Phone Tig, 4/7
Phone Tig, Chapter Four
Authors: lord_alexander and app1e_pi
Pairing: Monaboyd.
Rating: NC-17.
Warnings: Crack!fic. AU. Complete and utter madness and pretty boys in compromising positions. Dom's mouth. Billy's mouth. Assorted other parts of Dom and Billy.
Disclaimer: If this was true, we'd both be quite busy running up astronomical telephone bills. And so would you. And since we're not and you're not, it's not, and that's that.
Feedback: Might earn you a steamy phone call.
A/N: It's been a good couple of days for Pi and Sal. Pi threw the doctors off the trail by writing het, and Sal, after demanding several proofs that Pi still loved her best, made up with her and wrote femmeslash, which the doctors heartily approved. Because everyone knows that boy-on-boy is dirty and nasty and bad, but girl-on-girl is just... hot. Right? Right. So. It's been a good couple of days at the Clinic.
Ch. 1 ~*~ Ch. 2 ~*~ Ch. 3
Phone Tig, Chapter Four
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Higher brain functions are shutting off, one by one, like 2001, if Hal the computer was in my head right now his circuits would be completely fried. Mine are well on the way--Dom's tongue, his tongue, on my stomach, warmwetsticky, lapping where the cold fucking beer nearly made me yell, his chin digging into my hard-on, which at this point has the solidity of granite. He's fucking humping my leg, Jesus, or he is until he sits up and pulls his shirt over his head. Then he tenses, goes still, he's staring down at me, daring me. Daring me to do something, anything, push us over the edge, past teenage groping on the couch into something hotter, darker, harder.
What did he say to Sir Ian? Always pleased to oblige, yeah. And that's me. Pleased to oblige. Happy to oblige. Fucking thrilled to oblige. I sit up. My shirt's all pushed up to my armpits, so I shrug a little, loosening it, and then pull it off. Now we're both bare-chested. Both flushed. Both breathing a little quickly, though I intend for that to change--with any luck we'll both be breathing a lot faster, very very soon. At least he's shut up, though I wonder how long that'll last.
Time for Show and Tell, I think.
Alright. Onto my knees on the couch. If he can loom so can I fucking well loom. He's only got an inch on me anyway, and when he's on his arse and I'm on my knees and he's sagging back into the sofa cushions and I'm leaning over him, putting one leg across him and straddling him, still on my knees--yeah. I can loom.
His face is all hard and soft and open and scared and smirking, all at once, drives me insane. So I stay right where I am, hardly touching him, just a little where the outsides of his hips brush the insides of my knees; my hands are on the back of the couch to either side of his head and I bend down and put my face right up in his, my jaw jutting out, if I was any closer to him I'd be him. "Would you like to say something funny right now, Dominic?"
There's that flicker again, as his brain slices through a thousand possible replies. Dom's smart, smart as hell, but young still. And if there's anything I'm certain of at this particular moment, it's that I am going to fuck him tonight. That's not up for debate--should have done it months ago, before I got all fucking twisted up about it, before he turned into my best mate, before I started thinking about what would it be like to sleep next to him, not just sleep with him.
But his response, now--it's going to determine what happens after tonight. Because if he says something sappy and stupid and weird, that will be it. I don't want to sleep next to him unless I'm sleeping next to the same cheeky fucker who's been making my life a wind-up hell for the past year and more, and preferably we'll do the sleeping after several hours of energetic shagging. If he says something pathetic and moony, we'll have a quick fuck and I'll be nice and hand him his clothes and usher him out the door and that'll be that.
And it would suck. But I don't think I need to worry--
"Depends, don't it, Billy-boy. You paying by the word?"
And that's that. My mouth's on his and fuck, it's flawless, it's as slick and hot and wet as every kiss I've ever wanted to steal from his mouth in my head. His tongue snakes around mine and then his hands are on my hips. I feel his fingers slide into my beltloops and he yanks forward--strong little fucker but I'm not inclined to argue. Our chests slap together and mine is still damp, we get that nice slippery stutter of skin-on-skin. One hand on the sofa back, one on his head, pushing his chin up, pushing it back so I can get at that neck. Stubble-burn against my mouth, he tastes salty. He doesn't seem to mind that I'm licking him again, licking that tendon in his neck, yeah, that one; he's got his head all craned back and he's making these noises, which are apparently wired directly to my cock, because it hurts, it's trying so hard to push right through my trousers into--
--his hand, what the fuck is he doing--
--into his hand, which is--
--wriggling in between us and then--yesplease!--he works that top button loose and zzzzzzzzzip goes the zipper, sounds like paper tearing he opens it so fast. Still got his face turned away because I'm biting, licking, sucking on his neck, shoulder, neck, jawline, neck, ear--those are going to make the best handles, I can't wait--but he doesn't need to see to get his tricky wicked marvelous bloody fucking perfect hand inside.
"What have we here?" he murmurs, wrapping his long fingers around the ridge in my boxers. The last word goes up in a bit of yelp because when he closes his hand I bite down, just where his shoulder meets his neck, and I make a sound which wouldn't exactly convince anyone listening, like for instance Dom, that I am the calmest person in the room.
"Why doan you unwrap it and see," I suggest when I can talk again, and I swipe my tongue over that bite mark by way of apology.
