Tuesday by Time Testudinem, brown cortina
I wanted to write something for Porntober. I am still not sure I have, as my smut is not, well, all that smutty. My respect for those of you who write the good stuff has gone through the ceiling as I struggled with this.
Title: Tuesday
Author: Time Testudinem
Rating: Brown Cortina
Word Count: 3225
Pairing: Chris/other
Note: Thanks to seileach67, for wrestling my tenses into submission. Any remaining errors are entirely my own doing.
Summary: Chris has one of those days.
Disclaimer: They don’t belong to me, I make no money.
Tuesday 8:17pm
The cell wall is cold and rough against his back in contrast to the searing heat wrapped around his cock. Chris does his best to stifle a groan as the kid sucks with well-practiced intensity and he feels himself drawn farther down into the grasping throat. Even as it happens, with dirty hair beneath his hands, and chilled concrete on his arse, he finds it nearly impossible to believe how he came to be here. It’s like this day has been relentlessly driving him to this point from its very beginning.
It had all started with the Boss. Nothing surprising there; it seems like everything topsy-turvy, aggravating, and just plain weird, in his life starts in some way or other with one Detective Inspector Tyler. He thinks that this may apply to the rest of the team as well, but he sure as hell isn’t going to ask them.
Oh, he’s known for years that he’s not the same as other blokes, at least not when it comes to the ladies. He likes to look at them alright, especially if they’re pretty and smartly dressed. That bird Cartwright is a joy to look at, even more so since Tyler moved her into CID and got her out of the uniform. But even the idea of her, or any other women, taking off those clothes is enough to make him blush, full red, all the way to his toes, and not because he’s interested either. He’s never seen the attraction. Why spend so much effort trying to get them do that, when they look so much better with the clothes on? He doesn’t understand it, or why his reaction is so different from everyone else’s, but he does know how dangerous it can be. So when his uncomfortable stammering and uncontrolled blush are mistaken by the rest of the guys as innocence, he takes the ribbing they dish out, and counts himself lucky.
Such is his life, the team div, and he supposes he deserves it; after all so little of it has been acting. He really can do the stupidest things sometimes, when his mouth or his feet get ahead of his brain, and his reputation for div-ness covers all sorts of gaffes when the conversation turns corners he would very much not like to look around.
Or anyhow, such was his life, his nice, quiet, mostly happy life, until one morning their lives were invaded by a madman carrying on about desks, and computers, and stirring things up until the Guv had to come out and put him in his place. A madman in tight trousers and black leather that had his brain going straight to all those places it was never, ever, supposed to go. And keeps sending it there, every day, making Chris stammer, and in general do even more stupid stuff than usual. No need to play the div for DI Tyler; that comes quite natural. It’s the other things that come natural around the Boss that are the trouble.
Tuesday 9:12 am
This morning their DI decides to clean out his desk. Nothing unusual about that; it’s something he does at least once a week, putting stuff away in files or drawers, arranging what is left on top in neat little piles and rows. It’s a bit strange, but by far not the strangest thing the Boss does, and they’ve all more or less gotten used to it. But this morning, Tyler has decided to clean by taking everything out of his drawers. A task that leaves him bent over with his ass in those oh-so-tight trousers dancing directly in Chris’s line of sight. His mouth begins to drool, and his hands sweat as he flushes, not with embarrassment this time, but with a slow burning heat that settles low, and feels good.
His slack jawed staring is only interrupted when Ray crosses his line of sight on the way to ask one of the other guys some-such about football. Chris takes the opportunity to focus his eyes squarely on the file in front of him, and attempt to catch his breath. He works with somewhat unsteady determination at his paperwork until an odd clanging noise has him looking up at the Boss’ desk before he can think better of it. The sight that greets his eyes has him biting his thumb to stifle a small moan. DI Tyler is no longer bent over with his ass in the air. Having finished removing things from his desk drawers, he’s squatted down and begun to remove each drawer in turn and wipe it out with some sort of cleaning product. His new task has him half-turned in Chris’ direction, sitting on his heels, with his legs spread slightly for balance. Chris gives silent thanks that his own trousers are not quite so painted on as the ones the Boss is wearing, even though his are feeling tighter by the moment. He can’t believe he had thought those trousers left nothing to the imagination from the rear, because the view he has now should just be illegal; in fact, he’s pretty sure it is illegal. He knows some porn peddlers down by the canal that charge good money for pictures like that.
