Selling Candles
Written for the nekid numbers-prompt over at nekid_spike
Title: Selling Candles (1/3)
Pairing: William/Angel, Spike/Angel (implied Gunn/Wesley)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: After a short glance at my bank account and into my T-Shirt I can state without any doubt - no, not Joss Whedon. Don’t sue - it’s not worth…
Summary: AU. Salesman William Loman meets a stranger in a ‘tea room’.
Warnings: No beta, I’m not a native speaker. Test your linguistic tolerance.
My nekid numbers are Angel, Candle and Glory Hole…
So I was thinking really hard why anyone with half a brain should bring along a phallic object to a place where lots of specimens of the biological variety are fighting a hard battle for… err, loving attention already and came up with a kind of “Death of a Salesman” crossover. *cough*mindthesimilarityofnames*cough*.
Selling candles
The angry sound of raindrops splashing against the windshield is only drown out by his frantic heartbeat. The road wet from the rain, darkness, poor sight, a moment of abstraction - it would have looked like an accident. But he didn’t do it, coward that he is.
Resting his forehead on the steering wheel, he lightly touches the narrow golden ring on his left hand with trembling fingers. Linda would have put the boys to bed by now, Biff only willing to go to sleep after having personally checked that his younger brother Happy was lying peacefully and sound asleep in his crib and kissing the toddler good night, while his father perambulates the state, looking for new markets. Guilt floods him like a wave. Again.
He can’t remember how he made it to reach the next highway rest area, but now he’s here, parking in front of a public lavatory. He needs to get out of the car, so he tosses wallet and mobile into the black leathern sample case and takes it along as he runs towards the lavatory. He knows how unlikely it is that somebody would steal just that out of the Mercedes but he can’t let go the idea that it contains his future. He still regards it as his most precious possession, the symbol of his success as a salesman and future coparcener of Wagner though not even the threadbare trunk is his. Neither is the car nor the watch. Every symbol of prosperity he sports is borrowed and sometimes he fells like his live is, too.
Leaning over one of the basins, he bathes his face with cold water, hoping to wash away the dangerous thoughts. Winners don’t think that way. Running damp fingers through his bleached blond hair, he stares at his reflection in the broken mirror. Suddenly, he doubts that the new look gives him the air of youthful impetus and assertiveness he had hoped for. The stranger in the mirror looks tired and haggard, the high cheekbones are too sharp, the aquamarine blue eyes bloodshot. William Loman, 31, salesman. Sometimes, he wishes he was somebody else. Nowadays, ‘sometimes’ is a permanent condition.
A bald black man enters the little room, nodding at him, as if they knew each other. He’s clad in leather pants, his black shirt opened wide enough to show a muscular chest and pierced nipples. Another man follows him, somewhat older, dressed neatly in grey slacks and a turtleneck, delicate oval glasses accentuating his unobtrusively posh appearance. They stand next to each other in font of the urinals. Alarmed by the strange outfit of the first one, William observes them in the mirror. He watches the hand of the older man as it vanishes behind the leather-clad crotch, moving lazily up and down, up and down. The bald head turns and with an obscene smile over his shoulder, the black man beckons William over. When their gazes meet in the glass, the blond instantly casts down his eyes, grasps the sample case and hurriedly heads for one of the cubicles. With a loud thump he slams the door shut behind him. The two men laugh. Then they moan.
Bollocks. A tea room. William collapses onto the toilet lid and berates himself for running in the wrong direction. Now he’s caged, forced to listen to the two men making out. Smacking sounds and groans tell of hands and lips on damp skin and he wishes that his cock wouldn’t react against his will but it does. It always did. William doesn’t want this. Not anymore. Few years ago he had visited places like this deliberately, cruising parks and visiting porn movie theatres, looking for a quick, anonymous fuck like all the other good family men who would never visit a gay bar, mulishly calling themselves heterosexual or, after several gulps from a hip flask, bi-curious at the most. Like all the others, he avoided looking them in the eyes, seeing them again or exchanging names. If somebody asked him contrary to the rules, he called himself Spike. Being as hypocritical as all the men, he had sex with, he doesn’t know if he despises himself more for his desires or his weakness to resist them. He never challenges the lack of courage to stand by himself.
The sound of a door being opened jolts him out of his memories. Footsteps, the two men are silent for a moment, then they continue. One of them curses silently, begging his playmate to fist him harder. William wonders where the new man is, what he does. He gets to know when the unknown person enters the stall next to him and he hears the rustling of fabric. His eyes follow the sound and there it is, a hole in the thin ply wood wall, high enough for a standing man to plunge his cock through it, low enough to suck it on your knees. A glory hole. Great.
