Smoking Hot Ch. 10

I appreciate the discretion. He knows about homophobia, but fuck me it was worse ten years earlier when I was growing up.

"Depends on whether it's safe." Another swig of tea and a bite of excellent scone. "You know what I mean. Any chance of aggro and I will lie and cheat and do anything to get out of it." More scone, wiping excess jam off my face. "Failing that, however..." I give him a smile. "I'm a right wind-up merchant. Freaking the mundanes is practically obligatory."

It occurs to me the genteel patrons of Dulwich definitely deserve to be subjected to everything short of public indecency. Dan's clearly thinking along the same lines, blowing me a kiss and looking mischievous as he eats his second scone, getting cream up his nose.

"Told you you should have put the cream on first," I tell him as I dab his face with a napkin. He flicks a V-sign at me then blows a forgiving kiss. When we leave, he trails his hand over mine.

And I take it.

We hold hands as we wander through Dulwich Park.

My tension gradually eases. I haven't held hands in public with a man since I was a student -- Luc was too closeted by far -- and all too often, that didn't go well. Though the first broken nose more just from being a student in the wrong pub -- town/gown tension was bad in those days. Here, there's various well-heeled families strolling around, chasing their wee kids all called Isabella and Oliver. Even the groups of lads drinking bottled beers are lacking in any menace. They wouldn't want to dirty their designer shirts.

Dan's clearly clocked this too, as he whirls me round and we're having a full-on snog standing in the middle of the fucking rose garden, toddlers in expensive pedal cars trundling past and all.

And why the fuck not?

I grip his arse for balance, honest, and he holds me tight; one single column, we are, for a good wee while. I think I hear an 'aw' from some teenage girls when he lets me go.

It's kinda nice. "You wanna head home?" I ask him, conscious that my home is his home now.

He beams at me. "Yeah, why not?" He holds my hand again and we head back to the bike racks. Good to get home before dark. "Though there's not much food in. D'you want to stop somewhere, cope with what we've got, or get takeaway?"

"Do you like Chinese? There's a good one by Queen's Road station." He hesitates. "My treat -- I'm too lazy to cook, this night." And I have more money than he does.

"OK. Crucial question, though -- do you have your own dish or do you share?"

"Depends. What do you have?"

He shrugs. "Beef in black bean sauce, Szechuan chicken, crispy shredded beef..."

"Fine by me, sharing? Maybe a lemon chicken or a roast duck? And egg fried rice and seasonal vegetables?"

"Your pretence at being healthy? Sure, unseasonal veg it is. I mean, they never are, are they?"

He follows me across to Peckham Rye, then north. We load up my panniers with a dozen boxes -- we'll want leftovers for tomorrow -- and I let him lead me back home.

We can't fit both bikes in my locker, annoyingly -- I've got too much other junk in it. I vow to sort it out while he simply shrugs and up-ends his bike to fit in the lift, joking that if there isn't space, I'm taking the stairs.

We squeeze in. I've got our tea, after all.

"Home, sweet home," he mutters happily, unlocking the door. "Oh man, you don't know how grateful I am to you, getting away from my flat..."

"I can tell. Seriously, it's fine."

"Even so. I might meet up with Max tomorrow, if you're working?"

"I'd better. Otherwise too much chance of needing an all-nighter, and then things going horribly wrong. I haven't worked a weekend in a year!"

"No, that's fine. I'll hit the gym and mosey upstairs when herself's pushed off for the day -- shopping, I hear. We might catch a film."

I eat with the chopsticks provided; he fetches a fork and serving spoons, eyeing my ability warily. "How did you master those?"

"Got shown how by other students, kept practising. Twenty years on, here I am." Need to remind him he's fucking an old man.

"Uh-huh." He peels the paper wrapper off another pair and cracks them apart. "So how do I hold them?"

"Like this -- then waggle the top one... that's it. Go for a big bit of meat..."

He tries valiantly for about ten minutes, starting to get the hang of it, then just shovels rice into his face with them. I imagine Chinese toddlers must be much the same. And equally adorable.

