Smoking Hot Ch. 04

"More'n all right. Course, I'm not saying ye wouldn't benefit from a fair bit more practice..."

He's got his breath back, and laughs. "Not averse to a few more lessons."

"It's important to get your O-levels," I tell him, deadpan. "No, I did GCSEs just like you, thank you very much, but my nagging folks kept saying O-levels, still. School Cert, from my gran - think that got abolished round 1950..."

"Bet you never had the heart to tell them all those phone-box cards offering assistance with O- and A-levels weren't actually from enterprising teachers turning to personal tuition."

"And the 'flute' and 'Greek' lessons? No, but then those never really took off at home. Too rural to advertise anything in a call-box beyond the local church sale! Some ads in Belfast, I suppose. The drawings of the wee naked girl and her big pouty lips would have clued in my da, anyway. No flies on him. Enough about my folks. How do you like it?" I nod my head back towards his penis.

"Don't bite it off, and I'm a happy bunny. Tell you what, mate, you demonstrate Option One this time and I'll work my way through the menu."

It's a compelling argument for us having to see each other again. I get between his legs to provide a good Option One, whatever that is, and I can see a streak of near-blond fur going back behind his balls. I want to examine there more closely, but a hand on his thigh with a probing thumb venturing down makes him tense up. He did say t'other day he didn't have good experiences of being fucked, or was that just me jumping to conclusions? Either way; I put both hands safely round the base of his cock, and instead dive in with my face.

I move my hands a moment to fold him up a bit better, curling him upwards so I can catch a glimpse of his wee hole, and it's a wee beauty. I hold his cock and squeeze as I shove my nose under his tight little balls and get my tongue stuck in.

His balls and all his weight are bashing against my forehead, but I'm just reaching that ring round his hole, managing to dab it with the tip of my tongue, and after one moment to think about it, he's chilling out, trying to offer up his arse to let me go at him even more.

Nothing in this world could be hotter than a fit young man wriggling his hole over your face.

He starts to squeak as the pleasure gets ticklish for him, then he manages to give in and completely relax into it, just letting me do what I will.

I tell a lie; that noise he's making now, running the gamut from a bass growl to a soprano whimper, has got to be the filthiest thing I've heard in all my born days, and feeling him pushing against my lips...

Wish I'd been recording it - that sound must be worth a fortune on porn sites.

Or as a ringtone.

Wonder if I could make him do it again?

I've kept my hands round him while shoving my gob in his arse, sliding them up and down on autopilot, so it shouldn't be a surprise when it turns out I'm gonna need wash my wet hair again today.

He pulls me up to lie next to him, like it's his own bed, and sure he's all grinning like he's mellowing out at home, everything just as he likes it. "Fuckin' ace, mate!" Then he glazes innocence across his face, all mischievous again. "But you said Oral Option One, not Anal Option One. I'm gonna have to ask for a refund, I'm afraid."

He's killing me. "We're all out of stock for the moment, I'm sorry. I need to get back to work in half... shit, five minutes! However, I'm sure a refund or substitution could be arranged."

"Well, I don't want you thinking this is anything more than a business transaction. Someone might panic about commitment if he had to see me again this week. You'd best write me out a credit note, in case I have to argue with the manager." He pulls a cheap biro out his pocket.

I don't know how he keeps a straight face, but I reach for a piece of paper and scrawl for him, builder's-merchant style. "Owed to Dan...?"

"Johnstone."

"Johnstone, one Type O, option 1. There." I date it and sign with my illegible signature.

"Cheers, mate. Glad we didn't have to get the management involved. Likely to have some in stock later in the week, you reckon?"

"Probably. Try on Wednesday, after five. There's usually a... delivery."

He nods, exactly as if he were dealing with a defaulting tradesman, tucks his biro behind his ear and the note in his pocket, and continues getting dressed. "Will do. You catch your meeting, I'll see myself out."

I check the mirror, run to my office and proceed to have the weekly catch-up with my boss with come dripping out my hair, but otherwise looking my usual self; thank god for poor quality of video calls. Lunchtime proves that Dan's nicked half the cookies, but I'll let him off.

That night I realise I've seen him six times already, and made him come more times than that. And it's only been a week - less than ten days, anyhow. I should be freaking out at this point, but thanks to his sense of humour, I'm actually looking forward to him cashing in his credit note.

And wondering how many different menu options I can run to.