"Got your cock in my hand, Bills," he croons, and yeah, I groan, can't help it, no choice.
Distract, distract, distract him, keep that upper hand. "Vocabulary lesson," I grind out, and I rock my arse down and back over the rather noticeable--size and consistency of a bowling ball--bulge in his jeans. My cock is pushing into his fist like it's the last helicopter out of Saigon and I just gotta get in there (though that's not really where I want to get in, but hey, we've got all night, or all day, rather, and first things first). "I know you can talk the talk, Dominic. But can you walk the walk?"
He squeezes, hard, and I let my head fall onto his shoulder, nose against his damp neck while I stop breathing for a second or ten. I feel his laugh, breathless and low and rumbly in his chest: "Give me a word."
"S'gonna be a good one, Dom. Five-pound word." Brain starts scanning through available vocabulary with disappointing results; one-syllable words like suck, fuck, Dom, now, cock, arse--no good. Need a challenge, a challenge, dammitall, c'mon, brain, cough it up--Ha! There is it, the five-pounder: "Fellatio."
I'm breathing in the smell of him, sweat and curry and lager and honey. "What's the prize, aside from the five pounds? Cos I've got a flash job, see, mate, and no worries about a handful of sad-arse pounds."
I bite his neck again, hard but not unkind, just to feel his grip tighten on my cock, his breath hitch in his chest before he laughs again. "Demonstrate an accurate and thorough comprehension of the word, Dominic, and I'll let you choose." I lift my head and give him the Look again, the challenge, the fucking alpha-male-fuck-you Look, with a wee patented Scottish-lad smirk to back it up. "Do I fuck you through the mattress, or do you fuck me through the mattress. First."
He makes a sound then, a sound that nearly makes me come right there in his hand, through my boxers, which would be a sticky fucking mess wouldn’t it? Hoarse, sort of, and low, and rough. It is not a sound I have ever heard him make before, and Dom, as I believe I have mentioned, is a fine and convincing actor with a large repertoire of sounds.
He shrugs a little, nonchalant, his eyes black and deep as sin. "Yeah, alright then. You're on."
"Lovely." I roll off him and stand up, facing him. "I'll judge you fair, on my honour." I'm going to have to stop talking at some point soon, I can hear my voice getting kind of thick and treacly and incomprehensible to anyone born outside Lanarkshire county lines. "Make yersel' free." My trousers are still mostly up, just the flaps of the fly pushed back and my boxers making a silly feckin' tent out the triangle of denim. I'm looking down at Dom, positioned just faultlessly for prime head-giving access, and he's eying my crotch like he's going to attack it.
When he does move, though, it's slowly, leaning forward to press his open mouth right against the cotton--should've worn the Simpsons boxers instead of these plain checked ones, he would have appreciated them, but then who knew this would happen--and he exhales, a long, steady breath of heat across the cloth and my cock, which jumps happily.
"Christ, Dom…" I don't realize I've said it till it's out, and he grins up at me.
"You wanna concede already?" He licks his lips to wet them.
"Just go on and be about your business, then. And doan make me come. 'F I get to choose, I'm fucking you first."
I'd say it's about a nanosecond later that my jeans and boxers are wrinkled round my ankles. I'd clock it on my watch, but one, I don't wear a watch, and two, I'd rather look at Dom's mouth sliding down over my erection, my fingers sliding through his streaky blond hair, his lips sealing over me, his cheeks hollowing as he applies himself eagerly to the job at hand. Me, namely, and I am quite happy to be there.
He's got one hand on my hip and one round the base of my cock, and I'm trying desperately not to just fucking fuck his mouth--love to thrash it, pump in there like no tomorrow and feel him swallow around me, feel that slidescrape of teeth along my shaft. Stop it, I tell myself--not too loudly, have to admit, but I do manage to keep the thrusting controlled. Sort of.
Dom doesn't seem to mind, he's quite enthusiastic about the whole endeavor, it appears. And talented, and apparently has no gag reflex to speak of because after a few experimental dips of his head he pulls away his hand and I'm practically on the other side of his head, he takes me so deep. His nose is buried in my short and curlies, and I feel his throat constrict around my head--holyfuckyes--before he slides back. Down again, then up, and then he's set a rhythm--both his hands are on my arse, I can feel those slim fingers curling round my cheeks, pushing into the crack there a bit and fuck that feels good, he could fuck me or I could fuck him, either way would be fine, god yeah, but right now I'll just, just, just concentrate on this, on his mouth, on how warm his hands are, on how his breath is hot and his tongue is swirling around my cock and fuck, my thighs are going all tight and there's a certain heat pooling in my belly and--
"Fuck!" I yell it right out loud because suddenly Dom's mouth is gone and he's gripping the base of my cock again, gripping me tight and cutting off an orgasm that I really, really, really, really, really want. My fingers are wound in his hair and it takes me a minute to relax my hold; when I do, he lets go my (throbbing, that hurt dammit, but still hard-as-a-rock) cock and grins up at me.
"So. What's the verdict on my comprehension of the word of the fucking day?"
"I. Hm." I clear my throat and resist the urge to finish myself off with a couple of good pulls. "I'd say y'know the precise meaning of the word fellatio." I sit down on the coffee table abruptly--shite, is that naan under my bum? Aweel, better than puri I suppose--and grin. "What'll it be?" My turn to lick my lips, and as I've no real preference on the matter, all choices having approximately equal attraction, the words come easily: "Your arse or mine, Dommeh-lad?"
