[lotrips] afterparty
co-written with shaenie
Bill hangs back deliberately ("Are you coming?" Dominguez had asked, arm sliding easily around Bill's shoulders, and Bill had given him a grim smile, and promised to catch up; Dominguez had merely smirked knowingly, and murmured, "Don't hurt him, I like this one.") until the rest of the party guests have gone their merry ways. He watches from the shadows of the balcony while Oliver does a brief tour of the suite, making sure everyone has gone off home, but he barely glances over the balcony. Bill is comfortably nestled between the wall and a statue of a naked woman, and Oliver doesn't see him, standing there with a tumbler of scotch and an unlit cigarette.
He also doesn't lock the door that leads inside before he turns to walk the rest of the rooms, which is good, though it wouldn't have been that big of a problem, if he had.
Bill lights his cig and turns his attention in another direction.
One window down is a small, parlour-type sitting room. It has sheers, but they're pulled wide open, and Bill can see the figure sprawled upon one of the couches fairly clearly, though he can't reach that window from here. The dancing boy might be sleeping, might be just resting before he gets up and changes back into his street clothes before going home, but Bill doesn't think so.
Bill thinks he's waiting to get paid, and maybe waiting to get fucked, and it's the second one that he's more curious about than the first.
The whole evening, for him, must have been like lengthy, excrutiating foreplay, and while Bill has never seen this particular boy before, he's seen others, and knows that most of them like to cap the events of the night off with something a bit more substantial than just dancing. Or possibly by the end of the night, they're just too stoned and exhausted to put up much of a fight. It's even possible that they believe it just goes hand in hand, get paid for dancing and a shag for the host.
Usually, Bill isn't interested enough to stick around and see, but he's decided to make an exception. He's made a career out of being stoic, and he's good at it, but this little bugger had been persistent enough, tempting enough, to actually make him play along, if only for a few seconds. He is both aggravated and impressed, and he doesn't particularly like having either of those things forced on him. It makes him itch. It makes him want to return the favor.
He's only finished half of his cig when Oliver comes into sight in the parlour window and stands over the couch, just looking. If they are talking, Bill can't hear it. The window is closed. He sees Oliver hunker down, though, ruining the sharp line of his perfectly pressed suit, bunching it at the knees and making the jacket gape wide in a way that he would have never done in the company of his guests, fine, cultured host that he is. He sees Oliver's hands start to play over dancing boy's skin, short, swift strokes, and he sees the bunch and twist of the boy's response, though he can't make out the details, just the arch of his body and one languidly moving hand, reaching and petting at Oliver, as though actually grabbing is beyond its owner's ability.
And that pretty much answers that question. He'd come to dance, and though maybe the fucking hadn't entered his mind at the time (Bill doubts that quite sincerely), he certainly seems amenable to it now.
He takes another drag off the cig and then flicks it carelessly over the railing. He opens the door and steps inside, draining his scotch and setting the glass on the table (where, earlier, Bill had watched Dominguez -- among others -- snort coke off of the dancing boy's firmly muscled belly) as he passes it. The parlour is the first door on Bill's left as he leaves the main room, and the doorknob turns easily and noiselessly under Bill's hand.
He reaches the center of the room before Oliver looks up sharply, his fingertips hovering over softly shimmering satin pulled taut over the dancing boy's erection. "Mr.--" he says, and stops immediately at Bill's sharp look. After a moment he continues without the name. "I had no idea you were still here." He rises to his feet and tugs his jacket back into sleek, tidy lines.
Bill nods and smiles slightly. "What's his name?" he asks, and tips his head toward the couch. Dancing boy is awake enough to be aware of Bill, his eyes half-lidded but fixed on him there, and there's something faintly shimmery on his skin, something that's not sweat, something deliberately applied. He doesn't seem at all worried by Bill's presence in the room. No wonder, really. His pupils are huge.
"It's, ah, Nic," Oliver says, uncomfortable and uncertain. "I can see you out, if you like."
"You go on," Bill says politely, and takes a couple of steps toward the couch. "I've an idea I'd like to stay here a bit, and talk to Nic."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr.--"
"Bill will do," Bill says, interrupting him with another sharp look and a brief headshake. What is the man, bloody stupid?
"Yes, of course," he says. "My apologies, Bill, but Nic's part in the evenings entertainment is at an end. I was about to send him home when you came in." Oliver's voice is stiff and tight. He's a terrible liar, and would be even if Bill hadn't seen exactly what he'd been up to when Bill had come in.
"Were you now?" he asks, and smiles. "He still looks passably entertaining to me. Looked that way from out there, anyhow." He inclines his head toward the window, where the balcony is just visible. He looks at Oliver. "You looked entertained."
Halfway through the evening, the girl with the freckles had snuck up behind him in the loo and got him off. She’d had small, capable hands, and smiled at him in the mirror the whole (quick) time; kissed his cheek and whispered Looked like you needed that, sweetheart.
He had.
Oliver never asks to fuck Nic, and Nic never offers. The second party, Nic hadn’t taken the proffered second round, and he’d spent half an hour after the guests had left with Oliver spread out beneath him, lazily screwing his host. Mostly though Nic goes for more of the drugs and less co-ordination when the party dissolves. Stretchy, come-down blow-jobs and cock-sucking seems like slippery bliss on the downslide of the E.
Tonight he reaches for Oliver’s wrist, curling his fingers in between Oliver’s, caressing the skin there and not-quite-murmuring how he thinks those fingers are long and perfect and the middle one would slide just so, and then they are interrupted, it seems, just when Nic realises he is hitching his pelvis up into Oliver’s grasp. Oliver slides away.
Nic listens to Oliver talking, absorbing the sound but not the words, deciphers the interloper as stranger-danger before he opens his eyes halfway. It's no-one that he knows, of course, but it is the stubborn little pixie, the blond with the hard thighs and reluctant mouth. It might be that Oliver has only just taken his hand away from Nic's dick, but it might be that the green-eyed bloke is asking his name.
He's not so wasted that he couldn't get it together and out of a burning building, but there's no emergency, and Nic likes the flooding warmth in his belly. He likes being sprawled out on the soft sofa, he likes the way his skin glimmers in the light, and he likes the interesting thrub of his pulse, wrists and neck, next to the leather.
He's thirsty. He swallows.
"Perhaps," Oliver says, his voice gone high and nervy. "But he isn't paid to... provide services to the guests." He looks at Nic and frowns slightly, a well-bred expression of unhappy puzzlement that Bill doubts is really meant for Nic at all. "He is not a rentboy."
