Smoking Hot Ch. 05

The first half of this chapter is Adrian's narrative, mostly with Dan.

The second half has Laura visiting Adrian as the first part of his reward -- anyone not at all interested in her perspective or in heterosexual activity could skip to chapter 6.

In the office, Izzy is manfully trying not to ask how my date went last night. Eventually I tell her, "We played snooker again. I lost this time."

"So you'll need a rematch?" She's more excited than I am, I swear.

"I think we'll do something else on Friday, though."

"Tomorrow, eh? Who's enthusiastic?"

"I'm busy on Saturday! Meeting one of my college friends."

"Uh-huh," she says, jumping to all sorts of unmerited conclusions about commitment.

I work until about nine, trying to get ahead of the game. The first two guys' CVs for interviewing look OK, so I hope we'll be able to hire someone soon. A couple drams when I get home, and an early-ish night.

It occurs to me that in twenty-four hours I might have been fucked again. Should I practice first? Find the toys? It's been about a year since that French guy... more, maybe.

Naah. I'll let him have the pleasure of easing me slowly back into it. It'll probably take all of a minute, anyhow.

It's a good thought to slide off to sleep with.

I'm glad I'm not in the office tomorrow.

I get stuck into the day's work, over my new usual breakfast eggs. Aside from avoiding people speculating about my new bloke (there's a phrase I scrub from my mind, sharpish), it's good to have peace; there's mountains of info to read for old and new projects, and I need to prepare our interviews. My mate Stu in the civil service complains he has to ask everyone the same questions every time. I just need to ask each interviewee the same, but each job is different. I call Naz to ask for his ideas.

"Was gonna call ya, boss. Was thinkin, like, I've writ down what I can do, what I want to learn to do, what I don't know anythin about, so's you'd be doing it unless we gets someone... In Excel, like."

"I love ya, man. Giz me your spreadsheet when it's done. Or what you've done, close today. Actually, let me wang you the CVs I've got so far, for your thoughts."

I couldn't have asked for a better wingman than Naz. Another of him would be great -- though then I'd be doing all the fluid mechanics myself, I suppose. He writes decent reports, now, too.

After lunch, I tell Sam I'm ready for the intro meeting with the new clients, and Naz and I are ready for the potentials.

I can hear his smile. "That's good news. Thanks, lads."

I wonder if the finances might have been a bit rough, if we hadn't taken the new client? I'll ask Mike when I see him -- next week, now.

Next week seems a year away.

I get back to it. The specs and limitations for the new project go on for ever.

What seems like a couple hours later, there's a knock on the door. It'll either be her from next door needing something, or John the caretaker bringing up a parcel. So I trot over and answer it, not even bothering to remove my glasses.

It's Dan.

"What...you what?" I ask, like an eejit.

"You said seven o'clock... Are you OK?"

"Er, yeah, sure, sorry, huge bit of work came in. Look, come in, can you just sit down a minute while I shut things down? Be with you in ten?"

"No worries. I'll just prat about on my phone." Smartphones are the best invention ever. The whole internet -- in your pocket!

I go back into my office, move papers around, write my to-do list for Monday -- not before, that way madness lies -- tell my computer to turn itself off once it's done with yet more bloody updates, and leave it all neat, putting my glasses back in the drawer.

It's only as I'm back in my lounge that I thank fuck I put on decent old jeans this morning, and a plain T-shirt. Dan's made himself a cuppa -- gotta like initiative on a boy -- and offers me one, too.

"Not seen the glasses before. Cute."

"Only need them when I'm staring at the computer too long. Given I'd have sworn it was about four o'clock, I guess that counts."

"Makes you look all distinguished."

"Flattery will get you fucking everywhere." But I smile. He's already got into my pants, and my arse is a sure thing when he wants it.

"You want to order food?"

"Actually, given I've not been out all day, d'ye mind we go elsewhere? My treat."

He shrugs, picks up his jacket. "Lead on."

We get a bus up the main road towards Tower Hill, where there's a wee Moroccan place down a side street. Escaping drizzle into coloured lights and lounging on piles of cushions is grand, as is their mezze, as usual. I just get extra as my main -- love all those wee pastries, but Dan's more of a meat fan and demolishes their lamb tagine with relish. He's on the beer, and notices I'm only drinking ayran.

"Only on the yoghurt? You all right?"

"Oh, aye, I'm grand. Just pacing myself. If I want a couple whiskies later, you get me. That, and it's only just now eight. Want any more of this salad?"