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S'all I can do without coming in my jeans right there because of that fucking voice. That fucking accent, yeah? And millions of people have got a Scottish accent--Sean Connery being any character he fucking plays, or Billy Connolly, or... or... Millions of the bastards. You expect me to name names like some Cold War spy? Who's the third man, and I don't know because there isn't one is there? No other bloke round here staring at us thinkin' Dom, my lad, you've got a choice between him and me. Lucky for that bugger then, because I'd not be looking at him, just at that fucking beautiful bastard grinning at me like some green-eyed fertility god.
"It's a hell of a choice to make," I say, and Billy knows that, because he's the one that's put the onus on me. Onus. Onan. Wanking. Prefer screwing. Up against walls and in dark alleyways and in fucking pub toilets if I play me cards right. Some bastards love that stuff. Cottaging's not really my scene but needs must when the devil shoves a cock against your thigh and says you're fucking sexy. Which I am. Because if I weren't those gorgeous greensex eyes wouldn't be looking at me like that, so fucking gleaming and impish and...
You're a bottom, Billy-boy, aren't you? Or are you getting all toppish on me because you know I'd take it sideways because I'm going to start screaming if I don't get that cock in me somewhere. Throat or arse, all cool with me. Throat, maybe, suck you off, get you ready for the final push. Over My Top, if you want, mate.
"You're going to make it," he purrs, and it's like Glasgow pubs full of smoke and gay boys wanting to screw each other. A throaty purr, a growly proper sexy purr, like a sleek little Tom cat. And he's never sounded like that, even on all those calls he gets. So fucking turned on that he can't breathe right, chest rising and falling, pretty lips parted. Cocksucking lips. Bet he gives beautiful head, all lashing tongue and snorts through his nose as if he's getting off on it in his head as well as physical.
"Choices, choices."
Playing for time, because how the fuck should I know! I wanna eat him out and fuck him and suck his cock and fuck his mouth at the same time, so I'm kind of screwed in that way that isn't with a cock but with the thought of it. Salivating. You're a bloody filthy queer, Monaghan.
Anyway, how dare he stand there with his jeans and boxers round his ankles and looking as if he wants to pound me from here to Paisley and back again?
Least it's cooling down a bit and I don't need to come right now like I did when I was grinding all pretty against him. All skin on skin then the tang of precome and yeah, I could wander over, get some tequila and lemon. Squeeze the lemon into my mouth, swig of tequila, keep them in my cheeks and swish them around his cock as I suck him off, and get all that lovely salt to round it off. Fucking torture. Fucking fucking torture.
So I kind of act nonchalant, slide off the settee, wander across the room so Billy can't get his sweaty little hands on my body, and just really nonchalantly flip the metal button on my Levis. Right little flick of the wrist, so they slide down a bit more and by fuck they're on with a wing and a prayer these jeans at the best of times. Slide down and show all that flat pale stomach, just teasing and stopping before showing my pubes, and I'm grinning because my, the balance just changed. But it needs music and shit, doesn't it, a strip tease? Needs a beat, a rhythm for getting naked, for fucking or being fucked--haven't quite worked that out yet--and so off goes the telly, on goes the radio.
Fucking perfect. 'Just a Little Bit More' by them cunts Liberty X. Shite band, shitest of the shite, but fuck the rhythm works. All under the floor, shivering from my calves and to my hips and then I'm twitching them just a bit. Little bit, promise of what's to come there, Billy my lad.
"Work it a little bit, hot just a little bit," I mouthe, because if I started singing he'd be shoving my clothes back on me and chucking me out the door.
"Meet in the middle and go just a little bit more."
Okay, he's collapsed on the settee, that's nice there, really naked now and okay I miss the beat because I'm staring. Fucking beautiful cock, fit right nice up my arse. Bit of stretch, bit of length. Sorted.
"Sexy... everything about you's so sexy..." sing the cunts, and I'm licking my lips that taste of him, and that's even more fucking sexy as slooooooowly the zip comes down. Not that I'm touching it. Stress of wanting gravity to hit there, it's just clicking down as my hips sway and I run me fingers up from my groin. Over folding denim, over damp skin, up the ripples of rib and I squeeze my nipple like that and fuck it's perfect. And there's moaning, and it's me, and I'm a right slut once I get started. Nice bit of pain, like them bites that hurt so good on my neck, and the bastard's probably marked me but what's necking without a few pretty injuries to show for it?
Chorus. Add some pelvic thrusts, hands rubbing that aching bit of meat in my jeans, teasing teasing teasing as green eyes bore into me like the fucking Severn Bore.
It's weird with sex, everything starts getting heightened sensation, and just the tiny scratch of denim is sending me into fucking orbit here. Anyway, the song's ending, three minutes of perfect pop, and so I'm grinning, nonchalant--just be nonchalant, be the nonchalant, you are Nonchalant Man, don't give into the want to rip those bloody jeans down, bound over and start rubbing--and going in little circles, round on the spot, circling my hips, back to him. And yeah, the denim says fuck it just at the right moment, and I'm naked and gyrating with my back to him, before looking back over me shoulder at him. Knocking the radio off with my thumb, lucky guess that.
