Smoking Hot Ch. 06

He's feeling better. The fresh sweat on him smells like heaven. I try to be kind and distract him further by getting him even hotter and sweatier before he gets to use my shower, but it's not like I'm suffering in the slightest. I'll happily tutor him in fellatio any time.

It's around ten when he sighs and says, "Time to face the music."

His head sags as he heads out the door.

Text, an hour later: 'Max is OK. Gets I don't like her, they'll try not to be here so much. I ll think about moving and keep an eye out for someone who could take my room.'

'He's all sad, though. Arse.'

'Tell him you're out tomorrow night?'

I get a response before I fall asleep. 'That cheered him up a bit. Thanks. See you tomoz.'

The horrible text speak of the youth...

And work tomorrow.

It does occur to me that at least, I haven't wanted a cigarette all day.

I don't sleep so well - too much curry, I'm guessing - so I wake before my 7.30 alarm, shower until I feel more human, and make a full cafetière of coffee. It'll be needed.

I turn my computer on and decide what needs doing in what order, and then ponder it all while making my eggs and toast.

The morning goes quickly, and I'm surprised when my alarm tells me to go have lunch. I have a bit of a stretch and decide to cycle over to Dulwich to grab something from one of the posh cafes there, before they get too busy. It's the nearest area with lots of green. I down some fancy soup and bread before returning home for the next long haul. Alarm set for five so I get up and stretch. Time to read all the evidence and start calculations.

Some of this, at least, can be done in the comfort of my sofa, so when my alarm interrupts my cursing at Excel, I'm not too aching. More coffee, though. Lots of questions for Naz and Sam tomorrow.

Sam has dug up another two candidates to interview, which is promising. I waste half an hour noseying into their online presence, guessing that I'm not going to hire the one who can't hide her Facebook profile, then back to initial assessments. The case for the new product looks promising, which is good. Always soul-destroying when you put weeks of work into assessing something and then have to say it's not safe enough to bring to market.

I'm punching a bunch of results into an idiot-proof summary when there's a knock on the door.

Shit, it's eight already. On the other hand, I've got a lot done.

I let Dan in. "Evening." He eyes me suspiciously. "You haven't eaten, have you?"

"No. Should be enough leftovers from last night. Could you heat some up while I shut down? There's enough for you, too."

"I've eaten already. D'you want a bit of everything, or save the Ceylon for another day, dilute it with yoghurt or summat?"

When I emerge properly from my office, he's pulled a steaming plate out of the microwave. In proper waiter style he pulls out my chair for me, pours me some water with a flourish, but then pulls out another chair and sits backwards upon it, watching me eat.

It's slightly unnerving, but being looked after is enough of a novelty that I'm quite enjoying it. He fetches me replacement water, and mentions how his day went. Gem won't be round, after tonight, until the weekend, so he's feeling better.

He's going to have to do something in the long term. She isn't going to change and Max isn't going to see the light any time soon, I can tell. She'll have to screw him out of some money, first. That's how it usually goes with blinkered people and nightmare partners, in my experience.

A full belly, and I'm doing well in life. One quare sexy ride gazing at me. But he's not got that look of lust he's had before.

We end up watching TV. It's Quizzy Monday after all, even if I do have the shows being recorded.

"Go on! Watch your Only Connect," he tells me.

We laugh at Vicky's weak intro joke, welcome the teams, decide we like the one with the sharp suits from the 60s, and get stuck in.

He's a kindred spirit when it comes to shouting at the telly. He doesn't get the complete answers - that needs practice - but his calling out random things related to the content on-screen helps me get a few and we give ourselves high-fives. He finds a link on the Connecting Wall before they do (Madchester albums) and we're having a good laugh. Then it's the Missing Vowels round. Time for a stiff drink.

Dan's silent on these ones. As I yell answers back at the telly (quite easy this week, e.g. Sex-changed Films, T HG DMT HR, The Godmother, D RVN GM RDSY, Driving Mr Daisy), he acquires a dazed look of admiration.

"How the hell do you do that?"

"You guess what the answers are going to be for the round, then squint and see if the words come to you. Don't be dyslexic, I guess."

"Ah, that'd be my problem, then."

"Yeah? That'd explain why you're bright and know stuff but didn't manage school, then."

"Is that a thing?"

"Cliché, even. Along with the Army picking up said young bright kids and giving them the education they should have had in the first place."