I sit back and enjoy the food, especially the sticky chilli fried beef which I wouldn't have chosen myself. I needed this day off, and Dan's been a grand mellow companion. He's remarkably relaxing to be around.

I say relaxing, but then he's going, "Oi, Ade! Are you falling asleep on me, or can I take you to bed for something more interesting?"

I summon up my energy, such as it is. "More interesting, please. Just give me ten minutes to digest..."

He checks his watch, grinning, then disappears to the bathroom. He does like his showers, but I can live with that. 'At least he's clean' was a damning phrase of my ma. Probably exactly what she'd say if she ever met Dan.

Which will never happen. Hell can freeze over before I introduce her to a man of mine.

My introspection is disrupted by the lad, bollock-naked, dragging me to the bedroom. "Don't even think of telling me you need to tidy up the food. It can wait until morning."

It can, I suppose.

"Well, hello!", I greet the nude man lying back on my bed, arms stretched out above his head, the best 'come hither' expression on his face. And it's still only 7 pm. Life is good.

I pull off my top and trousers as fast as I can, and climb onto him. Just feeling the increasingly-familiar warmth of his chest is grand. His nipples aren't sensitive, but the skin at his sides is. And on his throat, making him gasp when I run a finger down the front of his neck.

He likes it all round the base of his cock too, arching up to let me at that wonderful soft skin under his balls. Given he's thrusting his pelvis forwards at me, and he just got clean, I push my face in, holding his cock firmly and applying my tongue underneath it, then sucking the skin of his not-very-hairy red balls. Then I clench his scrotum tight over the bollocks inside as I get my tongue over his hole.

He'd challenged me to make him beg for penetration. Game on.

Clearly, he loves being rimmed, though it's possibly a bit ticklish. He likes his dick held tight, balls squeezed, so I try all those at once, then reaching up to play with that big head on his cock, cos I've grasped he loves the ridge at its base being rubbed.

I think he's trying to hide his reactions, winding me up, and a sudden wee moan confirms it. I keep it up, getting him to the point of whimpering adorably. He's not sitting up or yanking my head away or putting his own hands on his cock, so clearly he's content to lie back and let me do what I'm doing. Christ, there's nothing as good as hearing a man losing control and squealing like a girl! Tom Robinson had that right.

I keep going a while, then when my hand gets tired, I want his prick in my mouth. What am I saying? I always want his dick in my mouth. I don't know whether it's conditioning from the start of us getting together, or just me being the biggest faggot cocksucker this side of the river, but it's been a tough week and his meat filling my mouth is a huge comfort.

He makes a wee whine as I remove my lips from his arse and shift to his cock-head. So he wants something on his hole, does he?

I meet his eyes and lick my forefinger thoroughly. "Not goin' inside. Not unless you ask."

I lower that fine wet finger back down between his cheeks, to that sweet bumpy ring, and press it on one side, then the other, top and bottom, then round and round. I'm more firm that I could ever be with my tongue, and he's loving it. I'd love to have a finger or two inside him, have him writhing even more than he is now, sexy as fuck, but I said I wouldn't. Not just cos it's the right thing to do, but I'm playing the long game here. I'm still a manipulative bastard.

Not that he's suffering from my self-interest, you understand, wriggling against me, trying to get me to speed up the moving of my hand on his dick, pleasure making him moan. He starts humping his arse up off the bed so his cock moves through my hand more. Nice try, but I'm not having that. I clasp my hand more firmly round him.

He huffs sulkily at the reduction in sensation, poor sod, so I devote more attention to the underside of his balls and round his hole, encouraging him to think of pleasure from this whole area. He starts purring and wiggling his hole over my fingertip, so I have to pull away before I slip inside by accident.

He whines, then tells me in a higher voice than usual, "You bastard!"

"I'm sorry. Was there something you was wanting?" My sweetest wee voice, dripping with sarcasm.

"Mmm..." It's a hesitant sort of aroused noise. He wants, but he's scared.

I run my finger round his hole again, and release his cock from my mouth again. "You're not going to get more than one finger inside ye, no matter how much ye beg."

Let him save face. He's clearly scared of more.

"Only one? Maybe..."