And Billy's there, an inch away, hands grabbing my hips and his perfect cocksucking mouth curved into a dark little smile. Like he's the one that's looking for trade, and I'm his pickup for the night. Fucking sexy smirk, that, like there's all the sins of Hell lurking in his head and coming right out with that evil leer.
Hand on my hip and thank fuck the settee's not far away as I'm bouncing on it, legs akimbo, Billy insinuating his way between them, hand slidingsliding up to my cock. And then the fucker stops! Fucking stops! And I'm the bloody tease, but then he's been tormenting me for so bloody long I can't even think if I'm the tease anymore.
"Your rhythm was fucking shit," he says, and I nod, because it was.
"You try dancing with a hard-on the size of Cumbria," I say back, and he laughs. Pretty little chuckle, nice chuckle. Somewhat as if he's humouring me, but fuck that, who cares right? Because we're bollock naked, and Billy's got a thigh across one of mine so I'm kind of trapped in that really nice way of being held down there. And yeah. I don't get fucked. But then I think I left that condition at the door, or in my jeans pocket or something, and would you go and get that condition and thrust it in Billy's face right now? Specially as what I'm going to thrust is waving around in front of me like a torpedo.
"While you're down there..."
Little slap on the thigh and I half-rocket off the settee with it, and Billy's laughing at me. Pain-loving bitch, right. Just a bit of pain, like bites and nails scratching me hips as I fuck them, and just... nice pain, you know? We get the sick bastards on the phone, and I can talk them out a nice little sadomasochistic fantasy, but it don't mean I've done it myself. What's the Internet for, if it's not for stacking up as many porn stories as you can process and shoving them into the computer files for work? Collar me, fuck me with a twelve inch spiked dildo, spank my arse and make me call you Daddy. Fine, that's all cool with me. Doing it...? We'll see. Way Bills is behaving, wouldn't surprise me if he was a Nazi commandant on the weekend in fucking jackboots and the Death's Head insignia on his jacket.
Not that uniforms fucking do anything for me...
"I could," Billy-boy's murmuring, low and sweet like treacle toffee, "but you've not decided."
"The fuck I haven't and anyway, you said blow job..."
"Fellatio."
"Fellatio, you smart arse. You said it was the word of the day, and I'm always up for learning new words, me."
"You've already learned it... decide on whether it's your arse or mine."
"Cunt."
He's slid down, huffing across the head of my cock, and I'm twitching and wriggling and yeah, I'm loving it. It's still smart and snappy and a little bit funny, and thank Christ Billy's going with me on that. If he'd got sweet, kind of all 'Dom, baby,' I'd have fucked and left. I'm no gentleman, but then Billy's no lady, either. Far too sexy to have tits, that one.
"Alright, alright. So, you want me to bend over here? We settee sort of blokes? We classy or wha?"
Those eyes go darker, like primeval forests, and fuckyes! he's tonguing the crown and I'm giving those little cries like some right tart. So good. So fucking good. A tease, still taunting, tongue sliding down the vein at the back of my cock and licking me balls. Licking and bathing and sucking holy fucking Christ in His mercy. Sucking gently, nose against the shaft, tongue laving like he hasn't eaten for months. Humming as well, fucking beautiful humming vibrating right up and alright, he has to grab my hands and hold them tight because I need to fucking touch myself so bad. Touch and come and yell the place down with it. Beautiful mouth, all hot and wet and willing like nothing else on earth, and I'm shifting and then he drags his lips away, all gleaming with saliva.
"What the fuck you stop for, bitch?" I ask, and then there's a feral grin, like he's a fucking psychopath, and he's dived on my cock like it's going to yield the treasure of the lost Empires if he removes all the flesh with his mouth. Looking at me, right up at me, as he does. Cheeks hollow and he tries to go deep but just can't manage all of me but it's fucking near enough so I forgive him, the sexy sexy little cunt. Sucks like a fucking Dyson, down so he's swallowing and that fucking eternal humming and then drawing up with a pop as he lets the thing out, and then back down for seconds. Like he's starving. Billy sucks cock like a starving man, but such control because I'm losing it and he's fucking not now, bastard. Bastard! Legs round his shoulders, his head buried between my thighs, and it's a bit more fighting than me going down on him because the bugger deserves it. Hands on his head, stroking and then fisting his hair, and I'm undulating like fucking Christina Agulwhatshername, riding that hot mouth, legs tensing and flexing. And because I do it gives him the right angle to shove his hands under me arse, all slick and damp against the leather, and start to touch my arsehole that's frankly begging now worse than me, and I've not shut up for fucking years me, not since this happened and I'm going to fucking come whatever he does, fuck yes... fuck... fuck...
And yeah, he is a crafty bastard. Hand round the cock, squeezing, and I'm wriggling around like a wet fish, calling him every fucking name under the sun, in German and English and some Chaucerian as well, touch of Shakespeare adding to it.
He crawls up, and he's got pre-come on his mouth, so I lick it off the corner and snog him. He tastes fucking beautiful. Billy flavour. Should be a new flavour of crisps. Salt, and honey, with added Boyd. There's stubble involved, and that's good, nice burn there, and his hand is still on my arse, pressing and stroking and I bite his tongue to stop him.
"Mate, I know I'm fucking tasty, but at least have the common courtesy to sodomise me into orgasm, right?"