The edge is masked with grey adhesive tape that makes it look like a dark sun. With a loud smack, he hits his open hand against the hole, covering it, before the occupant of the other stall can do anything. William hears a mumbled, angry “spoil sport” then the man is gone. He sighs, relieved. He’s not that man anymore. Not since Linda gave birth to his older son more than two years ago. In her eyes, William Loman can see the man he thinks, he should be. Successful, candid, accepted, brave, morally indefeasible. And straight.
He tries, he really tries but at the moment, his rapidly filling cock wants him to be Spike. Outside the cubicle, one of the intimate strangers cries hoarsly.
“Damn, I’m coming… so close… gonna’ cum all over you”. Both of them are panting heavily and at the next moment it’s over, the harsh breathing subsides, water runs and then the first one leaves, saying nothing. More running water, the rustling of clothes and the remaining man says overly loud and articulate “you can come out now, little one, the scary faggots are gone”, derision in his voice.
‘Come out’. Right.
Startled, William realizes that he’s lightly rubbing his crotch, a small patch of precum already visible on his black designer jeans. For a second, he ponders to stop, but then admits defeat and opens his fly. Picturing the two men kissing, touching, fisting each other, black hands on white skin, pink lips on smooth black flesh, he reclines to the tiled wall and strokes his swollen cock. Running his thumb through the droplets of glistening precum, lingering on the head for a moment to press into the slit, he remembers the wanton smile with which the leather-clad man had invited him to join in.
Moaning softly, he’s lost in his own fantasy, thankfully plunging into the pleasure that makes him forget the moment merely an hour ago when he had floored the accelerator to make it all stop conclusively. The furious noise of wind and rain outside has a strangely calming effect on him. He’s in, he’s alone and in this one moment, he thinks about nothing else than two men fucking.
Concentrating his attention completely on his own body, he realizes too late that somebody has entered the cubicle next to him once more. Again, he hears the silent buzzing of a zipper being opened and instantly, his hands and his mouth cease their ministrations.
“Don’t stop”, a quite, low voice whispers.
William freezes, unsure what to do. His erect, leaking cock still in his fist, he thoughtlessly leans forward to sneak a clandestine gaze through the hole in the wall. He sees black slacks, probably cashmere, belt and fly open but the man’s hands aren’t inside his trousers but on his hips. He has exceptionally big hands, strong and beautiful with long, graceful fingers. The muscular, toned forearms are visible under the tucked up sleeves of a white shirt that’s partly wet from the rain and sticks to his skin to reveal a flat, trained abdomen. His wrist adorns a Gyrotourbillon I by Jaeger-LeCoultre for bloody 333.000 bucks. William carries a picture of a very akin model in his wallet to motivate himself to work harder. He swallows hard, not exactly knowing what to do with the information until his dick makes the decision by hardening even more and sending a tingling sensation up his spine.
“Listen, I’m sorry”, Big Hands murmurs, “don’t know what I’m doing here at all” and with that, he begins to tuck his shirt back into his slacks properly.
“I don’t know either, mate, but why don’t you get going and show me what you’ve got”, William hears himself saying. Or maybe, it’s Spike talking.
He holds his breath as the man falters but finally, the elegant fingers grasp inside the dark pants to take a semi-erect cock out, that’s even now just as big and impressive as the rest. The sight of those hands stroking the increasingly hard flesh to it’s full size doesn’t help Spike to stay calm. Big Hands begins to breathe a little faster as his cock grows, the head red and slightly swollen, precum already glistening above the slit. Unconsciously, Spike licks his lips, imagining to guide his tongue over the head in one long sweep and to savour the taste of the other man’s lust. As Big Hands takes a condom out of his pocket, seemingly unwrapping it with his teeth, and rolls the razor-thin protection over his shaft, Spike experiences an absurd feeling of loss. Of course, he wouldn’t have considered a blow job without, but he longs to know how the silken skin feels under his hands, his lips, his tongue. Thinking this, he realizes that he’s already decided to suck the stranger off.
Unwilling to fall to his knees, Spike cowers in the small space between the wall and the toilet when the other man sticks his erection through the hole. He knows that he will feel used afterwards in any case and knowing that he will enjoy it to be there for the sole purpose of giving relieve to a stranger adds that extra sensation of shame that makes his balls tighten and touches a part of him, he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
When he brings his tongue close to the engorged cock, one moment before actually touching, pictures of his wife flash in his mind. Her loving eyes, never ever doubting him. Sometimes, her naivety infuriates him. He sees Biff, looking up to him in awe as if he’s the wildcard in his son’s superhero card game. He smells the addictive scent of his baby son. But just for one moment, then he closes Pandoras Box decidedly, locking in the ever-present guilt.
