Rent - part 4 (M/M, Oral) Copyright C.J. Davies
Standard disclaimer - don't read if you're under 18, easily upset or have problems (serious or minor) with gay-themed erotic stories. If your country/area of residence says this is naughty and illegal, well, I'm afraid I don't have a "get out of jail free" card you could use. Please, use your common sense. Whilst the characters in my story may or may not practice safe-sex, you really should. Not that you're foolish enough to eschew condoms merely because fictional characters don't use them, are you.
This story, or any part of it, may not be copied, re-edited, sold, or molested in any way without my saying it's okay. My specially trained winged-monkeys are now armed with crossbows, and despite their instructions to shoot for flesh-wounds only, their aim is generally rubbish - don't risk it! Re-posting is okay, as long as you leave this preamble in place and full credit is given where it's due. Any comments, criticisms or offers of gifts and/or sexual favours may be made to vindacatrix@ntlworld.com
If you fancy reading some more of what I've written (it's slightly less porny, I ought to warn you), you're welcome to check out my site www.plenaryindulgence.co.uk
Again, muchos thankosos to the lovely people who have written to me already; hopefully part four will live up to expectations...
Chris
-----------o-n--w-i-t-h--t-h-e--s-h-o-w--(-a-g-a-i-n-)--------------
Rent (part four)
I guess the aftermath of your first time all depends on your relationship with your lover. If you're happily coupled then you probably get to lie together in sticky, post-coital glow. If he's just some buff hottie you've scored with at a club and taken home (or, should your schedule be snug, taken to the nearest toilets), then I imagine you're keen to wipe up the spunk and locate your quickly-shed underwear. If your first time is with a hooker, then - trust me - your thoughts quickly turn to whether he takes Switch or Visa. I slumped by his side, drool easing from my ass and slicking my already sweaty buttocks, mentally ransacking my wallet. Obviously, aside from cards and cash, it contained a fair degree of guilt, as I was suddenly overwhelmed by the truth of what I'd done. All I could hear was the voice inside my head piously reminding me that (a) your first time should be special, (b) it should be with someone you love, and (c) you shouldn't have to pay him. Before I knew it, tears were trickling down my face.
If this were romantic fiction, Adam would here tell me he loved me, brush away my tears and we would rescue each other - me from my sexual paranoia and he from his sexual prostitution. We would live happily ever after, and possibly have a cat. But I promised you honesty, promised me it in fact, and thus honesty is what we're getting. He sat up beside me, sinuous arms curling first to lean on his knees and then to run both hands through his sweat-heavy hair; I could smell the heat from him, mixed headily with the scent of my own ass and his thickly cloying juices. Out of the moment and the overwhelming lust, the blatant honesty of it shamed me and I blushed, deep crimson. Somehow, this is the most intimate part of our evening together, closeness beyond the fucking or the kissing, this proximity of hip- to-hip. My stomach cramps with the urge to reach for my boxers, to cover myself in my glairing, reeking nakedness, and I battle to avoid instinctively covering my eyes, as if my own lack of sight will render me invisible on these sheets that smell of boisterous boys. I satisfy myself with squeezing them shut, then feel the flex of the mattress as he, I assume, turns to swing his legs over the side and stands.
The vastness of the bed, once a promise of our sexual expansiveness, now dwarfs and belittles me, mocks with the cut that I cannot hope to fill it on my own. That it was Adam's sex that ever did so, and I was merely hole and helper. I am laid out as meat for him, should he care to look; thankfully, I can't see either way. My eyes stay blinkered until I hear the thump of his bedroom door closing, and I'm left alone in the room. Test messages bleed to each fuck-sodden extremity, priming them for something other than hormones and penetration, until I judge myself ready enough and clamber about to find my scattered clothes. Sweat and come mat the fabric to me, oil the glide of cotton and denim over goosebumped skin. I feel for the square lump of my wallet then, paranoia enflamed, extract and open it to thumb through what cash there remains. Against all odds, I have enough.