He's starting to relax; I can feel it under my hand, his arse muscles easing, less firm. Round and round his hole, up and down over the rim of his head. His breath is hitching a little, tiny gasps, getting there.

I stop a moment.

"Oi!"

"What?"

"Keep going!"

A little more attention to his tip, less on his arse. He wiggles back up to my right hand, wanting that pressure back. I give him a quick palpation over his hole and remove my hand again.

"Aaa...rse... Don't stop..."

"You're the one who keeps thrusting up against me finger. Slut boy."

He glares at me. "Don't complain that I'm liking it."

"I'm not. Just, if you keep doing that, a finger'll slide where I promised not to go, and I keep my promises."

"Unless I ask you to."

He's weakening. I know I said beg and pray, before, but I'm easy, really; a polite request will do.

"Get some lube," he says.

Perfect excuse for a raised eyebrow. He rolls his eyes.

"Please?"

"See, you do know how to ask nicely!" I get up a minute to pump slick onto my hand. The bottle lives on top of the bedside table now. No reason to bother hiding it.

Back in place, he's tensed up again. I roll my whole palm over his hole, then pull it open with both thumbs, and lick, my tongue dabbing delicately onto sensitive flesh I've not reached before.

He's mellowing, so much that he makes sounds like 'oh!' and 'yeah', but that's not enough for me. I start rubbing my sticky finger round again, getting him proper gagging for it.

He's trying to hold out, I can tell. I suppose he's right, I will be a smug bastard after -- but it'll be his loss. Assuming he doesn't get off on self-denial, which I don't think is his thing. I just keep on at his cute wee arse, letting up every now and then so he feels the loss, taking my time.

We've got all night after all. And the rest of our lives. I shove that terrifying thought to the back of my brain and concentrate on seducing Dan's arse, persuading it to come and play with me, inhaling that meaty man smell, that slightly bitter cock taste, the more oily flavour of his ring, all of it squeaky clean with slight hint of soap, but so, so filthy.

Just as well I haven't been to confession since organising Da's funeral, when I kinda had to. I'd be there all day. Actually, I wouldn't; like then, I'd just say I didn't repent anything and he could pray for me on my ma's behalf if he wanted.

Cos I'm not sorry for any of this.

Never.

Might have had times I've regretted who I've opened my arse for, but apologising for letting men at me -- no way.

Dan's nearly giving in, gasping as he tries to grind his hole on my finger, reaches down to grip his own cock and bring himself off, but my hand's in the way, preventing him. He tries pulling my hand up and down, and I resist, turning it into a daft arm-wrestling challenge. He's stronger than me, but I've got his stiffy in my hand, so he's not wanting to use his full strength fighting it.

Eventually, some quiet words escape his lips.

"OK! More...?"

"More what?" He's not getting off that easy.

"More fingering me arse, you divot. Go on, then, mate."

"No. I might be lenient on the begging and praying, but I still want to be asked nicely for exactly what you want. Don't want any mistakes in communication, do we?"

I'm covering it in sarcasm, but I know we don't want to accidentally push him further than he's ready for. 'Long term', I force myself to think.

"Go on. I want it. Your finger."

His voice is husky, breathier than normal.

I circle the offending finger round his hole. "What d'you want me to do with it?"

"Want finger inside me..."

He's squirming so nicely, not quite seizing my wrist to shove my pointer where he wants it, but you can tell it's on his mind.

I let go his cock and stretch a hand up to his face, putting a finger into his mouth.

I'm smirking. "Like that?" I know, I'm a fucking bastard.

He nips at it with his teeth, spits it out. "Tosser."

I reach up to his nostrils, but don't put my finger up one. My life expectancy's probably shite enough.

"Go on, then. Stick your nice slippery finger up me bum."

He's putting on a silly voice, hiding his feelings.

"Only if you reeeeeeeelly want it!" Two can play at silly voices.

He holds my gaze. "Yeah, I want it." I know if I let him keep talking there'll be a 'but' - a fear of pain, maybe memories, it doesn't really matter why, so I blow him a kiss, squirt more lube over my hand to reassure him, put my mouth back over his cock, and start fingering round the opening of his arsehole in earnest.

