005. The Fox and The Jailbird
A hand rubs at the back of his neck, nerves stiffening his muscles like a tightened spring ready to launch. On one hand, he had a man to play with, to test the mentality of. On the other, he had a stranger with little proof of his social credibility. If things went sour, he'd only have a moment to take the revolver out of his cassock and do what
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Teasing exhales breathe warm, moist air over the head while the pad of the blonde's thumb glides over the smooth dome of skin. Ready? Lips part to replace his thumb in its caress of the figure. How badly do -you- want it? Cameron's free hand slips up the bottom of the mans shirt, bringing tender touch to the torso, just beneath the happy trail. Ready as I'm gunna be.
Again, it was tilted up, this time to allow admittance of that tongue. From base to tip it made its path, slow and tantalizing with the additional pressure made by the steel ball sitting in the middle of that wet muscle. Back to the head and lips sealed over the round in a kiss. Instead of breaking it, Cameron sucks it in with a silent pop; into a hot, wet, and ridged place to make it feel right at home.
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The young man's inspection falls under scrutiny from above, chin pointing down at his own chest, one eye squinted just a little more than the other. The muscles of his mouth can't seem to stop moving in subtle tics. Here and there, hints of both smile and sneer; amusement, satisfaction, smugness. His fingers, placed so tenderly on Cameron's golden crown, curl and comb their way through his hair. And again. And again, his palm flattens, petting fondly. His other hand is a claw digging in vain against the surface of brick, mortar beneath his fingernails.
He's both here and somewhere else at the same time. Staring unabashedly down at the face below, or what little he can see of it. Staring at the licking, sliding, sucking mouth. He draws in a quick but full breath, shoulders rising and falling in a sigh-such a peaceful sound-and briefly entertains the thought of twisting his fingers into that pretty golden mane and slamming the boy's head against the bricks in behind. Eyes close, chin raises-he bares his neck to the wall and his face to the sky, his mouth an open grin, and breathes another note of enjoyment.
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The hand which cradles the base tightens, jerking to match every in-out, every rush forward to meet the curls at the bottom. He has to concentrate on just getting this done and not how degrading this moment is. Easily done.
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Both of the convict's palms flatten against the wall, followed by his forearms, and one arm bends into a makeshift pillow for his head while the other touches things aimlessly. Bricks, soft hair, the fingers on his belly... they linger there the longest, tracing over knuckles and nails as though to memorize. Shouldn't be much longer now. He's just muttered something unintelligible, bitten at his own skin through the fabric of his shirt. Restless. His eyes open to stare blearily down at the bobbing head below, and through his teeth, around the pinched wrinkle of jersey cotton he grunts. His hand hovers over Cameron's skull, tense and trembling, fingers bumping gently against it as it moves. It would be so easy. Quick and hard, wait 'til just after you're done, and-
Eyelids squeeze shut, and his hand finds brick instead. The reward for this incredible act of restraint sneaks up on him not a moment later. There's a certain tilt to his hips, a hitch in the rhythm of his breath-jaw slack, brow knotted-and then, the least threatening noise he's made all day and night. It's the bastard child of a gasp and a wordless note of surprise. ...Cameron will certainly know what it means.
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That shirt shrouded hand slips to the back, cupping the butt of the mans jeans and--...A thumb carefully edges around the shape of...something inside that back pocket. Too thin to be a normal knife. Too thick to be a credit card. That hand kneads at the mans rear as his orgasm drowns out most of the priests actions. Each flex of his hand offers a push from his thumb to try and get the unknown tool to the top of the pocket for further inspection. All he feels is the plastic sheath around the slim of metal before he knows. One finger pushes it right back down to where it originally sat.
After the last burst of white, Cameron slowly pulls back until the wet slip of lips from the head of Theodore's cock smacks with the end of that long pulling kiss. He wipes carefully at the corner of his mouth, cleaning up a bit before licking around the head of the calming length. That cleaning hand falls so casually, so smoothly into his pocket it's hardly worth a second thought. That bit of white is given to a pristine white handkerchief. A normal action.
"Mmm," His studded tongue washes over his lips, offering up a sweet-as-pie smile to the man in euphoria.
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Eventually he'll move, first dropping his arm away from the bricks to hang limp in its socket, then wiping his face with the very convenient shirt sleeve that just so happens to be right there. He's in no hurry to stand up straight, though, instead preferring to roll sideways into the painted wall, his weight supported mostly by his shoulder. He doesn't even bother to tuck himself back into his shorts or anything; it doesn't occur to him.
A deep and cleansing breath fills his lungs, comes out as a noisy huff. There, there's his sharp grin; this time it actually narrows his eyes into a pleasant squint. "Well... now I'm definitely goin' to hell."
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Hands cover the drooping cock, delicately returning it to the warmth of the cloth confines. Just a little special placing and a quick zip and button and he finishes with a gentle pat of the jeans. The smile given is tired and slightly swollen from his tasks. "Twen'y 'Hail Mary's an' you'll be dandy, mate. Trust me."
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Before the patting hand leaves him entirely, Teddy snatches for it at the wrist, or around the palm and meat of the thumb, whatever he can catch. He gives a playful tug on the graceful limb (well, more like a yank), aiming to bring Cameron closer. Close enough to bump together, probably. In the meantime, he's grinning around his bottom lip and issuing what may technically be classified as a giggle, only lower, rumbling throughout his chest. ...Bump. "Y'know, blondie, I think I'm beginnin' to like you." Run! ...Nah. It doesn't mean anything coming from him, besides maybe showing up more often, whether he's wanted around or not.
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The giggle. Oh, dear Lord. At least it wasn't a twink giggle. He smiles again, revealing a sliver of those perfect teeth. "Well, at least one of us do." It's a slightly sad sounding reply. But, then again, most 'good men' would feel guilty after giving head to a person they hardly know.
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Cameron's hand, by the way, is still surrounded by warm, dry fingers.
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So skilled is the conman that blushing to complete his guilty look is hardly an issue. A hand rubs at the back of his neck, trying to coax the other to get distracted enough to let go of his gunhand.
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