"I never thought he was," Bill agrees easily, honestly, and turns to look at Nic as well.
He's starting to shift a little against the leather of the couch, tensing his muscles and pressing against it, turning his head so that his cheek slides against the back.
"E, is it?" Bill muses, and reaches down to trace a fingertip along the inside of Nic's thigh. The muscle twitches, sleek and rippling beneath equally sleek skin, and Nic's leg rises, knee pushing it's way into Bill's palm. Bill flexes his fingers slightly as though he's drumming them on a desk, one at a time in a quick fan, and Nic sighs. Nice.
Nic blinks slowly, as if the touch is enough to focus him slightly, though his eyes are still half-lidded. The smudged eyeliner around his eyes is sultry and trashy, makes him look positively wicked, though his face is smooth and relaxed, almost without expression, practically innocent. An odd contradiction. He swallows, and Bill watches his Adam's apple bob in his throat.
"You've been keeping him in water?" Bill asks, well aware of the danger of E, but Oliver has become almost peripheral in his mind.
"Of course," Oliver says, sharp and precise, and accompanies it with a gesture toward an end table, where there is a chilled bottle of water, condensation gleaming on the plastic in the still, muggy air. He sounds almost a little affronted, as though Bill had insulted him in some way. Perhaps he had. A look at his face shows an amusing kind of covetous petulance, and his eyes linger on Nic.
Bill nods, though he doubts Oliver even notices. "Are you thirsty, Nic?" he asks.
About to start with the Robbie Williams, he was.
Let me... entertain you.
"Keep me in water?" He cocks his head and squints at - Bill. "'m not a, um, plant." The um is an intake of breath caused by the gentle little fingers on his knee, tidy pale fingers with scattered freckles. Nic wonders if this bloke got high tonight. Maybe he's lost, and that's why he wandered in here and found Nic.
He smiles. "But I do need watering, ta." He pushes up a little from the couch, feeling heavy, the air like treacle, and his - Bill's - fingers skate to more of Nic's skin. Nic tilts his head up, rolls it back and around to examine this guy up close, again, and he's just as sharp and clever-looking as he was, a million years ago on the balcony, on his lap. Yes please.
Nic blinks, shifts again for the taptap feathery fingers on his thigh, can't help himself. Not a very good idea he thinks, and it's gone, replaced by a misbehaving smile that he has no control over.
"Um," he hums.
Oliver shifts, but Bill already has the bottle of water in his hand. He twists the top off sharply, folding it into his palm, and offers the bottle to Nic.
Half-sitting up now, Nic takes it. He has long, angular fingers, Bill sees, when they wrap around the bottle of water; he's wearing several silver rings, including one on his thumb. There is blue nail polish on his nails, but only on his left hand. His other nails are the usual color. Bill slides his hand -- a bit slick and damp from the condensation on the bottle -- between Nic's shoulder blades, more the offer of support than any actual support. Nic is half-sitting, and when he raises the neck of the bottle to his lips, Bill can feel his muscles sliding beneath his skin and the twist of his spine. Nic's back presses into Bill's hand, and Bill isn't surprised.
It's mostly the E. Nic may be coming down -- it's hard to tell for sure, as langorous as he is, as warmly relaxed -- but it's still in his blood, zinging along, magnifying every touch by a hundred, until the slightest brush against skin is a caress. Mostly, but Bill sort of gets the idea that Nic might be a bit touch-hungry even when he's not stoned.
"Have you paid him?" he asks, and Oliver twitches, as if abruptly and unpleasantly reminded of Bill's presence. Bill glances at him and sees that he is looking at Nic's naked chest, specifically at the hard points of Nic's dark nipples.
"No." It's short and clipped.
"Ought to do that," Bill says, and watches Nic's lips curl around the bottle with sincere appreciation. "He's impressive. Did a lovely job." He keeps his voice low and non-threatening even as he delivers the threat. "Dominguez likes him."
Oliver hesitates, and Bill wonders mildly whether he's genuinely concerned about this kid, or if he's just mourning his piece of arse.
Nic gasps when he finally pulls the bottle from his lips, panting a bit. The bottle is almost empty, and Nic seems to have forgot it. His fingers are loose around it, and it's leaning rather precariously. Bill takes it from him and caps it, sets it on the floor beside the couch.
He wipes water from Nic's upper lip with the side of his thumb, and Nic's lips curl lazily.
The water is cool, and it reorients Nic to the fact that Oliver is hesitant and wavering, not leaving, not staying. He wonders vaguely if he's supposed to do something about that, when Oliver says his name, softly, and Nic sees him tucking an envelope into the pile of his clothes on the side-table.
He nods and, "Cheers," tipping back into the sofa with his eyes closed, but at the click of the sliding door he peers up.
Oliver has his hand propped on the door. "I'm upstairs, Nic. You know--" Hesitation. "I'll call tomorrow."
There's a chemical lag, still, between perception and processing, and it lengthens now while Nic tries to work out what has just happened, and why this--Bill--is here, and how, and what's going on and whether maybe the building really is on fire.
He reaches and catches Bill's wrist, snugs his fingers around like the cuffs he's still wearing. Cool skin, unlike Nic.
"Not for sale, mate," he shakes his head, but that makes things spin.
Bill smirks; though Nic's voice is slurred, there is a definite edge to it, as though some part of him feels he ought to be offended even if he can't quite work out why.
"I'm not offering to buy," Bill says, and slides his hand down to the small of Nic's back. Without Bill's hand supporting him, Nic's body wilts backward, slides easily into a reclining position with Bill's hand trapped between his hot skin and the cool leather of the couch, which is fine with him. He flexes his fingers, and Nic's back arches slightly off the couch, just enough for Bill to stroke his fingertips along Nic's spine.
"I was thinking more along the lines of a mutual exchange of services."
"I," Nic huffs out a sharp breath, trying to simultaneously arch back and wriggle away from Bill's spider-walk on his back, frustratingly arousing but too-familiar. He prickles; he's not comfortable, no matter how enticing Bill's smile, but he doesn't have any resolve, any resistance, and his skin is buzzing with impatient arousal.
Bill's fingers graze just the spot where there's a pleasant ache, even through the drugs, right in the middle of Nic's spine, and he tightens his grip around Bill's wrist and pulls him closer, almost off balance. "Push," he whispers, half-embarassed, but the bone-shifting crack that results is so satisfying Nic sighs softly.