"Yeah, well, not like they're doing it out of the goodness of their little hearts. Get kids on the front lines - you know the UK's the only country in NATO that does that? Get numbers up to make up for all the soldiers quitting once their term is up. Don't get me started on the six-year contract lock-in if you sign up at sixteen..."

"Sure you could only be sent to Norn Iron once you're eighteen? There was a big thing about it, in the Seventies."

"Oh, yeah. Can't patrol in NI under eighteen because of the risks. Risk of bad publicity from kids getting shot, more like! Doesn't stop minors being sent to the Gulf, or Cyprus, or in the Falklands. They haven't ruled it out for Afghan, either. Just a weaselly, they 'don't intend to'."

He takes a sip, realises his beer is empty. He gets himself another from the fridge when I wave him at it.

"What was that about contracts?"

"Oh, yeah. You sign up for a four-year term, right? But, if you join up at sixteen, starting the paperwork and tests even younger in some cases, you still can't sign a contract until you're eighteen. British Law says. Like you can't have a credit card or a mortgage under eighteen. So if you sign up at sixteen, you can quit fairly easily in the first year if it's not for you, but of course that's all training. But if you stay, you're tied in until you're twenty-two..."

"Army are bastards, fillum at eleven."

"Hmm. You really can't say film, can you?"

"Why should I? It's a fucking fillum!"

"Not if you're quoting American TV announcers. Ruins the effect!"

I give him the finger and change the subject. "So if you did two years in Norn Iron, eighteen to twenty, then a course back here, what did you do after that?"

"Back to the unit, few of us joined a crew patrolling a bit of the Baltic for NATO. Northern Finland, we were in. Boring as hell, but peaceful. Lots of pine trees. Snow, in winter. The most excitement we had the whole time was seeing a Russian tank once, across the border. It drove past, then disappeared. That was it, whole time I was there."

"Then you quit, soon's you could?"

He nods. "Went back to the folks, enrolled in college. Bit of work doing drawings for local firms. Calmed down."

There's stuff he's not saying, but how could he explain it all? At least I know what NI was like.

I flick channels to Would I Lie to You? Dan cheers up no end as we shout out even more than the contestants. It's good craic for a Monday night.

But bedtime beckons. I look at him, recognise that fragile surface layer of coping.

"Time for bed. D'you want to stay over, again? Toothbrush is there."

He opens his mouth, all 'I couldn't possibly', then ducks his chin the tiniest bit.

"You hit the bathroom first then. Yours is the blue one."

I put everything away, then use the bathroom when he emerges.

I find him in my bed, in his boxers, looking tense.

"It's OK, mate. It'll be fine." I don't try to explain what 'it' is. I strip off and join him, stroking his hair and neck and shoulders.

I can guess at one cause of his tension. "Not asking for anything, y'know. Who has rampant sex on a Monday? I know, right? You need sleep? Me too."

He says nothing.

"Night, mate." I turn over to face away from him.

After a moment, there's wriggling on his side, and then I feel a deliberate kiss on my shoulder.

Should I ignore it?

I roll back to facing him, and in a moment we're in the same position as Friday. Only this time, he's in my arms.

And I kiss him back.

More of those careful kisses like yesterday pass between us, but soon he can't resist and starts eating my face. Fine by me.

Soon I'm scrabbing down his back as he begins humping over me, controlled and heavy, his shorts rubbing over my cock, then he's rubbing me up and down as his whole body moves over mine. I grip his muscled wee arse and lock my ankles over his as he gets more into it, encouraging him to keep going.

And he does, using his stomach muscles to rock up and down against me, making the cloth over his cock scrub over mine, friction getting me harder and harder, until I can't take it any more and reach my hands between us to rub both my dick and his together.

The wetness over my tip sends me over the edge too.

He's looking a bit embarrassed. "Sorry. Monday night and all."

"No probs. That wasn't exactly rampant. Rampant's more of a Wednesday night thing, right?"

He chuckles quietly as he disentangles himself from his soggy boxers and uses them to mop up the worst of the wet spot. I get the duvet turned over.

"Wednesday, rampant sex. In the diary. You'd best get some kip so you can get ahead with that backlog of work!"

"Will do, now I've had me bedtime wank sorted!"

I hear a whisper of a laugh as he dozes off.

My alarm goes at seven.

He's gorgeous when he's asleep. Lanky limbs and sort of angelic, despite the wide-open mouth. I don't know when he'd been planning to get up, so reluctantly I elbow him.