We scrape the platters clean. He eats more than me, so it works. A waiter comes to persuade us of some dessert. We're comfortable and it's still raining heavily, so it doesn't take much effort to convince us to order baklava and coffee.

"Stop eyeing up that hookah." Dan wags a stern finger.

"They do have tobacco in, don't they," I reply sadly. "Shame. They're soothing, if you avoid the sickly-sweet flavours."

"I'm sure you could suck on something at home," he says with a perfect poker face. I wonder if he plays?

"Course I have. General hobby in barracks. I'm no expert, mind, but I didn't lose money too much."

"I've got a few friends... No, don't worry! It's all for chips. Winner gets some comedy present that Laura or Linz find in a charity shop."

"Sounds cool. Sure."

The bitter coffee jerks us out of our sated stupor, and we head back home. It seems natural for Dan to be there, already knowing where to find mugs and all, possibly meeting some of my friends soon. But not too soon. No-how!

As we enter the building, his hand slips down to my arse. I grind a little against it. No-one else is in the stairwell, and we're instantly snogging like teenagers outside the school disco, where no-one can see.

It's fun, but I'm not a teenager, I've got a reasonably luxurious home just upstairs, and I drag him into it.

A well fit lad is a grand occupation for the night, but first I'm having my drinkie. I pick up a tumbler and run my finger along the bottom row. The Glen Moray, that'll do. "There's beers in the fridge," I tell him. He fetches a bottle.

"Cheers."

"Yet another one-night stand," he tells me with a straight face.

"Aye." It's terrifying. "I might just be able to cope, if you distract me."

I knock back the measure -- hence just an average malt -- and try to look as seductive as possible. Shoes off, leg up on the sofa. He's watching. I hold his gaze and start unbuckling my belt, then the top button on my jeans, then run my hand back through my hair. Next, tugging up the T-shirt -- removing the faded baggy thing has to be an improvement, and it being loose makes it easy. It goes on the floor. I may be a tidy creetur but I'm not anal, not that way.

"Keep going," he says. Hint of a smile.

I oblige, pushing my breeks down, hupping my arse out of them, pushing them down my legs, and Dan gets them out of our way. I'm now just in my tiny pants, like in a nightmare where everyone else is clothed, only it's not a nightmare, it's an erotic dream.

"You are a pretty thing, aren't you?"

I want to blurt, 'no, you're the pretty wee thing', but having him objectify me, it's so hot. Makes me feel slutty, too. More than usual, that is.

I rub my cock through my pants, still meeting his eyes.

"Yup, you're gagging for it all right." He shucks off his own top. "So tell me, how do you like being fucked?"

Where do I even start?

"Up me arse with men's cocks!" I growl. "Seriously, I'm easy and experienced -- just slather on loads of lube and I'll be begging for more in any position you want. Trust me."

"Really?" He raises his eyebrows. Cynical bastard. "Well now, that's a bold claim! We'd better test it."

"Best idea you've had all week," I agree. "Get your kit off and let's get to the bedroom!"

"Not right here, over the sofa, then?"

"Condoms and lube are in the bedside table!"

"Gotcha." He's a whirlwind of golden-pink limbs, getting naked, then dragging me to my bed. I've turned the duvet over since he was last here, to hide the wet-patch stain. He rummages in the top drawer, which isn't interesting.

"Next one down."

He pulls out a pump-bottle of Liquid Silk and a box of condoms that some loose squares promptly fall out of. I stock up at saunas on the unusual ones, but good to have plenty of normal rubbers. One doesn't want to look cheap when your life's at stake. Dan picks them all up onto the table-top, and looks in the back of that drawer.

"Oh, interesting."

What else do I have in there? Tubes of lube, tissues... Nancy Friday's book of women's sexual fantasies, nitrile gloves, OK. A bit of rope and a collar... oh, god, mortifying...

"Don't think we need that lot tonight," I hear as he shuts the drawer. "Just your sweet little arse!" He's got lube on two fingers already. "Lie back, then."

And I'd been afraid he'd be inexperienced with no idea what to do! I open my legs round him, leaning back on the pillows to give him easy access to my naked hole.

"Last chance to say actually you'd like it careful and gentle," he warns. "No poppers, you're sure?"

I kinda want it to hurt. You know you've been fucked, then. Never been a fan of poppers, anyway. Feels like being a bit hung over, so you don't enjoy that penetration so much. Guess I've just got an easy arse.