"Terms and conditions?" He lifts his foot, tucking it into the crook of Bill's knee, attempts to manuever him onto his knees in front of Nic.
He moves away from Nic's cajoling foot and hunkers rather than kneeling, but the result is the same. He's now eye-level with Nic's body stretched out before him like an improbable sacrifice. The idea of that makes him grin, and he feels his body tighten a little, anticipation, tingling awareness of his own strength and Nic's near-helplessness.
Made me think about you, he thinks, a sharp little thorn in his arousal, but one he doesn't mind that much. He doesn't look twice at the entertainment most times, boy or girls, and he wouldn't have bet on ending up after a party with one of them. If he'd ever thought of it, he'd have been sure it would have been a girl. He's met a few blokes that he's wanted -- Burelle's little tart, for one -- but they're few and far between, those urges. But here is this dancing boy, both bristling at his attention and swaying toward him at once, and Bill thinks he's nervous (as much as he can be, with the drugs), but this is no ones fault but his own. He doesn't like to be teased.
He rests the first two fingertips of his right hand on Nic's belly thoughtfully -- Nic's skin shies away from his touch, his belly going concave for an instant, and then Nic shifts, and the muscles in his belly tense and shift against Bill's fingers -- and muses (evasively, but mostly truthfully), "I get off, you get off. The usual."
"Hmm." He slides right back on the sofa, loving the sticky grab of the leather, and stretches, eye-rubbing and draping his arms behind his head. Working for it really wasn't on Nic's agenda.
"You're not making this creatively appealling to me," Nic smirks. Cocky bastard to think he's all that. "'m pretty tired. Imagination at a low point."
He rests the ball of his heel on Bill's shoulder, shifting his weight to push him away.
Bill wraps his fingers around Nic's ankle and rises to his feet at the same time. It takes a little effort -- it's arm strength versus leg strength, after all, and Nic has nice, thickly muscled legs -- but once he shifts enough to get the weight of his body behind it, it's relatively easy to press that leg back -- and Nic appears to be just as flexible horizontally as he had been vertically, while dancing -- until Nic's knee just touches his collarbone.
Bill thinks Nic could get out of it, if he really tried, but really trying to do anything seems to be beyond Nic right now, either beyond ability or beyond desire. He just looks up at Bill as he plants one knee between Nic's thighs on the couch and tugs his other hand from under Nic's back to lay it flat against the leather beside Nic's head for balance and leverage.
"If you didn't want to play, Nic," he says, admiring the new ripple of sweat he can see at Nic's temples and the feel of Nic's body heat baking off of him, thermostat spun out of control by the exertion and the E and his own undisciplined arousal, "you should've stuck with Oliver."
That isn't all he shouldn't have done. He shouldn't have attracted Bill's attention in the first place, but that's done, and he can't undo it now.
Nic's eyes narrow and glitter, and Bill can't help but smirk. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says, which is more or less true. "If you don't want to play, I won't do anything but leave." He touches his thumb to the pulse in Nic's neck -- a little faster than it had been, but still slower than it might have been without the chemicals and weariness. He slides his fingertips down to brush against Nic's nipple; it hardens visibly at his touch. "I'm not interested in getting you off for no reason other than to get my hands on your pretty little package; that's Oliver's gig."
He slides his hand up the underside of Nic's raised arm until he reaches his wrists, wraps his fingers around one of them, presses it firmly against the leather of the couch. "I like my entertainment somewhat more interactive."
He's pushing his hips up, grinding his pelvis--erection, achey balls, restricting satin--into Bill's knee before his brain is aware of it, and by the time Nic thinks about it properly, he's overtaken by the thumping need for it, the sheer wash of pleasure the friction sends pulsing through his belly.
Bill, pleased to meet you, has him pinned at a diagonal (moths on wax, he thinks faintly), and his heart is thudding fast with the urge to push him off and send him sprawling onto Oliver's expensive carpet. He resists the pressure of Bill's grasp around his ankle and wrist, but all that does is pivot Nic's body in delightful new strokes against Bill's knee, and anyway, his resistance seems currently unnecessary beyond token value.
Nic's aware that his exhalations are sharp and brittle, but even the Pope would have a good idea how far beyond arousal he is now, the hours of glittery, gorgeous people and their concentration on him. The ecstacy and the coke are only partly to blame. Attention is a big fucking turn-on for Nic, for a boy who grew up thinking he was nothing special to look at.
"Sure, babe," he smirks up, squirming a little under Bill's body (which looks tight and lean, and, from what he sees of Bill's smooth collarbone, pale enough to mark) , and he uses his free hand to wriggle between them and grab Bill's crotch. He's half-hard and improving in Nic's grip, and Nic is pleased when he elicits a hiss with his not-so-gentle squeeze. "Got your own pretty package, hmm? Gonna unwrap it for me?"
Nic's body and Nic's brain are wrangling it out behind Nic's sleet-colored eyes, Bill can see it. Luckily for him, Nic's brain isn't in top form, doused in chemicals as it is, and Nic's body is at least two steps ahead of it. His body has no reservations whatesover, whatever his brain might think of the whole thing.
Bill shifts his knee to give him a little more friction and lets Nic do as he likes down his trousers. It's against his religion to stop someone from giving him a handjob.
"Not just yet," he says, smiling, and dips down to taste the sheen of Nic's chest, salt of sweat and something chemically but not unpleasant, maybe whatever it is that is making his skin so shimmery, or maybe the chemical taste of the drugs excreted through Nic's pores. It hardly matters. It draws a sound out of Nic, a kind of sighing wail, that Bill quite likes, and Nic's back bows prettily, offering up his skin, though Bill hadn't chosen anyplace particularly erotic for his tongue, just the muscled expanse of skin between Nic's collarbone and nipple.
"Cheeky, aren't you, for a bloke who can't quite resist a perfect strangers hands and mouth," he murmurs, lips brushing Nic's skin. Nic's fingers are curled around his cock, not exactly stroking; Bill wonders if he's too lost in sensation to keep track of them all, to keep what he's doing in his poor, flustered head, and the idea amuses him enough to roll his hips a little, so that Nic's hand tightens briefly and then starts to move again even as his body stiffens a bit, delayed offense, perhaps, at Bill's quiet taunt.
"You--you came looking for--ah--me," Nic manages, just as Bill's mouth is on his skin again and he's flooded with impatience, the lead weight of arousal in his dick shifting to liquid, and if it wasn't for the E he'd probably come. He doesn't though, it's going to take something sharp and twisty to get him there against the glass wall of serotonin. He thinks muzzily that there'll be no problem, this boy and his pretty eyes and terribly insistent body, but Nic hates the idea that he's making himself open and available and easy.