"Morning. Hm? I'd better get home. If I dive in the shower, Max might not notice I wasn't in. I ought to talk to him."

"Cool." I chuck his boxers in my laundry basket; he won't want them for going upstairs. Intimate, but oddly only a wee bit scary.

A goodbye kiss at the door, him all dressed, me still bollock-naked, is hot as hell as he holds me to him with his hands gripping my arse. I'm set to say to hell with work and just screw all day, but he gives me a final smooch and leaves, the sensible sod.

Coffee, eggs, work. I'm going to have to hit the office this afternoon, so I try to get as

much as I can done. Interviews are set for Thursday, four of them, so that's going to be six hours out.

It's good to see Naz in person and confirm he's coping OK with the workload - never feel completely sure, when I hear him on the phone. Izzy is delighted to see me as always - feeling's mutual. When no-one's around, she says, "How's it going? Good weekend?"

And I'm smiling uncontrollably, probably blushing, and tell her, "Aye, it was a magic weekend."

"Oh, yes?" she goes, in a tone full of innuendo.

And I goes back to her, "How was yours? Did you see Naz?"

I'll take that sudden stutter and cough as a yes. I don't ask any questions though, just smile widely at her and push off.

She has more sense than to mention this to Naz, which is good. He's not so amenable to being teased.

I work till around nine. What to eat? I make a quick stop at the corner shop, for the first time since I stopped smoking. The owner is surprised.

"Ah, you are not dead or moved away, alham'illah! Why I not see you, so long? You sick?"

"No, no, just I don't... any more..." I point at his cigarette display. "Needed to avoid the temptation, you understand? But good to see you."

He looks mildly disappointed - I suppose I was one of his best customers. So I pick the item I intended, plus a six-pack of Budvar for Dan and stock up with a bottle of the only single malt they have, the rather gluggable twelve-year-old Balvenie. The affable chap is clearly pleased. Judging by the layer of dust, that bottle had been there a while.

Back home, I mix up the curry. And shortly after, text Dan. "Added a tub of yoghurt to the lamb ceylon like you said. Tastes ace! Ta."

His reply is the word "Wuss!" with a smiley.

I refuse to send a smiley back. After finishing my plateful, I know what to say.

'Thats not what you said on Friday night!'

His next text is a grinning smiley.

I'm grinning too, looking forward to seeing him tomorrow.

Wednesday at least gives me the diversion of preparing for the interviews. On paper, they'd all do, though two have the edge, but from experience I know they'll probably rank very different when we meet them. Naz and I will do 45 min with each, after which Izzy'll have a while to suss them out, introducing them round the office. I recall a guy I worked for as a student, total see-you-next-Tuesday he was, but one thing I did respect him for was when he called up a kid who'd just been interviewed, to leave a second answerphone message. The second one said, "I'm rescinding your job offer because you made my receptionist cry." Course, he made her cry regularly, but then hypocrisy was one of many things we all hated him for.

I assure Naz we've prepared well and know what we're doing, and will deal with whatever happens tomorrow. Turns out, that's not why he's nervous.

"Ade, you know about restaurants. Where should I take Izzy this weekend? Not much more expensive than a Pizza Express, but... nicer? Cosy?"

I resist the urge to get all avuncular at him, check no special requirements, and give him details of the Braukeller. "And no fighting with the fondue forks!"

That's enough people for one day. It's a relief to get back to my growing spreadsheets.

Until I'm interrupted by Dan. "It's quarter past eight," he points out. "I bet you haven't eaten."

He pulls out the rest of the tortellini I cooked last week. "You wanna play snooker again?"

Hm. "We could. Or we could just give me a while to digest and get straight to that rampant sex you promised me?"

He pretends to weigh up the options in his hands, decides one is better. "It's cold out, yeah. Guess it'll have to be the sex, then."

"Get your kit off, then. Give me something to watch while I'm eating. Better than Holby City..."

He quirks an eyebrow. "Ooh! Who's a demanding fuck-boy?"

"Me. Got a problem with that?"

"Oh, I don't think you've earned the right to order me around, yet."

I could argue that, but I'm too tired to deliver upon it, so I amend the request, to "please remove some clothes so I may lust upon your admirable masculine physique while I dine?"

He laughs, and obliges.

Later, I inform him he can certainly boss me about, as long as the orders are along the lines of 'bend over', 'spread your legs more', 'lift up your arse', and my new personal favourite phrase of his, 'take it hard, now, like a born bum-bandit'.