It takes him a minute to relax again, but with globs of lubricant being shoved into his hole, he eases, and manages to flicker a gap into existence. Of course, he has done this before, even if it was a while ago. You don't forget. He's rolling around my fingertip, forcing himself around it, clearly wanting it more than any words could say.

Then the finger pops inside, and there's no resistance to it, just a snug welcome for a slender inch.

Dan takes a sudden breath, a hitch, and I have to drop his cock to tell him, "There we go, it's all right."

He breathes out, nods, and then there's a weak wee smile. I'm not sure he's up for it, but I roll my finger in a wee circle, smiling at him.

And there we go. He's releasing that tension, enjoying himself. Another circuit and he's wriggling beautifully, making little purring noises, and I want to rub my big pussycat's tummy, he's suddenly so gleeful.

Gasping, begging for more when I hit a certain spot, fucking himself on my finger. He is simply beautiful, this wonderful sexual creature I've found. There's a limit to what I can do with my hand, sadly, so I'm going to have to bring him off, tugging his cock with my left hand, pressing happy places with my right. His eyes are closed as he stops vocalising, screws up his mouth, and he comes right under my face, before he stops squirming on that finger.

I don't move, not even to get my finger back.

Partly, I like the feeling of spunk dripping off my face; mostly I want him to stay completely calm and enjoy the feeling of being penetrated, small as the invader is. He's breathing slower now, that faint smile pulling at his lips again, eyes still closed. I keep my right hand where it is, and lay my head on his hip, calming down too.

We both stay still for some time. Eventually he breaks the silence. "I could get used to this, again."

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

Another pause, then he adds, "But first, I want to fuck you senseless. Stop you... thinking."

"Thinking?"

"Yeah, you. Your mind, what never stops whirring! If you're not thinking about work, you're probably thinking 'should I make a move on him', 'will he freak if I poke him up the jacksy', 'should I move faster, slower, change direction'...?"

It's a fair cop. "And they wonder why I drink."

"Because you don't get fucked enough. Come here. I'll get you a glass, after."

I let him take the lead, bending me in half, legs in the air, so he can plough me deep, hard, fast, repeatedly, and he succeeds. It stops me thinking of anything else beyond how I never want this to stop, ever.

I must have been semi-conscious once he was done with me, because the next thing I notice is a tumbler being pressed into my hand. I sniff, then sip. It's a generous measure of the Balvenie, and just what I needed. He's got a glass of his poncy juice, and we both rehydrate.

"You really like being taken rough, don't you?"

"Aye." I wonder what his real question is. "That's not to say I don't like slow and gentle, too, sometimes." Perhaps... "If you ever want more than a couple fingers, don't you worry. I'd treat you so careful-like, like a wee princess..."

"Fuck that. No, I know. Good idea. Once. I just want to like it again, get all the shit out of my head..."

"I could probably do that. When you want. Even if that's never, right? If I'm always the one taking it, that's truly fine by me. You could tell your mates you ain't a faggot cos you're always on top, if you like."

He looks offended. "I don't lie. Not about that, not any more. Though that might be more detail than the footie lads need..."

"They didn't ask, 'who's the woman', then?"

"No. Besides, you ain't."

"Short, dainty, long hair, taking your cock? Some would say..."

"Some is tossers. Could just as well say, young, naive, being kept by the salaryman..."

"You're not a kept man!"

"And you ain't a bird. Wouldn't be interested if you were. As it is, your body... yeah, your cock, your clever mouth... You're man enough for me, love."

"If you say so."

"I do say so. Besides, never met a woman who was so eager to take it up the arse. You want it again?"

I'm thinking of Laura. What would Dan say if he knew what she's promised me! But I just turn over and wiggle my wee arse at him. "Come and get it."

He does, and it's grand. Hard dick filling me, seeming long enough to whack my tonsils.

I'm no woman, but I'm naked and screaming like a girl, which the song rightly says is the most natural thing in the world. I can feel what I need, deep inside.

Spot on, Mr Robinson. This is the life!