He drags his head up, so heavy his neck aches, latches his mouth onto the edge of Bill's jaw, teeth-scraping with his own noise of frustration ("Fucker," it's supposed to be) when Bill leans just-enough away and chuckles, and that's enough to make him buck upwards, hard, kick his ankle and try to push Bill off and to the floor, but he's forgotten his hand is trapped in Bill's pants, and it all goes wrong.
Nic's furious bite isn't enough to hurt him, actually is good, especially in conjunction with the inarticulate growl that accompanies it; it isn't until Nic both bucks and shoves at the same time that there is a problem.
His hand, still shoved down the front of Bill's trousers, twists hard and jerks with the backward motion of Bill's body, and Bill bites out a sharp sound, scaling it back to a sneer and a hiss, and responds by hooking fingers into the collar around Nic's neck and jerking hard.
Nic's head jerks back hard, a sharp snap, and Bill manages to get his feet under him and yanks Nic's hand out of his trousers. "I had no idea," he says mildly, softly, threateningly, "that you wanted to play rough, Nicky."
Nic stares at him, apparently a trifle dazed, but his eyes are wide open now, instead of soft and half-lidded, and Bill likes that just as well, truth be told. He's holding Nic's upper body off the couch with the three fingers hooked into the collar, and Nic's hands go up (he probably thinks he's moving quickly enough, but in truth it's a kind of slow-motion drift) to wrap around Bill's forearm, pulling and tugging back with his body at the same time. Bill can see the edge of the collar digging a deep, red groove into the side of Nic's throat.
Bill pulls him until he's all the way up and lets go of the collar, propping one foot up on the couch behind Nic, so he can't drift back down. It takes about three seconds to hook the cuffs around his wrists together with the double-ended clasp dangling off one of them.
Nic looks down at his hands and blinks, and while he's distracted -- not that he's actually putting up a fight, really, but Bill gets the idea that he might once the understanding of helplessness penetrates the drug-fog -- Bill catches the leash dangling from the collar and wraps it three times around Nic's wrists, a neat figure eight. He hooks the end of the leash -- already equipped with a handy little loop -- into one end of the shiny silver clasp.
And, voila. Instant penitent. Bill smirks.
He has no fucking idea if he should say stop. No idea at all. Part of him is panicking, edging towards the conclusion that no-one harmless would be able to truss him up like this, but then. He's pretty fucking wasted. Judgement on holiday.
By the time Nic's thought about whether he should think about the mess he's in, the treacherous sensation of being bound has started to make his skin prickle hot, his breathing become sharp and gasping, and his cock certainly hasn't put in any objections so far. He tips his head back a little, and the collar pulls on the leash pulls on the cuffs pulls on his wrists and it's intoxicating, captivating, curiously liberating.
"Quick," he says, blinking at Bill, jarred for a second into averting his eyes from Bill's satisfied cat-stare, unsure if he can manage to measure up, and maybe it is just better to go with it, play this game like a good boy. But he can't quash the rebellious jolt in his belly, and he has his toes planted in Bill's crotch, ready to shove, or stroke, he's not sure, while he flexes out his own fingers around his dick and closes his eyes into the urgent pulse he finds. "Nice," he murmurs, tips his head to one side (everything tugs, again, fucking fantastic) "don't even really need you to play, pixie, close now."
Bill believes that completely, with the uneven whisper of Nic's breath hissing past his lips, hitching his chest. He's gone all shivery and tense, needful and soft, all at once, but Bill isn't really all that surprised at his just-this-side of submission words, the curl of his bare foot against Bill's tender bits, exerting pressure that is good for the moment, but could turn nasty in an instant.
The outline of Nic's cock in the shiny satin is just obscene, right down to the slightly darker patch where Bill can clearly see the flared ridge pressing against the fabric. The shorts sit just on the angles of Nic's slim hips, half of each hipbone revealed, and Nic shudders beguilingly when Bill uses the tips of two fingers to trace one, half on fabric, half on skin.
"You could," he says, and traces his fingertips upward, more to keep Nic's attention focused than anything else, though he doesn't bother to deny that he quite likes the feel of Nic's skin, smooth and sweat-slick and moving restlessly over tight muscle. He lets his fingertips just rest on Nic's right nipple, barely there, and Nic sighs and tips his head back (and his wrists tug upward slightly, which makes him sigh again), and he's really just fucking captivating, so caught up in sensation that he's oblivious to most everything else, lips open and slick with spit, eyes fluttering behind closed lids, flushed with heat and arousal, Bill could just touch him all fucking night, just watch him shift and arch and need so desperately.
He has other plans, though, and he shifts away from Nic's foot smoothly -- Nic doesn't notice, Bill has brought his thumb into play, and is rolling the tight nub of his nipple very gently between thumb and forefinger, and Nic's hips have started to rock against his own curling fingers, and that dark patch is a bit bigger -- and settles himself beside Nic on the couch.
With his hands as they are, it's beyond easy to hook fingers into the tangle of leather and pull, and Nic's eyes flutter open with surprise when he feels himself tipping forward, but there isn't much he can do as Bill pulls him forward and down, tugs him out, until he's face down on the couch, and Bill can feel the press of satin-trapped heat and hardness against his thigh, and his own cock, still snugly safe within his trousers, is comfortably wedged against Nic's hip.
"Wha...?" Nic breathes, and wriggles a bit, caught with his elbows supporting his weight. Bill braces a hand at the small of his back.
"Just settle down," he says, but it hardly matters if he does. "Cheeky little bastard, I'll give you that. But you didn't really expect me to stand there and watch you get off, did you?" It's almost gentle, more than a touch mocking, and he's rewarded with a little bit of tension in those long, loose limbs. The shorts he's wearing are truly a thing of beauty, tugged taut and sweet over Nic's lovely little arse; Bill will have to remember to mention it to Oliver. "Bit of a tease, aren't you, Nic? Like to make the punters stare, like the way it feels to be in control that way."
He strokes his right hand across the slick material of the shorts, the tip of his thumb on Nic's bare lower back. "I hope you had your fun earlier, teasing me. I hope it gave you immense satisfaction, boyo."
And he cocks his elbow and brings his open palm down hard on Nic's arse, and the sound of it, loud and sharp, especially with the sudden absolute silence from Nic, makes him smile.