Opening the bedroom door I expect, hope, to hear the hiss of his shower - some sign of normality from him, as well as some degree of trust in me, that I will leave recompense through innate honesty ascertained within our brief relationship. Instead, he is sat in the kitchen; damp t-shirt clinging and askew, combats pulled on, zipped, but unbuttoned and belt ends hanging slackly. His sockless feet rest, gangling toes flexing, on the lino. He doesn't offer me coffee, which I'm grateful for.
I pull the cash out of my back pocket, where I had folded and stuffed it from self-consciousness about wandering his flat, currency outstretched and distancing. Sheepishly I handed it over, watched through darting glances how he tucked it away with only a cursory rifle through with his nail, head briefly dipped and then back to give me a half-smile. "Thanks" and I cringe inside, afraid of this cementation of our liaison. "I'd better... y'know... go..." I'm back to stuttering and mumbling, torn between my desire to flee and my still- present desire for him, my wish that he wasn't someone I'd just illegally procured for sex. He stood, took a step towards the door. "Okay, yeah."
As I stand with my hand on the latch, I try to think of what you're meant to say to the rent boy who's just taken your cherry, and whose juices you can still feel, mashing away inside of you. Maybe we're both getting nervous - he wants me to leave, now, so that he can strip the bed and wash a stranger's sweat from his buyable body. "How about I give you my number..." he starts, and I nod, if only in thanks to him for filling the silence at least. To my relief he hasn't a stack of business cards; he dashes off the string of digits on a pad lurking by the straggly phone, rips off the sheet, hands it to me. I grip it forlornly. "Look, I hope your first... I hope it was okay." The tears threaten to reassert themselves; I'm a million miles away from the slut who begged to be fucked harder, who ground his fingernails into a boy's back whilst screaming out, pulling him deeper. I turn to the door quickly. Outside the first traces of light are knitting themselves through the night sky. The air is muggy and leaden, and as I step out and through it I can almost hear the sucking sound as it squelches around me. "Thanks..." I can't look at him, only make my way back through the paths and hope to find a taxi on the main road. A few steps away and I hear his door close.
It's one of those things that you think will never cease to affect you, never cease to bring about those feelings you had at the time - in this case, the shame and the embarrassment. And in a way, it didn't stop affecting me... it's just that the way in which I thought about it changed. I stopped thinking about Adam as a mistake, about the short time we spent together as dirty or wrong or as something I should never had done. At quiet times, I found myself pulling out my mobile and scrolling to his number, which I'd saved from the scrap of paper whilst waiting, my head-reeling, for a taxi on the night I left him, and simply sitting, staring at it on the screen. The backlight would dim and shut off, and I would stay there, eyes gently unfocussing. But worse were the horny times, the times when I was amped-up and throbbing, and I would sit with the thickness of my cock in one hand and my phone in the other, his number the backdrop to my memories of our fucking. Toying with the soft-sheathed hardness and imagining it was his own; wishing, no, aching to lie next to him, beneath him again. And then the apathy and exhaustion after splaying my juices wildly was not only the normal tiredness a boy feels in such a situation, but also the recognition of my loneliness.
I guess it comes as no surprise that one day it went from scrolling to his number to thumbing 'call', trembling in rhythm with the ringing, stomach churning as he answered the phone. "Hello?" I daren't hang up, for all my anxieties, because the urge to see him has grown so great that any moral quotient lies deflated and ignored behind me. I dread my voice cracking. "Hi, Adam... it's Tom..." and now I can't remember whether I even told him my name, all I can wonder is whether this constriction in my chest is a panic attack or merely a coronary... "I was hoping to... well... see you again." There's a pause; I hold my breath. How picky is he with his clients? Will he turn me down? "I'm free tonight, actually... unless you were wanting something later in the week...?" Lights and adrenaline burst in my head; it needs to be tonight, before I lose my nerve, before it takes further weeks to call him and see him and know him and his intimacy again. "Tonight!" I force myself to calm. "Yeah, tonight would be good. What time?" The arrangements are simple - his place, mid-evening, same price as before - discussing cost sending fresh chills through me. I hang up elated and at the same time miserable, disappointed in myself for all that I'm proud. It's only early in the afternoon but I hurry to the shower, with a cock that has found itself painfully hard despite my sour fear. As I soap and scrub and rinse I try my best to avoid touching it beyond the perfunctory, after the first lathering leads to my slowly milking out thick, pearly streams of pre-come that drool languidly into the shower tray. Mentally I smack my hands away, tweak up the cold tap, feel my excitement flee as the icy water beats down me.