Chris wrenches his eyes shut to block out the sight, only to discover that sometime during his shocked appraisal of his DI’s crotch, the index finger of his right hand has begun tracing slow lines up and down his own. His breath hitches. Oh god that feels amazing, just a hint of pressure, just there. Chris spreads his legs slightly more to draw his trousers tighter against him and allows himself one more slow even up and down before firmly removing his hands from his lap. Once he catches his breath, he reaches into his own drawer and pulls out one of Ray’s old issues of Just Jugs. He places it under the file on his desk, just peeking out at the corner, and hopes it will do as cover if anyone notices anything. Then he focuses on paperwork and nothing but paperwork for the next two hours. When he finally looks up, the Boss’ clean and shiny desk is empty.
Tuesday 11:53am
He hears them arguing in the hall long before he sees them. As they crash through the doors to CID, the Boss is going on about surveillance, evidence collection, and establishing a pattern or some such. The Guv is obviously seeing red, and cuts off his DI’s rant with a shove, saying that he knows who is responsible and he is not going to wait around for days before doing something about it, adding that patterns are for knitting, not police work. But Tyler is acting true to form today, and when anyone else would have the basic sense to drop it, at least until the Guv cooled off a bit, he just steps right up in his face and starts all over again. No one in the place is surprised, most likely not even Tyler, when he is grabbed by the scruff of his neck and fairly tossed into the DCI’s office.
Chris believes that what happens next is only unusual in that this time the Guv forgets to close the door. That thought does not in any way make it better. Backed up against the file with an enraged Gene Hunt bearing down on him, the Boss takes a swing, which connects, but the Guv shrugs it off. The retaliation is a swift gut punch that doubles Tyler over followed by a hard cuff at the ear that drops his DI to his knees.
Sam Tyler on his knees, head rolled back and to the side by the force of the blow, eyes half closed and dazed as the Guv looms over him. Chris is hard so quickly it hurts like hell. He is only treated to the sight for a few seconds before Gene realizes that everyone is watching and slams the door, but the damage is already done and the image seems burned into the back of his eyelids. He takes several deep breaths desperately trying to get himself under control, absolutely refusing to come in his pants, at work, over the sight of his boss getting the shit kicked out of him.
His face is more under control, if not his todger, when Ray walks over and tosses him his coat. Completely unable to gather enough coordination to catch it, the garment hits him in the face before falling in his lap. Chris hears the snorts of his fellows and is sure Ray’s comment is appropriately caustic, but it just doesn’t register. On the second go he is able to make out that the Guv is sending them out to find if there is a place from which they can manage that surveillance. Chris is somewhat impressed with his own ability to put on the coat without anyone seeing the very awkward bulge in his trousers. As he follows Ray out the door, he hopes they don’t have far to walk.
Tuesday 3:48pm
Returning that afternoon, after finding two possible locations for setting up to keep an eye on the suspect, Ray and Chris report their findings to Phyllis to see what can be done about arranging things, and then head up to CID to fill in their DCI. Once there, they find that both the Guv and Tyler are out. Ray decides to kick back and read a newspaper at his desk, but Chris is eager to avoid any more run-ins with the Boss today, so he grabs up the discarded files from both Ray’s and his own desk and heads for the collator’s. The task is not one that comes naturally, and Chris finds himself mumbling the alphabet and having to triple check his location to make sure the files all get back on the correct shelves, but he doesn’t much mind today, in no hurry to finish.
He is about halfway through his task when the Boss shows up with Cartwright in tow. They pull a few files, nodding to Chris as they pass, and settling in at the little table in the back. Their heads are practically touching as they read through the files, stopping often to compare notes. Chris knows he should leave, his reason for being here is well and truly gone to hell now, and he is pretty sure he just put the Phillips file in with the F’s. But he is feeling particularly stubborn, and he was here first.