Chapter Five
Authors: lord_alexander and app1e_pi
Pairing: Monaboyd.
Rating: NC-17.
Warnings: Crack!fic. AU. Complete and utter madness and pretty boys in compromising positions. Dom's mouth. Billy's mouth. Assorted other parts of Dom and Billy.
Disclaimer: If this was true, we'd both be quite busy running up astronomical telephone bills. And so would you. And since we're not and you're not, it's not, and that's that.
Feedback: Might earn you a steamy phone call.
A/N: It's been a good couple of days for Pi and Sal. Pi threw the doctors off the trail by writing het, and Sal, after demanding several proofs that Pi still loved her best, made up with her and wrote femmeslash, which the doctors heartily approved. Because everyone knows that boy-on-boy is dirty and nasty and bad, but girl-on-girl is just... hot. Right? Right. So. It's been a good couple of days at the Clinic.
Ch. 1 ~*~ Ch. 2 ~*~ Ch. 3
Phone Tig, Chapter Four
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Higher brain functions are shutting off, one by one, like 2001, if Hal the computer was in my head right now his circuits would be completely fried. Mine are well on the way--Dom's tongue, his tongue, on my stomach, warmwetsticky, lapping where the cold fucking beer nearly made me yell, his chin digging into my hard-on, which at this point has the solidity of granite. He's fucking humping my leg, Jesus, or he is until he sits up and pulls his shirt over his head. Then he tenses, goes still, he's staring down at me, daring me. Daring me to do something, anything, push us over the edge, past teenage groping on the couch into something hotter, darker, harder.
What did he say to Sir Ian? Always pleased to oblige, yeah. And that's me. Pleased to oblige. Happy to oblige. Fucking thrilled to oblige. I sit up. My shirt's all pushed up to my armpits, so I shrug a little, loosening it, and then pull it off. Now we're both bare-chested. Both flushed. Both breathing a little quickly, though I intend for that to change--with any luck we'll both be breathing a lot faster, very very soon. At least he's shut up, though I wonder how long that'll last.
Time for Show and Tell, I think.
Alright. Onto my knees on the couch. If he can loom so can I fucking well loom. He's only got an inch on me anyway, and when he's on his arse and I'm on my knees and he's sagging back into the sofa cushions and I'm leaning over him, putting one leg across him and straddling him, still on my knees--yeah. I can loom.
His face is all hard and soft and open and scared and smirking, all at once, drives me insane. So I stay right where I am, hardly touching him, just a little where the outsides of his hips brush the insides of my knees; my hands are on the back of the couch to either side of his head and I bend down and put my face right up in his, my jaw jutting out, if I was any closer to him I'd be him. "Would you like to say something funny right now, Dominic?"
There's that flicker again, as his brain slices through a thousand possible replies. Dom's smart, smart as hell, but young still. And if there's anything I'm certain of at this particular moment, it's that I am going to fuck him tonight. That's not up for debate--should have done it months ago, before I got all fucking twisted up about it, before he turned into my best mate, before I started thinking about what would it be like to sleep next to him, not just sleep with him.
But his response, now--it's going to determine what happens after tonight. Because if he says something sappy and stupid and weird, that will be it. I don't want to sleep next to him unless I'm sleeping next to the same cheeky fucker who's been making my life a wind-up hell for the past year and more, and preferably we'll do the sleeping after several hours of energetic shagging. If he says something pathetic and moony, we'll have a quick fuck and I'll be nice and hand him his clothes and usher him out the door and that'll be that.
And it would suck. But I don't think I need to worry--
"Depends, don't it, Billy-boy. You paying by the word?"
And that's that. My mouth's on his and fuck, it's flawless, it's as slick and hot and wet as every kiss I've ever wanted to steal from his mouth in my head. His tongue snakes around mine and then his hands are on my hips. I feel his fingers slide into my beltloops and he yanks forward--strong little fucker but I'm not inclined to argue. Our chests slap together and mine is still damp, we get that nice slippery stutter of skin-on-skin. One hand on the sofa back, one on his head, pushing his chin up, pushing it back so I can get at that neck. Stubble-burn against my mouth, he tastes salty. He doesn't seem to mind that I'm licking him again, licking that tendon in his neck, yeah, that one; he's got his head all craned back and he's making these noises, which are apparently wired directly to my cock, because it hurts, it's trying so hard to push right through my trousers into--
--his hand, what the fuck is he doing--
--into his hand, which is--
--wriggling in between us and then--yesplease!--he works that top button loose and zzzzzzzzzip goes the zipper, sounds like paper tearing he opens it so fast. Still got his face turned away because I'm biting, licking, sucking on his neck, shoulder, neck, jawline, neck, ear--those are going to make the best handles, I can't wait--but he doesn't need to see to get his tricky wicked marvelous bloody fucking perfect hand inside.
"What have we here?" he murmurs, wrapping his long fingers around the ridge in my boxers. The last word goes up in a bit of yelp because when he closes his hand I bite down, just where his shoulder meets his neck, and I make a sound which wouldn't exactly convince anyone listening, like for instance Dom, that I am the calmest person in the room.
"Why doan you unwrap it and see," I suggest when I can talk again, and I swipe my tongue over that bite mark by way of apology.
"Got your cock in my hand, Bills," he croons, and yeah, I groan, can't help it, no choice.
