Tonight, Connie wants more.
At the start of it all, Baz had always been on top with Connie, had only been penetrated in the mouth by Connie, had only had Connie come in his hand or upon his tongue.
But now, even if he's the one wearing the dress--a beautiful, white silk dress and silk stockings, with smooth-shaven legs underneath--Connie's the one who's ended up on top tonight.
And very literally so: for now, Connie is straddling Baz, kissing him, grinding into him, hard underneath his dress; determined, Connie is pressing his wrists into the bed and won't let him move.
All of this had happened naturally, somehow; inevitably. The moment Baz had shown up looking gloomy and tense--well. Connie had taken one look at him and had known that tonight, he needed to take charge, needed to undo that stupid anguish of his, those knots in his being.
And even if it's but subconscious, both of them know that tonight's the night: tonight, Connie will finally take him. He wants Baz so much he isn't going to be satisfied with just taking the female role this time--well, depending on the female. For Connie is now also the woman who takes, the maneater, and Baz cannot help but think of the firm command with which Marlene had taken him to her bed.
Therefore, after a little tumble upon the bed--not different from what they normally do--it just so happens that all of a sudden, Connie throws Baz face down upon the bed, yanks up his hips and buries his tongue in his arse.
At the shock of how good it feels, Baz is plunged into a mental and physical chaos as he crouches there; he staggers upon his hands and his knees, his head and shoulders braced upon the pillows, his hands clutching at the rumpled-up bedcovers. Just moments ago, he had mumbled something about how Connie didn't have to, how he wasn't clean; Connie, however, had cheerfully ignored all that and just chuckled with his mouth pressed into Baz's arse, his tongue vibrating with his laughter.
Baz's eyes remain closed and his entire body is trembling as Connie takes him with his tongue, the pleasure so unbelievable and so overwhelming it adds to his panic: no one has ever done this to him before, every touch of Connie's tongue a shock, all his senses now so whipped up, turned up so high that it all becomes a noise in his head. And he doesn't know what to do, sure that he has never been this hard in his entire life; he wants something to thrust into, but he also wants more of this pressure Connie is now only giving him a hint of, a hint of something terrible: the promise of a much greater pleasure he could feel inside of his body.
Connie, inside of him. The thought of Connie inside of him, damn him--even if Baz hates being fucked, has never liked being fucked, has only ever been hurt by men. But now, here he is, pushing his arse back onto Connie's tongue like a tart, the little puffs of Connie's breathing sending shivers across his skin, and he wants more, more, more.
And Connie means business. "I'm going to fuck you," he says and smacks Baz's arse, friendly, devilish, cheeky. Making it clear that either Baz says no now, or never.
And Baz clutches at the sheets and stops breathing, all of his body stiffening, then loosening again. He doesn't look at Connie. On the contrary, rather: he buries his face into the pillows and makes a noise. A noise that could mean anything, and Baz knows that Connie knows that's all he'll get out of him.
For the time being, that is. Determined, Connie stretches Baz with glycerine and fingers, and kisses the small of Baz's back, seemingly not in a rush. His fingers feel wonderful, so Baz hopes this part--always the most difficult and the most painful--will be over as soon as possible; he is glad when Connie withdraws his fingers and presses his slickened cock against his arse instead. "Show me. Lower?"
Baz strokes his cock and breathes. "A little lower, yeah," uncharacteristically open as he says that--what is Connie doing to him? And he squirms, embarrassed at this taking a while, even if it's hardly been instant entry whenever he's taken Connie.
And now, Baz wonders how long it's been since Connie has last taken a man, exactly how many times Connie's done this in his lifetime. Because Connie's good at it--no, not good, but outright fantastic: he but keeps on moving slowly, stretching the muscles, pushing in and pulling out, dipping a little deeper into Baz each time.
Yet, the deeper Connie gets, the more and more painful the push becomes no matter how gentle he is being; after a while, it feels as if he's never going to get inside. Baz's erection softens at the pain, and already he regrets this; the stretch is so overwhelming, the pain peaking at that tightest part of his opening that's almost letting Connie in, now, almost. He wants to tell Connie to stop, but imagines himself in Connie's position and how much he himself would hate being told to stop, now; the embarrassment is bad enough as it is. Sod it. (Indeed! He laughs deliriously on the inside, remembering that particular etymology.) He's going to be able to do this, take this, if only for Connie's sake; he's going to go through with this, and pain be damned.