A few minutes later Chris hears a strange gurgling noise, and sticks his head out around the shelf to see the Boss apologizing to Annie for his stomach, explaining that he never got lunch today, and muttering something about energy bars. Annie laughs and says she doesn’t know anything about an energy bar, but she might have something for him. Chris remembers why the Boss wasn’t likely to be hungry at lunch and feels his nerves vibrate like a plucked rubber band, finding the image of the DI on his knees still fresh despite the intervening hours.
Reaching into her purse, the WDC pulls out a Mars bar and hands it over, saying she intended to have it as a treat after work. Ever the gentleman, Tyler demurs at taking her snack, but Annie smiles and tells him he is being silly, after all, she ate lunch. Further protests are cut off by another angry growl, and with a sheepish look, he opens the sweet. He does, however, insist on breaking off half the bar and offering it to Cartwright. After a brief hesitation she accepts, only to break out in laughter at the caramel that has run down over his hand as he held it out to her.
The Boss gives her a glare before glancing around, obviously looking for a way to get the sticky stuff off his hand without getting any on his beloved files. Finding nothing, the corner of his mouth quirks as he brings the hand to his lips. Cartwright favors him with another laugh before quickly eating her half of the candy and they both return to their study of the records in front of them.
Chris remains rooted to the spot. His nerves no longer vibrating, but sizzling, like thousands of pins pricking up and down, making his figures and toes tingle, his breath come faster. Attention on the file in front of him, the Boss remains absently sucking on the fingers of his right hand. He draws them slowly in and out of his mouth in an effort to scrape the stubborn caramel off with his teeth. His cheeks are slightly hollowed as he sucks and they vibrate slightly with the movement of his tongue. Chris desperately wants to look away; he wants to watch this for hours.
With a muffled hum, Tyler removes his fingers from his mouth. They glisten wetly as he leans over to point out something to Annie with his left. This sends her ruffling quickly back through the file she was reading, looking for something. Sam goes to flip the pages in his file, only to stop and frown before his right hand touches the page. Bringing it to his face, he examines it closely before reaching out with his tongue to lick at the web between his first and second fingers.
Chris nearly drops the files as the tingling in his own fingers and toes rushes back up his extremities and straight down to his groin, leaving him light-headed. When Tyler closes his eyes in concentration, tongue darting about, determined to remove the offending substance, it is all Chris can do to place his remaining files on top of the nearest box without knocking anything over, and bolt for the door.
Tuesday 4:21pm
Crashing into the bogs, he gives thanks to a God he kinda hopes isn’t watching, that he didn’t meet anyone in the hallway. Stumbling to a stall he paws at the lock and his zip at the same time, not managing either. He wants to cry; he wants to scream. Instead he wrestles his hands away from his trousers long enough to work the lock, then leans against the door and fumbles them open, pushing everything out of the way.
He swore he would never do this. Never wank off at work, never wank off thinking of his DI. But the first pull feels so good he has to muffle a sob against the heal of his other hand. He tries to keep his pace measured and his breathing even so his task will be less obvious should someone walk in. Even so, he knows he won’t last but a minute, as he gives each stroke a slight twist at the top so he can run his thumb right over that spot. His eyes have just slipped closed to better savor the image of Sam’s intent face and agile tongue, when he hears the door bang open.
“Skelton, you in here?”
The shock of hearing the Guv’s voice stops his breath, freezing him in place, and making his dick swell that much harder from the rush. For a split second he thinks he is going to come standing not five feet from his DCI. The sickening fear that crashes in on him in the wake of that thought is not only enough to stop that from happening, but wilts the problem away entirely, leaving him nearly choking in reaction.
“Come on, you wanker. Get your head out of your arse and get out here. I need you with me back down at that surveillance site, since the ponce Tyler has decided that whatever he dug up in the collators is more important that doing the bloody work he wanted done in the first place.”
With shaking hands and huge mental apology to his poor abused cock, Chris manages a quick “Yes, Guv” while sorting himself out as best he can. He has time for one deep breath before he is rushing to keep up in his DCI’s wake. The Guv gives him crap about not flushing.