Laura messages me that evening. I call her back so we can do Quizzy Monday in even better style. Between UC and Only Connect, she asks what I did on the weekend, if it wasn't smoking.

"It was not." I don't want to tell her what I was doing with Dan. "Cleaning and all on Saturday, met a mate, went to the Braukeller, didn't get thrown out, thank you very much, went cycling on Sunday. Got all the way to Kent."

"Impressive. Should be keeping your legs muscular. I look forward to Saturday, by the way."

"Never said I was taking my kecks off for you!"

"Adrian, sweetheart, just because I said I'm keeping my clothes on on this first date, doesn't mean you need to feel obliged."

"I reserve the right to act like a completely respectable gentleman!"

"Oh, please don't. Shush, it's Vicky Coren!"

She thinks she's beaten me this week. I'm not sure, but agree with her anyway as I reward myself with a middle-shelf measure.

I get a text from Dan late that evening. 'Good cookies. I can't get to the store tomorrow. Hope parts are in stock by Wednesday evening.'

I reply, 'Have put them express delivery to make sure!'

He replies with a thumbs-up symbol. I think this metaphor may be being stretched a tad far, but y'know, it's working for me.

Tuesday I have to hit the office, so I'm all spruced up. I didn't wash after Dan yesterday, which might be minging, but not like anyone else was going to know. Now I'm clean, perfectly combed, ironed shirt, proper silk tie, and, according to Izzy when I walk in, a right decoration for the place.

"Good weekend, Iz? Did you guys stay long in the pub on Friday?"

"A bit. It closed at eleven, so Naz and I went home then."

Naz and her, eh? No mention of Gary, Kerry, Mike or anyone. Interesting, but not conclusive evidence.

"What about you, Ade?"

She flicks a look at my fingertips, which are turning more of the same colour as the rest of my hands, less yellow. I'd nearly forgotten.

"Ach, met a mate, went for a meal, went cycling. It was good, actually."

I think I could handle Dan being a mate. I mean, I know how to do mates...

"Aw, lovely. Bet you'll be able to cycle faster, soon, too." She eyes me speculatively. "You've got the build for it, and for running."

"Now, now. Thought we'd made it clear, I'm not interested!"

She laughs. "Can't have you sitting on the shelf for the rest of your life, though. Anyway, Gary said you'd had a date on Saturday. So, tell: how'd it go?"

I try to sound neutral. "Not a disaster."

"Yes? And?" A courier comes in and Izzy signs for an envelope. "So? When are you seeing her again?" Sam's waving at me, wants a word.

"Who? What?"

The girl you saw on Saturday!

"I didn't see any girl on Saturday - what are you on?"

She hisses, aware I need to get to Sam, "Your date!"

Ah. Time for that conversation again. I suppose she joined after I had that brief thing with the French guy, and if she just got given a heads-up about Diane...

"He was a lovely man!" I give her my campest hand-flapping wave and a bit of a twirl as I push off to deal with whatever Sam's going to land on me, and grin at her as I turn into his office.

She's going to be desperate now to know whether I'm joking or not and whether she now has valid gossip to spread.

It's going to kill her! Fuckin' magic!

New work. Complex stuff. Not that Naz couldn't support me in it, but he's busy already so we'd need more staff if we're to take it on. Sam's a step ahead of me: I'll be interviewing candidates next week so think carefully about what I want, he says.

One thing I do always ask candidates is if they're happy working for a queer boss. A couple times, promising lads have decided to withdraw their applications after that, no reason given. I liked Naz's take, last year, that whoever said boss was, they 'might wish to be aware' he himself wasn't 'at all interested in men'.

Will need more than that, of course.

"You seem chirpy this morning, Ade."

"Really? Must be the start of Spring. Had a great bike ride on Sunday, round the North Weald and back."

Sam's impressed, but all he says is 'Uh-huh. Tell me when you're ready for your intro meeting with the new clients.'

I get stuck into my new pile of reading and spreadsheets, amusing myself every now and then by sidling away every time Izzy approaches my desk. Eventually only the gents is an option for escaping her, but for once she isn't immediately seized upon by someone else, so she's still waiting when I emerge five minutes later. I will deny to anyone that I took that long because I was rubbing one out after my quick piss. After living in London so long, the phrase that comes to mind is 'having a Barclays'.

"It's lunchtime, Ade," Izzy tells me severely. "Come along." The moment we're outside, she slaps a bench and makes me sit down with her. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Your chap. Unless you're having me on, of course."

