[PART ONE] CLOSED;; welcome!
THE SOCIAL NETWORK KINK MEME
ASK THE MODS * FAQ * DISCUSSION * RESEARCH * FILL LIST * PART ONE * PART ONE (OVERFLOW)
what is a kink meme? it pretty much gives itself away; you request a pairing and a prompt/kink anonymously, and someone else (or several someone elses for that matter) will be able to fill that request- also ( Read more... )
ASK THE MODS * FAQ * DISCUSSION * RESEARCH * FILL LIST * PART ONE * PART ONE (OVERFLOW)
what is a kink meme? it pretty much gives itself away; you request a pairing and a prompt/kink anonymously, and someone else (or several someone elses for that matter) will be able to fill that request- also ( Read more... )
“Not exactly subtle, groping you like that,” Maria says, to Mark’s amusement, since he’d been thinking the same thing. He’s curious about Not-Maria’s response. Did she actually like getting felt up like that, surrounded by a bunch of people? Mark hates it, himself, when he goes to those formal events and gets dragged on the dance floor by a bunch of women who all but give him a hernia test while he’s trying to waltz. If they want sex, why can’t they just say that instead of going through the awkward and embarrassing seduction routine? Who wants to walk off the dance floor with a hard-on in front of some of the richest men in America?
“No, it wasn’t like that. He wasn’t trying to feel a feel in, he was just touching me. A hand on my hip, fingers just under the hem on my sweater not trying to slide up but just rubbing the skin there with the tips of his fingers. And the other hand on my back, keeping the close, and always in step with him, never taking his eyes-or his hands-off of me. When he started kissing me, he didn’t go for the mouth, either. He kissed my forehead, eyes cheekbone, chin, down my neck, my collarbones, paying attention to all of me, like nothing mattered but making me feel good.”
It’s almost hypnotic listening to her talk, imagining what it must have been like. People don’t-touch Mark. Not like that. Mostly not at all. There are those women at parties, who molest him on the dance floor and slip room keys into his pockets. He fucks them, or they blow him, and the whole thing is over in about twenty minutes. He never enjoys their hands on him, except for the release they bring. Orgasms feel good, yes, but the pleasure doesn’t last. It’s the same with the girlfriends he’s tried. It’s more comfortable having sex in his own bed instead of in hotel rooms where the sheets smell wrong and the pillows are always too flat, but other than that, the experience is mostly the same. They touch him, and he hides his distaste for the way it feels for long enough to come, then pulls away to clean himself up.
They just…it’s like they always want something from him. Not want him but want to use him, manipulate him. Want to be the one to make him hard, or to make him come. Like his dick is some kind of trophy they want to claim and then maybe stick up on a shelf somewhere to collect dust. Not to use it, not because they like it or enjoy it, but just so they would be able to say that they’d won it.
And that is a seriously weird and creepy thought, and he never wants to picture his dusty dick sitting on a shelf again.
But really, that’s what he hates about the way all those women touch him-the way it always seems to be about them getting what they wanted, and ignoring the fact that he might want something other than just getting off. He can’t even remember the last time he’d been simply touched for no other reason than because it felt good to touch and be touched, to have that contact and connection with someone. Even his family didn’t seem to like touching him-or each other, or much of anyone else. They aren’t a very affectionate family. At reunions, they hug because it’s expected, but they never hold on for long.
And wait, he can remember the last time he’d been touched like that. Back in school. Coding usually relaxes him, but sometimes when he’s overtired and frustrated by a problem he can’t see the end of, he gets so tense it makes his head ache, and somehow, back then, right before the point where it became unbearable, there’d always be a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing out the tension just right, and he’d unplug and turn around and there would be Wardo-
But he doesn’t let himself think about that. Ever. He tunes back in to the conversation.