Tuesday 8:15pm
Much later that evening, Chris returns to the station. Once their relief had shown up, he had wanted to just go home and forget this day had ever happened, but then he realized that in his hasty departure he had left his coat and keys sitting on his desk. Not wanting to get a dressing down from his mum in addition to the rest of the day, he returns to pick them up, and is promptly drafted by Phyllis to escort some newly nicked prisoners to their cells. She says she is short handed since DI Tyler has walked off with two of her constables to chase down something or other.
He doesn’t really even look at the kid as he brings him down and opens the cell. The last one, and he just wants to complete this task, grab his keys, and finally go home. His thoughts elsewhere, the offer takes him completely by surprise, and his cock answers before his brain has even registered the meaning of the words. His attempts at covering up only draw farther attention to what might as well have been a sign saying “Yes, Yes, Yes.”
Tuesday 8:17pm
But now, despite the slow slide of lips up and down his shaft, Chris can’t get his brain to shut off, because even as the boy presses his tongue hard against his favorite spot, sucking gently before taking all of him back into his throat and making him yelp, Chris knows what this will mean. When this is over, assuming no one has heard or seen anything that would ruin his career right off, he will be expected to get this kid back out of the cells and arrange for any charges to go away. That won’t be then end of it. In the future, the kid will come to him when he is in trouble. A repeat performance might be offered, but refusing the offer will no longer be an option. Failure to play the game will lead to the kind of accusations that not only get you kicked off the force, but out of town.
No, this time there will be no room for his usual empty headed div-ness and talent for distraction. To handle this will take discretion, focus, and a large dose of the kind of competence Chris knows he rarely displays. Still, he is sure he will find a way to manage somehow, because there is simply no longer any choice. All other courses of action crumbled to dust when he watched the kid follow up his offer with a lick of the lips that had him clutching at his oh so frustrated dick with both hands as he ordered the boy to his knees.
Finally, after a day that has frayed him to ribbons and made him into someone he barely recognizes, Chris drives himself on, pumping in long strokes deep into the throat of a kid with big eyes and dirty hair, whose name he can‘t even remember. His orgasm, when it hits, is the best of his young life, but the bitter taste it leaves in his mouth tastes a lot like growing up.
Title: Tuesday
Author: Time Testudinem
Rating: Brown Cortina
Word Count: 3225
Pairing: Chris/other
Note: Thanks to seileach67, for wrestling my tenses into submission. Any remaining errors are entirely my own doing.
Summary: Chris has one of those days.
Disclaimer: They don’t belong to me, I make no money.
Tuesday 8:17pm
The cell wall is cold and rough against his back in contrast to the searing heat wrapped around his cock. Chris does his best to stifle a groan as the kid sucks with well-practiced intensity and he feels himself drawn farther down into the grasping throat. Even as it happens, with dirty hair beneath his hands, and chilled concrete on his arse, he finds it nearly impossible to believe how he came to be here. It’s like this day has been relentlessly driving him to this point from its very beginning.
It had all started with the Boss. Nothing surprising there; it seems like everything topsy-turvy, aggravating, and just plain weird, in his life starts in some way or other with one Detective Inspector Tyler. He thinks that this may apply to the rest of the team as well, but he sure as hell isn’t going to ask them.
Oh, he’s known for years that he’s not the same as other blokes, at least not when it comes to the ladies. He likes to look at them alright, especially if they’re pretty and smartly dressed. That bird Cartwright is a joy to look at, even more so since Tyler moved her into CID and got her out of the uniform. But even the idea of her, or any other women, taking off those clothes is enough to make him blush, full red, all the way to his toes, and not because he’s interested either. He’s never seen the attraction. Why spend so much effort trying to get them do that, when they look so much better with the clothes on? He doesn’t understand it, or why his reaction is so different from everyone else’s, but he does know how dangerous it can be. So when his uncomfortable stammering and uncontrolled blush are mistaken by the rest of the guys as innocence, he takes the ribbing they dish out, and counts himself lucky.
Such is his life, the team div, and he supposes he deserves it; after all so little of it has been acting. He really can do the stupidest things sometimes, when his mouth or his feet get ahead of his brain, and his reputation for div-ness covers all sorts of gaffes when the conversation turns corners he would very much not like to look around.