And then, he touches. Licking along the shaft from base to tip, imposing soft pressure upon the prominent vein, his own cock twitches and the man behind the wall moans. Spike takes the head inside his mouth, giving gentle cat licks before he presses his tongue inside the slit as accurately as possible with the condoms reservoir between him and the foreign skin. He doesn’t like the synthetic taste or the smell of latex but soon, he’s so lost in the desire to give pleasure and to be rewarded with soft moans and harsh breathing that he forgets about it completely, feeling like he can actually taste the saltiness of Big Hands’ sweat and precum.
“This feels so good, so fucking good”, Big Hands mumbles behind the thin partition that separates their bodies. It’s covered with obscene graffiti that describes what they’re doing right now in a harsh and mirthless way. It doesn’t feel like that though, not completely. Probably, it should since it has always felt that way in the past, Spike thinks.
His nose rubs along the adhesive tape as he tries to take the full length into his mouth and nearly chokes given the sheer size of the cock but then manages to swallow, squeezing the head with his throat muscles. Suddenly the wall trembles as Big Hands hits one hand flat against the shabby ply wood.
“God yeah, so good. I wanna grab your head and lead this talented mouth of yours, want to fuck your face while I can see it, wanna…” and with that, Spike swallows again, hard, and finally falls to his knees. Eliciting a loud, husky groan from the man on the other side, the blond smiles around the huge cock, imagining the frustration on the unknown face because Big Hands can’t touch. He feels the same, missing the opportunity to feel hard thighs beneath his palm, the flexing of muscles as he would dig his fingers in the big man’s cheeks and laving his balls in his mouth. But all he can reach is the swollen, steely shaft and the low voice, encouraging him, giving him orders.
“Deeper. Like that. Swallow me whole.”
“More pressure, use your tongue, oh yeah, that’s it… so hot, so….”
“Now lick the head while you jerk me off with your hand… yeah, so good, boy, so damned good.”
“Faster. More. Just… more of this, more of your wet hot mouth… oh god, more of… fuck, yes…”
Big Hands is used to giving orders and Spike’s happy to obey. Again and again he strokes his own cock, slick with precum, stops again to draw it out until his balls are aching and he’s afraid to burst. But he wants to get off Big Hands first, who’s writhing behind the wall and thrusting his cock inside Spike’s welcoming mouth.
Once again, the wall that’s separating them so effectively, trembles ominously as Big Hands rolls his hips so powerfully Spike fears that the construction will collapse. Shouting out loud one last colourful curse, the man cums, filling the condom with warm seed, his cock twitching in Spike’s mouth who continues sucking until Big Hands is completely spent.
With a slurping sound, he lets Big Hands’ softening cock slip out of his mouth and falls to his side, his knees aching like hell. Sitting on the dirty floor, he brings himself to an orgasm, merely having to touch himself that leaves him breathless and sweaty, his heart beating franticly.
When he looks up again, the cock is gone. Spike tries to hush his breath, to be quiet. He’s afraid, Big Hands could be gone already, using Spike’s bliss to leave the crime scene discreetly. He knows it’s ridiculous to hope that he’s still here, they’ve already spoken more than any other stranger had ever said to him before, more than is usual and reasonable for two men sucking cock through a hole in a dirty wall in a public lavatory.
Against all reason, Spike feels immensely relieved when he hears the hushed but still ragged breathing in the other stall. He wonders what the other does in this moment, if he’s leaning against the wall or if he, too, sank bonelessly to the ground. Of course he could risk a short glance through the hole to maybe sneak a peek of the other man’s face but he doesn’t. There are rules even for this kind of encounters and the main regulation for men fucking behind walls is to accept anonymity. So he leans against the partition, the back of his head next to the hole, eyes toward the other side of the cubicle, his still weak and hurting legs propped on the black sample case.
“It’s customary to return the favour, I suppose?”, the low, agreeable voice asks hesitantly.
“Not where I come from”, Spike mumbles, wondering if he should state that he has come already but letting it go because of having qualms about orgasming only by being used as nameless, warm flesh behind ply wood and some inattentive strokes of his own hand.
“Aren’t you British supposed to be more polite?”, Big Hands asks, the smirk audible in his voice. “You’re English, aren’t you? What brought you here?”
“Funny enough, not in a tea room, what with the politeness an’ all”, Spike replies, smirking himself. Then he sighs and continues, as if talking to himself, “What brought me to the U.S.? The American dream, from rags to riches, all that crap.”