*
continues here
Bill hangs back deliberately ("Are you coming?" Dominguez had asked, arm sliding easily around Bill's shoulders, and Bill had given him a grim smile, and promised to catch up; Dominguez had merely smirked knowingly, and murmured, "Don't hurt him, I like this one.") until the rest of the party guests have gone their merry ways. He watches from the shadows of the balcony while Oliver does a brief tour of the suite, making sure everyone has gone off home, but he barely glances over the balcony. Bill is comfortably nestled between the wall and a statue of a naked woman, and Oliver doesn't see him, standing there with a tumbler of scotch and an unlit cigarette.
He also doesn't lock the door that leads inside before he turns to walk the rest of the rooms, which is good, though it wouldn't have been that big of a problem, if he had.
Bill lights his cig and turns his attention in another direction.
One window down is a small, parlour-type sitting room. It has sheers, but they're pulled wide open, and Bill can see the figure sprawled upon one of the couches fairly clearly, though he can't reach that window from here. The dancing boy might be sleeping, might be just resting before he gets up and changes back into his street clothes before going home, but Bill doesn't think so.
Bill thinks he's waiting to get paid, and maybe waiting to get fucked, and it's the second one that he's more curious about than the first.
The whole evening, for him, must have been like lengthy, excrutiating foreplay, and while Bill has never seen this particular boy before, he's seen others, and knows that most of them like to cap the events of the night off with something a bit more substantial than just dancing. Or possibly by the end of the night, they're just too stoned and exhausted to put up much of a fight. It's even possible that they believe it just goes hand in hand, get paid for dancing and a shag for the host.
Usually, Bill isn't interested enough to stick around and see, but he's decided to make an exception. He's made a career out of being stoic, and he's good at it, but this little bugger had been persistent enough, tempting enough, to actually make him play along, if only for a few seconds. He is both aggravated and impressed, and he doesn't particularly like having either of those things forced on him. It makes him itch. It makes him want to return the favor.
He's only finished half of his cig when Oliver comes into sight in the parlour window and stands over the couch, just looking. If they are talking, Bill can't hear it. The window is closed. He sees Oliver hunker down, though, ruining the sharp line of his perfectly pressed suit, bunching it at the knees and making the jacket gape wide in a way that he would have never done in the company of his guests, fine, cultured host that he is. He sees Oliver's hands start to play over dancing boy's skin, short, swift strokes, and he sees the bunch and twist of the boy's response, though he can't make out the details, just the arch of his body and one languidly moving hand, reaching and petting at Oliver, as though actually grabbing is beyond its owner's ability.
And that pretty much answers that question. He'd come to dance, and though maybe the fucking hadn't entered his mind at the time (Bill doubts that quite sincerely), he certainly seems amenable to it now.
He takes another drag off the cig and then flicks it carelessly over the railing. He opens the door and steps inside, draining his scotch and setting the glass on the table (where, earlier, Bill had watched Dominguez -- among others -- snort coke off of the dancing boy's firmly muscled belly) as he passes it. The parlour is the first door on Bill's left as he leaves the main room, and the doorknob turns easily and noiselessly under Bill's hand.
He reaches the center of the room before Oliver looks up sharply, his fingertips hovering over softly shimmering satin pulled taut over the dancing boy's erection. "Mr.--" he says, and stops immediately at Bill's sharp look. After a moment he continues without the name. "I had no idea you were still here." He rises to his feet and tugs his jacket back into sleek, tidy lines.
Bill nods and smiles slightly. "What's his name?" he asks, and tips his head toward the couch. Dancing boy is awake enough to be aware of Bill, his eyes half-lidded but fixed on him there, and there's something faintly shimmery on his skin, something that's not sweat, something deliberately applied. He doesn't seem at all worried by Bill's presence in the room. No wonder, really. His pupils are huge.
"It's, ah, Nic," Oliver says, uncomfortable and uncertain. "I can see you out, if you like."
"You go on," Bill says politely, and takes a couple of steps toward the couch. "I've an idea I'd like to stay here a bit, and talk to Nic."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr.--"
"Bill will do," Bill says, interrupting him with another sharp look and a brief headshake. What is the man, bloody stupid?
"Yes, of course," he says. "My apologies, Bill, but Nic's part in the evenings entertainment is at an end. I was about to send him home when you came in." Oliver's voice is stiff and tight. He's a terrible liar, and would be even if Bill hadn't seen exactly what he'd been up to when Bill had come in.
"Were you now?" he asks, and smiles. "He still looks passably entertaining to me. Looked that way from out there, anyhow." He inclines his head toward the window, where the balcony is just visible. He looks at Oliver. "You looked entertained."
Halfway through the evening, the girl with the freckles had snuck up behind him in the loo and got him off. She’d had small, capable hands, and smiled at him in the mirror the whole (quick) time; kissed his cheek and whispered Looked like you needed that, sweetheart.
He had.
Oliver never asks to fuck Nic, and Nic never offers. The second party, Nic hadn’t taken the proffered second round, and he’d spent half an hour after the guests had left with Oliver spread out beneath him, lazily screwing his host. Mostly though Nic goes for more of the drugs and less co-ordination when the party dissolves. Stretchy, come-down blow-jobs and cock-sucking seems like slippery bliss on the downslide of the E.
Tonight he reaches for Oliver’s wrist, curling his fingers in between Oliver’s, caressing the skin there and not-quite-murmuring how he thinks those fingers are long and perfect and the middle one would slide just so, and then they are interrupted, it seems, just when Nic realises he is hitching his pelvis up into Oliver’s grasp. Oliver slides away.
Nic listens to Oliver talking, absorbing the sound but not the words, deciphers the interloper as stranger-danger before he opens his eyes halfway. It's no-one that he knows, of course, but it is the stubborn little pixie, the blond with the hard thighs and reluctant mouth. It might be that Oliver has only just taken his hand away from Nic's dick, but it might be that the green-eyed bloke is asking his name.
He's not so wasted that he couldn't get it together and out of a burning building, but there's no emergency, and Nic likes the flooding warmth in his belly. He likes being sprawled out on the soft sofa, he likes the way his skin glimmers in the light, and he likes the interesting thrub of his pulse, wrists and neck, next to the leather.
He's thirsty. He swallows.
"Perhaps," Oliver says, his voice gone high and nervy. "But he isn't paid to... provide services to the guests." He looks at Nic and frowns slightly, a well-bred expression of unhappy puzzlement that Bill doubts is really meant for Nic at all. "He is not a rentboy."