We go shower after - it's one of those rare occasions when I wonder if the anal-retentive types who insist on douching before sex have a point - but really, if you're stopping when things get hot, you're doing it wrong.

I ask Dan if he has an opinion on the matter. As he's currently holding my arse-crack open with two fingers, directing the shower spray over my soaped-up hole, I'm guessing he's not too bothered.

He makes some shrugging sound behind me. "That's what condoms are for, partly, right? Usually there's hardly anything, so why bother? Maybe curry three days in a row was just a bit much?"

The water feels amazing. Just as well I'm kneeling down in the bathtub, or I'd be going all weak in the knees.

"Course, any excuse to do this to you..." There's a finger in my arse. Two. "I could put latex gloves on. D'you like rubber? Make sure you're squeaky clean, all round... here..."

He's found my happy gland, and thank fuck I'm already on my knees. I may need to drop to my elbows in a moment. He stops me.

"Don't get any lower. Need to rinse you, all careful." He's got the shower onto the single, powerful, jet setting, and that is burning glorious cleanliness into that certain point of my arse. I really can't take any more. I'm just a puddle of pleasure.

Until he drops the shower head, turns it off, drops to his own knees behind me, and proceeds to lick me out like a starving bee.

It's so good, I'm crying, because the cunning sexy bastard has his hand tightly round the base of my cock.

It goes on forever. My vision goes fuzzy. I've lost all contact with this plane and am buzzing round a higher spiritual existence, seeing colourful patterns that aren't there, hearing angelic choruses that aren't there, smelling cake and coffee and sweat that aren't there, because what I'm feeling is too much to comprehend so the brain parts dealing with other senses need to give it a go.

He tugs down a towel and shoves it by my head, so I can collapse without hurting myself. Which I do. I'm the limpest mass of meat ever, all functions lost except whining and drooling. My entire sense of touch ignores everything in the world except for his mouth over my sensitised ring.

I'd scream, if I had the energy.

Then he lets go of my cock, which comes back to life, causing me to take a huge gasp of air. And then he takes hold and rubs it up and down.

That's when my yelling starts.

When he hears it, Dan interrupts by speaking in my ear. "Don't get too excited. I haven't fucked you yet."

The lad must be a quick-change artist, the speed he gets a rubber on. He plunges deep into my well-used arse, despite no more lube on me, and I screech. I manage to turn it into words, like oh and god and yes, yes, to make sure he knows it's good, and then I give up and just let my voice do what it will.

Which appears to be shrieking, like the nanciest girl in the world.

My come covers my knees and gurgles down the plughole; his just adds to the force in my arse. He collapses on top of me. We slowly get our breath back.

He's recovered first, chucking the knotted johnny at the bin. Then he stands up to turn the shower back on, on a gentle setting, warm, rinses himself off, before he turns the water onto me.

I tremble with the aftershocks when water gets up my crack. I don't move. I doubt I could.

He's laying a towel over my back. And one over my hair, drying it.

"Come on, mate. Let's get you into bed."

He persuades me out the tub, holds me up while drying me off, using all my good towels, and leads me back to the bedroom.

We're both a bit damp under the sheets, but no matter.

"I like your imagination," I tell him.

"Good. Can't beat sex in a shower."

"Mm. Definitely up there."

He eyes me. "You ever fucked in the showers?"

"Downstairs in the gym? Why would I?"

"Why not? No, was thinking in a sauna place, like. You seen them? Not a private cubicle, a communal shower for any guys happy to be seen. Room about eight feet across, a dozen hot sprays..."

"Plus a dozen guys showing off their bits, I know. Yeah. Not sure I have, you know. Just sucked a lot of cock, there and in steam rooms... been fucked by invisible strangers in steam rooms..."

"Yeah? I find everything too slippery to be much fun. And too hot, all the steam."

"True, it's more the novelty value. If I were on the pull, I'd have a relaxing sauna, show off the merchandise - "

"D'you get talking? Bet your voice attracts them."

"Only once they look. Then a 'you like?' seals it. I'm on their cock soon as, in the corridor or the shower, then I used to find a quiet room to get fucked in. Or the middle of the playroom. Or do them. Whatever."

Dan's looking thoughtful. It's a mix of arousal and discomfort.

"You'd have people fuck you, anywhere, that you couldn't see?"