“Uh-huh. What do you do for a living? No wait, sorry, I shouldn’t ask this, should I? If you wanted to talk you’d probably not come… here”, he says disgustedly, as if he just realized the dirty cheapness of his surroundings and the stinging stench of urine.
“First time, I’m sorry.” Spike hears the unspoken ‘and last time’ as the man seems to compose his clothing and prepares to leave.
“No, wait”, he blurts out, hoping not to sound desperate. He opens his trunk and catches one of the 42 candles that are lying primly ordered in there, every single one attached to the charcoal velvet bolster with an impractical satin bow. When he tucks a long and thick yellow one through the glory hole - fresh scent of citron, stimulatory, a source of energy, perfect for gyms, rehabilitation centres and health food stores, insect repellent, his mind rattles through automatically - it takes a long time till Big Hands grips it.
“Bit kinky, aren’t we” he states and Spike can practically hear the stranger frown.
Spike blushes. “No, no, it’s what I do… for a living” he hurries to proceed. “Salesman. Candles, it’s what I sell. They’ve got this special scent that manipulates the unconsciousness, makes customers buy more or employees work harder or patients heal faster. Great thing, this… thing. Wagner. We’re market leader.”
“Uh-huh.”
Spike blushes even more, desperately wishing he had kept his mouth shut and let Mr. fucking 333.000-Jaeger-LeCoultre believe that he wanted to be fucked with a bloody citron-flavoured candle or whatever the man might have thought. Better than the memory of empty order books, the pile of unopened bills he hides in the cellar behind the winter tyres or the appraisal interview he will have with the old Wagner next Tuesday. He fears, it will be his last. What the hell did he think? Candles next to fresh vegetables in supermarkets, open flames in flour factories or the warmth of the blaze in a gym in august? Candle my ass.
An uncomfortable silence diffuses between them. Then there’s the sound of a door being opened, footsteps, a man peeing, no running water, the door again.
“So we probably should discuss who leaves first to avoid this whole… thing getting too personal”, Big Hands says matter-of-factly.
“Yeah”, Spike agrees silently, nibbling one finger nail till it’s sore.
“But I’ve still got your candle here. What about I give it back to you properly? I think the hole did serve its purpose already today.”
“Sure, why not?”, Spike tries to sound cool but jumps up instantly, closing his fly, straightening his clothes and running his hands through his hair. He silently swears as he realizes his blue shirt is soaked with cum above his navel but tries to calm down. Just a stranger in a public lavatory, one more cock, no reason to get your knickers in a twist. Nevertheless, he feels like a teenage boy waiting in front of the entrance door to pick up a girl for his first date. He doesn’t know why but something about Big Hands makes him nervous. Maybe it’s the watch, maybe his confident dominance or the taunting knowledge of superiority in his voice but something about him fascinates and infuriates the blond at the same time.
Showing much more bravado than he feels, Spike pushes the door open and there he stands, the whole man as big as his hands and his cock. He lets his gaze linger over Spike’s body, obviously liking what he sees, and holds the candle out to Spike.
“I think, this is yours.”
The dark haired man is clad in an expensive black suit and Spike wonders where the jacket has been when he peeked through the hole. He wears Italian shoes, brightly polished, surely hand-sewn. Like his belt. The smiling lips are curved sensually and his eyes are surprisingly warm, though they seem as if they tended to look down on the rest of the world.
But now, as Spike takes the candle, his smile is nearly shy. “What’s your name?”
“Spike.”
“Yeah, sure.” Both of them smirk.
“Your’s?”
“Don’t know. Take your pick.”
Spike tilts his head and says the first thing that comes to his mind, blushing instantly. “Angel.”
“So, Angel is it. Nice to meet you… Spike.”
“My pleasure, pet.”
They stand face to face, holding each other’s gaze, Angel with his hands casually in his pockets, Spike holding the sample case in the one and the candle in the other hand, his whole body tense but nevertheless successfully pretending to be calm. At least, he hopes he does.
With a predatory grin, Angel slowly takes a step forward, lifts his hands to Spike’s cheeks and kisses him, the big palms bending the blonds head as they like. Demanding lips capture Spike’s mouth, teasing teeth nibble his lower lip and an unerring tongue demands entry. Taken by surprise, Spike opens his mouth, moaning silently, and submits to Angel’s command as he feels the sturdy body pressed against his smaller, wiry one.
When they break the kiss and Angel keeps his hand in the back of Spike’s neck, allowing just so much distance, Spike’s talking again, surprising William with his boldness.
“I’ve got this motel room, about twelve miles from here. Wanna come?”
