Fic: Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy Entry 56-58/151 (Entourage, NC-17, Vince/E, Vince/Others)
Title: Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy
Entries: 56-58 of 151
Status: Complete
Fandom: Entourage
Word Count:~5,800
Disclaimer: I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.
Pairing: Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)
Rating: NC-17 for lots and lots of sex
Warnings: AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!
Betas and helpers: guest_age, justabi, allyndra, ariadne83, pesha and deepad were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.
Authors Notes: This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the entourage_fest.
Summary: Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.
Entry 1-20
Entry 21-40
Entry 41-55
Entry 56
Ari's got me meeting the client in a bar on Saturday night. It's not my favorite way to conduct business. It's awkward and back when I was new at this, I approached the wrong person more than once. I got hit twice and laughed at once before I really learned how to read people.
"Younger, FOB, he'll be wearing a red shirt and waiting for you at the bar at the Peninsula. He's got a room there."
FOB-fresh off the boat. Most natives think of anyone from east of L.A. county who've been in town less than five years as an FOB. Ari's cut off is more than ten years, so technically, I'm still FOB.
"He ask for anything special?"
"You got requested special, you kinky bitch. That's not special enough?"
"Ari."
"Look, there's nothing special here. You don't have to shoot ping pong balls out of your ass or do cartwheels on the guy's dick. He's a New England closet case and his sister got him a, Welcome to real civilization, present. All you have to do is show up, look pretty, and fuck like a stevedore. Guy's probably one of those uptight, control-freak, Connecticut tops, so you don't even have to worry about getting hard. The sister paid up for the whole night, so you've got lots of time to do your job, handsome."
"When?"
"Eight-thirty. Wear green. The wife says it makes your eyes pop."
Yeah. Sure she does.
"Tonight's easy, though. Mrs. Grey's husband found out about you and Jay orally shucking her bearded clam and gave himself a coronary. His blood pressure's so fucking high the son of a bitch had to retire early, so she's cancelled for the next two weeks. I've got you an afternoon delight tomorrow."
"So nothing tonight?"
"Nope. Not unless Alan Grey gets his blood pressure back to normal in the next eight hours and checks himself out of Cedars-Sinai."
"Tomrrow's fine. Hey, Ari, do I need change my phone number?" I've had a couple husbands and more than a few wives track my number down over the years. It's always ugly.
"Not this time."
~*~*~
Entry 57
The afternoon client, Phil, turns out to be my ED client's dad, which is so goddamn creepy. There're pictures of the two of them with Phil's late wife all over the house.
It's just…ugh. Apparently, Nicky's the one who recommended me. Miracle worker, is what Phil tells me he said. That is so much creepier than the guy who wanted me to put him in a diaper that time.
He wants it pretty straight forward, just a blowjob (me blowing him) and then a fuck (him fucking me). And that's fine. But fuck, I've made his kid come with two of my fingers in his ass. It's just weird.
I lie face down on his bed, pant and moan like I want to be there, and try not to think about the way he and his son both curse the same.
~*~*~*~
Entry 58
I can usually tell which patron is my client as soon as I enter the room when I have a job like this. Even when it's a crowded bar or restaurant, I can still tell.
The women fidget. Almost always they'll be fondling drinks with long stems and looking expectantly towards the door, often in groups of two or three-making sure I am what I say I am (late twenties, peak physical condition, attractive and, most importantly, not a serial killer).
Men, on the other hand, are always alone. I'd say that something like two-thirds of my male clients are married, hell maybe closer to seventy-five percent, so they're sneaking. Even the ones that aren't married don't want anyone to know they're doing this. Paying for sex is bad enough. Paying for a boy is worse. And doing it if you've got a wife, kids, or a job as the CEO of a company that regularly appears in Forbes isn't something you want to broadcast.
But they definitely broadcast something. Usually it's need-for something in particular or just for sex in general, doesn't matter. They're in need and that's the kind of thing you can scent from a hundred feet away if you're looking for it.
This one's not going to be vibing need though. He's going to be embarrassed, ashamed. He'll have hunched shoulders, and probably be ducked low over his drink. Even if I hadn't known to look for the red shirt, I'd have seen him.
I spot him less than a foot inside the door. He's at the bar and he's staring down into a glass of beer like he wants to crawl inside and never come out. His face is shadowed but the curve of back is definitely embarrassment. It's not a good look on him because from what I can see, he's about my age and not that bad looking.
I move to stand behind him and lay a hand on his back, sliding it across to his shoulder. "Excuse me, I'm-" I am about to say Chase, but he blinks and turns his face into the light to look at me. My voice dies in my throat because suddenly I can see his face.
Fuck.
Fuck.
"Jesus fuck, Vince? Vince Chase, is that you?"
I pull my hand back and force out a laugh, smiling as best as I can through the shock.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is so many kinds of bad I can't even stand it because Jesus, it's not just a client. I could deal if it were anyone on earth in this bar, wearing a red shirt and waiting for me but not him. Nearly fifteen years too fucking late, it's E. My E.
I have kept my cool while grown men put on riding gear and pretended to be a horse and I totally dispassionately have watched women fist themselves. I am an expert at keeping my level fucking head. I am.
My voice cracks when I speak anyway.
"Long time, no see, E."
"Too fucking long," E says, moving off the barstool and into hugging me.
Despite myself, I sink into the hug. My hands flatten themselves against his back so I can feel his heat and the muscles beneath the silk. Only years of faking it keep me from actually moaning at how much better reality is than my memories.
He smells different than I remember. He used to smell like VO5 shampoo-and-conditioner-in-one and discount detergent-and-softener and now he smells like Calvin Klein aftershave and organic soap. I pull back and try to get all the new information to mesh together.
It's not really working and out of the corner of my eye, I'm scanning the bar for the real client. The one I'm supposed to fuck. Because it can't be him. It can't be. E wouldn't ever buy it. He's not that kind of guy.
Then again, it's been years. What the fuck do I know about him anymore? Nothing. I don't know anything, so I need to just let go and fucking stop this. But I can't. It's been too Goddamn long, and I can't.
E is grinning at me so wide it looks like his face could break in two. He rubs my upper arm and asks, "What are you doing here?"
"I was supposed to meet someone here for work," I say, and that's one hundred and ten percent true. "What about you? It's been, what, ten years?" Closer to fifteen. But who's counting? Not me. Not every fucking day since he left. Nope. "I thought you were in Boston."
"Yeah." E seems to finally remember who he is and where we are and lets go of me. "No, I haven't been in Boston since I finished college. I just got moved out here for work. I was back in New York before this. Crazy, right?"