"I never thought he was," Bill agrees easily, honestly, and turns to look at Nic as well.
He's starting to shift a little against the leather of the couch, tensing his muscles and pressing against it, turning his head so that his cheek slides against the back.
"E, is it?" Bill muses, and reaches down to trace a fingertip along the inside of Nic's thigh. The muscle twitches, sleek and rippling beneath equally sleek skin, and Nic's leg rises, knee pushing it's way into Bill's palm. Bill flexes his fingers slightly as though he's drumming them on a desk, one at a time in a quick fan, and Nic sighs. Nice.
Nic blinks slowly, as if the touch is enough to focus him slightly, though his eyes are still half-lidded. The smudged eyeliner around his eyes is sultry and trashy, makes him look positively wicked, though his face is smooth and relaxed, almost without expression, practically innocent. An odd contradiction. He swallows, and Bill watches his Adam's apple bob in his throat.
"You've been keeping him in water?" Bill asks, well aware of the danger of E, but Oliver has become almost peripheral in his mind.
"Of course," Oliver says, sharp and precise, and accompanies it with a gesture toward an end table, where there is a chilled bottle of water, condensation gleaming on the plastic in the still, muggy air. He sounds almost a little affronted, as though Bill had insulted him in some way. Perhaps he had. A look at his face shows an amusing kind of covetous petulance, and his eyes linger on Nic.
Bill nods, though he doubts Oliver even notices. "Are you thirsty, Nic?" he asks.
About to start with the Robbie Williams, he was.
Let me... entertain you.
"Keep me in water?" He cocks his head and squints at - Bill. "'m not a, um, plant." The um is an intake of breath caused by the gentle little fingers on his knee, tidy pale fingers with scattered freckles. Nic wonders if this bloke got high tonight. Maybe he's lost, and that's why he wandered in here and found Nic.
He smiles. "But I do need watering, ta." He pushes up a little from the couch, feeling heavy, the air like treacle, and his - Bill's - fingers skate to more of Nic's skin. Nic tilts his head up, rolls it back and around to examine this guy up close, again, and he's just as sharp and clever-looking as he was, a million years ago on the balcony, on his lap. Yes please.
Nic blinks, shifts again for the taptap feathery fingers on his thigh, can't help himself. Not a very good idea he thinks, and it's gone, replaced by a misbehaving smile that he has no control over.
"Um," he hums.
Oliver shifts, but Bill already has the bottle of water in his hand. He twists the top off sharply, folding it into his palm, and offers the bottle to Nic.
Half-sitting up now, Nic takes it. He has long, angular fingers, Bill sees, when they wrap around the bottle of water; he's wearing several silver rings, including one on his thumb. There is blue nail polish on his nails, but only on his left hand. His other nails are the usual color. Bill slides his hand -- a bit slick and damp from the condensation on the bottle -- between Nic's shoulder blades, more the offer of support than any actual support. Nic is half-sitting, and when he raises the neck of the bottle to his lips, Bill can feel his muscles sliding beneath his skin and the twist of his spine. Nic's back presses into Bill's hand, and Bill isn't surprised.
It's mostly the E. Nic may be coming down -- it's hard to tell for sure, as langorous as he is, as warmly relaxed -- but it's still in his blood, zinging along, magnifying every touch by a hundred, until the slightest brush against skin is a caress. Mostly, but Bill sort of gets the idea that Nic might be a bit touch-hungry even when he's not stoned.
"Have you paid him?" he asks, and Oliver twitches, as if abruptly and unpleasantly reminded of Bill's presence. Bill glances at him and sees that he is looking at Nic's naked chest, specifically at the hard points of Nic's dark nipples.
"No." It's short and clipped.
"Ought to do that," Bill says, and watches Nic's lips curl around the bottle with sincere appreciation. "He's impressive. Did a lovely job." He keeps his voice low and non-threatening even as he delivers the threat. "Dominguez likes him."
Oliver hesitates, and Bill wonders mildly whether he's genuinely concerned about this kid, or if he's just mourning his piece of arse.
Nic gasps when he finally pulls the bottle from his lips, panting a bit. The bottle is almost empty, and Nic seems to have forgot it. His fingers are loose around it, and it's leaning rather precariously. Bill takes it from him and caps it, sets it on the floor beside the couch.
He wipes water from Nic's upper lip with the side of his thumb, and Nic's lips curl lazily.
The water is cool, and it reorients Nic to the fact that Oliver is hesitant and wavering, not leaving, not staying. He wonders vaguely if he's supposed to do something about that, when Oliver says his name, softly, and Nic sees him tucking an envelope into the pile of his clothes on the side-table.
He nods and, "Cheers," tipping back into the sofa with his eyes closed, but at the click of the sliding door he peers up.
Oliver has his hand propped on the door. "I'm upstairs, Nic. You know--" Hesitation. "I'll call tomorrow."
There's a chemical lag, still, between perception and processing, and it lengthens now while Nic tries to work out what has just happened, and why this--Bill--is here, and how, and what's going on and whether maybe the building really is on fire.
He reaches and catches Bill's wrist, snugs his fingers around like the cuffs he's still wearing. Cool skin, unlike Nic.
"Not for sale, mate," he shakes his head, but that makes things spin.
Bill smirks; though Nic's voice is slurred, there is a definite edge to it, as though some part of him feels he ought to be offended even if he can't quite work out why.
"I'm not offering to buy," Bill says, and slides his hand down to the small of Nic's back. Without Bill's hand supporting him, Nic's body wilts backward, slides easily into a reclining position with Bill's hand trapped between his hot skin and the cool leather of the couch, which is fine with him. He flexes his fingers, and Nic's back arches slightly off the couch, just enough for Bill to stroke his fingertips along Nic's spine.
"I was thinking more along the lines of a mutual exchange of services."
"I," Nic huffs out a sharp breath, trying to simultaneously arch back and wriggle away from Bill's spider-walk on his back, frustratingly arousing but too-familiar. He prickles; he's not comfortable, no matter how enticing Bill's smile, but he doesn't have any resolve, any resistance, and his skin is buzzing with impatient arousal.
Bill's fingers graze just the spot where there's a pleasant ache, even through the drugs, right in the middle of Nic's spine, and he tightens his grip around Bill's wrist and pulls him closer, almost off balance. "Push," he whispers, half-embarassed, but the bone-shifting crack that results is so satisfying Nic sighs softly.