Or anyhow, such was his life, his nice, quiet, mostly happy life, until one morning their lives were invaded by a madman carrying on about desks, and computers, and stirring things up until the Guv had to come out and put him in his place. A madman in tight trousers and black leather that had his brain going straight to all those places it was never, ever, supposed to go. And keeps sending it there, every day, making Chris stammer, and in general do even more stupid stuff than usual. No need to play the div for DI Tyler; that comes quite natural. It’s the other things that come natural around the Boss that are the trouble.
Tuesday 9:12 am
This morning their DI decides to clean out his desk. Nothing unusual about that; it’s something he does at least once a week, putting stuff away in files or drawers, arranging what is left on top in neat little piles and rows. It’s a bit strange, but by far not the strangest thing the Boss does, and they’ve all more or less gotten used to it. But this morning, Tyler has decided to clean by taking everything out of his drawers. A task that leaves him bent over with his ass in those oh-so-tight trousers dancing directly in Chris’s line of sight. His mouth begins to drool, and his hands sweat as he flushes, not with embarrassment this time, but with a slow burning heat that settles low, and feels good.
His slack jawed staring is only interrupted when Ray crosses his line of sight on the way to ask one of the other guys some-such about football. Chris takes the opportunity to focus his eyes squarely on the file in front of him, and attempt to catch his breath. He works with somewhat unsteady determination at his paperwork until an odd clanging noise has him looking up at the Boss’ desk before he can think better of it. The sight that greets his eyes has him biting his thumb to stifle a small moan. DI Tyler is no longer bent over with his ass in the air. Having finished removing things from his desk drawers, he’s squatted down and begun to remove each drawer in turn and wipe it out with some sort of cleaning product. His new task has him half-turned in Chris’ direction, sitting on his heels, with his legs spread slightly for balance. Chris gives silent thanks that his own trousers are not quite so painted on as the ones the Boss is wearing, even though his are feeling tighter by the moment. He can’t believe he had thought those trousers left nothing to the imagination from the rear, because the view he has now should just be illegal; in fact, he’s pretty sure it is illegal. He knows some porn peddlers down by the canal that charge good money for pictures like that.
Chris wrenches his eyes shut to block out the sight, only to discover that sometime during his shocked appraisal of his DI’s crotch, the index finger of his right hand has begun tracing slow lines up and down his own. His breath hitches. Oh god that feels amazing, just a hint of pressure, just there. Chris spreads his legs slightly more to draw his trousers tighter against him and allows himself one more slow even up and down before firmly removing his hands from his lap. Once he catches his breath, he reaches into his own drawer and pulls out one of Ray’s old issues of Just Jugs. He places it under the file on his desk, just peeking out at the corner, and hopes it will do as cover if anyone notices anything. Then he focuses on paperwork and nothing but paperwork for the next two hours. When he finally looks up, the Boss’ clean and shiny desk is empty.
Tuesday 11:53am
He hears them arguing in the hall long before he sees them. As they crash through the doors to CID, the Boss is going on about surveillance, evidence collection, and establishing a pattern or some such. The Guv is obviously seeing red, and cuts off his DI’s rant with a shove, saying that he knows who is responsible and he is not going to wait around for days before doing something about it, adding that patterns are for knitting, not police work. But Tyler is acting true to form today, and when anyone else would have the basic sense to drop it, at least until the Guv cooled off a bit, he just steps right up in his face and starts all over again. No one in the place is surprised, most likely not even Tyler, when he is grabbed by the scruff of his neck and fairly tossed into the DCI’s office.
Chris believes that what happens next is only unusual in that this time the Guv forgets to close the door. That thought does not in any way make it better. Backed up against the file with an enraged Gene Hunt bearing down on him, the Boss takes a swing, which connects, but the Guv shrugs it off. The retaliation is a swift gut punch that doubles Tyler over followed by a hard cuff at the ear that drops his DI to his knees.