Small fucking world. I am trying so fucking hard not to be bitter right now. I am. "Yeah. Nuts."
"Ya know, I called Rita when I first moved back. She didn't have a number for you."
I have never hated my mother more. Never. Not when she took my old man back. Not when she protected him from social services after he broke my arm. Not when she let him kick me out. Not when she called me and Jimmy fags when I came to pick up the last of my stuff before Turtle and I left for L.A.
I don't know what the fuck she thought she was doing. Punishing me? Protecting me? I don't care. I smile at E through anger, hurt, and a heavy feeling of time fucking wasted that I can't get back.
"I'll make sure you have my number this time."
"Great. Hey, I'm, uh-" E swallows. "I'm supposed to be meeting someone here myself. A friend of mine arranged a blind date type thing for me that there's no possible way I can take. I was only here to cancel in person because she won't give me the fucking number but…" He shrugs and grins at me while my fantasy of this being a fluke encounter withers and dies. "Fuck ‘em. Jesus, Vince I haven't seen you in ages. How the fuck are you?"
"Busy," I say, which is true. I have been busy. I have clients five days a week, sometimes more.
"Me too," he calls back. A moment of self-consciousness flits across his face and he glances nervously at the door. Looking for Chase and hoping that he won't come.
"You know, I can't hear shit down here. Wanna go somewhere we can talk?"
"Sure. You want to get a drink first?" E asks, leaning in to talk to me. His hand rests on my arm and his eyes are dark. I know that look. I make my fucking living off that fucking look, Goddamn it.
Goddamn it, I wish I were fourteen. Why the hell couldn't this have been my life before E's family moved to Boston? I would've given anything to have this as a kid, anything to have it any other way.
I order a scotch, then make it a double. I down the first one fast, which makes E's eyebrows shoot up his forehead, but I take the second one in my hand and nod towards the exit of the bar into the lobby and move the arm he's holding in that direction. It's so easy. I hate how easy it is to lead him like he's one of hundreds of clients.
The change of light from the bar to the lobby isn't enough to make me squint, but it is enough to for me to see E clearly.
He's only a few inches taller than he was when we were fourteen, about half a foot shorter than me, but he's turned out like he belongs in L.A. It's clear his shirt's designer now that we're in the light. Everything he's wearing is worth more than our parents made in a year growing up. His hair's cut short and is just a little bit spiked in the front. He's nervous, I can read it in his face, but his shoulders have a set to them I recognize-he's got power. Over what, doing what, I don't know. But whatever it is, he's good at it and he's in charge.
"You're doing well for yourself," I say, and it sounds forced to me. But all I can think about is how good he looks and how to get him to talk out here in the quiet where I can hear him. I want to remember his voice.
"You don't know the half of it," he laughs and God. Oh, fucking God. He's still got Queens in his voice, thicker than my accent ever was even before I started working to stop it. "My boss's got me heading up a branch out here for couple years-see if I can't pull my own weight. What about you? You still acting?"
I swallow the second scotch that burns through the ache in my throat. E wanted me to be an actor. He said I was too pretty for sports, that I could be a star. I cannot fucking bear to see disappointment on his face, not now that I'm just getting reacquainted with it. So I shrug and make another desperate half-truth. "I do a lot of things."
"Tell me about it." He's serious. He's so fucking serious his eyes are boring a fucking hole in me. But I can't answer that. I can't. Instead, I do what I've wanted to do since I was about twelve, and reach for Eric's waist.
"We can talk upstairs."
He follows me to the elevator and that's surreal. I used to follow him. But I tug gently on his belt and E shakes his head and follows me anyway.
"What floor?"
"Top."
The penthouse. Whatever branch E's running, it's important. I hit the button at the top of the row labeled P and E leans against the wall.
"This is not the way tonight was supposed to go," he says with a sigh.
"Yeah?" I ask, moving to stand in front of him. We have about twenty stories left. "How was it supposed to go?"
"I don't know, Vince. Different. It was supposed to go different. I didn't expect to see you here. I mean, I haven't seen you since we were kids. It's all kind of-" He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up patchy. "I don't know. Weird."
"Funny how things work out."
"Yeah. Funny. Vince, listen."
I tilt my head to the side and wait. He says nothing for three floors.
"I'm listening."
"Yeah."
"It's just me, E."
"Yeah. I know it's you. I just…fuck, Vince, you grew up."
"So did you."
"I just didn't think you would."
"I was supposed to stay fourteen forever?"
"Yeah." He rubs his forehead with the knuckles of the last three fingers on his right hand. "In my head, you did. You know, I think about you and we're still getting high in Turtle's mom's house and your shoes have holes in them."
"I got new shoes."
"Yeah. I know. I know, Vince. It's just…"
I reach out and put my hand on the side of his neck. We're five floors from the top. He tenses and leans into my touch at the same time. E's got a vibe that reminds me of a frightened bird-not on the attack like a wounded dog or anything, but not sure he wants to land, to commit to what's coming next. Calm and persistent, that's what tends to work with those. So I don't let go and he uncoils.
"Trust me, E."
"Trust you to what?"
"Just trust me."
"Vince-"
"Trust me," I say again.
His eyes are the same. Everything else is slightly different-he's got more freckles, shorter hair, a taller body, better clothes. But his eyes are the same. They're clear blue and I can see myself in them when he looks at me.
Kissing him isn't really a choice. It's the only thing I can do with him looking at me that way. I stroke my tongue into his mouth it's like a switch gets flipped inside E. His hands grab my waist and pull me into him so that we're pressed together with no space between. I plant hand on the elevator wall for balance as he tugs down on the back of my head. He tastes like the beer he was drinking and something else, something that's just his taste. It's good and I moan, pushing closer, deeper.
The door dings and opens into a hallway with one door that doesn't have a number on it. The doors almost close on us again before we break apart. E brushes past me, hits the open button and leads me out into the hallway. We don't speak as he opens the door with his key and we go inside.
The penthouse is larger than my apartment. There's a living room, a kitchen off to the side, a bathroom through another door, and beyond that is the bedroom.
With most people, I would comment on a room like this, something praising and appreciative. E seems almost embarrassed by the place, like he's ashamed that he has enough money to stay in a place like this. So instead, I reach out to him again and take his hand.
It's so simple, so fucking juvenile. Holding hands-what am I, four? But nothing's ever felt like it feels to hold E's hand. I thread my fingers with his and lead him into the bedroom.
