There was once a therapist named Eames. A sex therapist.
"Already," says Arthur, "I can see all the ways this will go wrong."
"That'll be the first bit of imagination you've shown all evening," Eames says, lounging on the couch. "Especially since your other ideas about what we should do since we've been snowed in are playing cards and cleaning our guns."
"There is nothing wrong with maintaining proper firearm hygiene," Arthur says, as if the very suggestion otherwise is an affront to his dignity. He's been cagey and restless all evening, and Eames has discovered that if there is one thing Arthur cannot stand, it is being cornered with nowhere to go. But since the snow banks are piling like filing cabinets against the front door, there's not much even Arthur can do about it, unless he has a helicopter tucked somewhere underneath his Savile Row slacks.
"Let me continue the story," Eames says soothingly. "I promise you'll like it."
"There is nothing wrong with maintaining proper firearm hygiene," said the patient, whose name was Arthur.
"Certainly," said legendary sex therapist Eames, who was truly a dashing bloke with a mouth that could tempt even archangels into sin. "But are you really maintaining proper care for your...firearm?" With this, he glanced down at patient Arthur's trousers and raised his eyebrows, which by the way were perfectly well groomed and not, as a certain someone might have remarked, rows of scraggly untrimmed hedges.
Arthur flushed beautifully.
"Well, we'll have to examine thoroughly the root of your problem, won't we?" said Dr. Eames. "Go ahead and sit on the bed over there. Take off your clothes."
"I've never...done this before," Arthur said, his cheeks still red, the colour bringing out the nervous glint in his eyes. "You'll have to forgive me for being so...virginal."
"What the hell is this?" Arthur interrupts.
"Calm down, we haven't even reached the good part yet," Eames says.
"Even if this was a scenario that would happen, and the idea of you with advanced degrees is ludicrous," Arthur says bitingly. "Even then, I have no idea what makes you think I would ever claim that I was virginal. In anything."
"Oh, I know you're not," Eames says. "Believe me I know." The huskiness in his voice earns a slight smirk from Arthur, who relaxes once this very important point has been established. Eames sees this as a cue to go on.
Dr. Eames turned around and busied himself with filling out Arthur's patient chart, while behind him Arthur started unbuttoning his vest and unhooking the clasp of his trousers. Dr. Eames could hear the sound of cloth rustling against bare skin, as well as Arthur's breathing, and it felt like it filled the entire room. When Dr. Eames turned around again, he saw that Arthur had done what he was told. He was naked, and he was sitting with his knees spread.
"Are you sure this is orthodox?" Arthur asked breathlessly. "I thought we were supposed to sit down first and discuss my problems in bed."
"That is what I normally do with my patients," Dr. Eames agreed. "However, in a case as desperate as yours, I think we need to plunge immediately into experimental treatment." He snapped on his latex gloves. "Spread your knees wider, Arthur. I need to have a good look."
Arthur obeyed, and Dr. Eames lowered himself to his knees and started running a finger along the inner flesh of Arthur's thigh. Arthur took a deep shaky breath, one after another, as Dr. Eames' fingers stroked him and then wrapped around his hardening cock.
"Do you...do you see what I mean?" Arthur asked.
"Yes," murmured Dr. Eames, "you should have come to me a lot sooner."
"I should have...come," Arthur repeated, and then he said "oh god" as Dr. Eames squeezed his cock gently. He threw his head back, baring his beautiful throat. "Oh god, what are you doing?"
"I'm making you better, Arthur," Dr. Eames said, quickening the movement of his wrists. "Do you feel my treatment working? Do you feel the effects already in your pretty, pretty cock?" He ran his index finger up the thick vein of Arthur's cock, and Arthur's thighs trembled. His mouth opened and closed, and what came out were similar to words, but not quite.
"I can't perform proper analysis if you don't tell me how you feel," Dr. Eames scolded as Arthur started thrusting back into his grip, his hips erratic and needy. "You need to give me some observations, Arthur."
"It feels good," Arthur said helplessly. "Your hand on me, it's so warm and so strong. You feel amazing."