"Terms and conditions?" He lifts his foot, tucking it into the crook of Bill's knee, attempts to manuever him onto his knees in front of Nic.
He moves away from Nic's cajoling foot and hunkers rather than kneeling, but the result is the same. He's now eye-level with Nic's body stretched out before him like an improbable sacrifice. The idea of that makes him grin, and he feels his body tighten a little, anticipation, tingling awareness of his own strength and Nic's near-helplessness.
Made me think about you, he thinks, a sharp little thorn in his arousal, but one he doesn't mind that much. He doesn't look twice at the entertainment most times, boy or girls, and he wouldn't have bet on ending up after a party with one of them. If he'd ever thought of it, he'd have been sure it would have been a girl. He's met a few blokes that he's wanted -- Burelle's little tart, for one -- but they're few and far between, those urges. But here is this dancing boy, both bristling at his attention and swaying toward him at once, and Bill thinks he's nervous (as much as he can be, with the drugs), but this is no ones fault but his own. He doesn't like to be teased.
He rests the first two fingertips of his right hand on Nic's belly thoughtfully -- Nic's skin shies away from his touch, his belly going concave for an instant, and then Nic shifts, and the muscles in his belly tense and shift against Bill's fingers -- and muses (evasively, but mostly truthfully), "I get off, you get off. The usual."
"Hmm." He slides right back on the sofa, loving the sticky grab of the leather, and stretches, eye-rubbing and draping his arms behind his head. Working for it really wasn't on Nic's agenda.
"You're not making this creatively appealling to me," Nic smirks. Cocky bastard to think he's all that. "'m pretty tired. Imagination at a low point."
He rests the ball of his heel on Bill's shoulder, shifting his weight to push him away.
Bill wraps his fingers around Nic's ankle and rises to his feet at the same time. It takes a little effort -- it's arm strength versus leg strength, after all, and Nic has nice, thickly muscled legs -- but once he shifts enough to get the weight of his body behind it, it's relatively easy to press that leg back -- and Nic appears to be just as flexible horizontally as he had been vertically, while dancing -- until Nic's knee just touches his collarbone.
Bill thinks Nic could get out of it, if he really tried, but really trying to do anything seems to be beyond Nic right now, either beyond ability or beyond desire. He just looks up at Bill as he plants one knee between Nic's thighs on the couch and tugs his other hand from under Nic's back to lay it flat against the leather beside Nic's head for balance and leverage.
"If you didn't want to play, Nic," he says, admiring the new ripple of sweat he can see at Nic's temples and the feel of Nic's body heat baking off of him, thermostat spun out of control by the exertion and the E and his own undisciplined arousal, "you should've stuck with Oliver."
That isn't all he shouldn't have done. He shouldn't have attracted Bill's attention in the first place, but that's done, and he can't undo it now.
Nic's eyes narrow and glitter, and Bill can't help but smirk. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says, which is more or less true. "If you don't want to play, I won't do anything but leave." He touches his thumb to the pulse in Nic's neck -- a little faster than it had been, but still slower than it might have been without the chemicals and weariness. He slides his fingertips down to brush against Nic's nipple; it hardens visibly at his touch. "I'm not interested in getting you off for no reason other than to get my hands on your pretty little package; that's Oliver's gig."
He slides his hand up the underside of Nic's raised arm until he reaches his wrists, wraps his fingers around one of them, presses it firmly against the leather of the couch. "I like my entertainment somewhat more interactive."
He's pushing his hips up, grinding his pelvis--erection, achey balls, restricting satin--into Bill's knee before his brain is aware of it, and by the time Nic thinks about it properly, he's overtaken by the thumping need for it, the sheer wash of pleasure the friction sends pulsing through his belly.
Bill, pleased to meet you, has him pinned at a diagonal (moths on wax, he thinks faintly), and his heart is thudding fast with the urge to push him off and send him sprawling onto Oliver's expensive carpet. He resists the pressure of Bill's grasp around his ankle and wrist, but all that does is pivot Nic's body in delightful new strokes against Bill's knee, and anyway, his resistance seems currently unnecessary beyond token value.
Nic's aware that his exhalations are sharp and brittle, but even the Pope would have a good idea how far beyond arousal he is now, the hours of glittery, gorgeous people and their concentration on him. The ecstacy and the coke are only partly to blame. Attention is a big fucking turn-on for Nic, for a boy who grew up thinking he was nothing special to look at.
"Sure, babe," he smirks up, squirming a little under Bill's body (which looks tight and lean, and, from what he sees of Bill's smooth collarbone, pale enough to mark) , and he uses his free hand to wriggle between them and grab Bill's crotch. He's half-hard and improving in Nic's grip, and Nic is pleased when he elicits a hiss with his not-so-gentle squeeze. "Got your own pretty package, hmm? Gonna unwrap it for me?"
Nic's body and Nic's brain are wrangling it out behind Nic's sleet-colored eyes, Bill can see it. Luckily for him, Nic's brain isn't in top form, doused in chemicals as it is, and Nic's body is at least two steps ahead of it. His body has no reservations whatesover, whatever his brain might think of the whole thing.
Bill shifts his knee to give him a little more friction and lets Nic do as he likes down his trousers. It's against his religion to stop someone from giving him a handjob.
"Not just yet," he says, smiling, and dips down to taste the sheen of Nic's chest, salt of sweat and something chemically but not unpleasant, maybe whatever it is that is making his skin so shimmery, or maybe the chemical taste of the drugs excreted through Nic's pores. It hardly matters. It draws a sound out of Nic, a kind of sighing wail, that Bill quite likes, and Nic's back bows prettily, offering up his skin, though Bill hadn't chosen anyplace particularly erotic for his tongue, just the muscled expanse of skin between Nic's collarbone and nipple.
"Cheeky, aren't you, for a bloke who can't quite resist a perfect strangers hands and mouth," he murmurs, lips brushing Nic's skin. Nic's fingers are curled around his cock, not exactly stroking; Bill wonders if he's too lost in sensation to keep track of them all, to keep what he's doing in his poor, flustered head, and the idea amuses him enough to roll his hips a little, so that Nic's hand tightens briefly and then starts to move again even as his body stiffens a bit, delayed offense, perhaps, at Bill's quiet taunt.
"You--you came looking for--ah--me," Nic manages, just as Bill's mouth is on his skin again and he's flooded with impatience, the lead weight of arousal in his dick shifting to liquid, and if it wasn't for the E he'd probably come. He doesn't though, it's going to take something sharp and twisty to get him there against the glass wall of serotonin. He thinks muzzily that there'll be no problem, this boy and his pretty eyes and terribly insistent body, but Nic hates the idea that he's making himself open and available and easy.