I laugh. I'll tell her, but I'm enjoying spinning this out.

"Don't you cross me. Not unless you want all your invoices mis-filed and your printer never to print and your expense claims lost and all your teas to be made with not-quite-boiling water..."

"All right!" Her position gives her access to the direst possibilities.

Ideally I'd light up and have a few puffs, drop a bit of ash, blow a couple smoke rings, to delay. I twitch my lips a bit and whistle, which isn't quite as cool but still has Izzy nearly spitting at me. I twiddle my hair a bit, too.

Eventually I take pity on her. "OK, yeah, had a couple dates last week, and the one guy who wasn't both married and boring - neither, in fact - I saw him again."

"Both men?"

"Both men, aye." God, I could do with a cigarette here, but I pull out a pen and gesticulate with that instead. "To accelerate this invariably tedious conversation, yes I've been out with men before, yes Diane knew I had, yes I like both women and men, and yes, Sam and most of the rest of the firm know."

Phew. "Er, yeah."

Izzy regards me like you do a performing animal and replies, "Whatevs," in that annoying yoof way. "So, what's his name, how did the second date go, when are you seeing him again...?"

I give up. Women and their constant ability to knock you off your nice equilibrium! Not that I'm saying I can balance myself with a man, just that I don't constantly feel I'm being blindsided from totally beyond left field.

"Well?" Before we get in the queue for the sandwich shop.

Argh. I'll have to spit something out. "Name's Dan, very well thank you kindly, seeing him on Wednesday to play snooker again."

She nods sagely. "He'll get to watch you getting your leg over the table, showing off your pert arse. Good choice. Mind the door. What's the daily special? Oh, yay, the Keralan chicken soup! I love that one!"

While waiting, I text Dan. 'Parts all in stock and passed testing. Collect any time after 5 tomorrow. Snooker rematch first?'

'Good idea. Decide prize 2moro.'

I mustn't be put off my snooker game for the rematch. He's clearly not played snooker much - people don't, unless there's a hall nearby - but he's probably better at pool than me and will improve fast.

On the other hand, it's not like losing would be a bad thing.

I guess my face betrayed something, as Izzy goes, "Text from him, was it?"

I'm gonna have to calm this down before I risk exploding. "Iz, love, give it a rest. Not funny."

"I was just...!"

"Shut up."

She does, clearly offended, and I feel bad as I finally order my lunch. Roast beef and salad on granary bap with extra horseradish, slab of bread pudding, apple, can of diet Coke.

Izzy has waited for me outside, cos she's great. "Sorry, Iz."

She's clearly waiting for an explanation. I'd best offer one before she decides she has to initiate the Throwing Me to Sam Protocol. Fuck. Why did I fucking give up smoking? She taps a foot and widens a staring eye.

"Just... don't razz me about anything like relationships. Really. Don't."

"A fist in the face often offends? Got it."

"Yeah... don't want to lose this job too..."

It's only when I look up that I realise she hadn't been making a serious comment. Oh, bless her, she's only nineteen or twenty; her generation are all Es and weed and dessert cafes and love. The reality of regularly getting trollied and involved in a Saturday night fight is totally alien to her, not to mention the odd outburst of swearing and a swinging fist in the office after a pub lunch.

Though I guess I was a bit of a dinosaur like that.

Nowadays, work lunches just aren't the same. Sam has a rule: no booze at lunchtime, unless clients are schmoozing us, then one glass. More if they're Russian, cos then anything goes, to avoid needing to go out for dinner with them. It's not come to pass recently - we seem to be getting lots of rich Arabs and South East Asians at the moment instead, who don't drink in public. Not until after business is concluded, anyway.

"Don't tell everyone that," I plead. "I... went through a bad patch."

It was called my twenties.

"Sure. Discretion, that's what us admin are for. Spreading gossip only when completely harmless to all concerned. OK, I won't ask, but keep me informed, right? We don't want any little worries turning into big worries when you can share with Auntie Izzy..."

I'd rather claw out my own eyeballs, but I pretend to agree. She's right that she gets people and probably would be a sight better at relationships than I've ever been, but if I do need any advice from a colleague I'd go straight to Sam.

For starters, he knows good lawyers.

"If this relationship goes anywhere other than down the toilet, I'll bring him along to meet you guys." Huge if. Not like I'll ever be called on it.