But what astonishes Baz is how patient and gentle Connie is about it all, even now when the squeeze must be feeling absolutely wonderful for him, nevermind it hurting the recipient. Baz himself tenses and expects Connie to just push in at any moment, having himself known how hard it is to resist that urge to thrust. The tightness is so exquisite, and more often than not, he has hurt others at this point, or been hurt by the few men who had taken him.
The last time he'd been taken by a man--well, it had been an obnoxiously drunk time, with an equally obnoxious bastard of a man. Errol hadn't waited, but had rammed straight in, hurting Baz too much for him to enjoy the ensuing sex at all; thank God both of them had been too drunk for that disaster to last long, too drunk to remember many details after. Baz only remembered the pain; Errol nothing until the costume department had had a fit over the torn tights the next morning.
Yet, now, as Connie still tarries, seemingly for Baz's sake, it feels like he can trust Connie to do this right. A strange feeling, quite strange, to know that he will not be rushed. But that's Connie all over, isn't it? Despite his jokes and his pranks, he's never truly cruel; he is never truly selfish in the way most ordinary men--and certain women--are about sex. Even now, Connie just takes yet more glycerine and presses against him, dipping in and out, stubbornly trusting that the muscles will eventually give.
"Oh... but that's it," Connie groans with that little German lisp of his, laughing softly as the tip of his cock is now clutched by Baz's muscles. "Breathe really deep, and when you're about to breathe out, say when," he says, gently, his silk stockings slippery against Baz's legs as he kneels there between them.
Baz wonders about this for a while. The way Connie phrases the suggestion, it sounds like a common practice to him, and immediately Baz realises that this must be something he'd learned in Berlin, a trick men used to taking other men would routinely use with each other.
Well, then. If half of Berlin can do it, so can he. Baz breathes in and forces all of himself to expand, open, open--"Now," he chokes but nevertheless he lets that deep breath out fully, pushing out with his whole body, all the way from his lungs to his hips. And as Connie slides in, hugging him, groaning with delight, all of Baz's body jerks in shock: immediately, all hairs on his body stand on end and the pain makes cold sweat rush up upon his skin. Panic surges through his body, his heart galloping, a little nausea following in its wake as he is entered so swiftly, so easily, so deeply.
But something within this pain, something deep inside of him is also awakening into pleasure: his cock pulses as Connie slides past his prostate, the sensation at first strange and unpleasant, but as Connie drags back out and in again, Baz whimpers into the pillows from his delight.
And Connie moans there with him, panting, laughing as he embraces Baz, the sequins on his dress against Baz's bare back making Baz twitch, all of him so sensitised, now. Both of them laugh, now, Connie settling in, rolling his hips a little, cupping Baz's head a little to steal a kiss.
"Been a while?" Connie asks, just holding Baz, rolling his hips but a fraction, his huge palms, his huge hands so warm on Baz's chest and belly.
"Long since I was enthusiastic," Baz says, matter-of-factly, and he lets Connie infer from that what he will. That's all he'll give him; no sob stories, now.
"Really?" Connie says, sounding hurt, alarmed, guilty. "You should have told me," he whispers, caressing Baz's shoulder, kissing it. But he picks himself up immediately, with a new determination. "Well. Let's do this properly, then," he says, and before Baz can protest, Connie has pulled out and slapped him on the bum. "On your back."
Baz thinks of protesting--now, it's definitely becoming more awkward, and he hates what Connie must be seeing on his face as he lies back.
But that's exactly why Connie is doing this, and both of them know it. Why does he have to be so bloody kind? Baz fidgets, even as Connie pulls off his dress and throws it aside, deciding to keep the stockings.