He drags his head up, so heavy his neck aches, latches his mouth onto the edge of Bill's jaw, teeth-scraping with his own noise of frustration ("Fucker," it's supposed to be) when Bill leans just-enough away and chuckles, and that's enough to make him buck upwards, hard, kick his ankle and try to push Bill off and to the floor, but he's forgotten his hand is trapped in Bill's pants, and it all goes wrong.
Nic's furious bite isn't enough to hurt him, actually is good, especially in conjunction with the inarticulate growl that accompanies it; it isn't until Nic both bucks and shoves at the same time that there is a problem.
His hand, still shoved down the front of Bill's trousers, twists hard and jerks with the backward motion of Bill's body, and Bill bites out a sharp sound, scaling it back to a sneer and a hiss, and responds by hooking fingers into the collar around Nic's neck and jerking hard.
Nic's head jerks back hard, a sharp snap, and Bill manages to get his feet under him and yanks Nic's hand out of his trousers. "I had no idea," he says mildly, softly, threateningly, "that you wanted to play rough, Nicky."
Nic stares at him, apparently a trifle dazed, but his eyes are wide open now, instead of soft and half-lidded, and Bill likes that just as well, truth be told. He's holding Nic's upper body off the couch with the three fingers hooked into the collar, and Nic's hands go up (he probably thinks he's moving quickly enough, but in truth it's a kind of slow-motion drift) to wrap around Bill's forearm, pulling and tugging back with his body at the same time. Bill can see the edge of the collar digging a deep, red groove into the side of Nic's throat.
Bill pulls him until he's all the way up and lets go of the collar, propping one foot up on the couch behind Nic, so he can't drift back down. It takes about three seconds to hook the cuffs around his wrists together with the double-ended clasp dangling off one of them.
Nic looks down at his hands and blinks, and while he's distracted -- not that he's actually putting up a fight, really, but Bill gets the idea that he might once the understanding of helplessness penetrates the drug-fog -- Bill catches the leash dangling from the collar and wraps it three times around Nic's wrists, a neat figure eight. He hooks the end of the leash -- already equipped with a handy little loop -- into one end of the shiny silver clasp.
And, voila. Instant penitent. Bill smirks.
He has no fucking idea if he should say stop. No idea at all. Part of him is panicking, edging towards the conclusion that no-one harmless would be able to truss him up like this, but then. He's pretty fucking wasted. Judgement on holiday.
By the time Nic's thought about whether he should think about the mess he's in, the treacherous sensation of being bound has started to make his skin prickle hot, his breathing become sharp and gasping, and his cock certainly hasn't put in any objections so far. He tips his head back a little, and the collar pulls on the leash pulls on the cuffs pulls on his wrists and it's intoxicating, captivating, curiously liberating.
"Quick," he says, blinking at Bill, jarred for a second into averting his eyes from Bill's satisfied cat-stare, unsure if he can manage to measure up, and maybe it is just better to go with it, play this game like a good boy. But he can't quash the rebellious jolt in his belly, and he has his toes planted in Bill's crotch, ready to shove, or stroke, he's not sure, while he flexes out his own fingers around his dick and closes his eyes into the urgent pulse he finds. "Nice," he murmurs, tips his head to one side (everything tugs, again, fucking fantastic) "don't even really need you to play, pixie, close now."
Bill believes that completely, with the uneven whisper of Nic's breath hissing past his lips, hitching his chest. He's gone all shivery and tense, needful and soft, all at once, but Bill isn't really all that surprised at his just-this-side of submission words, the curl of his bare foot against Bill's tender bits, exerting pressure that is good for the moment, but could turn nasty in an instant.
The outline of Nic's cock in the shiny satin is just obscene, right down to the slightly darker patch where Bill can clearly see the flared ridge pressing against the fabric. The shorts sit just on the angles of Nic's slim hips, half of each hipbone revealed, and Nic shudders beguilingly when Bill uses the tips of two fingers to trace one, half on fabric, half on skin.
"You could," he says, and traces his fingertips upward, more to keep Nic's attention focused than anything else, though he doesn't bother to deny that he quite likes the feel of Nic's skin, smooth and sweat-slick and moving restlessly over tight muscle. He lets his fingertips just rest on Nic's right nipple, barely there, and Nic sighs and tips his head back (and his wrists tug upward slightly, which makes him sigh again), and he's really just fucking captivating, so caught up in sensation that he's oblivious to most everything else, lips open and slick with spit, eyes fluttering behind closed lids, flushed with heat and arousal, Bill could just touch him all fucking night, just watch him shift and arch and need so desperately.
He has other plans, though, and he shifts away from Nic's foot smoothly -- Nic doesn't notice, Bill has brought his thumb into play, and is rolling the tight nub of his nipple very gently between thumb and forefinger, and Nic's hips have started to rock against his own curling fingers, and that dark patch is a bit bigger -- and settles himself beside Nic on the couch.
With his hands as they are, it's beyond easy to hook fingers into the tangle of leather and pull, and Nic's eyes flutter open with surprise when he feels himself tipping forward, but there isn't much he can do as Bill pulls him forward and down, tugs him out, until he's face down on the couch, and Bill can feel the press of satin-trapped heat and hardness against his thigh, and his own cock, still snugly safe within his trousers, is comfortably wedged against Nic's hip.
"Wha...?" Nic breathes, and wriggles a bit, caught with his elbows supporting his weight. Bill braces a hand at the small of his back.
"Just settle down," he says, but it hardly matters if he does. "Cheeky little bastard, I'll give you that. But you didn't really expect me to stand there and watch you get off, did you?" It's almost gentle, more than a touch mocking, and he's rewarded with a little bit of tension in those long, loose limbs. The shorts he's wearing are truly a thing of beauty, tugged taut and sweet over Nic's lovely little arse; Bill will have to remember to mention it to Oliver. "Bit of a tease, aren't you, Nic? Like to make the punters stare, like the way it feels to be in control that way."
He strokes his right hand across the slick material of the shorts, the tip of his thumb on Nic's bare lower back. "I hope you had your fun earlier, teasing me. I hope it gave you immense satisfaction, boyo."
And he cocks his elbow and brings his open palm down hard on Nic's arse, and the sound of it, loud and sharp, especially with the sudden absolute silence from Nic, makes him smile.
*
continues here