"And what about the other parts of your body?" Dr. Eames said. "We mustn't neglect them. Is your heart beating faster? Is your breath getting shorter?"
"Yes," groaned Arthur. "Yes."
"What about your arse?" Dr. Eames asked as he sped up the strokes, earning a shuddery cry from Arthur. "Does it feel empty all of a sudden? Does it need my medical attention as well? Should I take off my trousers and slide right into you?"
"Oh my god," Arthur said, panting, "oh my god, if you don't, I think I'll die."
"This is almost the worst story I've heard in my entire life," Arthur says. "Your understanding of the sex therapy profession is completely lacking any factual evidence, and if my doctor ever tried to stick his cock in my ass, I would shoot him. Twice."
"It's a fantasy," Eames replies, "and all right, you hate it, and that's why you're hard right now."
"Wrong. That's just the cut of my pants. It's a very awkward cut. You can't believe everything your eyes tell you."
"If you say so," Eames says. "Maybe this story will be more to your taste."
His name was Arthur. He had a heart of gold and an arse like a delectable cherry, and he walked the streets at night trying to make enough money to send to his family back home in the old country. It was snowing that night, and the flakes were melting on Arthur's eyelashes when a man in a plain coat came up to him and said, "I know I can't afford you, but you are so beautiful and I am in love with you."
Arthur looked at this man, who was a humble soldier named Eames. He saw that Eames was speaking from the very bottom of his heart, and Arthur, who had been starved for love all his life, nodded. "It's Christmas," he said, "and I don't want to spend it in the arms of a man who just wants to use me like a napkin they wipe themselves on."
"But that's what happens anyway," Arthur says. "They just spend the night fucking. Am I right?"
"With love," Eames replies. "Fucking with love."
Arthur looks at Eames and says nothing.
So they went to Eames' apartment, which was a small messy place overlooking the dirty river that he was barely managing to pay rent for. Arthur saw that there were canvases lining the walls, and he said, "You're an artist too?"
"I try," Eames said modestly, and then he pulled Arthur down onto the bed and put his arms around him, for Arthur was very cold and very lovely. "Can I get you anything to eat? Anything to drink?"
Arthur responded by pulling Eames' shirt off. "No," he said, "I just want something real."
Then his mouth was on the slope of Eames' throat, burning, and his hands were all over Eames' body, tugging him out of his clothes with a desperation that was entirely guileless, because even when he was sad and tragic and a whore, Arthur was still a needy little cockslut who was desperate to be on his hands and knees, getting reamed.
That was what they did all night. Arthur had taken so many men in the line of his profession, but still he trembled anew when Eames slicked his fingers and worked one into Arthur's arse slowly. Arthur was kneeling, bracing his hands against the headboard, and when Eames' finger was all the way in, he said, "I can take more. You don't need to be careful, you don't."
But Eames pressed a kiss to Arthur's naked back. "You're worth the time, and I don't want this to be a fast, blinding thing. I want to see you beg."
He worked a second finger in, and then the third, all the while bending down and licking Arthur's back -- starting from the base of his spine and traveling upwards to the knot at his neck.
Arthur gasped as Eames started thrusting the fingers in and out, fucking Arthur smoothly. Arthur pushed back, trying to set his own rhythm, but Eames stopped him with his free hand. Eames was strong enough to hold Arthur in place and keep him there. "You don't get to move until I tell you," Eames said, and those were the same words other johns had said to Arthur before, but from Eames' mouth they were different; softer, more tender, and all the more dangerous.
Arthur bowed his head and let Eames do what he wanted. He made little gasping noises as Eames took him with his fingers. And he gave one long, rasping breath when Eames finally entered him with his cock.
Eames pulled him away from the headboard, onto his hand and knees. "My beautiful Arthur," he said. "I've been wanting you for so long." His cock was huge and thick inside of Arthur, and he reached his hand between them, tracing the place where they joined. Arthur bit the bottom of his lip.
"Move," he said. "What are you waiting for?"