Baz thinks of saying something, but now Connie is lifting his legs and he has to help, and Connie is kissing him as he enters him once more. And he is surprised at how easily Connie slides into him, now--he moans into Connie's mouth, now only from how good it feels, how ridiculously wonderful. And Connie just keeps moving, dancing into him, not just thrusting but making love to him with his entire body, pulling Baz into the dance, too. So that Baz's entire body is now taken by Connie's touches and his movements, held and moving against Connie's.
And it's at that that something within Baz breaks; with a sudden, new fury, he throws his hips up against Connie, each stroke of his so marvellous that he must have more, must.
"Feels so good--" Baz gasps, staring down at himself, at the inverted V of Connie's thin, white-clad thighs entwined, monogrammed with his own; "Fuck, but that feels good," because he had forgotten. Forgotten all those times he'd fingered himself as a lad, those times he'd made himself come so violently he'd passed out; oh, but he had forgotten, forgotten.
And Connie is so damn good at it, too, like the bastard is good at everything, a performer through and through, the role--now that of the master lover--possessing Connie in his very soul. And now Connie is his lover, his; the intensity in Connie's eyes is frightening, as if nothing else but Baz existed for him this very moment. His eyes pierce Baz completely, seeing through him, into the thoughts at his very core--
And with that realisation, come thoughts of Ouida, of Lily, of guilt.
But Connie interrupts him, groaning again. "You can get addicted to this, you know," he purrs, kissing Baz's nose. "Being on the bottom."
"I already am," Baz mumbles, because it is the truth; he takes his hand to his cock, so as not to let Connie see him wilting from that guilt he's now trying very hard to push out of his mind.
"I'll only be glad to provide, whenever you need it," Connie says, and in his eyes, Baz knows that he knows. That underneath that light-hearted joke lies the seed of truth in their genuine need for this, despite the vows they have made to their wives. The need for another man's touch not erased from their souls even by the love of the best, strongest, most understanding of women. Lily knows of Connie's tendencies, turns a blind eye when it's another man, Connie had told him; it's her stockings Connie is now wearing. But Ouida blames herself--
"Later," Connie says, the backs of his fingers tender upon Baz's cheek. Deliberately, he is now derailing that train of thought, the way he always returns Baz to the present, that determined Buddhist streak of his always focusing on the here and now. "Stroke yourself," he murmurs, truly wanting to see Baz enjoy it, urging him on by taking his hand from Baz's cheek to his cock, where Baz's hand still lies unmoving.
Or then Connie is about to come, and Baz had better hurry; but that's not difficult. For the moment he begins to stroke himself, the combined pleasure inside and at the front of his body makes him stop breathing. Each one of Connie's strokes is an orgasmic tremor through his body, now, bringing Baz immediately to the edge; now, Baz slows down, trying to breathe shallowly. Because one breath too deep, and he will be gone. "Fuck--"
And at that, Connie lets go. He lets out such a strange noise, a catlike mewl, that extraordinary meaow his voice breaks into at its most tender, at its most vulnerable. His body strains on top of Baz's, a little softer than Baz's trained, lithe, fencer's figure; yet Baz can see his ribs, the light glancing off them. His sweat mixing with that floral perfume he always wears whenever he dresses like a woman, yet now he plows into Baz with the strength of the giant man he is. "Fuck--" he hacks out, too, a trail of broken umlauts following it.
But what breaks Baz's heart is the way Connie moves closer to him when he is coming, the opposite of what he himself would do when nearing the brink, simply because it's harder to thrust the closer you are. Yet Connie cups his head, kisses him deeply as he undulates into him, each kiss and suck and thrust sending a jolt up Baz's spine; his balls leap, his cock now so hard and swollen and thick in his hand he hasn't known its like in years. And it is through Connie's kiss that Baz realises that the strange familiarity of what Connie does now is because his behaviour is altogether feminine: he is reaching out to Baz the way a woman reaches out at the peak of love, yearning to hold and to keep her lover to herself, to envelop him in herself. Overcome by emotion, Connie now pulls Baz close to himself, as if to forever weld them together, and the madman's blaze in Connie's eyes, the veins rising upon his temples--
But Baz can't come this way, because Connie is barely moving now, barely moving at all. And Baz hates himself for saying this, hates himself for voicing anything that might sound like criticism when Connie is at his most tender; yet, he must. "Harder," he says, as gently as possible, kissing Connie between his words, and he sounds like such an idiot.