He's slow and deliberate but firm, sticky middle finger over my hole, pushing it in, curls it enough for his index finger to join in. He adds more lube and rotates his fingers.

"Oh, yeah... More!"

Realising I really am slack enough to be fucked already, not to mention I'm begging him out loud, he gets his cock dressed and slippery.

It's been so long since I've actually wanted someone, not just a random dick to fill my hole. I want to use his name, but if I do I'll probably cry.

He starts to slide in. He's unhurried but steady, hesitant about giving me his full length to start with, but then goes for it. I push back with my heels of my frog-bent legs,

thrusting my arse into him, rocking up onto his dick, and loving every stroke of it, my body burying him up to the balls. I'm moaning loudly, I am, incoherent but loud, and to be sure this is why my bedroom backs onto the stairwell and my own kitchen, no neighbours to disturb. I thought of that, when house-hunting.

"You can go harder, you know," I manage to tell him. And the man takes the hint, grabs my bent legs to him, and pounds me up the bum like an escaped queer pile-driver.

All I have to do is relax and take it. Which I do, letting my arse be filled right up with the force of his fucking hard cock. It's wonderful.

Oh man, I'm one happy fulfilled faggot.

He's pretty satisfied, himself, and that obscene squelch when his filled rubber pushes even deeper into me gets me jizzing right at him without me even laying a finger on my cock. Definitely been too bloody long, if I'm shooting off like a teenager!

He lets me go, then, and lies down, running his hands through my come and licking it off his fingers, using some to slick back his hair. It's everywhere.

"Ach, the state of ye!" I tut and pull out paper towel to wipe him down where he wants it, though he's rubbing my juice all over his face like it's Greek gods' nectar. Bit like piss fetishists I've seen, same temperature liquid, but I'm not going to mention that.

Or the collar. I mean, what could I say?

"Mmm. You weren't exaggerating about your arse being well up for it."

"Told you. I'm ready for more when you are."

It's a genuine smile on his face when he says "Good," and there's one on mine, too.

"Glad you weren't exaggerating," he tells me. "Guys do, you know, and finding out just when you're wanting to give them your last inch..."

"Mmm. Can't say I've had that problem much."

He takes my cock in hand. "So; you ain't a porn star. So what? My arse ain't, either. Much less intimidating. As in, means I might be up for it, give it a go with you, sometime, careful-like. Enough is as good as a feast, as they say."

Bless him. "Told you before, I'm only doing that if you're screaming and begging for it."

"Screaming as well as begging, is it now? Talk about moving the goalposts..."

"Oh, ain't you the quare geg! And you'll need to be praying, or did I say that already?"

"Probably." He's thinking. Scheming, even. "For future reference, do you like it standing up?"

"Over the back of the sofa is better. Don't have to fret over staying upright."

"I like the way you think."

And the mad thing is, I think he actually does.

I admit, hanging my arse over the back of the couch, holding it open for this new pal of mine to stuff it with his dick, is one of the best ideas I've had in ages.

Along with a corner apartment with no neighbours next door and award-winning sound insulation. But two minutes later I'm beyond caring about any of those.

All I can think about is feeling totally overwhelmed by that heavy weight filling and pounding my hole. Every nerve ending is reporting total, complete happiness, before clocking off. I don't even have to stand -- I'm bent over, gripping the leather back cushion, my nose reminding me leather equals good stuff, my feet barely on the floor as Dan's superior height skewers me in place.

Absolutely nothing to worry about and nothing I can do.

Just accept the wonderful feeling.

It's fucking brilliant.

I relax as my cock is rolled around the settee cushion. I'm too floppy to rub it myself. I don't care about it, anyway, I'm feeling so good already.

And then he holds me in place with one hand on my arse, and brings the other to my prick.

Man, I take it all back. Now I'm floating in a different world, of magic and delightful torture and complete, utter bliss.

I've become a mere sweaty husk of a man's body, draped over an item of furniture, incapable of thought or motion.

Who needs fucking drugs?

I know I'm screaming with joy.

There's a hand on my back, holding me in place, as I sense him running round to lie on the sofa. Then my corpse-like figure is pulled down to lay upon him, his body heat bringing me back to life.

"You OK, mate?"

"Never better." I prop my chin on my hands on his chest and grin at him.

"You really never do things by halves, do you? You work without noticing for hours on end, then throw yourself into being the best fuck toy ever."

