NC-17 m/m Giles/OMC
At least having the responsibility for rebuilding the Council saved me from a life of dissolution. Until the call from Rhys-Evans, I spent a lot of my nights in the bars, cruising, if only with my eyes. There were a lot of nights I didn't remember going home, but I always found myself in my own bed come morning (or afternoon, as the case often was). I suppose that was why Francis' remark about "watching" instead of "doing" needled me so much.
It wasn't that I wanted to do anyone anything in particular. I patronised a different establishment almost every night because I had no desire to become a regular, or be recognised, at any of them. There was something depressingly furtive about the entire exercise, but it didn't stop me from going out, repeating the same pattern again, and again. And again.
I never did anything, I just... watched. Watched people enjoying themselves, watched celebrations and milestones, watched people that, outwardly at least, like who (and what) they are. In other words, people who have very little in common with me. The miasma of quiet desperation didn't encourage anyone to seek out my companionship. It isn't a particularly desirable trait. At times, I let myself wonder if I would be happier if I were more -- or less -- like the people I saw all around me.
I remember one night in particular...
A pub on the other side of the city from the rather mingy bed-sit I was living in at the time was having a dance night. I made it a rule to never go to those establishments anywhere close to my own neighbourhood, where I might be recognised. Although the event was obviously very well planned, there was still an impromptu air about it. Perhaps it was the way all the tables and chairs were pulled back off the hardwood floor. The band was small for a "big band," but they managed to cover arrangements of classic jazz tunes with surprising depth.
That was when I saw him. I didn't even see his face, at first, the attraction was in his thick, long, waving hair, and the way he moved -- elegant, but ineffably masculine at the same time. He wore black leather trousers and jacket with the comfortable, casual air most of the patrons wore a coat and tie. The difference in his dress didn't seem as different as it might have done, because there was nothing aggressive about the way he wore it. He wasn't rebelling against anything; he was just dressing the way he felt comfortable.
He executed the steps of several different dances with precision and grace, and I found something quite satisfying in the incongruity of his obvious familiarity with the music. He was quite young -- only in his early to mid twenties -- but his partner was a man of about my own age -- though of obviously far greater means. I thought: If he fucks half as well as he dances, his partner is in for a night to remember. Then, I felt immediately ashamed of myself for having the thought, at all.
The way he draped his arms around his partner's neck was an open invitation, but the upcurving of broad, sensual lips would have told someone more perceptive that he was being laughed at, inwardly. I was struck by the way the young man's strong jaw line kept his features from appearing femininely beautiful, although expressive brown eyes and sharply drawn cheekbones conspired to give that impression. It took me a while to realise (perhaps because I didn't really want to do) that in some ways, he bore a passing resemblance to another young man, a very long time ago...
The older man sat down, and the younger chivalrously pulled out the chair for him -- I haven't seen anyone do that for years, but it very clearly established the power dynamic between the two of them. The young man came up to the bar, walking directly to an empty space beside me, standing so close I could feel the heat of his body, and smell the musk of exertion over an undertone of soap as he leaned over to give the barman his order. The pose accented his lean muscularity, and the way he filled out the black leather trousers he wore, something I'm certain he was very aware of, even as he did it.
As he waited for the drinks, he looked over at me, and I couldn't help but think he looked even better, up close, than he had done on the dance floor. 'You want to fuck me, don't you?' he asked in a lilting voice that gave no pretence of trying for RP, or even Estuary. It was charming. I could tell by the tone of his voice he considered it a rhetorical question. There was a time in years past when I would have met his challenging gaze with one of my own, and answered him in the affirmative. As it was, I dropped my eyes to my glass, and felt a rush of blood to my face as I stammered out something that resembled a denial.
'No one stares at me that long unless he wants me,' he said. I couldn't tell him he was wrong. 'Don't get me wrong, I don't mind being stared at. It's rather flattering. And you're a top -- that's certainly a refreshing change. You wouldn't keep looking at my arse that way if you didn't want to fuck it... Maybe you will some night, when I don't already have a date,' he told me with an insinuating smile.
He was staggeringly arrogant, with a filthy mind and an even filthier mouth, but there was something incredibly arousing about his directness and honesty, rude as it was. I was sure he was very well aware of it. I was tempted to ask how long he worked crafting the particular mask he showed me.
'Call me old-fashioned, but I still make a habit of leaving with the bloke who brought me.' He picked up his drinks order and turned to go. 'That doesn't mean I'd object to seeing you in the back room before I left with him, though,' he added, throwing the remark out over his shoulder.
I shouldn't have ever considered it, but there was something about the ambivalent combination of his compelling sexual attraction, and the loathing I felt, which gave the encounter an aura of inevitability. I waited for a few minutes, glanced over at the table where his date sat, and noticed that he wsan't there. I shouldn't be doing this, I told myself as I left my seat at the bar, and started walking to the dimly lit, and more than disreputable "back room" area of the pub. When I saw him, he didn't say a word. His only greeting was a slight, sly smile of recognition.