But Connie doesn't care. Instead, he pulls back, spreads and folds Baz's legs against Baz's body; moaning, he drops his hips into a deep slide, slamming into Baz with the full weight of his body. "Like that? Hmm?" he snarls, his face a twisted grimace, his forehead scrunched in a thousand wrinkles; he pants as he blows strands of hair from his face. "Is that how you like it?" he asks in triumph, pulling back and slamming back in, cackling between the noises Baz now cannot help but let out. "Is that how you like being fucked?" The expert dirty words snapped out at the exact right time, paced by exactly the right length of thrust, and Baz is gone.
"Yes!" Baz shouts, his hand blurring on his cock, his belly rippling and oh God, it's Connie's cock that now makes his belly ripple like that, pushing up his innards with each thrust, oh God, oh God. "Oh, God, don't stop, don't stop, I'm going to--" Baz cries, but he is coming already. That white-hot, iridescent shock to his nerves from each of Connie's blows now spreads from his pelvis to his entire body, jolting him in each and every one of his cells, now shooting out of his balls, his cock; he is undone, undone, undone.
Baz groans rough, deep, a grotesque, animal sound from deep in his guts; the waves of his moans, the ripples of his orgasm are all struck out of him by the sheer force of Connie's blows. Connie owns his pleasure, owns it with his hips, not a single wave of Baz's ecstasy, not a single spray of sperm now bursting out of him not thanks to Connie. Connie, Connie, silken, feline Connie moving into him and through him, the force of his cock, his body possessing Baz's every bone, muscle, nerve.
Baz returns to his senses only when Connie licks a stray lash of sperm from his neck. "Got you."
"Now, you just lie there while I help myself," Connie murmurs and pulls out of him.
And he sucks Baz into his mouth, despite Baz yelping at how sensitive he is. "Have mercy!"
"What?" Connie asks, letting Baz slip out of his mouth. "Don't think I'm going to leave without my share."
"You're just like a woman!" Baz huffs, his arm over his face, trying to pretend he isn't embarrassed by the fart of sperm now bursting out of his arse. "The moment you come, you bounce back up and ask for some more!"
"That's what they all say, yes," Connie chuckles, his eyes twinkling.
And Baz doesn't think he can stay hard, not after that, but Connie always has been a stubborn sod. Somehow, with that ridiculous energy of his, Connie manages to climb him and ride him and take his share indeed. And with that deliciously tight, silken arse of his, with the wonderful slide of his silk stockings against Baz's hips, can Baz complain? No, he cannot; he gives himself unto the silk and lets Connie ride him hard and sweet, Connie rewarding him with kisses and sighs all throughout, slow and intimate after all their wildness.
And finally, Baz is himself too aroused again to end there. He turns Connie onto his back and makes love to him, truly makes love to him, hands laced, mouth on mouth, Connie's legs wrapped around his back. Now soft from pleasure, Baz lets himself relax completely, letting Connie's tenderness and sweetness wash over him a wave; again Connie enfolds him the way a woman would the way he gives himself and envelops Baz, embracing him so completely and so lovingly as he takes him inside of his body.
And this time, they come together, easy, no voluminous ejaculations here but one powerful ripple, hot convulsion through both their bodies, their muscles fatigued from love. Connie keens as he squeezes his own cock, his knuckles pressed into Baz's belly; that little spray triggering Baz's own, his open mouth slipping in the sweat of Connie's neck. And somehow, Baz cherishes this even more, this last orgasm they have pushed their bodies into even if they are two tired, aging men. Because this is all too beautiful, all too precious, all too rare; Connie feels so wonderful that he makes Baz feel wonderful, too; adored, loved.
Connie turns out the bedside lamp and pulls the bedcovers over them; he doesn't say a word but just wraps himself, all long and gangly limbs, around Baz's long and gangly limbs. And the last thing Baz thinks of before falling asleep is that Connie is still wearing those damned stockings, and Baz can feel him smiling like an idiot as he snuffles there against Baz's chest.