Distract, distract, distract him, keep that upper hand. "Vocabulary lesson," I grind out, and I rock my arse down and back over the rather noticeable--size and consistency of a bowling ball--bulge in his jeans. My cock is pushing into his fist like it's the last helicopter out of Saigon and I just gotta get in there (though that's not really where I want to get in, but hey, we've got all night, or all day, rather, and first things first). "I know you can talk the talk, Dominic. But can you walk the walk?"
He squeezes, hard, and I let my head fall onto his shoulder, nose against his damp neck while I stop breathing for a second or ten. I feel his laugh, breathless and low and rumbly in his chest: "Give me a word."
"S'gonna be a good one, Dom. Five-pound word." Brain starts scanning through available vocabulary with disappointing results; one-syllable words like suck, fuck, Dom, now, cock, arse--no good. Need a challenge, a challenge, dammitall, c'mon, brain, cough it up--Ha! There is it, the five-pounder: "Fellatio."
I'm breathing in the smell of him, sweat and curry and lager and honey. "What's the prize, aside from the five pounds? Cos I've got a flash job, see, mate, and no worries about a handful of sad-arse pounds."
I bite his neck again, hard but not unkind, just to feel his grip tighten on my cock, his breath hitch in his chest before he laughs again. "Demonstrate an accurate and thorough comprehension of the word, Dominic, and I'll let you choose." I lift my head and give him the Look again, the challenge, the fucking alpha-male-fuck-you Look, with a wee patented Scottish-lad smirk to back it up. "Do I fuck you through the mattress, or do you fuck me through the mattress. First."
He makes a sound then, a sound that nearly makes me come right there in his hand, through my boxers, which would be a sticky fucking mess wouldn’t it? Hoarse, sort of, and low, and rough. It is not a sound I have ever heard him make before, and Dom, as I believe I have mentioned, is a fine and convincing actor with a large repertoire of sounds.
He shrugs a little, nonchalant, his eyes black and deep as sin. "Yeah, alright then. You're on."
"Lovely." I roll off him and stand up, facing him. "I'll judge you fair, on my honour." I'm going to have to stop talking at some point soon, I can hear my voice getting kind of thick and treacly and incomprehensible to anyone born outside Lanarkshire county lines. "Make yersel' free." My trousers are still mostly up, just the flaps of the fly pushed back and my boxers making a silly feckin' tent out the triangle of denim. I'm looking down at Dom, positioned just faultlessly for prime head-giving access, and he's eying my crotch like he's going to attack it.
When he does move, though, it's slowly, leaning forward to press his open mouth right against the cotton--should've worn the Simpsons boxers instead of these plain checked ones, he would have appreciated them, but then who knew this would happen--and he exhales, a long, steady breath of heat across the cloth and my cock, which jumps happily.
"Christ, Dom…" I don't realize I've said it till it's out, and he grins up at me.
"You wanna concede already?" He licks his lips to wet them.
"Just go on and be about your business, then. And doan make me come. 'F I get to choose, I'm fucking you first."
I'd say it's about a nanosecond later that my jeans and boxers are wrinkled round my ankles. I'd clock it on my watch, but one, I don't wear a watch, and two, I'd rather look at Dom's mouth sliding down over my erection, my fingers sliding through his streaky blond hair, his lips sealing over me, his cheeks hollowing as he applies himself eagerly to the job at hand. Me, namely, and I am quite happy to be there.
He's got one hand on my hip and one round the base of my cock, and I'm trying desperately not to just fucking fuck his mouth--love to thrash it, pump in there like no tomorrow and feel him swallow around me, feel that slidescrape of teeth along my shaft. Stop it, I tell myself--not too loudly, have to admit, but I do manage to keep the thrusting controlled. Sort of.
Dom doesn't seem to mind, he's quite enthusiastic about the whole endeavor, it appears. And talented, and apparently has no gag reflex to speak of because after a few experimental dips of his head he pulls away his hand and I'm practically on the other side of his head, he takes me so deep. His nose is buried in my short and curlies, and I feel his throat constrict around my head--holyfuckyes--before he slides back. Down again, then up, and then he's set a rhythm--both his hands are on my arse, I can feel those slim fingers curling round my cheeks, pushing into the crack there a bit and fuck that feels good, he could fuck me or I could fuck him, either way would be fine, god yeah, but right now I'll just, just, just concentrate on this, on his mouth, on how warm his hands are, on how his breath is hot and his tongue is swirling around my cock and fuck, my thighs are going all tight and there's a certain heat pooling in my belly and--
"Fuck!" I yell it right out loud because suddenly Dom's mouth is gone and he's gripping the base of my cock again, gripping me tight and cutting off an orgasm that I really, really, really, really, really want. My fingers are wound in his hair and it takes me a minute to relax my hold; when I do, he lets go my (throbbing, that hurt dammit, but still hard-as-a-rock) cock and grins up at me.
"So. What's the verdict on my comprehension of the word of the fucking day?"