“Sure” Angel breathes, sealing the contract with a complacent kiss.
Title: Selling Candles (1/3)
Pairing: William/Angel, Spike/Angel (implied Gunn/Wesley)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: After a short glance at my bank account and into my T-Shirt I can state without any doubt - no, not Joss Whedon. Don’t sue - it’s not worth…
Summary: AU. Salesman William Loman meets a stranger in a ‘tea room’.
Warnings: No beta, I’m not a native speaker. Test your linguistic tolerance.
My nekid numbers are Angel, Candle and Glory Hole…
So I was thinking really hard why anyone with half a brain should bring along a phallic object to a place where lots of specimens of the biological variety are fighting a hard battle for… err, loving attention already and came up with a kind of “Death of a Salesman” crossover. *cough*mindthesimilarityofnames*cough*.
Selling candles
The angry sound of raindrops splashing against the windshield is only drown out by his frantic heartbeat. The road wet from the rain, darkness, poor sight, a moment of abstraction - it would have looked like an accident. But he didn’t do it, coward that he is.
Resting his forehead on the steering wheel, he lightly touches the narrow golden ring on his left hand with trembling fingers. Linda would have put the boys to bed by now, Biff only willing to go to sleep after having personally checked that his younger brother Happy was lying peacefully and sound asleep in his crib and kissing the toddler good night, while his father perambulates the state, looking for new markets. Guilt floods him like a wave. Again.
He can’t remember how he made it to reach the next highway rest area, but now he’s here, parking in front of a public lavatory. He needs to get out of the car, so he tosses wallet and mobile into the black leathern sample case and takes it along as he runs towards the lavatory. He knows how unlikely it is that somebody would steal just that out of the Mercedes but he can’t let go the idea that it contains his future. He still regards it as his most precious possession, the symbol of his success as a salesman and future coparcener of Wagner though not even the threadbare trunk is his. Neither is the car nor the watch. Every symbol of prosperity he sports is borrowed and sometimes he fells like his live is, too.
Leaning over one of the basins, he bathes his face with cold water, hoping to wash away the dangerous thoughts. Winners don’t think that way. Running damp fingers through his bleached blond hair, he stares at his reflection in the broken mirror. Suddenly, he doubts that the new look gives him the air of youthful impetus and assertiveness he had hoped for. The stranger in the mirror looks tired and haggard, the high cheekbones are too sharp, the aquamarine blue eyes bloodshot. William Loman, 31, salesman. Sometimes, he wishes he was somebody else. Nowadays, ‘sometimes’ is a permanent condition.
A bald black man enters the little room, nodding at him, as if they knew each other. He’s clad in leather pants, his black shirt opened wide enough to show a muscular chest and pierced nipples. Another man follows him, somewhat older, dressed neatly in grey slacks and a turtleneck, delicate oval glasses accentuating his unobtrusively posh appearance. They stand next to each other in font of the urinals. Alarmed by the strange outfit of the first one, William observes them in the mirror. He watches the hand of the older man as it vanishes behind the leather-clad crotch, moving lazily up and down, up and down. The bald head turns and with an obscene smile over his shoulder, the black man beckons William over. When their gazes meet in the glass, the blond instantly casts down his eyes, grasps the sample case and hurriedly heads for one of the cubicles. With a loud thump he slams the door shut behind him. The two men laugh. Then they moan.
Bollocks. A tea room. William collapses onto the toilet lid and berates himself for running in the wrong direction. Now he’s caged, forced to listen to the two men making out. Smacking sounds and groans tell of hands and lips on damp skin and he wishes that his cock wouldn’t react against his will but it does. It always did. William doesn’t want this. Not anymore. Few years ago he had visited places like this deliberately, cruising parks and visiting porn movie theatres, looking for a quick, anonymous fuck like all the other good family men who would never visit a gay bar, mulishly calling themselves heterosexual or, after several gulps from a hip flask, bi-curious at the most. Like all the others, he avoided looking them in the eyes, seeing them again or exchanging names. If somebody asked him contrary to the rules, he called himself Spike. Being as hypocritical as all the men, he had sex with, he doesn’t know if he despises himself more for his desires or his weakness to resist them. He never challenges the lack of courage to stand by himself.
The sound of a door being opened jolts him out of his memories. Footsteps, the two men are silent for a moment, then they continue. One of them curses silently, begging his playmate to fist him harder. William wonders where the new man is, what he does. He gets to know when the unknown person enters the stall next to him and he hears the rustling of fabric. His eyes follow the sound and there it is, a hole in the thin ply wood wall, high enough for a standing man to plunge his cock through it, low enough to suck it on your knees. A glory hole. Great.