"You," Eames replied, running a hand along Arthur's jaw, smiling. Then he was pushing harder, deeper, touching the place inside Arthur that made Arthur see spots behind his eyes. His body burned from his fingers to his toes. Then Eames screwed in hard, and Arthur came, messily, his body wracked by too much stimulation. Eames fucked on and on, holding Arthur against his body as Arthur went boneless. It felt like he would never stop. After a while Arthur felt himself getting hard again.
It was only then that he twisted backwards and saw the ring around Eames' cock as it pulled out in that moment before driving into him again.
"That's right," Eames said softly, kissing Arthur's ear. "It's going to be a long ride."
"Eames, it really makes me sad that you think this is romantic," Arthur says. "This whole setup is so overdone. What next from your story? They run from the disapproval of society and then I die terribly of consumption, I imagine, and you spend the rest of your days wandering Europe, mourning over the memory of my delectable cherry arse."
"You're a cynical bastard, love, and let me tell you, multiple orgasms are always romantic," Eames says, refilling Arthur's wine. The snow is blowing harder against the window, and Eames thinks that one of them should go recheck the sturdiness of the window frames, just in case, but it's hard to bring himself to leave the room when Arthur is drinking heavily and sprawling over the couch with a small, indulgent smile on his face.
"If you don't like my stories," Eames says, staring at the perfect curve of Arthur's wrists as they hold onto his wineglass, "why don't you tell one of your own?"
"Are you kidding?" Arthur asks.
"Are you trying to say you've never had a sordid fantasy about us?"
"I have plenty of fantasies," Arthur says. He licks his lips. "But I see what you're trying to do. Fine. Since you began this, I might as well end this."
Arthur was a civilian. He'd never gone into the dream trade. He'd never met Mal and Dom. He'd never gotten arrested. He was a perfectly normal guy who had graduated from college with a perfectly normal degree and worked as, I don't know, a hedge fund manager or something. His days were uneventful but no one tried to shoot him or kill him or stab him in the knee with a piece of celery.
"It was the once," Eames says. "You really need to get over that."
"It was twice, actually, and I'm going to make you pay for it for the rest of our lives," Arthur said.
Anyway, this other Arthur worked from nine to five, but what his colleagues didn't know was that after he got off work, he went to a bar. A gay bar. Where gay men hung out.
"Thank you for the specificity," Eames interrupts.
It was a very normal, very gay, very bar-like gay bar. Arthur was afraid that people he knew would discover him, which was why he dressed down for the event, though that didn't mean he had to sacrifice style. Arthur on the night he met Eames wore a cashmere v-neck sweater from Burberry's 2010 line and slim fit cotton chinos. Over all of it he wore an ink-coloured double-crested cotton sateen trench coat with epaulettes, a narrow gun flap, and inverted back pleats, as well as hook and eye collar closure. It was a beautiful coat, perfectly suitable for his disguise as otherwise unremarkable salaryman.
"Arthur," Eames says in a strangled voice, "when I say porn, I don't mean clothes porn."
In summary, I...I mean, Arthur, could have pulled in any man at the bar that night. But apparently Arthur had a weakness for scruffy, badly shaven men, because the man he ended up sitting beside was exactly that type, and Arthur found himself following Eames into an alley behind the bar, where he pushed Eames to the wall, pulled down his pants, and fucked him right there, among the garbage cans.
Arthur raises an eyebrow.
"That's it?" Eames asks.
"I thought it was self-explanatory," Arthur says.
"You spent more time describing your clothes than fucking me," Eames says. "What a disappointment. And what's with this -- I spin us stories about lecherous sex therapists and tragic soldiers and whores, and your wild fantasy is picking me up at a bar."
"Alley sex is semi-public sex!" Arthur protests. "Plus it's dirty!"
"I'll show you dirty," Eames promises.
There was nothing quite like the dust and heat and the heavy fume-rich air left behind by the engines of a Formula One race car, and there was nothing quite like beating your arch rival for the third time that season. Eames removed his helmet after he crossed the finish line, and he grinned through the windows as he saw Arthur get out of his car and slam the red and white door shut.
