A Pros Drabble Times Ten
The next entry in the drabble meme. This one's Pros for halotolerant, and is 1,000 words even. Prompt: lick.
A word to the wise: here be smut.
The Waiting Game
Bodie snuck a look at his watch. Fifteen hours, 23 minutes to go. Christ.
On the headphones, the MP they were investigating on suspicion of treason was wittering on about his golf swing. Life in prison was too good for the tosser.
He risked a look in Doyle's direction and immediately regretted it. Doyle looked right at him and licked his bottom lip. Slowly.
Bastard.
Bodie flicked his gaze across the buggy-boo to young Robbie Jones sitting between them. The technician was immersed in twiddling dials and didn't seem to have noticed Doyle's lascivious look or Bodie's uncomfortable squirm.
He looked down. Fifteen hours, 21 minutes. He was never going to make it.
The bet had been a mistake, that much was clear. It had seemed so easy a week ago.
Six in the bloody morning it had been. They were due on a call out at seven, but Doyle had still tried to get his leg over.
"C'mon, Bodie." He'd stroked his hand across Bodie's chest, and bitten lightly at his jaw. "We're going to be on this op for ages. We've got time for a quick one."
"You randy bastard," Bodie had said, halting Doyle's hand in its downward course to his cock. "Bet you couldn't go without for a day."
"Bet I could."
"A week, then. I bet you couldn't do without a good shag for a week."
"I'll go without if you will," Doyle had said.
"Loser pays for dinner at the best restaurant in London?"
"Done." Bodie was already going through the relative merits of every Michelin starred establishment he knew of.
"A quick one, first, then we start the bet." Doyle grabbed Bodie's earlobe gently with his teeth.
"Oh, no you don't." Bodie reluctantly pulled away. "The bet starts now: 0602."
"Fine," Doyle had said with more than a bit of frustration. "I hope your wallet is up to foie gras and good champagne."
"That should be my line." And he really had thought it would be easy to best Doyle at avoiding temptation. But he'd forgotten that Doyle was temptation personified. The bastard had gone all out the last week. He'd worn his most indecent jeans, undone a button further on his shirt every day, and grabbed Bodie's arse as much in a week as Bodie had grabbed his in the last year.
A sadist, that's what Doyle was. A bloody sadist.
One more look at his watch told him there was 15 hours and 18 minutes left in this ridiculous bet. He'd had enough. He took off the headphones and flicked them in Doyle's direction.
"I need some air. I'll be back in ten minutes."
Without waiting for an response, he shrugged on his jacket, left the buggy-boo and headed down the back lane they were parked in. He'd go to the café at the end of the street. Have a slash; grab a tea; come back fortified to face Doyle.
The door of the van slammed behind him, and he nearly groaned out loud.
"Bodie," Doyle said in a stage whisper. "Wait up."
Bodie increased his stride, and heard Doyle running behind to catch up. He contemplated legging it, but that would be undignified. He didn't do undignified. So he sighed, and stopped, and waited for Doyle, figuring he was going to be in for more subtle torment from his partner.
Doyle, however, didn't seem to be up for subtle. When he was close enough, he grabbed the back of Bodie's collar and dragged him into an alcove between two garages, a space barely big enough for the two of them. They stood there, toe to toe, nose to nose, nearly but not quite touching, and Bodie tried not to reach out and grab the bastard.
"Aren't you supposed to be listening to the Right Honourable?"
"Jones took over that pleasure."
"Come to torture me some more?"
Doyle didn't respond to that, just gave Bodie a peculiar look for a long minute. Then it was as if he were a man possessed. He unzipped Bodie's jacket, pushed his poloneck out of the way, then began to work on his flies. Before Bodie knew it, his jeans were down his thighs, and Doyle's one hand was on his cock, caressing and pumping, while the other ran up and down his chest and then 'round to his arse.
Bodie's nipples went tight in the cool spring air, but he felt burning hot, even as he threw his head back and gasped. He didn't last long. Doyle tightened his grip on Bodie's cock and licked roughly at Bodie's chest, and it was as if an electric current had gone straight to his balls. He came all over Doyle's hand, all over his own belly.
Before he could even catch his breath, Doyle had spun him around. His cheek brushed the rough brick of the garage as he heard Doyle fumble with his own flies, heard a rustle of fabric before Doyle's fingers, slick with Bodie's own come, pushed into him. He leaned back into the sensation, and felt his own cock begin to grow hard again. Fingers were removed and replaced with Doyle's cock, even as he felt Doyle reach around and caress his thigh, carefully avoiding his cock. Doyle pounded into him, his breath blowing hotly into Bodie's ear. He could tell when Doyle was about to come, when his pace sped up, when he gave a low growl. Bodie tensed around Doyle's cock, and felt Doyle's orgasm in his own balls. Impossibly, he felt himself come again, his come hitting the wall in front of him.
His legs trembled as he stood there, jeans pushed down, and a softening cock up his arse. When Doyle finally pulled free of him he turned, zipped up his jeans, and tried to pull together his tattered dignity.
"So," Bodie asked. "Who won the bet?"