I shouldn't be doing this; I should just turn around and go back to my seat, I thought as he approached me, and immediately went down on his knees without bothering with any preliminaries. He started unbuckling my belt, and unzipping my trousers, and I was so hard it was almost painful before he took it out. It had been so long, so very long...
He stroked me with a sure hand, studying my cock, moving up and down along the length of it, finding the sweet spot underneath the head that made me gasp. My balls started to tighten, and I was concerned I might shoot before he even took me into his mouth. I sighed in relief when he released my prick from his grasp and took out a condom, ripping the packet open, and started to slip it over the head. Once past the bulge, though, he put his mouth on it, unrolling it down the shaft with his lips.
He backed off long enough to double-check that it was on properly, tickling my scrotum and stroking the sensitive area between the back of my balls and my ass. Sensing how much I liked that, he'd return to it occasionally while he blew me, doing it just long enough each time to leave me wanting more.
It wasn't until he started to lick and suck on my prick in earnest that I felt a thrill up the back of my spine as I realised his tongue was pierced, and I was feeling the ends of the barbell he wore through it pressing firmly against the prominent vein on the underside of my cock. (Some fads, it seems, are not without their practical purposes.) He was slightly rough about working it, to make up for the loss of sensation being encased in a condom.
After he'd been sucking for a while, taking me close to the edge and backing off -- and I'd been fighting to hold back -- he stopped to moisten his index finger with saliva, then went back to sucking me. He concentrated his efforts near the head as he started to explore again. Even though I knew what was coming (no pun intended), I wasn't prepared for the intensity of he sensation when I relaxed, and he inserted the finger into my ass.
I shoved myself down his throat, past his gag reflex, pumping out great, long spasms of semen into the condom's reservoir, until I was afraid the latex would overflow. It did start spilling out as I rolled it off, afterwards. God, I felt drained, but utterly relaxed -- fantastic. I tried to remember the last time I came that way, with such intensity of sensation, but my memory didn't turn anything over off-hand, and I stopped trying. He looked at me through heavy-lidded eyes, a slight smile on his lips. He never told me his name.
The leather-clad youth returned to the bar and bought more drinks, later (as did I), but he didn't speak to me again. He always found the empty space next to where I sat most convenient to place his orders. Every time he did, he was close enough to touch, but I never did. He was enticing me, and mocking me. I wondered if he really understood the difference between the two.
I never went back there again, even if his image does form in my mind more frequently than almost any other when I toss off. It's less painful, and less bittersweet, than remembering Ethan.
It wasn't that I wanted to do anyone anything in particular. I patronised a different establishment almost every night because I had no desire to become a regular, or be recognised, at any of them. There was something depressingly furtive about the entire exercise, but it didn't stop me from going out, repeating the same pattern again, and again. And again.
I never did anything, I just... watched. Watched people enjoying themselves, watched celebrations and milestones, watched people that, outwardly at least, like who (and what) they are. In other words, people who have very little in common with me. The miasma of quiet desperation didn't encourage anyone to seek out my companionship. It isn't a particularly desirable trait. At times, I let myself wonder if I would be happier if I were more -- or less -- like the people I saw all around me.
I remember one night in particular...
A pub on the other side of the city from the rather mingy bed-sit I was living in at the time was having a dance night. I made it a rule to never go to those establishments anywhere close to my own neighbourhood, where I might be recognised. Although the event was obviously very well planned, there was still an impromptu air about it. Perhaps it was the way all the tables and chairs were pulled back off the hardwood floor. The band was small for a "big band," but they managed to cover arrangements of classic jazz tunes with surprising depth.
That was when I saw him. I didn't even see his face, at first, the attraction was in his thick, long, waving hair, and the way he moved -- elegant, but ineffably masculine at the same time. He wore black leather trousers and jacket with the comfortable, casual air most of the patrons wore a coat and tie. The difference in his dress didn't seem as different as it might have done, because there was nothing aggressive about the way he wore it. He wasn't rebelling against anything; he was just dressing the way he felt comfortable.
He executed the steps of several different dances with precision and grace, and I found something quite satisfying in the incongruity of his obvious familiarity with the music. He was quite young -- only in his early to mid twenties -- but his partner was a man of about my own age -- though of obviously far greater means. I thought: If he fucks half as well as he dances, his partner is in for a night to remember. Then, I felt immediately ashamed of myself for having the thought, at all.
The way he draped his arms around his partner's neck was an open invitation, but the upcurving of broad, sensual lips would have told someone more perceptive that he was being laughed at, inwardly. I was struck by the way the young man's strong jaw line kept his features from appearing femininely beautiful, although expressive brown eyes and sharply drawn cheekbones conspired to give that impression. It took me a while to realise (perhaps because I didn't really want to do) that in some ways, he bore a passing resemblance to another young man, a very long time ago...