The bed is a California king, bigger than my bed at home. E won't look at it, or me, choosing instead to fix his gaze on the open suitcase at in a corner of the room near one of the nightstands. I drop down onto the bed, tugging him down over me.
I lay back and look up at him. His face is flushed, his lips are still wet, and he looks a little dazed. With his free hand, he reaches down and runs his fingertips down the side of my face.
"Jesus, Vince," he chokes, ducking his head against my neck.
Then he's kissing the skin there. He sucks on my pulse. He pulls at my shirt and the buttons give easily so his lips can reach my collarbone. He buries his nose against my shoulder and mouths my skin, and I'm tugging at his shirt when I hear it.
"I've missed you. I didn't even fucking know how much."
I don't know why that makes it real. But it does. I crash down from Lalaland into the real fucking world where we shouldn't be doing this. It's been almost fifteen years. Fifteen. I don't know him anymore. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know what I do. Where I've been. Who I've become since his mom took him away. I don't think he deserves to see that. Not when he remembers me as being better.
He's still kissing my neck and working his way back up towards my mouth while I panic. Either he doesn't notice, or he went into sexual autopilot (which is more likely).
I roll over, taking E with me so that I'm on top. I kiss the underside of his jaw a few times to get his attention, then say "Wait here, okay? I've gotta use the john."
He nods and I climb off him. I can feel his eyes on me as I pad a cross the room until I shut the door behind me with a quiet click.
I flick on the light and stare at myself in the mirror. Nothing new there. With kiss-bruised lips and jaded eyes, I look exactly like what I am-rent boy, escort, prostitute, whore. Doesn't usually matter what you call it. It's a job. It's just a job. It's a job I usually really like. A job I'm actually proud of a lot of the time.
But that's E out there. Oldest friend, only person to ever love me unconditionally, too-much-fucking-history, E. I'm just not a good enough actor for this.
What the hell can I go out there and say anyway? Sorry E, I really want to fuck you, but a friend of yours is paying me because I'm a whore. Thought you should know before I sit on your cock. Heads up.
Yeah. It's been more than ten years since I last spoke to him. If I say that, it'll be another thirty before I speak to him again. Which, all things considered, wouldn't be that unreasonable on his part. My mother can barely talk to me and my brother ignores it all together, so why would E's reaction be any different?
The fact is, I can't risk it. Not won't. Can't. Can fucking not. I can't let him walk out of my life again, not over what I do, not over anything. Not when he's right on the other side of that door, panting for it like I've been wanting since I hit puberty.
"Get it the fuck together, Chase," I hiss at my reflection. And Chase, the role I've perfected in hotel rooms not nearly as nice as this one over the years, grins back at me, sure and sexy. He's not the right person to be in this moment, but he's all I can reach for right now. I wash my hands with cold water just to rinse the sweat that's been building on my palms for the last hour, and open the door.
E's sitting on the bed in his boxers and his dress shirt. It's unbuttoned just enough that I can see his undershirt, white against the dark red and somehow vulnerable-like he started getting undressed and then decided it might not be a good idea, and is waiting for me to decide. My throat's dry as I look at him. I find a smile somewhere.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just had to catch my breath."
He nods at me and rubs the back of his neck again. He never used to do that as a kid, and it makes me wonder. But I can see his feet and his calves and I want to unfold him and get him out of his boxers. I want to feel his hands and taste the skin hidden by that red silk and white cotton.
"Okay."
It's the perfect moment to say something. Anything that could get this to stop would be good here from the true ("wait, you should know first I'm a hooker"), to the reasonable ("let's talk first, it's been a long time"), to flat out lies ("we can't-I'm HIV+."), but he's beautiful and I'm a fucking idiot, so instead of saying anything to him, I start on the buttons of my shirt.
"This is crazy, Vince," he says, but he's watching my hands.
I say nothing. Apparently, my mouth doesn't do words anymore. I undo my wrists first - four buttons on each sleeve, and then I start at my collar.
"It is," E says, shaking his head as he rises up on his knees and moves toward me. He catches the bottom of my shirt and starts on the buttons himself. He pops them open too rough, no patience or elegance. I can feel the shirt tear, and I don't give a rat's ass. "It's fucking insane, Vince. I'm insane."
His hands meet mine about two-thirds down my shirt and he pushes it off my shoulders roughly before pulling me down over him. His tongue pushes into my mouth and I groan because it's the only way I know how to react to finally getting what I've fucking always wanted. He tugs my shirt off my arms even as he pushes his upper body up off the bed to kiss me harder. I can tell from the way he's kissing me that he's a top, and that's fine with me. More than.
I roll us so that once again, he's above me and that works better for him. I watch him undo the cuffs of his own shirt before tugging it off over his head. He's straddling me in nothing but his boxers and undershirt now, and it's better than my fantasies. My fantasies never got the weight of him right, the way his body presses mine down into the bed. His bare feet brush against my slacks.
His hands slide down my arms to my wrists and I feel anchored. Holding my hands against my sides like that isn't a question, I don't give permission and for a moment, I'm reminded of Billy. But this is better because E's hands fit around my bones like they were made to go there, and they're gentle. They're warm, strong, and heavy without being violent. They just connect and it hits me that I could probably come from just this if E kept touching me for long enough.
"You got so fucking beautiful, Vince. How'd that happen? Where the fuck was I?"
"You're here now," I mumble, my lips following his as best they can. I don't want him to stop kissing me to talk. "I'm here now, E. We're here."
"Too fucking long."
My throat aches and my eyes sting. I rub the side of E's face with my nose. "I know."
"It's been too fucking long, Vince."
"I know. So you should kiss me again-make up for that time we didn't when we were in high school."
E smiles down at me, a little sad. "Which time?"
"Every time."
I lose myself in kissing him. It isn't something that is usually a big deal for me-kissing. I like it, but it's not like this, where thought fades and I can lose myself in the act. Sex is like that. If my partner is good and he or she knows what they're doing. But not kissing. Yet I'm drowning in kissing him-getting him out of his boxers isn't even priority anymore. All I care about is memorizing the feel of his tongue and the alignment of his teeth.
There's a buzzing from the side of my leg. It makes E break away and blink at me with dark blue eyes. And then 50 Cent's voice erupts from the speaker of my cell phone, his voice playing in that weird slightly-off way that all MP3 ring tones have and I grope for it, even as E descends on me again.
No Cadillac, no perms, you can't see that I'm a motherfucking P-I-M-
I flip it open with clumsy fingers. "'Lo?"
"Chase, baby, how's it hanging?"
This is what I give a chunk out of my commissions for, I remind myself. I actually am supposed to want him to do this I try to remind myself as E's lips attack the side of my neck on their way down. But I can't think.