The edge is masked with grey adhesive tape that makes it look like a dark sun. With a loud smack, he hits his open hand against the hole, covering it, before the occupant of the other stall can do anything. William hears a mumbled, angry “spoil sport” then the man is gone. He sighs, relieved. He’s not that man anymore. Not since Linda gave birth to his older son more than two years ago. In her eyes, William Loman can see the man he thinks, he should be. Successful, candid, accepted, brave, morally indefeasible. And straight.
He tries, he really tries but at the moment, his rapidly filling cock wants him to be Spike. Outside the cubicle, one of the intimate strangers cries hoarsly.
“Damn, I’m coming… so close… gonna’ cum all over you”. Both of them are panting heavily and at the next moment it’s over, the harsh breathing subsides, water runs and then the first one leaves, saying nothing. More running water, the rustling of clothes and the remaining man says overly loud and articulate “you can come out now, little one, the scary faggots are gone”, derision in his voice.
‘Come out’. Right.
Startled, William realizes that he’s lightly rubbing his crotch, a small patch of precum already visible on his black designer jeans. For a second, he ponders to stop, but then admits defeat and opens his fly. Picturing the two men kissing, touching, fisting each other, black hands on white skin, pink lips on smooth black flesh, he reclines to the tiled wall and strokes his swollen cock. Running his thumb through the droplets of glistening precum, lingering on the head for a moment to press into the slit, he remembers the wanton smile with which the leather-clad man had invited him to join in.
Moaning softly, he’s lost in his own fantasy, thankfully plunging into the pleasure that makes him forget the moment merely an hour ago when he had floored the accelerator to make it all stop conclusively. The furious noise of wind and rain outside has a strangely calming effect on him. He’s in, he’s alone and in this one moment, he thinks about nothing else than two men fucking.
Concentrating his attention completely on his own body, he realizes too late that somebody has entered the cubicle next to him once more. Again, he hears the silent buzzing of a zipper being opened and instantly, his hands and his mouth cease their ministrations.
“Don’t stop”, a quite, low voice whispers.
William freezes, unsure what to do. His erect, leaking cock still in his fist, he thoughtlessly leans forward to sneak a clandestine gaze through the hole in the wall. He sees black slacks, probably cashmere, belt and fly open but the man’s hands aren’t inside his trousers but on his hips. He has exceptionally big hands, strong and beautiful with long, graceful fingers. The muscular, toned forearms are visible under the tucked up sleeves of a white shirt that’s partly wet from the rain and sticks to his skin to reveal a flat, trained abdomen. His wrist adorns a Gyrotourbillon I by Jaeger-LeCoultre for bloody 333.000 bucks. William carries a picture of a very akin model in his wallet to motivate himself to work harder. He swallows hard, not exactly knowing what to do with the information until his dick makes the decision by hardening even more and sending a tingling sensation up his spine.
“Listen, I’m sorry”, Big Hands murmurs, “don’t know what I’m doing here at all” and with that, he begins to tuck his shirt back into his slacks properly.
“I don’t know either, mate, but why don’t you get going and show me what you’ve got”, William hears himself saying. Or maybe, it’s Spike talking.
He holds his breath as the man falters but finally, the elegant fingers grasp inside the dark pants to take a semi-erect cock out, that’s even now just as big and impressive as the rest. The sight of those hands stroking the increasingly hard flesh to it’s full size doesn’t help Spike to stay calm. Big Hands begins to breathe a little faster as his cock grows, the head red and slightly swollen, precum already glistening above the slit. Unconsciously, Spike licks his lips, imagining to guide his tongue over the head in one long sweep and to savour the taste of the other man’s lust. As Big Hands takes a condom out of his pocket, seemingly unwrapping it with his teeth, and rolls the razor-thin protection over his shaft, Spike experiences an absurd feeling of loss. Of course, he wouldn’t have considered a blow job without, but he longs to know how the silken skin feels under his hands, his lips, his tongue. Thinking this, he realizes that he’s already decided to suck the stranger off.
Unwilling to fall to his knees, Spike cowers in the small space between the wall and the toilet when the other man sticks his erection through the hole. He knows that he will feel used afterwards in any case and knowing that he will enjoy it to be there for the sole purpose of giving relieve to a stranger adds that extra sensation of shame that makes his balls tighten and touches a part of him, he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
When he brings his tongue close to the engorged cock, one moment before actually touching, pictures of his wife flash in his mind. Her loving eyes, never ever doubting him. Sometimes, her naivety infuriates him. He sees Biff, looking up to him in awe as if he’s the wildcard in his son’s superhero card game. He smells the addictive scent of his baby son. But just for one moment, then he closes Pandoras Box decidedly, locking in the ever-present guilt.