"I. Hm." I clear my throat and resist the urge to finish myself off with a couple of good pulls. "I'd say y'know the precise meaning of the word fellatio." I sit down on the coffee table abruptly--shite, is that naan under my bum? Aweel, better than puri I suppose--and grin. "What'll it be?" My turn to lick my lips, and as I've no real preference on the matter, all choices having approximately equal attraction, the words come easily: "Your arse or mine, Dommeh-lad?"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
S'all I can do without coming in my jeans right there because of that fucking voice. That fucking accent, yeah? And millions of people have got a Scottish accent--Sean Connery being any character he fucking plays, or Billy Connolly, or... or... Millions of the bastards. You expect me to name names like some Cold War spy? Who's the third man, and I don't know because there isn't one is there? No other bloke round here staring at us thinkin' Dom, my lad, you've got a choice between him and me. Lucky for that bugger then, because I'd not be looking at him, just at that fucking beautiful bastard grinning at me like some green-eyed fertility god.
"It's a hell of a choice to make," I say, and Billy knows that, because he's the one that's put the onus on me. Onus. Onan. Wanking. Prefer screwing. Up against walls and in dark alleyways and in fucking pub toilets if I play me cards right. Some bastards love that stuff. Cottaging's not really my scene but needs must when the devil shoves a cock against your thigh and says you're fucking sexy. Which I am. Because if I weren't those gorgeous greensex eyes wouldn't be looking at me like that, so fucking gleaming and impish and...
You're a bottom, Billy-boy, aren't you? Or are you getting all toppish on me because you know I'd take it sideways because I'm going to start screaming if I don't get that cock in me somewhere. Throat or arse, all cool with me. Throat, maybe, suck you off, get you ready for the final push. Over My Top, if you want, mate.
"You're going to make it," he purrs, and it's like Glasgow pubs full of smoke and gay boys wanting to screw each other. A throaty purr, a growly proper sexy purr, like a sleek little Tom cat. And he's never sounded like that, even on all those calls he gets. So fucking turned on that he can't breathe right, chest rising and falling, pretty lips parted. Cocksucking lips. Bet he gives beautiful head, all lashing tongue and snorts through his nose as if he's getting off on it in his head as well as physical.
"Choices, choices."
Playing for time, because how the fuck should I know! I wanna eat him out and fuck him and suck his cock and fuck his mouth at the same time, so I'm kind of screwed in that way that isn't with a cock but with the thought of it. Salivating. You're a bloody filthy queer, Monaghan.
Anyway, how dare he stand there with his jeans and boxers round his ankles and looking as if he wants to pound me from here to Paisley and back again?
Least it's cooling down a bit and I don't need to come right now like I did when I was grinding all pretty against him. All skin on skin then the tang of precome and yeah, I could wander over, get some tequila and lemon. Squeeze the lemon into my mouth, swig of tequila, keep them in my cheeks and swish them around his cock as I suck him off, and get all that lovely salt to round it off. Fucking torture. Fucking fucking torture.
So I kind of act nonchalant, slide off the settee, wander across the room so Billy can't get his sweaty little hands on my body, and just really nonchalantly flip the metal button on my Levis. Right little flick of the wrist, so they slide down a bit more and by fuck they're on with a wing and a prayer these jeans at the best of times. Slide down and show all that flat pale stomach, just teasing and stopping before showing my pubes, and I'm grinning because my, the balance just changed. But it needs music and shit, doesn't it, a strip tease? Needs a beat, a rhythm for getting naked, for fucking or being fucked--haven't quite worked that out yet--and so off goes the telly, on goes the radio.
Fucking perfect. 'Just a Little Bit More' by them cunts Liberty X. Shite band, shitest of the shite, but fuck the rhythm works. All under the floor, shivering from my calves and to my hips and then I'm twitching them just a bit. Little bit, promise of what's to come there, Billy my lad.
"Work it a little bit, hot just a little bit," I mouthe, because if I started singing he'd be shoving my clothes back on me and chucking me out the door.
"Meet in the middle and go just a little bit more."
Okay, he's collapsed on the settee, that's nice there, really naked now and okay I miss the beat because I'm staring. Fucking beautiful cock, fit right nice up my arse. Bit of stretch, bit of length. Sorted.
"Sexy... everything about you's so sexy..." sing the cunts, and I'm licking my lips that taste of him, and that's even more fucking sexy as slooooooowly the zip comes down. Not that I'm touching it. Stress of wanting gravity to hit there, it's just clicking down as my hips sway and I run me fingers up from my groin. Over folding denim, over damp skin, up the ripples of rib and I squeeze my nipple like that and fuck it's perfect. And there's moaning, and it's me, and I'm a right slut once I get started. Nice bit of pain, like them bites that hurt so good on my neck, and the bastard's probably marked me but what's necking without a few pretty injuries to show for it?
Chorus. Add some pelvic thrusts, hands rubbing that aching bit of meat in my jeans, teasing teasing teasing as green eyes bore into me like the fucking Severn Bore.
It's weird with sex, everything starts getting heightened sensation, and just the tiny scratch of denim is sending me into fucking orbit here. Anyway, the song's ending, three minutes of perfect pop, and so I'm grinning, nonchalant--just be nonchalant, be the nonchalant, you are Nonchalant Man, don't give into the want to rip those bloody jeans down, bound over and start rubbing--and going in little circles, round on the spot, circling my hips, back to him. And yeah, the denim says fuck it just at the right moment, and I'm naked and gyrating with my back to him, before looking back over me shoulder at him. Knocking the radio off with my thumb, lucky guess that.