Arthur's team was heading for him. Eames could see Cobb already trying to grab Arthur's arm and pull him back from a rash decision. But Arthur was furious, and he stormed over to Eames. Eames opened his car door and languidly got out.
"Best six out of ten?" he asked.
"You fucker," Arthur said under his breath, and god, he was fucking gorgeous when he was mad. "You don't deserve that win."
"The clock disagrees," Eames replied, and there wasn't much time after that for Arthur to lay into him, as much as Eames wanted him to. There were the fans and the press and their teams to deal with first. But later, much later, when Eames was taking his car for slow practice laps in the diminishing sunlight, he saw Arthur again, standing on the bleachers, watching him.
Eames slowed down to a stop. He climbed out of his car and cocked his head at Arthur. Are you going to face me or not? he asked silently.
Arthur was there faster than Eames had expected, and his gloved hands were suddenly clutching handfuls of Eames' jacket, shoving him against the side of his car. He pulled Eames' helmet off in one brisk movement and then he was kissing Eames, hard, in the middle of the empty racing arena with the sun setting around them. He kissed Eames so hard there was blood in his mouth when he pulled away, and then he punched Eames.
"Jesus fuck," Eames said, recoiling backwards. But Arthur came at him again, furious, and his hands were on the buckle of Eames' trousers, and he was undoing them, pulling them down.
"Bend over," Arthur ordered.
"What are you doing, you maniac?" Eames asked, but his blood was hot with desire and he could only gulp as Arthur forced him over the hood of his car. "Oh fuck," he said when he felt the first flick of Arthur's tongue over his arse. "Oh fuck."
Anyone could come in. Anyone could see. There could be paparazzi returning for one final check, and they could walk in and see what was happening: Eames bent over his car with his arse in the air, and Arthur licking at him, bold and rough, working the sensitive flesh surrounding Eames' hole.
Eames gritted his teeth and wished there was something to hold onto, anything, but his gloved hands could only slide off the smooth car hood. He braced both feet on the ground, but then Arthur was nudging him into a position that he wanted, which left Eames with only one foot on the ground and the other settled on his car, spreading himself wider for Arthur's access.
Eames let out a ragged groan when Arthur pushed his tongue inside. Arthur's hands held both of his hips, and when Eames looked down, he saw that Arthur had taken his gloves off somewhere along the way. Arthur's fingers were long and imperious, with oil stains and calluses -- the fingers of a race car driver, Eames thought, as Arthur's tongue spread his arse.
"You've never asked me to rim you before," Arthur says thoughtfully, his eyes bright from the wine and perhaps something else as well.
"Haven't I?" Eames says, picking his words carefully. "Well, I thought you knew, considering that one time your tongue came near my arse, I went to pieces in your hands. Kind of a clue."
"I didn't know," Arthur says. "You should have told me."
Eames looks at Arthur.
Arthur says, "Let me give this storytelling thing another go."
"Are you sure?" Eames says, unable to resist the laugh that shakes his shoulders. Arthur narrows his eyes at him, but since Arthur narrows his eyes at him approximately sixty percent of the time, even when they fuck, Eames doesn't give it any extra meaning. "It's okay if you're not good at this. We can't all be wonderfully imaginative wordsmiths, and I have enough dirty fantasies to entertain us all our snowed-in nights."
"I have a fantasy," Arthur declares. He's definitely on the merry way to being drunk. "Shut up, Eames. Sit down, stop trying to be more creative than me, and listen to my fantasy, damn it."
"I'm all yours," Eames says, and it's true.
The first time Arthur and Eames kissed was an accident. They were on a boat in a high speed race trying to get away from angry clients they had double-crossed, and Arthur had his machine gun with him. So did Eames. Arthur bent down to pick up a new cartridge of bullets. Unfortunately Eames had the same thought at the same time. Their faces bumped. Their lips bumped. So that was the first kiss, the accidental one.