"Chase?"
"I'm, uh-" E's teeth scrape over my nipple and a moan explodes out of my throat, ruining whatever I was going to say. What I need to say. Which is that I'm gold. That's the code. How's it hanging? I'm gold.
I take a deep breath and E's tongue joins the party. I choke on my words and it comes out in an incoherent moan.
"He there?"
E's moved down, his tongue in my navel, his hands undoing my belt. Then the belt's gone and my pants are unzipped, and his mouth is on my cock. It all happens so fast I can't even process and I shout into the phone something that sounds a lot like a yes, but might be something totally different. I have no way to know.
"Uh-huh. And how are you hanging?"
"G-golden," I manage though the word ends on a practically pornographic moan. "Nugh, I, fuck, fucking fuck-I gotta go."
I can hear Ari laughing as I snap the phone shut and throw it across the room. It lands with a soft thump on the thick carpet, and now both my hands are free to brace on the bed and push myself up so I can watch E suck me.
His red hair looks dark brown in the low light, and he's looking up at me with big eyes. His lips are stretched wide and he keeps making these filthy slurping noises that actually hurt me to hear because I've made sounds like that before-fake, manufactured noises that wish they could sound like E does. I fall back on to one elbow and reach out to touch the side of his mouth, and my thumb slides in.
He closes his eyes like he wants it. Like he loves it. Like he's made for it and Jesus, what would the guys we grew up with say?
Who fucking cares? I don't. Because my fucking dick and my fucking thumb are inside E right this second. They're inside of him, which is just unreal. And kind of unfair. I pull my hand free, grab him by his undershirt, and tug. He lifts off me slowly, like he doesn't want to stop-and maybe he doesn't, which would be fucking amazing. But then he's face to face with me again.
"Fuck me."
His eyes go wide and he swallows audibly.
"Vince-"
"I want you to fuck me, E," I say. It's easy to say because of practice, and it feels good to say because it's true. I want E to fuck me like I know he can, like I've thought about time after time when the client I'm with isn't enough or I'm alone in my apartment, dick in one hand, vibrator in the other.
"You have no idea how you sound."
Of course I do. I know exactly how I sound. "Like I want you inside me. Fucking fuck me, E. I want you to fuck me. Please."
"Vince-" he tries again.
I sit up and kick out of my pants, grabbing the lube and one of the condoms I keep in my pockets before discarding them completely, and my boxers go with them. I'm naked and he notices. I lay back, my head finally getting all the way up to the pillows, and I pull out a move that's an oldie but a goody when I spread my legs and bend my knees. "Now, E. I want you to fuck me now."
E looks nervous again. He hasn't for a while but now he does again, and I wonder what the hell he's been doing for the last decade plus that he can give head like that, but the idea of fucking me makes him twitchy.
"It's easy, E."
"You've done this before."
"Yeah. And you've sucked cock before. Both are valuable skill sets, E. So," I sit up a bit and grab him by the front of that white shirt and pull him forward. "You should fuck me already."
"I'm-Vince I'm not-"
The next word out of his mouth better not be "gay." Because I can tell from the way he's looking at me that's bullshit and E's never been the kind to lie to himself. And I can't let him. But he slides his hands over my chest and tries again.
"I haven't-Vince I've done this maybe twice. And not for a long time." His face flushes the same red as his shirt and the answer's in his eyes. "Years."
Right. Okay. This I can work with. This is honest and not wholly unexpected, and this I can more than handle.
"It's all good, E. I got this." I take the hand that's on my chest and kiss the fingers before putting it back against my skin.
I keep my eyes on E as I reach out and retrieve the lube from the duvet. I pop off the top of the tube and it slides out wet and slippery onto my fingers. I smile at E as I push two wet fingers into myself and groan.
I can hear E's breath catch. I can feel his eyes on my ass and the slick slide of my fingers inside me. I manage to lift my head enough to see his face as I slide a third finger inside, more for show than anything else, and he's biting his lower lip so hard it's a wonder it's not bleeding.
I pull my fingers out of me and drop them onto the blanket. His eyes are locked on them and that's good. The way his lip has teeth marks in it is good, too. With my clean hand, I hold out the condom and a second packet of lube.
"I think you can fuck me now."
This part, E's done before, thank God. He got no issues getting out of his boxers and undershirt. He's deft with the condom and he knows what to do with the lube-sorta. But when he leans over me, he seems a little confused.
"Are you sure this is how- "
I stop him mid-sentence. His pride doesn't deserve to have to finish that.
"How about you just lie back and I'll drive?"
"You even got a license?"
"Not for a car."
"That's fucking typical, Vince," he says, but he's smiling as he says it, and he moves to lie down on his back next to me. "Just don't wreck me."
He says it as a joke but he's not kidding, and I wish I could promise him that. But all I can do is move over him and kiss him, hard and deep, as I sink slow and smooth onto his cock. I moan into his mouth as he slides into me, and he makes a broken noise in the back of his throat and his whole body jerks.
He doesn't have the longest or the thickest dick I've ever had inside me, but he's long enough for me to feel it deep inside and thick enough for it to burn just enough to be really good. I brace my knees on the mattress and my hands on the bed and move-up then down, slow at first, but when I find my prostate with E's dick, I speed up and squeeze inside.
E chokes out my name and I tip my head down to kiss him. It feels like I'm melting into him, my body rolling like one of those rhythmic wave machines executives keep on their desks in their offices. It's natural and fluid and easy. My body fits over his and I don't have to twist or bend myself uncomfortably to take him deep and good.
One of his hands rests on my hip, urging me on. "Faster. Harder. More, Vince, come on more. I've wanted you so fucking long, Vince, please more."
I come on his chest and it's satisfying because fuck, yes, it's a blinding orgasm-the spasming, bucking, rocking, ride-his-dick-like-I-stole-it kind I hardly ever have even when I'm trying for it-but there's also something so fucking hot about seeing myself on him like that.
I fall forward and he takes advantage of the moment and rolls us until he's on top. Completely out of my hands and my control, he fucks me, and I get a taste of what it could be like next time, if there is a next time. Sweating and panting, it's the kind of fuck that could shake my teeth lose. It moves the whole bed and turns me inside out.
His left hand gropes for my right as he loses his rhythm. He calls my name when he comes, his face buried in the side of my neck, his fingers laced with mine, and squeezing tight.
When he can move again, he pulls out of me, gets rid of the condom, and thumps down half next to, half on top of, me. His left hand hasn't let mine go yet and his right settles itself on my chest, over my heart.
