Ariadne gives him a knowing smirk as she slides the scrap of paper across the desk with her finger.
"Trust me," she says. "You'll really like this." She caps her pen, chewing on the lid a little as Eames looks at the URL written in the clean block letters of an architect's handwriting. Eames isn't a prude by any sense of the word, but the idea of sweet little Ariadne recommending filth for him is a bit discordant in his mind. He glances at the name and his eyes snap up to meet hers.
"Is this some sort of joke?"
Ariadne only smiles, tonguing the pen cap for split second before tucking it loosely behind her ear. "You won't be disappointed," she says, then shoves away from the desk, leaving to return to her models.
Eames pockets the slip of paper. Little minx, he thinks as he watches Ariadne chew her bottom lip while she works. She fidgets ever so slightly in her chair and that's more confirmation than her wicked smirk was. Whatever is on this site has her presently hot and bothered.
Eames opens the laptop at his hotel room desk. The chair is uncomfortable, tips back too far, and is upholstered with a scratchy wool that makes him itch, even through his trousers. He thinks about pulling the laptop onto the bed and stretching out, but decides against having to twist sideways to view the screen, or do something embarrassing like prop the damn thing on his chest. The chair will have to do.
A moment later he has a flash of brilliance and retrieves the second towel from the bathroom to drape over the chair. He settles back down and slips the note from his pocket, ticking the written sequence of letters into the navigation box of his browser. Up pops a grid of photos, beautiful men in various states of undress with ridiculous names like 12inchTyler and calStud4u. Eames doesn't have to even scroll to find the name Ariadne has written down for him. Top row, three pictures in, is a close-up of trim hips clad in dark, pressed slacks. Peeking over the top of the waist is a strip of red lacy material. Eames quirks a brow. What exactly does Ari think he's into?
Eames clicks on ur_wetdream anyway, ignoring all the other men, though a few of them look more his type. He’s intrigued by the image of snug and perfectly tailored trousers on his screen. This man has good taste. Not unlike a certain point man Eames works with occasionally, and jerks off to in fantasies more.
It takes a few seconds for the chat room to load. He's given an anonymous id, anon528491, and he sees the scrawl of text filling the screen before the video is done loading.
jerzeePete: I will fucking spanking your ass red you little slut
dvlryder23: yeah bb bend dat ass over
anon360081: jesus you are fine!
dickbigs: I would eat your pretty little asshole. Show us the goods!
anon466287: cmon take it off! All the other boys show for free!
anon364298: i bet you have a pretty little boy pussy underneath there.
Mr_NiceGuy: Hey guys, play nice or he’ll never show.
The video finally loads and Eames is greeted by the sight of the same trim hips in the picture from the main page. The guy is in different-colored slacks this time. Ones that are open at the fly, revealing the black, frilled edge of ladies’ knickers — complete with pink bow — beneath them.
His legs take up nearly the whole frame. When a hand comes into view, stroking delicately down the open zip of the trousers to grab loosely at the what’s hidden beneath, the room explodes on a fury of lewd text.
The hand leaves the screen to the soft sound of typing. Eames notices the music in the background. A bit morbid, he thinks as Nick Cave’s husky voice croons out the chorus to Red Right Hand. But he’s distracted from that thought when the model stops typing and starts to circle his hips back and forth to the beat. He traces his hand along the zipper again, only this time he dips inside the pants to stroke himself.
Eames ignores the onslaught of comments and focuses on the way the man’s wrist moves, delicate bones underneath pale skin as his finger flex over lace. The music fades into Husky Rescue's New Light of Tomorrow and the model backs away from the keyboard, revealing more of his long legs and bare torso. He turns like a dancer, a smooth spin of heels, graceful, easy, and sensuous. Grabbing the waistline of his trousers, the man shimmies, lowering the waistband by millimeters, a tease of the firm curve of his arse is revealed.
The panties are starkly contrasted against his milky-white, smooth skin. Too smooth, Eames realizes. He must shave. That idea sends a blaze of arousal coursing through his veins. The idea of sharp blades dragging along the sensitive skin of the man’s inner thighs and over the dip of his pelvis. The care taken to not nick tender flesh, the devotion to his audience who would still want to fuck him if he had hair.
The man on screen gyrates slowly to the beat. Finally he lets the trousers fall farther, arching his back gracefully as the cloth drags over his perfect arse to fall to the floor. Eames takes in the sight before him. Underneath those fine slacks the man has hidden a sheer set of black, thigh high stockings with lace tops. They're stretched snugly over his athletic legs, and attached to a thin strip of suspender belt slung over his bony hips.
The man’s back flexes, shoulder blades moving underneath his skin as he traces his fingers along the line of his hip. The music changes over again, this time to Amon Tobin's Four Ton Mantis. Good taste, Eames thinks, and is pleased enough to make a comment. Before, he would have said nothing, being one in the crowd was not his thing, especially in a room full of horny degenerates with big mouths and quick fingers. He doesn't even know if the model reads the chat. The man has, so far, ignored all of the depraved comments left in his stream.
