The Life on Mars Anonymous Pornfest
Please Note: I've declared the Pornfest over (as I can't be bothered to keep the prompt list up-to-date!) So any new prompts posted will be deleted. However, I do encourage you to post any anon fic in response to the existing prompts and comment on the lovely responses that we've already got
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"Butterscotch, boss. That's Italian, too."
Is it? No it isn't. Sam feels a twinge of recognition, of contrariness, another surge of feeling out of time. He takes a step back.
Ray turns, looking curious, neutral, troubled. He leans back on his hands, against the steel countertop. "I ... I used to have this *thing* with a wop kid next door. He taught me a little cooking. I'd bring over ... butterscotch. Mousse." He peters out lamely. His cock is all too obviously enlarged behind the cheap fabric of his trousers and loosely clinging apron.
Sam nods, frowning deeply. His heart is racing. He's riding on a fluffy wave of butterscotch madness. In the haze ahead of him, he senses punching, and hurting, and seething, and hating. In the haze behind him, a strange lingering yearning. In haze around him, savory smells, meat and sweetness. What the hell. He puts the spoon into his mouth and unties Ray's apron strings.
They lean into each other, motionless, eyes closed, breathing. Did Annie crack wise about suet in a bag? She was making that up, Sam realizes. The man is firm, if not athletic. Massive. Youthful. Warm. Responsive.
Another spoonful. To Ray's lips. A bit spread on the bristles of his moustache, then rough hair and a hot mouth against Sam's, and then the adversaries are tense and hard and yielding and ungraceful against each other, boys' sticky memories entangled with men's hands and limbs and skin and clothing and faces. There is a low sharp groan as Sam realizes Ray doesn't wear a belt, and there is scrabbling at shirttails, and a surprising amount of caramel-scented kissing, and the bare minimum disrobing necessary for the act, as Sam, finding Ray bewildered and pliant, turns him toward the counter and dips his own fingers into the dessert, which has remained slightly soppy in the heat. Sam slathers pudding into the top of the softly-furred crevice of Ray's bottom and drops to one knee. He laps and sucks at the sweet substance, swallowing and gasping, hardening in his trouser leg against his shaking thigh as he urgently presses his face into the warm flesh of Ray's buttocks, the trickle of sugar only the barest excuse of a quarry for his tongue's wet hunting. Ray moans briefly, and broadens his stance, failing to stifle another gasping moan. Sam slaps him sharply on the side of his rump.
Ray cries out, but doesn't turn, and Sam can't see his face, but he knows, this is part of it, this is okay. He is eating Ray, and slapping him, a rich stew of hunger and sex and aggression and sex and pubescence and sex driving his tongue deep into Ray, driving his teeth into Ray's rounded flesh, driving Ray's sweet sticky hand up and down over his balls and cock, where Sam can feel the puckered skin pull lightly against his chin as he presses his muzzle hard against the tight hole where he can't, cannot get his fill. He slaps Ray twice more, and Ray jerks away with a choking sound, just as Sam presses his free hand against his own pulsing hardness to feel the bitter ejaculate soak his thigh and pant leg.
Sam sits back and creaks stiffly to his feet, rearranging his apron over his waist and legs with self-conscious chagrin.
"Shit," says Ray.
Sam looks up.
He looks into the mixing bowl.
Shit.
They look at the packets. One left. Not enough for another batch. No milk left, anyway.
"Ingredients," reads Sam, holding an empty packet close to his face. "Sugar, Hydrogenated vegetable oil, Emulsifiers, Modified starch, Gelling agents, Milk protein, Lactose, Flavourings, and Whey powder."
He considers the bowl dubiously.
"Pretty much the same stuff."
"Yeah," murmurs Carling. "With a little more zinc. And hyaluronidase."
Right on schedule, the laughing crowd bursts into the canteen. "Soup's on!" bellows a genial Gene Hunt, leading the charge.
Without another word, Tyler and Carling straighten their white caps and prepare to serve out supper.
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