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Thank you for this piece of awesome! I can't wait for the rest of the story :)
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***
“…talking right into my ear between kisses, making sure I liked what he was doing, telling me how good I felt, how much he wanted me. And the whole time, he kept us moving to the music and never fumbled a step.”
Okay seriously, was she making this up? No guy was that smooth. Sean has dragged him to enough clubs for Mark to know that it’s not just him-most guys can only handle dancing and kissing when done separately. Trying to combine them leads to either the dancing coming to a grinding halt, or the kissing getting spectacularly derailed when the distracted guy guides his partner into another couple, or a wall, or a waitress with a tray of drinks. He’s only ever seen one guy pull it off, and that’s because Wardo had weird Latino genetics on his side which meant that he emerged the birth canal doing the tango or something, and could still move perfectly on beat no matter what else he was doing, even if he was completely plastered. He danced just as well-maybe even better-when he was drunk than when he was sober, because that whole ridiculously polite thing that made him self-conscious about being a much better dancer than the people around him slipped when he was too far gone to realize how bad he was making everyone else look.
And Mark’s going to stop thinking about Eduardo now. He is. Right now.
“After two songs of that, I was practically ready to beg him to take me home. So we get to my house and walk in the door, and right away, he’s got his hand up my skirt. I was starting to get mad, because I thought this guy might actually be different, you know? Not just another one of those assholes who act like they’ve got to get their pants off within thirty seconds of getting through the door or the world will end. Like dancing with me earns them the right to get off as quickly as possible once we’re within eyeshot of a bed.”
That’s…harsh, but fair, Mark has to admit. He wonders if the women he’s seen (oh, let’s be honest-the women he’s screwed) have said the same kind of thing about him to their friends after he’s fucked them in their hotel rooms, cleaned up, and walked out the door all in under an hour from the time he walked in. Yeah, they probably say things like that. Or worse things-he’d bet they usually find something worse to say. It must make for great gossip to talk about the billionaire who’s bad in bed. People seem to like alliteration like that.
“So was he like that?” Maria asks.
“Oh so very much no” Not-Maria replies with a Cheshire-cat grin. “Next thing I know, he’s down on his knees and he’s got my back against the door, one leg over his shoulder, and his tongue on my clit. I was so ready for it that I was on round two before I even stopped screaming from round one.”
“How many rounds were there?” Maria’s starting to sound a little breathless, and Mark knows just how she feels. But while he’s sure most guys in his position would be imagining themselves in the mystery man’s position, having a woman who looks like that screaming for him, what Mark’s picturing is himself up against a door, hips pressed against the wooden frame by strong hands, as a man’s hot, hungry mouth takes him apart. And it isn’t just Mark’s breath that’s affected by the thought. He shifts a little in his seat, reaching down to adjust himself discreetly.
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***
It’s happened before-a man tucking a hotel room key in his pocket, or just eying him significantly before slipping into the large handicapped bathroom stall. And Mark’s accepted those offers, too. Has preferred them, actually, even if he’s never gone past hook-ups. It’s never seemed worth the effort to test the waters on public response to him having a male lover when he has yet to find anyone he actually wants to keep around. Still, the men are less teasing than the women, less coy, more direct-which Mark appreciates. He doesn’t enjoy their touch any more than their female counterparts outside of the end result, but at least they get on with it. And when he’s close to the edge and the pleasure’s overwhelming his mind to the point where he almost wants to pull away from it, regain control over himself, sometimes he downright relishes a man’s solid grip on his body, keeping him firmly in place, not letting him do anything but lean back, take it-dig his fingers into thick hair and enjoy it, just like that first time when…
And that’s the absolute number one thing he never lets himself think about. The thing he’s been not-thinking about for longer than anything else. The very first thing he ever told himself to forget.
“Against the door? Three rounds,” Not-Maria answers. “By that point, my legs couldn’t hold me any more and I pretty much slid down the wall. He caught me, pulled me onto his lap, and just held me until I stopped shaking. I was on his lap, I could feel how hard he was. He’d been hard since we were dancing-I’d felt that, too-and yet he wasn’t making a single move to do anything but make me feel good. I asked him why he’d done it, and do you know what he said?”