[ You have exquisite taste in music, darling. ]
"Thank you, anon, but don't call me darling."
Eames is completely caught off guard. The rich timber of the voice is teasing, and too familiar. The words, the subtle irritation at the pet name, Eames feels it in his cock. The same arousal that has led to clandestine trips to the men’s room and his tense fingers wrapped around his own prick in frustration. The very voice that mocks him in the same breath as it compliments him.
But it couldn’t be? Eames thinks. Nowhere in his mental profile of the lovely point man is there even a hint of outright exhibitionism, or fetish for that matter. Arthur seems as normal as you can get for someone with an intelligence background and no qualms about killing. He’s relaxed enough in his relations with everyone that Eames would never have thought he actually had something to hide underneath all of those prim suits. Normally the level of meticulous attention to wardrobe would indicate the need to control or to obfuscate perceived flaws. But Arthur is easy-going, rational, with an even temper. He isn’t modest, but he isn’t crude. He is calculating, yes, hard-headed as well, and sometimes quiet or reserved, but never to the point that Eames felt he had a secret.
Curiosity gets the best of him and Eames decides to test the model. He needs some sort of confirmation, since so far the man hasn’t shown his face. If it is Arthur, I can see why he wouldn’t, Eames thinks. It does no criminal good to have their face in any kind of spotlight. Eames types, wondering if bantering like they’re at work will do the trick.
[ Darling, what am I supposed to call you? Do you have preferred pet names? BB seems to be popular, or would your rather pet, love, honey? ;) ]
“None of the above,” the man, Arthur possibly, says and he seems to be ignoring everyone else in the room, which is resulting in a barrage of whiny and angry text.
[ Well ur_wetdream isn’t particularly easy to type, darling. ]
The model doesn’t respond directly this time. He moves to the keyboard, a close up flash of his cock straining against the thin material of his underwear, and a line of bold text graces the screen.
Anonymous users have been silenced by the model. Log in or sign up to comment.
Eames smirks, triumphant in his ability to needle out a reaction. His smirk drops quickly when the man turns his camera towards a bed. He comes back into frame, arse thrust towards the audience as he tugs the panties down just below the cleft of his arse.
“I bought a new vibrator,” the man says, low and throaty and sultry.
Eames is suddenly aware of how very hard he himself is as he sits and stares at maybe-Arthur bending over with a promise for more. He reaches down into his own undone pants and strokes himself gently. Possibly-Arthur locks his knees and bends over the bed letting the long line of his legs grow taught and his arse cheeks spread just slightly. The barest glimpse of his puckered hole makes Eames’ mouth run dry and he speeds his strokes, wishing he had remembered to bring lotion from the bathroom.
Please-let-it-be-Arthur straightens back up and goes to kneel on the bed, stretching so that his arse is still perfectly displayed as he twists towards the camera. The movement is practiced, coy, and utter perfection. Of his face, only the man’s lips are visible in the screen and Eames picks up the pace, jerking himself to the thought of their perfect shape wrapped around his own cock.
The screen goes black. Eames nearly growls in frustration when he reads the taunting message.
Model has entered a private chat.
The idea of Arthur toying himself where Eames can’t see infuriates him, but at the same time it spikes his arousal. He’s stricken with the desperate need to come, imagining Arthur’s tight hole wrapped around colorful silicone. Or maybe he has other toys as well. Eames would love to see him stretched wide around slick glass, or moaning wantonly as Eames pulls anal beads past the flexing ring of his muscle.
He comes with a shudder, his seed spilling across the fabric of his trousers. He probably should have taken them off. Eames sighs irritatedly as he catches his breath. When his head clears a little he feels chagrined at the fantasy he just had. Arthur is the consummate professional; Eames has been trying to get into his pants for four years and has yet to succeed. Just because he may have a secret exhibitionist streak doesn’t mean it’s an opening for Eames. He doesn’t even know if this man is actually Arthur.
The signs are there though. The man sounded like Arthur. He moved somewhat like Arthur, though Eames has rarely seen Arthur dance. But the man had not held himself like Arthur usually does, which could just be because of the attire for the night, or the fact that he was performing on camera. Or it could not be him at all.
The next day at work, Eames’ concentration is shot. He catches himself staring the the way Arthur sits, trying to figure out if he’s hiding some fishnets or perhaps a thong underneath his suit. Would Arthur ever wear a corset? He has to shake himself from his pondering when an irritated Arthur snaps at him.
“Eames! For fuck’s sake, pay attention!”
“Hmmm. Sorry Arthur, lost in a thought there for a moment.” Their chemist looks at him with the same annoyed expression he’s worn the entire job so far.
Arthur clears his throat and continues, “I know. I tried to get your attention three times. How is your forge of the brother coming?”
“It’s going well. I need a few more tailing sessions to hammer out some details, speech patterns mainly.”