Sam Tyler on his knees, head rolled back and to the side by the force of the blow, eyes half closed and dazed as the Guv looms over him. Chris is hard so quickly it hurts like hell. He is only treated to the sight for a few seconds before Gene realizes that everyone is watching and slams the door, but the damage is already done and the image seems burned into the back of his eyelids. He takes several deep breaths desperately trying to get himself under control, absolutely refusing to come in his pants, at work, over the sight of his boss getting the shit kicked out of him.
His face is more under control, if not his todger, when Ray walks over and tosses him his coat. Completely unable to gather enough coordination to catch it, the garment hits him in the face before falling in his lap. Chris hears the snorts of his fellows and is sure Ray’s comment is appropriately caustic, but it just doesn’t register. On the second go he is able to make out that the Guv is sending them out to find if there is a place from which they can manage that surveillance. Chris is somewhat impressed with his own ability to put on the coat without anyone seeing the very awkward bulge in his trousers. As he follows Ray out the door, he hopes they don’t have far to walk.
Tuesday 3:48pm
Returning that afternoon, after finding two possible locations for setting up to keep an eye on the suspect, Ray and Chris report their findings to Phyllis to see what can be done about arranging things, and then head up to CID to fill in their DCI. Once there, they find that both the Guv and Tyler are out. Ray decides to kick back and read a newspaper at his desk, but Chris is eager to avoid any more run-ins with the Boss today, so he grabs up the discarded files from both Ray’s and his own desk and heads for the collator’s. The task is not one that comes naturally, and Chris finds himself mumbling the alphabet and having to triple check his location to make sure the files all get back on the correct shelves, but he doesn’t much mind today, in no hurry to finish.
He is about halfway through his task when the Boss shows up with Cartwright in tow. They pull a few files, nodding to Chris as they pass, and settling in at the little table in the back. Their heads are practically touching as they read through the files, stopping often to compare notes. Chris knows he should leave, his reason for being here is well and truly gone to hell now, and he is pretty sure he just put the Phillips file in with the F’s. But he is feeling particularly stubborn, and he was here first.
A few minutes later Chris hears a strange gurgling noise, and sticks his head out around the shelf to see the Boss apologizing to Annie for his stomach, explaining that he never got lunch today, and muttering something about energy bars. Annie laughs and says she doesn’t know anything about an energy bar, but she might have something for him. Chris remembers why the Boss wasn’t likely to be hungry at lunch and feels his nerves vibrate like a plucked rubber band, finding the image of the DI on his knees still fresh despite the intervening hours.
Reaching into her purse, the WDC pulls out a Mars bar and hands it over, saying she intended to have it as a treat after work. Ever the gentleman, Tyler demurs at taking her snack, but Annie smiles and tells him he is being silly, after all, she ate lunch. Further protests are cut off by another angry growl, and with a sheepish look, he opens the sweet. He does, however, insist on breaking off half the bar and offering it to Cartwright. After a brief hesitation she accepts, only to break out in laughter at the caramel that has run down over his hand as he held it out to her.
The Boss gives her a glare before glancing around, obviously looking for a way to get the sticky stuff off his hand without getting any on his beloved files. Finding nothing, the corner of his mouth quirks as he brings the hand to his lips. Cartwright favors him with another laugh before quickly eating her half of the candy and they both return to their study of the records in front of them.
Chris remains rooted to the spot. His nerves no longer vibrating, but sizzling, like thousands of pins pricking up and down, making his figures and toes tingle, his breath come faster. Attention on the file in front of him, the Boss remains absently sucking on the fingers of his right hand. He draws them slowly in and out of his mouth in an effort to scrape the stubborn caramel off with his teeth. His cheeks are slightly hollowed as he sucks and they vibrate slightly with the movement of his tongue. Chris desperately wants to look away; he wants to watch this for hours.
With a muffled hum, Tyler removes his fingers from his mouth. They glisten wetly as he leans over to point out something to Annie with his left. This sends her ruffling quickly back through the file she was reading, looking for something. Sam goes to flip the pages in his file, only to stop and frown before his right hand touches the page. Bringing it to his face, he examines it closely before reaching out with his tongue to lick at the web between his first and second fingers.