Except after that, Arthur couldn't stop thinking about that stupid fake kiss, which was stupid because it was something only a high schooler might get giddy over, that measly brush of lips. But it was Eames, and Eames was...special. Arthur knew this, even though he didn't want to. Eames was special, and Arthur lay in bed at night and jerked himself off to thoughts of Eames' specialness.
It was awful.
Arthur decided that he needed to get it out of his system. So he made plans. Careful plans. Which were ruined three months later when Eames showed up at a job shirtless -- and Arthur, by the way, will never believe that a dog came out on Eames' way to the office and tore off his shirt, because what is that, that is just ridiculous. But Eames showed up shirtless, and Arthur stared at his pectorals and his flat stomach, and he felt his resolve weaken right then and there.
So they fucked in the washroom, and it was fucking fantastic.
Then they kept on fucking whenever they saw each other, which was a lot actually, so there was a lot of fucking, not that Arthur was going to complain about that. Then there was also the time when they got snowed in and were forced to tell each other dirty stories for entertainment, but let's not talk about that, shall we?
Let's talk about the time Arthur and Eames were in a dream, screwing on the stairs. Arthur was riding Eames, and it must have been uncomfortable for Eames to be in that position, on the stairs, but Eames didn't complain because Arthur was giving him the ride of his life. And then, as Arthur was straining himself on top of Eames' cock, he said, "Look around us."
Eames did, and he saw that the stairs had multiplied and twisted upon themselves like the Escher drawing 'Relativity', descending up and down as far as the eye could see. Mirrored in each segment of the repeated illusion was another copy of Arthur and Eames screwing. Up, down, all around them.
"Look," Arthur whispered, and Eames did. He saw them:
On a bed, fucking so hard that the mattress was creaking and they were bumping into the headboard on every thrust.
With Eames' mouth on Arthur's asshole, and Arthur making desperate, helpless noises every time Eames pushed his tongue inside, eating Arthur out.
Arthur on his knees, giving Eames a blowjob and taking it as Eames fucked back, taking it as much as Eames wanted him to.
Wrapped around each other, languidly thrusting, bodies shining with sweat as if they'd been going at it for hours, and each orgasm was just a prelude for another one.
Up against a wall, Arthur holding Eames in place as he slid his cock between Eames' ass cheeks so slowly and so teasingly that Eames was begging loudly for it.
Eames bent over Arthur, fucking down into him, while Arthur's knees were hooked over Eames' shoulders and he was groaning, wordless.
On the twisted, repeating, upside down and right side up stairs, they could see all of it. As Eames watched, his breath was ripped out from his chest by the force of his own orgasm. He came with a shout, arching upwards, and Arthur slammed himself down on Eames when he felt the wet spurts of Eames' come inside him. Which made him come too, all over Eames' chest, his arms hanging on to him for balance.
Then Arthur dragged Eames in for a kiss, slow and dirty, while Eames pulled out of him. His come dribbled freely out of Arthur's ass and pearled on Arthur's thighs, already reddened from the rub of Eames' stubble.
"Lick it up," Arthur said hoarsely. "I'm so wet inside. Lick me up."
Eames leaned forward and
"Mmmph!" Arthur says as Eames's mouth descends on his. Eames pushes Arthur deep into the sofa and straddles him. He takes Arthur's wrists in his hands and pins them above Arthur's head, barely giving Arthur enough time to set down his wine glass. But Arthur kisses back because Arthur always kisses back, and he grins at Eames before biting him on the corner of his mouth. "See, that wasn't so boring, was it?" he asks. "And why the hell have we been spending our snowed-in night talking when we could be, you know, boning madly?"
"Boning madly," Eames echoes, leaving kisses all over Arthur's jaw and undoing the top button of Arthur's sweater. "One day I will make a romantic out of you."
Arthur puts his hands on Eames' arse, drumming his fingers. "What makes you think you haven't?"
And Eames looks up into Arthur's face, flushed and smirking, hollowed out by the dimness of the room and the shadow of the snow falling outside, where everything is freezing upon touch, but Arthur's hands are warm where they rest against Eames. Oh, he thinks.