The older man sat down, and the younger chivalrously pulled out the chair for him -- I haven't seen anyone do that for years, but it very clearly established the power dynamic between the two of them. The young man came up to the bar, walking directly to an empty space beside me, standing so close I could feel the heat of his body, and smell the musk of exertion over an undertone of soap as he leaned over to give the barman his order. The pose accented his lean muscularity, and the way he filled out the black leather trousers he wore, something I'm certain he was very aware of, even as he did it.
As he waited for the drinks, he looked over at me, and I couldn't help but think he looked even better, up close, than he had done on the dance floor. 'You want to fuck me, don't you?' he asked in a lilting voice that gave no pretence of trying for RP, or even Estuary. It was charming. I could tell by the tone of his voice he considered it a rhetorical question. There was a time in years past when I would have met his challenging gaze with one of my own, and answered him in the affirmative. As it was, I dropped my eyes to my glass, and felt a rush of blood to my face as I stammered out something that resembled a denial.
'No one stares at me that long unless he wants me,' he said. I couldn't tell him he was wrong. 'Don't get me wrong, I don't mind being stared at. It's rather flattering. And you're a top -- that's certainly a refreshing change. You wouldn't keep looking at my arse that way if you didn't want to fuck it... Maybe you will some night, when I don't already have a date,' he told me with an insinuating smile.
He was staggeringly arrogant, with a filthy mind and an even filthier mouth, but there was something incredibly arousing about his directness and honesty, rude as it was. I was sure he was very well aware of it. I was tempted to ask how long he worked crafting the particular mask he showed me.
'Call me old-fashioned, but I still make a habit of leaving with the bloke who brought me.' He picked up his drinks order and turned to go. 'That doesn't mean I'd object to seeing you in the back room before I left with him, though,' he added, throwing the remark out over his shoulder.
I shouldn't have ever considered it, but there was something about the ambivalent combination of his compelling sexual attraction, and the loathing I felt, which gave the encounter an aura of inevitability. I waited for a few minutes, glanced over at the table where his date sat, and noticed that he wsan't there. I shouldn't be doing this, I told myself as I left my seat at the bar, and started walking to the dimly lit, and more than disreputable "back room" area of the pub. When I saw him, he didn't say a word. His only greeting was a slight, sly smile of recognition.
I shouldn't be doing this; I should just turn around and go back to my seat, I thought as he approached me, and immediately went down on his knees without bothering with any preliminaries. He started unbuckling my belt, and unzipping my trousers, and I was so hard it was almost painful before he took it out. It had been so long, so very long...
He stroked me with a sure hand, studying my cock, moving up and down along the length of it, finding the sweet spot underneath the head that made me gasp. My balls started to tighten, and I was concerned I might shoot before he even took me into his mouth. I sighed in relief when he released my prick from his grasp and took out a condom, ripping the packet open, and started to slip it over the head. Once past the bulge, though, he put his mouth on it, unrolling it down the shaft with his lips.
He backed off long enough to double-check that it was on properly, tickling my scrotum and stroking the sensitive area between the back of my balls and my ass. Sensing how much I liked that, he'd return to it occasionally while he blew me, doing it just long enough each time to leave me wanting more.
It wasn't until he started to lick and suck on my prick in earnest that I felt a thrill up the back of my spine as I realised his tongue was pierced, and I was feeling the ends of the barbell he wore through it pressing firmly against the prominent vein on the underside of my cock. (Some fads, it seems, are not without their practical purposes.) He was slightly rough about working it, to make up for the loss of sensation being encased in a condom.
After he'd been sucking for a while, taking me close to the edge and backing off -- and I'd been fighting to hold back -- he stopped to moisten his index finger with saliva, then went back to sucking me. He concentrated his efforts near the head as he started to explore again. Even though I knew what was coming (no pun intended), I wasn't prepared for the intensity of he sensation when I relaxed, and he inserted the finger into my ass.
I shoved myself down his throat, past his gag reflex, pumping out great, long spasms of semen into the condom's reservoir, until I was afraid the latex would overflow. It did start spilling out as I rolled it off, afterwards. God, I felt drained, but utterly relaxed -- fantastic. I tried to remember the last time I came that way, with such intensity of sensation, but my memory didn't turn anything over off-hand, and I stopped trying. He looked at me through heavy-lidded eyes, a slight smile on his lips. He never told me his name.
The leather-clad youth returned to the bar and bought more drinks, later (as did I), but he didn't speak to me again. He always found the empty space next to where I sat most convenient to place his orders. Every time he did, he was close enough to touch, but I never did. He was enticing me, and mocking me. I wondered if he really understood the difference between the two.
I never went back there again, even if his image does form in my mind more frequently than almost any other when I toss off. It's less painful, and less bittersweet, than remembering Ethan.