~*~*~
Continue to Entry 59-70
Entries: 56-58 of 151
Status: Complete
Fandom: Entourage
Word Count:~5,800
Disclaimer: I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.
Pairing: Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)
Rating: NC-17 for lots and lots of sex
Warnings: AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!
Betas and helpers: guest_age, justabi, allyndra, ariadne83, pesha and deepad were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.
Authors Notes: This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the entourage_fest.
Summary: Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.
Entry 1-20
Entry 21-40
Entry 41-55
Entry 56
Ari's got me meeting the client in a bar on Saturday night. It's not my favorite way to conduct business. It's awkward and back when I was new at this, I approached the wrong person more than once. I got hit twice and laughed at once before I really learned how to read people.
"Younger, FOB, he'll be wearing a red shirt and waiting for you at the bar at the Peninsula. He's got a room there."
FOB-fresh off the boat. Most natives think of anyone from east of L.A. county who've been in town less than five years as an FOB. Ari's cut off is more than ten years, so technically, I'm still FOB.
"He ask for anything special?"
"You got requested special, you kinky bitch. That's not special enough?"
"Ari."
"Look, there's nothing special here. You don't have to shoot ping pong balls out of your ass or do cartwheels on the guy's dick. He's a New England closet case and his sister got him a, Welcome to real civilization, present. All you have to do is show up, look pretty, and fuck like a stevedore. Guy's probably one of those uptight, control-freak, Connecticut tops, so you don't even have to worry about getting hard. The sister paid up for the whole night, so you've got lots of time to do your job, handsome."
"When?"
"Eight-thirty. Wear green. The wife says it makes your eyes pop."
Yeah. Sure she does.
"Tonight's easy, though. Mrs. Grey's husband found out about you and Jay orally shucking her bearded clam and gave himself a coronary. His blood pressure's so fucking high the son of a bitch had to retire early, so she's cancelled for the next two weeks. I've got you an afternoon delight tomorrow."
"So nothing tonight?"
"Nope. Not unless Alan Grey gets his blood pressure back to normal in the next eight hours and checks himself out of Cedars-Sinai."
"Tomrrow's fine. Hey, Ari, do I need change my phone number?" I've had a couple husbands and more than a few wives track my number down over the years. It's always ugly.
"Not this time."
~*~*~
Entry 57
The afternoon client, Phil, turns out to be my ED client's dad, which is so goddamn creepy. There're pictures of the two of them with Phil's late wife all over the house.
It's just…ugh. Apparently, Nicky's the one who recommended me. Miracle worker, is what Phil tells me he said. That is so much creepier than the guy who wanted me to put him in a diaper that time.
He wants it pretty straight forward, just a blowjob (me blowing him) and then a fuck (him fucking me). And that's fine. But fuck, I've made his kid come with two of my fingers in his ass. It's just weird.
I lie face down on his bed, pant and moan like I want to be there, and try not to think about the way he and his son both curse the same.
~*~*~*~
Entry 58
I can usually tell which patron is my client as soon as I enter the room when I have a job like this. Even when it's a crowded bar or restaurant, I can still tell.
The women fidget. Almost always they'll be fondling drinks with long stems and looking expectantly towards the door, often in groups of two or three-making sure I am what I say I am (late twenties, peak physical condition, attractive and, most importantly, not a serial killer).
Men, on the other hand, are always alone. I'd say that something like two-thirds of my male clients are married, hell maybe closer to seventy-five percent, so they're sneaking. Even the ones that aren't married don't want anyone to know they're doing this. Paying for sex is bad enough. Paying for a boy is worse. And doing it if you've got a wife, kids, or a job as the CEO of a company that regularly appears in Forbes isn't something you want to broadcast.
But they definitely broadcast something. Usually it's need-for something in particular or just for sex in general, doesn't matter. They're in need and that's the kind of thing you can scent from a hundred feet away if you're looking for it.
This one's not going to be vibing need though. He's going to be embarrassed, ashamed. He'll have hunched shoulders, and probably be ducked low over his drink. Even if I hadn't known to look for the red shirt, I'd have seen him.
I spot him less than a foot inside the door. He's at the bar and he's staring down into a glass of beer like he wants to crawl inside and never come out. His face is shadowed but the curve of back is definitely embarrassment. It's not a good look on him because from what I can see, he's about my age and not that bad looking.
I move to stand behind him and lay a hand on his back, sliding it across to his shoulder. "Excuse me, I'm-" I am about to say Chase, but he blinks and turns his face into the light to look at me. My voice dies in my throat because suddenly I can see his face.
Fuck.
Fuck.
"Jesus fuck, Vince? Vince Chase, is that you?"
I pull my hand back and force out a laugh, smiling as best as I can through the shock.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is so many kinds of bad I can't even stand it because Jesus, it's not just a client. I could deal if it were anyone on earth in this bar, wearing a red shirt and waiting for me but not him. Nearly fifteen years too fucking late, it's E. My E.
I have kept my cool while grown men put on riding gear and pretended to be a horse and I totally dispassionately have watched women fist themselves. I am an expert at keeping my level fucking head. I am.
My voice cracks when I speak anyway.
"Long time, no see, E."
"Too fucking long," E says, moving off the barstool and into hugging me.
Despite myself, I sink into the hug. My hands flatten themselves against his back so I can feel his heat and the muscles beneath the silk. Only years of faking it keep me from actually moaning at how much better reality is than my memories.
He smells different than I remember. He used to smell like VO5 shampoo-and-conditioner-in-one and discount detergent-and-softener and now he smells like Calvin Klein aftershave and organic soap. I pull back and try to get all the new information to mesh together.
It's not really working and out of the corner of my eye, I'm scanning the bar for the real client. The one I'm supposed to fuck. Because it can't be him. It can't be. E wouldn't ever buy it. He's not that kind of guy.
Then again, it's been years. What the fuck do I know about him anymore? Nothing. I don't know anything, so I need to just let go and fucking stop this. But I can't. It's been too Goddamn long, and I can't.
E is grinning at me so wide it looks like his face could break in two. He rubs my upper arm and asks, "What are you doing here?"
"I was supposed to meet someone here for work," I say, and that's one hundred and ten percent true. "What about you? It's been, what, ten years?" Closer to fifteen. But who's counting? Not me. Not every fucking day since he left. Nope. "I thought you were in Boston."
"Yeah." E seems to finally remember who he is and where we are and lets go of me. "No, I haven't been in Boston since I finished college. I just got moved out here for work. I was back in New York before this. Crazy, right?"