"Hey, just take it slowly and don't be a dick. You'll be fine."

Anyone would think she'd been watching me.

I get back to my desk before wondering what might have happened if she'd been watching me with Dan, rather than Laura. Izzy would probably have had the manners to excuse herself!

Strewth, I've got Dan lifting his leg over pool tables tomorrow, and Laura promising a make-out sesh on Saturday. Life sure is making a turn for the better, without any sodding relationships needed at all.

It's a relief to be working at home on Wednesday, working through mountains of material from both the new projects, with the odd chat with Naz about how much we'll need to outsource. The conclusion is clear - there's one hell of a lot of work in our futures, even if we manage to quickly recruit someone good and train them up.

"Ah, well," Naz says in my ear. "If we wasn't willing to deal with peaks and troughs, lower pay, usually but not always compensated for by bonuses, we could have gone to work for one of the big firms. Been small cogs in huge wheels." He knows he's getting more diverse experience, faster, than he would in any of them. I have more responsibility and control of my own work. It's true, I love it, but that's just luck - the real reason is the big five all either fired or blacklisted me. Hence me being at a tiny middle-tier outfit. Or 'niche specialists', as we prefer to put it.

Thing is, this gig works for me and I don't want to lose it. If I have to work ten, twelve-hour days, six days a week, for the next six months, I'm game.

I'm in a relationship with my job. Hope it never starts abusing me, because I'm too much in love to notice.

I've got a list of questions a mile long for our first meeting, but I'm pretty confident I can pull this one off, which is going to look dead good on any future CV, when I get a text.

'You still up for pool tonight?'

It's six thirty. I reply, hurriedly, 'come down at seven' and try to finish all the new questions, firing off a last long email. At five to, I check my jeans look OK, put a clean shirt on rather than my old college sweatshirt, flick back my hair with a spot of gel and stick a bit of moisturiser on my face. Low key. Blend in down the pool hall.

It's like a grotty pub, only with something to focus on that's not drinking.

A knock.. "Let's go," I tell him. "No, I've not eaten, but they must sell something edible."

"You'll be lucky. I'd stick to the crisps or pork scratchings if I was you."

Thankfully, we pass a Caribbean pasty stall on our way, so I pick up something yellow with peas and meat inside, which hits the spot. I pay for us to get in, and we play some pool as a warm-up. He's not holding back this time, and beats me two-one, right chuffed with himself.

I shake his hand and tell him, "Let's get to the snooker."

It's good craic. It's mostly guys here for fun, no-one too serious, so there's only a couple kids playing, and an old guy who's better than us. The aggressive guys are all sticking to pool - so they can move in on local pubs, do 'pay to play, winner stays on' all night and make a killing, is my guess. I've learnt not to play in those pubs - such guys don't like it if they lose, and have henchmen to reinforce the point. Stu and I learnt with a visit to Addenbrooke's Hospital.

Whereas here, there's enough snooker tables we can play all night, fairly cheap drinks - though if you don't want beer, it's voddy or Jack - and none of us care there's been no redecoration in the last twenty years. The old geezer has a go with me, helps improve my stroke and gives me a few tips regarding shots that work on a pool table but don't on the larger field. He grew up with Jimmy White and Tony Meo, he says, but never got beyond London area amateur championships - 'spent too much time in school, not skiving off down Zan's.'

Unfortunately, he's also giving pointers to Dan, with the result that it's two tight frames ending one-all. The young lads have a quid on each of us for the decider; Malc the geezer stays diplomatically neutral.

We're neck and neck on the last red. Dan sinks it and decides to go for the black even though he's got no chance on the yellow after. He ponders for a while, and stretches his long lean body over the table a few times, his right horizontal leg appearing to go on for ever, rocking up and down. He repeats the process a couple times, before sending the yellow ball somewhere near the top cushion, the cue ball rolling back near the black.

I nod and walk down to the bottom of the table. Dan catches my eye as he brings the cue to his mouth and blows excess chalk off it. He twirls it round, grins at me, and lets the cue slide back down through his hands, and then rubs it up and down, eyes firmly on the opposite wall.

It's a damn good attempt at a distraction technique, I'll give him that. I call out to get his attention, then lean over the table, slowly sliding the cue up from between my legs and stroking it lovingly as I bring my right hand back to the handle. All in the thumb action. Then a little roll around the V of my left hand, in and out, add a bit of chalk for effect, ease up and down again.