"I think we both did," Doyle said, and even though Bodie couldn't see his face, he knew the bastard was smiling.
A word to the wise: here be smut.
The Waiting Game
Bodie snuck a look at his watch. Fifteen hours, 23 minutes to go. Christ.
On the headphones, the MP they were investigating on suspicion of treason was wittering on about his golf swing. Life in prison was too good for the tosser.
He risked a look in Doyle's direction and immediately regretted it. Doyle looked right at him and licked his bottom lip. Slowly.
Bastard.
Bodie flicked his gaze across the buggy-boo to young Robbie Jones sitting between them. The technician was immersed in twiddling dials and didn't seem to have noticed Doyle's lascivious look or Bodie's uncomfortable squirm.
He looked down. Fifteen hours, 21 minutes. He was never going to make it.
The bet had been a mistake, that much was clear. It had seemed so easy a week ago.
Six in the bloody morning it had been. They were due on a call out at seven, but Doyle had still tried to get his leg over.
"C'mon, Bodie." He'd stroked his hand across Bodie's chest, and bitten lightly at his jaw. "We're going to be on this op for ages. We've got time for a quick one."
"You randy bastard," Bodie had said, halting Doyle's hand in its downward course to his cock. "Bet you couldn't go without for a day."
"Bet I could."
"A week, then. I bet you couldn't do without a good shag for a week."
"I'll go without if you will," Doyle had said.
"Loser pays for dinner at the best restaurant in London?"
"Done." Bodie was already going through the relative merits of every Michelin starred establishment he knew of.
"A quick one, first, then we start the bet." Doyle grabbed Bodie's earlobe gently with his teeth.
"Oh, no you don't." Bodie reluctantly pulled away. "The bet starts now: 0602."
"Fine," Doyle had said with more than a bit of frustration. "I hope your wallet is up to foie gras and good champagne."
"That should be my line." And he really had thought it would be easy to best Doyle at avoiding temptation. But he'd forgotten that Doyle was temptation personified. The bastard had gone all out the last week. He'd worn his most indecent jeans, undone a button further on his shirt every day, and grabbed Bodie's arse as much in a week as Bodie had grabbed his in the last year.
A sadist, that's what Doyle was. A bloody sadist.
One more look at his watch told him there was 15 hours and 18 minutes left in this ridiculous bet. He'd had enough. He took off the headphones and flicked them in Doyle's direction.
"I need some air. I'll be back in ten minutes."
Without waiting for an response, he shrugged on his jacket, left the buggy-boo and headed down the back lane they were parked in. He'd go to the café at the end of the street. Have a slash; grab a tea; come back fortified to face Doyle.
The door of the van slammed behind him, and he nearly groaned out loud.
"Bodie," Doyle said in a stage whisper. "Wait up."
Bodie increased his stride, and heard Doyle running behind to catch up. He contemplated legging it, but that would be undignified. He didn't do undignified. So he sighed, and stopped, and waited for Doyle, figuring he was going to be in for more subtle torment from his partner.
Doyle, however, didn't seem to be up for subtle. When he was close enough, he grabbed the back of Bodie's collar and dragged him into an alcove between two garages, a space barely big enough for the two of them. They stood there, toe to toe, nose to nose, nearly but not quite touching, and Bodie tried not to reach out and grab the bastard.
"Aren't you supposed to be listening to the Right Honourable?"
"Jones took over that pleasure."
"Come to torture me some more?"
Doyle didn't respond to that, just gave Bodie a peculiar look for a long minute. Then it was as if he were a man possessed. He unzipped Bodie's jacket, pushed his poloneck out of the way, then began to work on his flies. Before Bodie knew it, his jeans were down his thighs, and Doyle's one hand was on his cock, caressing and pumping, while the other ran up and down his chest and then 'round to his arse.
Bodie's nipples went tight in the cool spring air, but he felt burning hot, even as he threw his head back and gasped. He didn't last long. Doyle tightened his grip on Bodie's cock and licked roughly at Bodie's chest, and it was as if an electric current had gone straight to his balls. He came all over Doyle's hand, all over his own belly.
Before he could even catch his breath, Doyle had spun him around. His cheek brushed the rough brick of the garage as he heard Doyle fumble with his own flies, heard a rustle of fabric before Doyle's fingers, slick with Bodie's own come, pushed into him. He leaned back into the sensation, and felt his own cock begin to grow hard again. Fingers were removed and replaced with Doyle's cock, even as he felt Doyle reach around and caress his thigh, carefully avoiding his cock. Doyle pounded into him, his breath blowing hotly into Bodie's ear. He could tell when Doyle was about to come, when his pace sped up, when he gave a low growl. Bodie tensed around Doyle's cock, and felt Doyle's orgasm in his own balls. Impossibly, he felt himself come again, his come hitting the wall in front of him.
His legs trembled as he stood there, jeans pushed down, and a softening cock up his arse. When Doyle finally pulled free of him he turned, zipped up his jeans, and tried to pull together his tattered dignity.
"So," Bodie asked. "Who won the bet?"
"I think we both did," Doyle said, and even though Bodie couldn't see his face, he knew the bastard was smiling.