Small fucking world. I am trying so fucking hard not to be bitter right now. I am. "Yeah. Nuts."
"Ya know, I called Rita when I first moved back. She didn't have a number for you."
I have never hated my mother more. Never. Not when she took my old man back. Not when she protected him from social services after he broke my arm. Not when she let him kick me out. Not when she called me and Jimmy fags when I came to pick up the last of my stuff before Turtle and I left for L.A.
I don't know what the fuck she thought she was doing. Punishing me? Protecting me? I don't care. I smile at E through anger, hurt, and a heavy feeling of time fucking wasted that I can't get back.
"I'll make sure you have my number this time."
"Great. Hey, I'm, uh-" E swallows. "I'm supposed to be meeting someone here myself. A friend of mine arranged a blind date type thing for me that there's no possible way I can take. I was only here to cancel in person because she won't give me the fucking number but…" He shrugs and grins at me while my fantasy of this being a fluke encounter withers and dies. "Fuck ‘em. Jesus, Vince I haven't seen you in ages. How the fuck are you?"
"Busy," I say, which is true. I have been busy. I have clients five days a week, sometimes more.
"Me too," he calls back. A moment of self-consciousness flits across his face and he glances nervously at the door. Looking for Chase and hoping that he won't come.
"You know, I can't hear shit down here. Wanna go somewhere we can talk?"
"Sure. You want to get a drink first?" E asks, leaning in to talk to me. His hand rests on my arm and his eyes are dark. I know that look. I make my fucking living off that fucking look, Goddamn it.
Goddamn it, I wish I were fourteen. Why the hell couldn't this have been my life before E's family moved to Boston? I would've given anything to have this as a kid, anything to have it any other way.
I order a scotch, then make it a double. I down the first one fast, which makes E's eyebrows shoot up his forehead, but I take the second one in my hand and nod towards the exit of the bar into the lobby and move the arm he's holding in that direction. It's so easy. I hate how easy it is to lead him like he's one of hundreds of clients.
The change of light from the bar to the lobby isn't enough to make me squint, but it is enough to for me to see E clearly.
He's only a few inches taller than he was when we were fourteen, about half a foot shorter than me, but he's turned out like he belongs in L.A. It's clear his shirt's designer now that we're in the light. Everything he's wearing is worth more than our parents made in a year growing up. His hair's cut short and is just a little bit spiked in the front. He's nervous, I can read it in his face, but his shoulders have a set to them I recognize-he's got power. Over what, doing what, I don't know. But whatever it is, he's good at it and he's in charge.
"You're doing well for yourself," I say, and it sounds forced to me. But all I can think about is how good he looks and how to get him to talk out here in the quiet where I can hear him. I want to remember his voice.
"You don't know the half of it," he laughs and God. Oh, fucking God. He's still got Queens in his voice, thicker than my accent ever was even before I started working to stop it. "My boss's got me heading up a branch out here for couple years-see if I can't pull my own weight. What about you? You still acting?"
I swallow the second scotch that burns through the ache in my throat. E wanted me to be an actor. He said I was too pretty for sports, that I could be a star. I cannot fucking bear to see disappointment on his face, not now that I'm just getting reacquainted with it. So I shrug and make another desperate half-truth. "I do a lot of things."
"Tell me about it." He's serious. He's so fucking serious his eyes are boring a fucking hole in me. But I can't answer that. I can't. Instead, I do what I've wanted to do since I was about twelve, and reach for Eric's waist.
"We can talk upstairs."
He follows me to the elevator and that's surreal. I used to follow him. But I tug gently on his belt and E shakes his head and follows me anyway.
"What floor?"
"Top."
The penthouse. Whatever branch E's running, it's important. I hit the button at the top of the row labeled P and E leans against the wall.
"This is not the way tonight was supposed to go," he says with a sigh.
"Yeah?" I ask, moving to stand in front of him. We have about twenty stories left. "How was it supposed to go?"
"I don't know, Vince. Different. It was supposed to go different. I didn't expect to see you here. I mean, I haven't seen you since we were kids. It's all kind of-" He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up patchy. "I don't know. Weird."
"Funny how things work out."
"Yeah. Funny. Vince, listen."
I tilt my head to the side and wait. He says nothing for three floors.
"I'm listening."
"Yeah."
"It's just me, E."
"Yeah. I know it's you. I just…fuck, Vince, you grew up."
"So did you."
"I just didn't think you would."
"I was supposed to stay fourteen forever?"
"Yeah." He rubs his forehead with the knuckles of the last three fingers on his right hand. "In my head, you did. You know, I think about you and we're still getting high in Turtle's mom's house and your shoes have holes in them."
"I got new shoes."
"Yeah. I know. I know, Vince. It's just…"
I reach out and put my hand on the side of his neck. We're five floors from the top. He tenses and leans into my touch at the same time. E's got a vibe that reminds me of a frightened bird-not on the attack like a wounded dog or anything, but not sure he wants to land, to commit to what's coming next. Calm and persistent, that's what tends to work with those. So I don't let go and he uncoils.
"Trust me, E."
"Trust you to what?"
"Just trust me."
"Vince-"
"Trust me," I say again.
His eyes are the same. Everything else is slightly different-he's got more freckles, shorter hair, a taller body, better clothes. But his eyes are the same. They're clear blue and I can see myself in them when he looks at me.
Kissing him isn't really a choice. It's the only thing I can do with him looking at me that way. I stroke my tongue into his mouth it's like a switch gets flipped inside E. His hands grab my waist and pull me into him so that we're pressed together with no space between. I plant hand on the elevator wall for balance as he tugs down on the back of my head. He tastes like the beer he was drinking and something else, something that's just his taste. It's good and I moan, pushing closer, deeper.
The door dings and opens into a hallway with one door that doesn't have a number on it. The doors almost close on us again before we break apart. E brushes past me, hits the open button and leads me out into the hallway. We don't speak as he opens the door with his key and we go inside.
The penthouse is larger than my apartment. There's a living room, a kitchen off to the side, a bathroom through another door, and beyond that is the bedroom.
With most people, I would comment on a room like this, something praising and appreciative. E seems almost embarrassed by the place, like he's ashamed that he has enough money to stay in a place like this. So instead, I reach out to him again and take his hand.
It's so simple, so fucking juvenile. Holding hands-what am I, four? But nothing's ever felt like it feels to hold E's hand. I thread my fingers with his and lead him into the bedroom.
The bed is a California king, bigger than my bed at home. E won't look at it, or me, choosing instead to fix his gaze on the open suitcase at in a corner of the room near one of the nightstands. I drop down onto the bed, tugging him down over me.