Later, then, in front of the mirror, wet towels at my feet, I examine myself for stray hairs, for spots and for love handles, so that I can tweeze, squeeze and obsess respectively. I force my hand to be steady as I pluck away at monobrow and rid my shoulders of the few dark dustings that threaten to turn gorilla-back in my old age. Inwardly I freak out about what I'm to wear, the irony that my outfit will only end up discarded at the foot of the bed both present and ignored. Soon I'm scrabbling through underwear, browsing briefs and boxers, eschewing the overt as much as the old-fashioned, before manhandling my shortlist to the honest gaze of the mirror and trialling each. Eventually I settle upon white boxer-briefs by HOM, curious for their horizontal fly, and after that the rest of my outfit comes together with reassuring ease. It's only taken me an afternoon.
I find myself on his doorstep. Well, no - to say I "found myself" implies an easy, forgettable ride, rather than an afternoon of anguish, moral-upheaval and more sexual arousal than the set of a Bel Ami movie. Cash weighs down my pocket, the scant lightness of paper money wrapped in a heavy band of disapproval. I thumb the doorbell, wait to hear his tread through the hall; I'm still waiting to hear it as the door opens. "Hi, Tom... come in." He welcomes me as an old friend, and I wonder what his neighbours think, whether they assume of him the broad social circle of the young, or whisper behind their Neighbourhood Watch stickers about the slut next door. Holding the door wide he presses back against the wall, and I slip past him with the brush of our bodies' sublime. "It's good to... um... see you again" I mumble, feeling six years old and in the audience of friends-of-the- family, groping wretchedly for social niceties to mask my abstract horror. Meantime, I inspect him, comparing him mentally to the memory I have of that night of firsts.
He's wearing combats again, blue-black this time, heavy pockets lolling, with bare toes peeking from beneath the hems. They sit low on his hips, a sliver of his underwear showing before the clutches of a tight tight tight t-shirt, no, two t-shirts layered, take over, hugging the contours of his stomach and pectorals. His hair is as casually-perfectly spiked as I remember it, his eyes as engrossing, his lips as full. I can feel myself blushing, yet again, and so I fumble the money out in diversion; he sets it, loaded, on the narrow shelf above the radiator. "You decided whether you want that drink yet?" I can't help but giggle, letting out with it a great chunk of my unspoken anxiety. Adam smiles wickedly, hovering in the archway to the kitchen. I realise I can smell him, that I can recognise that smell from our first night together, even though I hadn't the memory or the words to recognise or understand it then. Something animal, wrapped beneath layers of showering and deodorant and fresh clothes and outward respectability. Something unmistakably boy. I take a step towards him, towards the kitchen, but my glance towards his bedroom door betrays my true craving; he chuckles. "Come on" and somehow takes my hand and, simultaneously, opens the door and pulls us through.
It's a short journey, from hall to bedroom, and again I'm struck by the size of his bed in proportion to the room. We stand for a moment, my hand still in his, as my eyes take in more and his eyes rest on me. I can feel him trace tiny circles on my palm, on the back of my hand; minute scribbles of intimacy that spread, like warmth, through my arm and up around my shoulders. Turning, I meet his gaze; see his eyes dance across my face, then briefly down my body, then back again. I realise I'm smiling. It's only natural that our lips come together.
The kiss starts, if not chastely, then calmly at least, his hands on the contours of my waist, mine reached around to cup the jut of his shoulder blades, as our lips smudge thickly and our tongues gently mash. Nevertheless, hunger overtakes me, the urge for him, this boy who has occupied my thoughts and my fantasies so totally for what feels like forever, and as I growl through our connected mouths I pull him close to me. His pelvis crushes against mine, and I feel his growing erection against my own, as his hands slip down across my hips and round, slyly underneath the loose waistband of my jeans, to cup my cheeks. Fingertips ease their way into my ass crack, kneading roughly, stroking and brushing at the flinching tightness of my hole, as his kisses grow deeper and, with the flare of our shared lust, he begins to bite and nip at my lips, smear his tongue across the flushing, swollen flesh.