And Billy's there, an inch away, hands grabbing my hips and his perfect cocksucking mouth curved into a dark little smile. Like he's the one that's looking for trade, and I'm his pickup for the night. Fucking sexy smirk, that, like there's all the sins of Hell lurking in his head and coming right out with that evil leer.
Hand on my hip and thank fuck the settee's not far away as I'm bouncing on it, legs akimbo, Billy insinuating his way between them, hand slidingsliding up to my cock. And then the fucker stops! Fucking stops! And I'm the bloody tease, but then he's been tormenting me for so bloody long I can't even think if I'm the tease anymore.
"Your rhythm was fucking shit," he says, and I nod, because it was.
"You try dancing with a hard-on the size of Cumbria," I say back, and he laughs. Pretty little chuckle, nice chuckle. Somewhat as if he's humouring me, but fuck that, who cares right? Because we're bollock naked, and Billy's got a thigh across one of mine so I'm kind of trapped in that really nice way of being held down there. And yeah. I don't get fucked. But then I think I left that condition at the door, or in my jeans pocket or something, and would you go and get that condition and thrust it in Billy's face right now? Specially as what I'm going to thrust is waving around in front of me like a torpedo.
"While you're down there..."
Little slap on the thigh and I half-rocket off the settee with it, and Billy's laughing at me. Pain-loving bitch, right. Just a bit of pain, like bites and nails scratching me hips as I fuck them, and just... nice pain, you know? We get the sick bastards on the phone, and I can talk them out a nice little sadomasochistic fantasy, but it don't mean I've done it myself. What's the Internet for, if it's not for stacking up as many porn stories as you can process and shoving them into the computer files for work? Collar me, fuck me with a twelve inch spiked dildo, spank my arse and make me call you Daddy. Fine, that's all cool with me. Doing it...? We'll see. Way Bills is behaving, wouldn't surprise me if he was a Nazi commandant on the weekend in fucking jackboots and the Death's Head insignia on his jacket.
Not that uniforms fucking do anything for me...
"I could," Billy-boy's murmuring, low and sweet like treacle toffee, "but you've not decided."
"The fuck I haven't and anyway, you said blow job..."
"Fellatio."
"Fellatio, you smart arse. You said it was the word of the day, and I'm always up for learning new words, me."
"You've already learned it... decide on whether it's your arse or mine."
"Cunt."
He's slid down, huffing across the head of my cock, and I'm twitching and wriggling and yeah, I'm loving it. It's still smart and snappy and a little bit funny, and thank Christ Billy's going with me on that. If he'd got sweet, kind of all 'Dom, baby,' I'd have fucked and left. I'm no gentleman, but then Billy's no lady, either. Far too sexy to have tits, that one.
"Alright, alright. So, you want me to bend over here? We settee sort of blokes? We classy or wha?"
Those eyes go darker, like primeval forests, and fuckyes! he's tonguing the crown and I'm giving those little cries like some right tart. So good. So fucking good. A tease, still taunting, tongue sliding down the vein at the back of my cock and licking me balls. Licking and bathing and sucking holy fucking Christ in His mercy. Sucking gently, nose against the shaft, tongue laving like he hasn't eaten for months. Humming as well, fucking beautiful humming vibrating right up and alright, he has to grab my hands and hold them tight because I need to fucking touch myself so bad. Touch and come and yell the place down with it. Beautiful mouth, all hot and wet and willing like nothing else on earth, and I'm shifting and then he drags his lips away, all gleaming with saliva.
"What the fuck you stop for, bitch?" I ask, and then there's a feral grin, like he's a fucking psychopath, and he's dived on my cock like it's going to yield the treasure of the lost Empires if he removes all the flesh with his mouth. Looking at me, right up at me, as he does. Cheeks hollow and he tries to go deep but just can't manage all of me but it's fucking near enough so I forgive him, the sexy sexy little cunt. Sucks like a fucking Dyson, down so he's swallowing and that fucking eternal humming and then drawing up with a pop as he lets the thing out, and then back down for seconds. Like he's starving. Billy sucks cock like a starving man, but such control because I'm losing it and he's fucking not now, bastard. Bastard! Legs round his shoulders, his head buried between my thighs, and it's a bit more fighting than me going down on him because the bugger deserves it. Hands on his head, stroking and then fisting his hair, and I'm undulating like fucking Christina Agulwhatshername, riding that hot mouth, legs tensing and flexing. And because I do it gives him the right angle to shove his hands under me arse, all slick and damp against the leather, and start to touch my arsehole that's frankly begging now worse than me, and I've not shut up for fucking years me, not since this happened and I'm going to fucking come whatever he does, fuck yes... fuck... fuck...
And yeah, he is a crafty bastard. Hand round the cock, squeezing, and I'm wriggling around like a wet fish, calling him every fucking name under the sun, in German and English and some Chaucerian as well, touch of Shakespeare adding to it.
He crawls up, and he's got pre-come on his mouth, so I lick it off the corner and snog him. He tastes fucking beautiful. Billy flavour. Should be a new flavour of crisps. Salt, and honey, with added Boyd. There's stubble involved, and that's good, nice burn there, and his hand is still on my arse, pressing and stroking and I bite his tongue to stop him.
"Mate, I know I'm fucking tasty, but at least have the common courtesy to sodomise me into orgasm, right?"
Chapter Five