Life on Mars Anonymous Pornfest II - The Porn Bites Back
Please Note: We've declared the Very First Second Pornfest over, so any new prompts posted will be deleted. However, we 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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Part 1
It was Saturday evening. Gene was sitting on the end of his marital bed. Sam was watching him intently from the hard-backed chair under the Van Gough sunflower print on the opposite wall. The Missus had been gone for three nights, and her invasive presence was beginning to fade from the room. The bed was in a spectacular state of disarray. The sheets had been balled up and kicked entirely to the floor at its foot. The duck feather duvet was bunched in the bottom of the floral-patterned cover, the rest of the cover hanging loose and deflated off the edge of the mattress.
At first, it had made Gene uncomfortable to do it here. It seemed that Sheila was watching him from the chintz wallpaper, the lime-green standard lamp shades and through the beady eyes of the porcelain dog collection on the dressing table. But as the empty whiskey bottles started to outnumber the dogs, and the thin, permanent haze of fag smoke had started to accumulate near the ceiling, he had started slowly but surely to relax, and could even imagine that she might not be coming back in a fortnight. That the place would be all his for eternity. Besides - they couldn’t use Sam’s place. The bed was a pile of steaming crap.
And they’d had the time of their lives, since Tuesday, in Gene and Sheila’s king-sized, heavy pine bed. They’d moaned, groaned and hollered, mounting each other in turn, twisting into positions that Gene had thought his bones too old for, and Sam had thought existed only in The Decameron. They’d slept splayed out and sheet-less, the air from the open window drying the sweat on their knackered, aching bodies. They’d woken up at midnight to do it again, and then again at dawn to get another one in before work.
They’d have some serious cleaning up to do before Sheila got back.
Tonight, however, after they’d rolled home from the Arms, Gene had opened a bottle of Glenfiddich, and by unspoken agreement they’d simply sat together in the dishevelled bedroom, drinking their drinks and indulging in silence. Gene had unselfconsciously stripped off his shirt and undone his belt and flies, but only because it was swelteringly hot, even with the window open, and he wanted to be comfortable. Sam was still in his leather jacket, seemingly impervious to the heat. He was always cold, that skinny little bastard.
They’d never exchanged words or gestures of affection, and they probably never would. Ever since the moment the unbearable, baffling tension had snapped and they’d crashed together, teeth meeting before lips or tongues and limbs too long and too many for Sam’s tiny fold-out bed, nothing in their relationship or interactions had changed, apart from the shagging.
Except that they both now felt bound to each other with a cord so tight that if it ever snapped, one or both of them was going to get cut to ribbons. Of course, neither had said this to the other.
Sam sipped his whiskey, toed off his shoes and drew his knees up to his chest in a decidedly girly manner.
‘It’s a bit kinky, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘What is?’ asked Gene, absently.
Sam didn’t answer. Just sat looking contemplative, until Gene said,
‘You going to enlighten me, or you assuming we’ve reached such a level of symbiosis that your prissy thoughts are now one with mine?’
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