“What did he say?” Maria’s leaning in, full of anticipation.
“He said that I looked like I needed it, and he wanted to be the one to give it to me.”
Mark freezes…except for one part of him that springs from half-hard to full attention in his pants. Because he knows that line. Has heard it before, right at the end of that number one thing that he never allows himself to think about. The first time he’d kissed a guy. His first blow-job, ever. And the one and only time he’d had sex with his best friend, Eduardo Saverin.
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i just... nghh. i enjoy this!!!!
plus, your mark voice is absolute perfection!!
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HOLY CRAP. YOU CAN WRITE 10,000 WORDS OF AMAZING FIC JUST LIKE THAT? YOU'RE AMAZING AND I LOVE YOU, ANON.
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***
They’d been very, very drunk-but “drunk” for Mark meant that he got sloppy with things like walking, and thinking before he said whatever thought passed through his head. Alcohol never made Wardo sloppy. (Mark didn’t think that a tornado could make Wardo sloppy.) It made him looser, though-more daring, less polite, and a whole lot less restrained, but still so damn put-together that anyone watching him would think he wasn’t the slightest bit affected.
They’d been at a party, and Mark had said the wrong thing to the dead wrong girl, to the point where it took some fast talking on Wardo’s part to keep Mark away from getting punched. Punched in the bad way. He was glad he hadn’t gotten hit, but still kind of pissed about the whole experience. He’d gone from talking to a girl and thinking that she might let him feel her up, to getting kicked out of the party with no girl, no prospects, and nothing to show for his excruciatingly boring night but the absence of a broken jaw. And walking was kind of hard.
But Wardo was there, propping him up on one side, steering him back to the dorms. Mark wondered if he was supposed to feel bad, because Wardo had been talking up a girl, too, before he’d gotten dragged into Mark’s mess. If Mark was a good person, he’d tell Wardo to go back to the party, that he could get home alone. But Mark wasn’t a good person-and he was mostly okay with that. If Wardo wanted to help him get home, Mark wasn’t going to stop him. In fact, he was going to lean on Wardo and drag his feet and see how close Wardo could get to actually carrying him without picking him up completely.
Pretty damn close, as it turned out, and Wardo was panting a little by the time they got up the stairs to Mark’s door, both arms wrapped around Mark now with Mark’s body plastered against his as Wardo levered him to the door.
Mark had started complaining about fifteen minutes back about cocktease girls who don’t take the time to mention that they have a boyfriend until you accidentally make some suggestion that you had no idea would bother them so much that they’d run off to tell their muscle-bound Neanderthal boy toy for no other reason than to watch him kick the crap out of you. He’d segued from there into the poor, pitiable parable of his penis, (okay fine, he liked alliteration, too,) and how unfairly long it had been since that particular body part had gotten attention or affection from anyone but himself.
He was still half-heartedly-hard. His dick had gotten pretty excited while talking to the girl earlier, and it wasn’t quite willing to accept that it wouldn’t be getting any action tonight. Of course, its optimism was probably also due to the warm, firm body it had been rubbing against for most of the walk home. Because Mark got sloppy with things when he was drunk-and if his upstairs brain could barely handle walking, then it’s hardly surprising that his downstairs brain had trouble recalling that it liked girls, not boys, and definitely not his best friend.
The weather was warm, and there weren’t many layers between Mark and Wardo-certainly not enough to hide his erection. He expected Wardo to laugh it off or ignore it. Instead, Wardo got him over to his bed, lay him out on it (on his back, not on his side in the recovery position, as Mark had expected) and then reached for him. Mark had been a little lost in his thoughts, wondering if he had the energy or coordination to jerk off after Wardo left when he became aware of the heat of the palm pressing against his crotch.
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