I lay back and look up at him. His face is flushed, his lips are still wet, and he looks a little dazed. With his free hand, he reaches down and runs his fingertips down the side of my face.
"Jesus, Vince," he chokes, ducking his head against my neck.
Then he's kissing the skin there. He sucks on my pulse. He pulls at my shirt and the buttons give easily so his lips can reach my collarbone. He buries his nose against my shoulder and mouths my skin, and I'm tugging at his shirt when I hear it.
"I've missed you. I didn't even fucking know how much."
I don't know why that makes it real. But it does. I crash down from Lalaland into the real fucking world where we shouldn't be doing this. It's been almost fifteen years. Fifteen. I don't know him anymore. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know what I do. Where I've been. Who I've become since his mom took him away. I don't think he deserves to see that. Not when he remembers me as being better.
He's still kissing my neck and working his way back up towards my mouth while I panic. Either he doesn't notice, or he went into sexual autopilot (which is more likely).
I roll over, taking E with me so that I'm on top. I kiss the underside of his jaw a few times to get his attention, then say "Wait here, okay? I've gotta use the john."
He nods and I climb off him. I can feel his eyes on me as I pad a cross the room until I shut the door behind me with a quiet click.
I flick on the light and stare at myself in the mirror. Nothing new there. With kiss-bruised lips and jaded eyes, I look exactly like what I am-rent boy, escort, prostitute, whore. Doesn't usually matter what you call it. It's a job. It's just a job. It's a job I usually really like. A job I'm actually proud of a lot of the time.
But that's E out there. Oldest friend, only person to ever love me unconditionally, too-much-fucking-history, E. I'm just not a good enough actor for this.
What the hell can I go out there and say anyway? Sorry E, I really want to fuck you, but a friend of yours is paying me because I'm a whore. Thought you should know before I sit on your cock. Heads up.
Yeah. It's been more than ten years since I last spoke to him. If I say that, it'll be another thirty before I speak to him again. Which, all things considered, wouldn't be that unreasonable on his part. My mother can barely talk to me and my brother ignores it all together, so why would E's reaction be any different?
The fact is, I can't risk it. Not won't. Can't. Can fucking not. I can't let him walk out of my life again, not over what I do, not over anything. Not when he's right on the other side of that door, panting for it like I've been wanting since I hit puberty.
"Get it the fuck together, Chase," I hiss at my reflection. And Chase, the role I've perfected in hotel rooms not nearly as nice as this one over the years, grins back at me, sure and sexy. He's not the right person to be in this moment, but he's all I can reach for right now. I wash my hands with cold water just to rinse the sweat that's been building on my palms for the last hour, and open the door.
E's sitting on the bed in his boxers and his dress shirt. It's unbuttoned just enough that I can see his undershirt, white against the dark red and somehow vulnerable-like he started getting undressed and then decided it might not be a good idea, and is waiting for me to decide. My throat's dry as I look at him. I find a smile somewhere.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just had to catch my breath."
He nods at me and rubs the back of his neck again. He never used to do that as a kid, and it makes me wonder. But I can see his feet and his calves and I want to unfold him and get him out of his boxers. I want to feel his hands and taste the skin hidden by that red silk and white cotton.
"Okay."
It's the perfect moment to say something. Anything that could get this to stop would be good here from the true ("wait, you should know first I'm a hooker"), to the reasonable ("let's talk first, it's been a long time"), to flat out lies ("we can't-I'm HIV+."), but he's beautiful and I'm a fucking idiot, so instead of saying anything to him, I start on the buttons of my shirt.
"This is crazy, Vince," he says, but he's watching my hands.
I say nothing. Apparently, my mouth doesn't do words anymore. I undo my wrists first - four buttons on each sleeve, and then I start at my collar.
"It is," E says, shaking his head as he rises up on his knees and moves toward me. He catches the bottom of my shirt and starts on the buttons himself. He pops them open too rough, no patience or elegance. I can feel the shirt tear, and I don't give a rat's ass. "It's fucking insane, Vince. I'm insane."
His hands meet mine about two-thirds down my shirt and he pushes it off my shoulders roughly before pulling me down over him. His tongue pushes into my mouth and I groan because it's the only way I know how to react to finally getting what I've fucking always wanted. He tugs my shirt off my arms even as he pushes his upper body up off the bed to kiss me harder. I can tell from the way he's kissing me that he's a top, and that's fine with me. More than.
I roll us so that once again, he's above me and that works better for him. I watch him undo the cuffs of his own shirt before tugging it off over his head. He's straddling me in nothing but his boxers and undershirt now, and it's better than my fantasies. My fantasies never got the weight of him right, the way his body presses mine down into the bed. His bare feet brush against my slacks.
His hands slide down my arms to my wrists and I feel anchored. Holding my hands against my sides like that isn't a question, I don't give permission and for a moment, I'm reminded of Billy. But this is better because E's hands fit around my bones like they were made to go there, and they're gentle. They're warm, strong, and heavy without being violent. They just connect and it hits me that I could probably come from just this if E kept touching me for long enough.
"You got so fucking beautiful, Vince. How'd that happen? Where the fuck was I?"
"You're here now," I mumble, my lips following his as best they can. I don't want him to stop kissing me to talk. "I'm here now, E. We're here."
"Too fucking long."
My throat aches and my eyes sting. I rub the side of E's face with my nose. "I know."
"It's been too fucking long, Vince."
"I know. So you should kiss me again-make up for that time we didn't when we were in high school."
E smiles down at me, a little sad. "Which time?"
"Every time."
I lose myself in kissing him. It isn't something that is usually a big deal for me-kissing. I like it, but it's not like this, where thought fades and I can lose myself in the act. Sex is like that. If my partner is good and he or she knows what they're doing. But not kissing. Yet I'm drowning in kissing him-getting him out of his boxers isn't even priority anymore. All I care about is memorizing the feel of his tongue and the alignment of his teeth.
There's a buzzing from the side of my leg. It makes E break away and blink at me with dark blue eyes. And then 50 Cent's voice erupts from the speaker of my cell phone, his voice playing in that weird slightly-off way that all MP3 ring tones have and I grope for it, even as E descends on me again.
No Cadillac, no perms, you can't see that I'm a motherfucking P-I-M-
I flip it open with clumsy fingers. "'Lo?"
"Chase, baby, how's it hanging?"
This is what I give a chunk out of my commissions for, I remind myself. I actually am supposed to want him to do this I try to remind myself as E's lips attack the side of my neck on their way down. But I can't think.