Fair. Glad he's noticed I'm the best wee fuck around.

"Tell me. How d'you control it nowadays? If you do?"

"Lot better than I once did, that's for sure." He seems actually interested, so I continue, "Work -- I don't work weekends. Well, a few hours once, a couple years ago there was this crisis over a delivery, and all. Otherwise, there may be late nights, and with the new project that's just come in, there's going to be lots of those over the next few weeks, for sure. I'm interviewing for a new starter next week, so gotta prep for that and then train them up. Then it should all calm down and I'll book a holiday."

"Oh? Where you gonna go?"

"Don't know yet. I was going to Oslo in two weeks, but had to cancel that. Where else is nice around April? Never been to Iceland. Or maybe somewhere that gets too hot in summer -- Turkey or Italy? Madrid, perhaps -- never been there. What d'you recommend?"

"Me? Not been abroad that much. One reason I joined the Army, and look where that took me! Done beach holidays, which isn't really abroad, is it, could be anywhere? But I've liked exploring cities when I've been there on stags and that -- Paris, Prague, Amsterdam. Any of what you said sound good to me."

"Proper Turkish bath in Istanbul could be good. Marble rooms filled with steam. I'm told the massage often includes happy endings. Or the lads demanding the same extra money not to give a happy ending, for the straight guys!"

He chuckles at that. "Nice. I'd love to see the Blue Mosque. And that one that used to be a church, Sophia."

I shouldn't be surprised he knows about such things. He may not be all formally over-educated like yours truly, but he's clearly bright and curious about things. "Hagia Sophia? Yeah. I went past it on a day trip once -- stopover, coming back from Oman -- did a bit of haggling in the souks, didn't get to go inside."

"Or there's Barcelona? With the Familia cathedral. That place sounds mental, with all the other Gaudi buildings too, all sorta organic, like. Like plants."

"You into your buildings, then?"

He nods. "I did the general Draughtsman diploma in the Army, computer-aided design, really, then did my Level 3 in Design and Draughting on bits of buildings, mainly. Now I'm mostly freelance -- main job is about half-time, various other projects on whatever I can get paid for -- couple manufacturers have me on a retainer, which isn't much a month but keeps me afloat."

"Interesting. You any good?"

"Course. Why?"

"Didn't I say I did materials assessments for building conversions? Like this one? Building conversions and restoration is our bread and butter. Small firm, sometimes has more work than we can handle, like I was jus' sayin'..."

He looks like he's considering. I get the impression more work would be grand, but not with strings attached. I hasten to reassure him. "I'm not on that side, any drawing work wouldn't be working for me, Gary leads that -- I just get to stare at spreadsheets and diagrams other people have done... Big boss Sam is a good dude, though."

"Give me his card later -- I'm busy right now. Come on! Convince me you can forget about work!"

Given I'm lying on my front on him, my head just above his groin, there's an obvious answer to that one. But just as I get going, got him stiff again, he says, "Or do you want fucking again? You seemed pretty damn insatiable."

"Wouldn't mind."

"Oi! Excuse me! I want more than 'don't-mind' when we're talking about my cock! Begging, like you said."

It's an easy decision. Not just because the arm of the sofa isn't actually that comfortable under my legs. "Oh, my god, please, please -- come to bed and fuck me into the mattress? I haven't been properly fucked hard in so long! Pretty please with sugar on it?"

"Let's go."

I kneel down over a couple pillows, head and arms on the bed too, my arse up in the air. Clearly gagging for it.

In no longer than it takes him to suit up, he's whamming into my wonderfully-sore arse, not treating me at all gently any more; he knows I won't break, and it's so, so good. Possibly -- probably -- because I actually like the guy and I'm pretty sure we'll be doing this again.

Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, cos I know I'll be feeling it, in a good way, but soon. I force my mind to concentrate on what I'm feeling, just relaxed and open and being his new fuck-toy, and try desperately to ignore the rest of that quote.

Which isn't too difficult as he grips the base of my cock firmly, continuing to plough his furrow. His long dick is thrusting faster and burying balls-deep into me, hurting in the most wonderful way at the end of every stroke, getting squeezed as best I can clench, every time it withdraws.

I'm definitely not thinking, at all.

All I can do is bury my face in my increasingly-filthy duvet cover and scream my lungs out.

I come to, with Dan's face right next to mine.

"Oh, you are conscious!"