And then, he touches. Licking along the shaft from base to tip, imposing soft pressure upon the prominent vein, his own cock twitches and the man behind the wall moans. Spike takes the head inside his mouth, giving gentle cat licks before he presses his tongue inside the slit as accurately as possible with the condoms reservoir between him and the foreign skin. He doesn’t like the synthetic taste or the smell of latex but soon, he’s so lost in the desire to give pleasure and to be rewarded with soft moans and harsh breathing that he forgets about it completely, feeling like he can actually taste the saltiness of Big Hands’ sweat and precum.
“This feels so good, so fucking good”, Big Hands mumbles behind the thin partition that separates their bodies. It’s covered with obscene graffiti that describes what they’re doing right now in a harsh and mirthless way. It doesn’t feel like that though, not completely. Probably, it should since it has always felt that way in the past, Spike thinks.
His nose rubs along the adhesive tape as he tries to take the full length into his mouth and nearly chokes given the sheer size of the cock but then manages to swallow, squeezing the head with his throat muscles. Suddenly the wall trembles as Big Hands hits one hand flat against the shabby ply wood.
“God yeah, so good. I wanna grab your head and lead this talented mouth of yours, want to fuck your face while I can see it, wanna…” and with that, Spike swallows again, hard, and finally falls to his knees. Eliciting a loud, husky groan from the man on the other side, the blond smiles around the huge cock, imagining the frustration on the unknown face because Big Hands can’t touch. He feels the same, missing the opportunity to feel hard thighs beneath his palm, the flexing of muscles as he would dig his fingers in the big man’s cheeks and laving his balls in his mouth. But all he can reach is the swollen, steely shaft and the low voice, encouraging him, giving him orders.
“Deeper. Like that. Swallow me whole.”
“More pressure, use your tongue, oh yeah, that’s it… so hot, so….”
“Now lick the head while you jerk me off with your hand… yeah, so good, boy, so damned good.”
“Faster. More. Just… more of this, more of your wet hot mouth… oh god, more of… fuck, yes…”
Big Hands is used to giving orders and Spike’s happy to obey. Again and again he strokes his own cock, slick with precum, stops again to draw it out until his balls are aching and he’s afraid to burst. But he wants to get off Big Hands first, who’s writhing behind the wall and thrusting his cock inside Spike’s welcoming mouth.
Once again, the wall that’s separating them so effectively, trembles ominously as Big Hands rolls his hips so powerfully Spike fears that the construction will collapse. Shouting out loud one last colourful curse, the man cums, filling the condom with warm seed, his cock twitching in Spike’s mouth who continues sucking until Big Hands is completely spent.
With a slurping sound, he lets Big Hands’ softening cock slip out of his mouth and falls to his side, his knees aching like hell. Sitting on the dirty floor, he brings himself to an orgasm, merely having to touch himself that leaves him breathless and sweaty, his heart beating franticly.
When he looks up again, the cock is gone. Spike tries to hush his breath, to be quiet. He’s afraid, Big Hands could be gone already, using Spike’s bliss to leave the crime scene discreetly. He knows it’s ridiculous to hope that he’s still here, they’ve already spoken more than any other stranger had ever said to him before, more than is usual and reasonable for two men sucking cock through a hole in a dirty wall in a public lavatory.
Against all reason, Spike feels immensely relieved when he hears the hushed but still ragged breathing in the other stall. He wonders what the other does in this moment, if he’s leaning against the wall or if he, too, sank bonelessly to the ground. Of course he could risk a short glance through the hole to maybe sneak a peek of the other man’s face but he doesn’t. There are rules even for this kind of encounters and the main regulation for men fucking behind walls is to accept anonymity. So he leans against the partition, the back of his head next to the hole, eyes toward the other side of the cubicle, his still weak and hurting legs propped on the black sample case.
“It’s customary to return the favour, I suppose?”, the low, agreeable voice asks hesitantly.
“Not where I come from”, Spike mumbles, wondering if he should state that he has come already but letting it go because of having qualms about orgasming only by being used as nameless, warm flesh behind ply wood and some inattentive strokes of his own hand.
“Aren’t you British supposed to be more polite?”, Big Hands asks, the smirk audible in his voice. “You’re English, aren’t you? What brought you here?”
“Funny enough, not in a tea room, what with the politeness an’ all”, Spike replies, smirking himself. Then he sighs and continues, as if talking to himself, “What brought me to the U.S.? The American dream, from rags to riches, all that crap.”