The stretch of my imagination, acted and re-acted through all those hurried, impatient wankings, lends me a familiarity, a brashness, as if he'd been present all those nights rather than a shadowy, grinning fantasy I fabricated whilst I frotted. It feels like nothing to strip his shirts from him, the arching flex of his sinuous torso a cause for wonderment, his jutting nipples a greedy target for my pinching, twisting fingers. I can feel his stomach flinching and tensing through my clothes and, possessed, I quickly shed my own top and feel the incredible heat of our chests together. Then, with questions of "may I?" and "can I?" summarily avoided, unbuckling, unfastening his combats and letting them sag to his feet needs no permission; he stands against me, the crisp whiteness of his 2xist briefs a heady contrast to the richness of his skin. I lean back, still breathless from his digits ministrations at the hungry opening of my ass, peer down into the stretched chasm between our upper bodies, gawking with barely-hidden wonderment at the contrast between his muscle-waved tone and my own, lean ribcage, bones jutting ingenuously, pressed proud with each gasp that racks me. The thickness of his cock lays pointedly across his hip, half-constrained by the scantness of his underwear, straining to lurch forward; a translucent patch of his juice spreads richly where the trapped, blunt head pulses. The back of my hand brushes against its length, leaving a smear of wetness, as I grope at belt, button, zip, all things between me and kicking away trousers to stand as undressed, as nearly naked, as he does before me. Still he kneads at my cheeks, his lips now on my neck, the delicate whorl of his ear just visible if I strain my eyes down to peer at him. The stroke of a tongue from oesophagus to carotid thrills me, but this newness pales as his care travels slickly down, loitering at nipples, each suckled, lathed with his gluttonous mouth, then down again to blur the hairs of my treasure-trail.
With one hand, a fingertip of the other still gently probing at my hole, he hooks my prick out of the fly of my shorts, the elastic mouth holding it upright, leaking tip pressed against my abdomen. His tongue runs, teasingly, along the broad underside until it nestles in the moist hollow where arching glans meets shaft; I look down, only to meet his eyes as he stares up at me, lips stretched sluttishly to half-encompass the end of my erection. It's only natural that my hands gently reposition his head, fingers bunching and burrowing in his hair, until the full length of me has disappeared into his mouth and waves of golden pleasure flood through me with each warm sweep of his tongue. At first I'm content to let him bob, the pace Adam's own, but soon delight turns to greedy desire and, still cradling his head, I long-dick my way in and out of his swollen, spit-slick pout. Before I can set a rhythm he pulls back, deftly strips me of my boxers, before returning to engulf me, pubes mashed against his nose, the end of me clasped exquisitely in the quivering grasp of his throat. And then I begin to face-fuck him in earnest, drawing back until only the head remains inside, then pressing forward, buttocks clenching, until I'm again lodged fully within his sucking, drooling gullet. Behind me, his fingers deftly continue their insidious work, scooping gobs of spit and precome that leak from the corners of his mouth and smear his chin, and using this to penetrate me. His touch within the tightness of my ass, stretching me, only drives me on to further increase the pace of my thrusting; staring down, seeing my hands muss his hair, the hunger and raw desire in his eyes, the arch of his back as he kneels, submissive before me, pushes me inescapably towards the edge of my excitement. I can actually feel my cock swelling painfully harder, the edges of my vision begins to tunnel; I groan in a voice two-octaves lower than my normal, as I pull his head fast into my groin and unload again and again into his mouth. His gulping massages me until the sensation is too great, too overwhelming to the point of painful, and I slide my glistening tumescence free of his lips. Oysters of spunk bubble gently from the slit, and I brush them against his jaw. He grins at me as I reach down and help him to his feet. I taste myself in our kiss.
End of part 4 - part 5 is part-finished and is to follow.
Like it? Hate it? Want a winged-monkey? Mail me at vindacatrix@ntlworld.com
Oh, and please, check out my site, www.plenaryindulgence.co.uk