Chris nearly drops the files as the tingling in his own fingers and toes rushes back up his extremities and straight down to his groin, leaving him light-headed. When Tyler closes his eyes in concentration, tongue darting about, determined to remove the offending substance, it is all Chris can do to place his remaining files on top of the nearest box without knocking anything over, and bolt for the door.
Tuesday 4:21pm
Crashing into the bogs, he gives thanks to a God he kinda hopes isn’t watching, that he didn’t meet anyone in the hallway. Stumbling to a stall he paws at the lock and his zip at the same time, not managing either. He wants to cry; he wants to scream. Instead he wrestles his hands away from his trousers long enough to work the lock, then leans against the door and fumbles them open, pushing everything out of the way.
He swore he would never do this. Never wank off at work, never wank off thinking of his DI. But the first pull feels so good he has to muffle a sob against the heal of his other hand. He tries to keep his pace measured and his breathing even so his task will be less obvious should someone walk in. Even so, he knows he won’t last but a minute, as he gives each stroke a slight twist at the top so he can run his thumb right over that spot. His eyes have just slipped closed to better savor the image of Sam’s intent face and agile tongue, when he hears the door bang open.
“Skelton, you in here?”
The shock of hearing the Guv’s voice stops his breath, freezing him in place, and making his dick swell that much harder from the rush. For a split second he thinks he is going to come standing not five feet from his DCI. The sickening fear that crashes in on him in the wake of that thought is not only enough to stop that from happening, but wilts the problem away entirely, leaving him nearly choking in reaction.
“Come on, you wanker. Get your head out of your arse and get out here. I need you with me back down at that surveillance site, since the ponce Tyler has decided that whatever he dug up in the collators is more important that doing the bloody work he wanted done in the first place.”
With shaking hands and huge mental apology to his poor abused cock, Chris manages a quick “Yes, Guv” while sorting himself out as best he can. He has time for one deep breath before he is rushing to keep up in his DCI’s wake. The Guv gives him crap about not flushing.
Tuesday 8:15pm
Much later that evening, Chris returns to the station. Once their relief had shown up, he had wanted to just go home and forget this day had ever happened, but then he realized that in his hasty departure he had left his coat and keys sitting on his desk. Not wanting to get a dressing down from his mum in addition to the rest of the day, he returns to pick them up, and is promptly drafted by Phyllis to escort some newly nicked prisoners to their cells. She says she is short handed since DI Tyler has walked off with two of her constables to chase down something or other.
He doesn’t really even look at the kid as he brings him down and opens the cell. The last one, and he just wants to complete this task, grab his keys, and finally go home. His thoughts elsewhere, the offer takes him completely by surprise, and his cock answers before his brain has even registered the meaning of the words. His attempts at covering up only draw farther attention to what might as well have been a sign saying “Yes, Yes, Yes.”
Tuesday 8:17pm
But now, despite the slow slide of lips up and down his shaft, Chris can’t get his brain to shut off, because even as the boy presses his tongue hard against his favorite spot, sucking gently before taking all of him back into his throat and making him yelp, Chris knows what this will mean. When this is over, assuming no one has heard or seen anything that would ruin his career right off, he will be expected to get this kid back out of the cells and arrange for any charges to go away. That won’t be then end of it. In the future, the kid will come to him when he is in trouble. A repeat performance might be offered, but refusing the offer will no longer be an option. Failure to play the game will lead to the kind of accusations that not only get you kicked off the force, but out of town.
No, this time there will be no room for his usual empty headed div-ness and talent for distraction. To handle this will take discretion, focus, and a large dose of the kind of competence Chris knows he rarely displays. Still, he is sure he will find a way to manage somehow, because there is simply no longer any choice. All other courses of action crumbled to dust when he watched the kid follow up his offer with a lick of the lips that had him clutching at his oh so frustrated dick with both hands as he ordered the boy to his knees.
Finally, after a day that has frayed him to ribbons and made him into someone he barely recognizes, Chris drives himself on, pumping in long strokes deep into the throat of a kid with big eyes and dirty hair, whose name he can‘t even remember. His orgasm, when it hits, is the best of his young life, but the bitter taste it leaves in his mouth tastes a lot like growing up.