“Uh-huh. What do you do for a living? No wait, sorry, I shouldn’t ask this, should I? If you wanted to talk you’d probably not come… here”, he says disgustedly, as if he just realized the dirty cheapness of his surroundings and the stinging stench of urine.
“First time, I’m sorry.” Spike hears the unspoken ‘and last time’ as the man seems to compose his clothing and prepares to leave.
“No, wait”, he blurts out, hoping not to sound desperate. He opens his trunk and catches one of the 42 candles that are lying primly ordered in there, every single one attached to the charcoal velvet bolster with an impractical satin bow. When he tucks a long and thick yellow one through the glory hole - fresh scent of citron, stimulatory, a source of energy, perfect for gyms, rehabilitation centres and health food stores, insect repellent, his mind rattles through automatically - it takes a long time till Big Hands grips it.
“Bit kinky, aren’t we” he states and Spike can practically hear the stranger frown.
Spike blushes. “No, no, it’s what I do… for a living” he hurries to proceed. “Salesman. Candles, it’s what I sell. They’ve got this special scent that manipulates the unconsciousness, makes customers buy more or employees work harder or patients heal faster. Great thing, this… thing. Wagner. We’re market leader.”
“Uh-huh.”
Spike blushes even more, desperately wishing he had kept his mouth shut and let Mr. fucking 333.000-Jaeger-LeCoultre believe that he wanted to be fucked with a bloody citron-flavoured candle or whatever the man might have thought. Better than the memory of empty order books, the pile of unopened bills he hides in the cellar behind the winter tyres or the appraisal interview he will have with the old Wagner next Tuesday. He fears, it will be his last. What the hell did he think? Candles next to fresh vegetables in supermarkets, open flames in flour factories or the warmth of the blaze in a gym in august? Candle my ass.
An uncomfortable silence diffuses between them. Then there’s the sound of a door being opened, footsteps, a man peeing, no running water, the door again.
“So we probably should discuss who leaves first to avoid this whole… thing getting too personal”, Big Hands says matter-of-factly.
“Yeah”, Spike agrees silently, nibbling one finger nail till it’s sore.
“But I’ve still got your candle here. What about I give it back to you properly? I think the hole did serve its purpose already today.”
“Sure, why not?”, Spike tries to sound cool but jumps up instantly, closing his fly, straightening his clothes and running his hands through his hair. He silently swears as he realizes his blue shirt is soaked with cum above his navel but tries to calm down. Just a stranger in a public lavatory, one more cock, no reason to get your knickers in a twist. Nevertheless, he feels like a teenage boy waiting in front of the entrance door to pick up a girl for his first date. He doesn’t know why but something about Big Hands makes him nervous. Maybe it’s the watch, maybe his confident dominance or the taunting knowledge of superiority in his voice but something about him fascinates and infuriates the blond at the same time.
Showing much more bravado than he feels, Spike pushes the door open and there he stands, the whole man as big as his hands and his cock. He lets his gaze linger over Spike’s body, obviously liking what he sees, and holds the candle out to Spike.
“I think, this is yours.”
The dark haired man is clad in an expensive black suit and Spike wonders where the jacket has been when he peeked through the hole. He wears Italian shoes, brightly polished, surely hand-sewn. Like his belt. The smiling lips are curved sensually and his eyes are surprisingly warm, though they seem as if they tended to look down on the rest of the world.
But now, as Spike takes the candle, his smile is nearly shy. “What’s your name?”
“Spike.”
“Yeah, sure.” Both of them smirk.
“Your’s?”
“Don’t know. Take your pick.”
Spike tilts his head and says the first thing that comes to his mind, blushing instantly. “Angel.”
“So, Angel is it. Nice to meet you… Spike.”
“My pleasure, pet.”
They stand face to face, holding each other’s gaze, Angel with his hands casually in his pockets, Spike holding the sample case in the one and the candle in the other hand, his whole body tense but nevertheless successfully pretending to be calm. At least, he hopes he does.
With a predatory grin, Angel slowly takes a step forward, lifts his hands to Spike’s cheeks and kisses him, the big palms bending the blonds head as they like. Demanding lips capture Spike’s mouth, teasing teeth nibble his lower lip and an unerring tongue demands entry. Taken by surprise, Spike opens his mouth, moaning silently, and submits to Angel’s command as he feels the sturdy body pressed against his smaller, wiry one.
When they break the kiss and Angel keeps his hand in the back of Spike’s neck, allowing just so much distance, Spike’s talking again, surprising William with his boldness.
“I’ve got this motel room, about twelve miles from here. Wanna come?”
“Sure” Angel breathes, sealing the contract with a complacent kiss.