"Chase?"
"I'm, uh-" E's teeth scrape over my nipple and a moan explodes out of my throat, ruining whatever I was going to say. What I need to say. Which is that I'm gold. That's the code. How's it hanging? I'm gold.
I take a deep breath and E's tongue joins the party. I choke on my words and it comes out in an incoherent moan.
"He there?"
E's moved down, his tongue in my navel, his hands undoing my belt. Then the belt's gone and my pants are unzipped, and his mouth is on my cock. It all happens so fast I can't even process and I shout into the phone something that sounds a lot like a yes, but might be something totally different. I have no way to know.
"Uh-huh. And how are you hanging?"
"G-golden," I manage though the word ends on a practically pornographic moan. "Nugh, I, fuck, fucking fuck-I gotta go."
I can hear Ari laughing as I snap the phone shut and throw it across the room. It lands with a soft thump on the thick carpet, and now both my hands are free to brace on the bed and push myself up so I can watch E suck me.
His red hair looks dark brown in the low light, and he's looking up at me with big eyes. His lips are stretched wide and he keeps making these filthy slurping noises that actually hurt me to hear because I've made sounds like that before-fake, manufactured noises that wish they could sound like E does. I fall back on to one elbow and reach out to touch the side of his mouth, and my thumb slides in.
He closes his eyes like he wants it. Like he loves it. Like he's made for it and Jesus, what would the guys we grew up with say?
Who fucking cares? I don't. Because my fucking dick and my fucking thumb are inside E right this second. They're inside of him, which is just unreal. And kind of unfair. I pull my hand free, grab him by his undershirt, and tug. He lifts off me slowly, like he doesn't want to stop-and maybe he doesn't, which would be fucking amazing. But then he's face to face with me again.
"Fuck me."
His eyes go wide and he swallows audibly.
"Vince-"
"I want you to fuck me, E," I say. It's easy to say because of practice, and it feels good to say because it's true. I want E to fuck me like I know he can, like I've thought about time after time when the client I'm with isn't enough or I'm alone in my apartment, dick in one hand, vibrator in the other.
"You have no idea how you sound."
Of course I do. I know exactly how I sound. "Like I want you inside me. Fucking fuck me, E. I want you to fuck me. Please."
"Vince-" he tries again.
I sit up and kick out of my pants, grabbing the lube and one of the condoms I keep in my pockets before discarding them completely, and my boxers go with them. I'm naked and he notices. I lay back, my head finally getting all the way up to the pillows, and I pull out a move that's an oldie but a goody when I spread my legs and bend my knees. "Now, E. I want you to fuck me now."
E looks nervous again. He hasn't for a while but now he does again, and I wonder what the hell he's been doing for the last decade plus that he can give head like that, but the idea of fucking me makes him twitchy.
"It's easy, E."
"You've done this before."
"Yeah. And you've sucked cock before. Both are valuable skill sets, E. So," I sit up a bit and grab him by the front of that white shirt and pull him forward. "You should fuck me already."
"I'm-Vince I'm not-"
The next word out of his mouth better not be "gay." Because I can tell from the way he's looking at me that's bullshit and E's never been the kind to lie to himself. And I can't let him. But he slides his hands over my chest and tries again.
"I haven't-Vince I've done this maybe twice. And not for a long time." His face flushes the same red as his shirt and the answer's in his eyes. "Years."
Right. Okay. This I can work with. This is honest and not wholly unexpected, and this I can more than handle.
"It's all good, E. I got this." I take the hand that's on my chest and kiss the fingers before putting it back against my skin.
I keep my eyes on E as I reach out and retrieve the lube from the duvet. I pop off the top of the tube and it slides out wet and slippery onto my fingers. I smile at E as I push two wet fingers into myself and groan.
I can hear E's breath catch. I can feel his eyes on my ass and the slick slide of my fingers inside me. I manage to lift my head enough to see his face as I slide a third finger inside, more for show than anything else, and he's biting his lower lip so hard it's a wonder it's not bleeding.
I pull my fingers out of me and drop them onto the blanket. His eyes are locked on them and that's good. The way his lip has teeth marks in it is good, too. With my clean hand, I hold out the condom and a second packet of lube.
"I think you can fuck me now."
This part, E's done before, thank God. He got no issues getting out of his boxers and undershirt. He's deft with the condom and he knows what to do with the lube-sorta. But when he leans over me, he seems a little confused.
"Are you sure this is how- "
I stop him mid-sentence. His pride doesn't deserve to have to finish that.
"How about you just lie back and I'll drive?"
"You even got a license?"
"Not for a car."
"That's fucking typical, Vince," he says, but he's smiling as he says it, and he moves to lie down on his back next to me. "Just don't wreck me."
He says it as a joke but he's not kidding, and I wish I could promise him that. But all I can do is move over him and kiss him, hard and deep, as I sink slow and smooth onto his cock. I moan into his mouth as he slides into me, and he makes a broken noise in the back of his throat and his whole body jerks.
He doesn't have the longest or the thickest dick I've ever had inside me, but he's long enough for me to feel it deep inside and thick enough for it to burn just enough to be really good. I brace my knees on the mattress and my hands on the bed and move-up then down, slow at first, but when I find my prostate with E's dick, I speed up and squeeze inside.
E chokes out my name and I tip my head down to kiss him. It feels like I'm melting into him, my body rolling like one of those rhythmic wave machines executives keep on their desks in their offices. It's natural and fluid and easy. My body fits over his and I don't have to twist or bend myself uncomfortably to take him deep and good.
One of his hands rests on my hip, urging me on. "Faster. Harder. More, Vince, come on more. I've wanted you so fucking long, Vince, please more."
I come on his chest and it's satisfying because fuck, yes, it's a blinding orgasm-the spasming, bucking, rocking, ride-his-dick-like-I-stole-it kind I hardly ever have even when I'm trying for it-but there's also something so fucking hot about seeing myself on him like that.
I fall forward and he takes advantage of the moment and rolls us until he's on top. Completely out of my hands and my control, he fucks me, and I get a taste of what it could be like next time, if there is a next time. Sweating and panting, it's the kind of fuck that could shake my teeth lose. It moves the whole bed and turns me inside out.
His left hand gropes for my right as he loses his rhythm. He calls my name when he comes, his face buried in the side of my neck, his fingers laced with mine, and squeezing tight.
When he can move again, he pulls out of me, gets rid of the condom, and thumps down half next to, half on top of, me. His left hand hasn't let mine go yet and his right settles itself on my chest, over my heart.
~*~*~
Continue to Entry 59-70