was the junk, but Matt seemed like a ghost in his arms, almost insubstantial after the vigorous exertion of the previous two hours.

They sank, exhausted, into the rumpled, white quilt and he writhed down sinuously to take Matt’s hard, heavy sex in his mouth. The younger man loved to be sucked, and Rayne adored the feel of Matt’s long, smooth, circumcised cock in his mouth. He teased the delicate silver ring, which pierced the firm ridge of skin above his lover’s urethra, with the tip of his tongue, half-smiling as he recalled how surprised he had been the first time he went down on Matt.

At twenty-one he had never sucked a pierced knob, and the bolts and rings punched through his mate’s nipples, belly-button and cock head had both shocked and stimulated him. Sliding his hand between Matty’s legs now, he eased a probing finger deep into his mate’s thoroughly inseminated orifice, caressing the firm, glossy bud of his sensitive prostate with the skill of a master artisan. Matt writhed and called out his name repeatedly; his voice loaded with mingled passion and longing, his fingers tangling in Rayne’s sweat-damp hair.

“Ahhh Ray... Ray... yes! Like that!”

The fat, purple bell-end of his long, hard cock was as slick as wet velvet, oozing a steady stream of pre-cum onto the singer’s tongue. Rayne swirled it around Matty’s hot, swollen head, swallowing the slightly bitter fluids and kneeling back to lick his lips.

The taste was just too much for the Vampire in him to withstand.

Often, especially on Heroin, it took them a while to reach a satisfactory climax but Matt was intensely aroused by this time and Rayne had never once failed to make him come. The singer’s lips parted around his cock head once more and he began to nod his slow, seductive way down that long, hard shaft, caressing Matty with his tongue and easing another finger into his cum-filled arsehole, then a third.

“O’Yah-weh!” Matty groaned, arching his back to push his prick deeper into his lover’s mouth. “Fist me, Ray! Jesus Christ… fist me!”

Rayne’s lips stretched in a knowing smile around the jerking tool that probed the back of his throat. He did not even gag as he swallowed Matty deeper, burying his face in the younger man’s hot, clean-shaven crotch, nuzzling the hollows of his groin. He urged a fourth finger inside, stretching Matt’s sphincter slowly, then withdrew them all. Curling the sticky, glistening digits into a tight fist around his thumb, he forced it back into the skinny fellow’s well-fucked passage before the natural lube of spunk and mucus had time to dry out and lose its viscosity.

Matt Greening began to keen desperately as his lover’s left hand and forearm steadily impaled him. Rayne did not spare him, he was hungry for Matty’s cum and the blond man was soon lashing and struggling on the bed, his long fingers snarled in Rayne's dishevelled, black hair. His hands forced the singer’s mouth down harder and Rayne kept on sucking and nuzzling. His knuckles pounded Matty’s prostate gland, gathering speed and impetus as Matt bucked and screamed at him.

“OHH… JESUS! JESUS! FUCK ME! FUCK ME!”

When, finally, Matty released his hair and rammed his crotch upward into Rayne’s face, the older man’s lips parted in a soundless sigh of relief and satisfaction. The hot, spurting, satiating river of Matt’s semen rolled sweetly over his tongue and down his throat, milky and bitter in equal parts. Rayne thought he had rarely tasted anything so delicious. Only one thing would be better right now.

Keeping Matt Greening firmly impaled on his fist, Rayne let his softening prick slip from his wet lips and flop back onto Matt’s pale belly. The screen of his tangled, sweat-damp hair hid the irrepressible extension of his dog teeth and Rayne gave in to the hunger that was crippling him.

Matty protested weakly and none too seriously when Rayne began to nibble at the head of his cock, with perfect, sharp little teeth, then kissed his way down to the softer, yielding flesh of his bed-mate’s scrotum and shaved balls. The older man licked and kissed his inner thigh teasingly, still pumping him with his left hand until Matt began to get hard again. Initially, the slender youth uttered a sharp, excitable laugh; he was still glowing from the passion of their lovemaking when Rayne began to nip at his skin, then to bite more deeply.

The blond man remained draped, supine and loose-limbed on the pillows, gasping with exhausted pleasure. Pain had never disturbed him, in fact it seemed to 'inflame' his arousal much of the time. Rayne could not recall that Matty had ever told him to stop because he was getting too rough. That suited Rayne Wylde well enough.

SadieRose
SadieRose
426 Followers