“Good, let’s set you up with another stakeout …”
Arthur continues with his brief and Eames makes sure not to fall back into daydreaming about him in a state of undress. He slouches in his chair and runs his thumb along his lip, a nervous tic he’s never bothered to hide in real life. He catches eyes with Ariadne and she shoots him a knowing smile.
Brat, he thinks, but returns the gesture. He should thank her, he guesses, because the site has not disappointed him in the least. She turns her eyes back to Arthur, chewing on her pen cap as he speaks. Apparently he is not the only one with more on his mind today.
That night he signs up for an account. It’s still free unless he wants a private session, so he picks a user name, Think_of_England, and looks for ur_wetdream’s room. He’s not on the list tonight, which is disappointing to say the least. Eames wonders how often the guy logs in.
Scanning the other rooms leads nowhere. There’s nobody with any mystery. They all seem dull in comparison to the women’s underwear wearing, snappy dresser who might secretly be his coworker. Eames logs out and forgoes a wank, instead hopping into the shower before turning in for bed.
The next day is spent tailing the brother of their mark. It’s a long, boring day spent sitting in a car, with only the briefest moments to get close when his subject gets coffee or goes to dinner. The man barely speaks, which would usually make forging easier since he wouldn’t have to worry about keeping the voice up for long stretches, but instead makes it difficult for him to even learn it in the first place. In all, the day has been a waste of time, and when he’s finally able to return to his hotel room he’s in dire need of some scotch and a way to unwind.
Eames glances at the laptop wearily. With a sigh of defeat he grabs a towel and drapes it over the chair. He remembers to grab the lotion this time, and he removes his trousers. Sitting back, he wonders if it's a bad idea to log in. What do I have to gain from this pursuit? He thinks, but his fingers are already typing his password.
When the gallery pops up, ur_wetdream is online and a small trill of anticipation works its way through Eames' body. He clicks into the room. The same stream of indecent propositions and sordid language fills the screen. Eames starts to type.
[ Good evening, darling. I love your choice of suit today. ]
The model is sitting on the edge of the bed. His jacket is in frame and it's black, faintly pinstriped. He has a waistcoat on, black, and his shirt is a deep, charcoal grey. He wears a blackberry-purple tie. Eames hasn't seen Arthur all day, so he's can't compare his wardrobe to that of the model's. He doubts he could definitively tell by that method of deduction anyway. The suit is crisp and doesn't look rumpled from a day of sitting at a desk, poring over files.
"Are you the anon from before, Mr. Think of England? Didn't I tell you not to call me darling?"
That voice is definitely Arthur's. There is no hint of seduction in it yet, too early in the show, it seems. There’s only the same playfulness that Eames has encountered from Arthur on job after job. He smirks to himself, pleased with the confirmation.
But is it really confirmation? It's possible his ears are hearing what he wants to hear. To be certain, absolutely certain, he would need to see the man's face. But how to do that? Does the model show his face in private sessions?
Eames shelves that thought for later. It's time to play. It's been a long day, and all he wants right now is to see most-likely-Arthur's beautiful, panty-clad bum.
[ You still haven't given me an alternative. And why are you worried over me? Aren't you supposed to be lavishing attention on all your other patrons as well?]
The stream fills with indignant pleas for attention and agreements to the statement.
"I tend to pay attention to those who use proper punctuation and can spell."
The man strokes a hand down his tie, the silk of it brushing across his skin making a distinct sound. Eames' hand circles over his own thigh toying at the crease of his hip. He types one handed, continuing his light touch along his own body.
[ It's a bit difficult to keep to standards in a setting such as this. One becomes preoccupied. ]
Eames is rewarded with a wry smirk from the barely visible mouth in frame. The man lies his hand flat across his stomach, stretching his fingers to dip just below the waistline of his trousers.
"Why don't I give you something to be preoccupied with then?"
The model slinks his hand down lower, fingers disappearing completely beneath the fabric. His lips part just slightly and Eames wants to run his tongue along them, to feel the soft pillow of flesh dent underneath a gentle bite. The man darts his tongue out, just a flash of pink raking over his lips before it retreats. He lets out a soft but excruciatingly obscene moan.
"Who's going to make me come tonight?" he asks, voice but a whisper, as his hand continues working underneath his clothes. The room answers as a whole: me, I will, you're mine.
manlover84:what r u wearing underneath 2nite?
"You will just have to be patient and see."
Eames is irrationally jealous that Arth … the model has responded to someone else. It's absurd, he knows, in the public chat room. But for a brief moment, he had held the man's full attention. He desperately wants it back.
[ You are such a tease, darling. I'm sure whatever it is, is divine. ]
The model doesn't respond. Instead he withdraws his hand and slowly undoes his tie. He removes it with practiced ease, setting it gently off screen. He shrugs the jacket off, also moving it off screen somewhere. When he sits back down, he starts to undo the buttons of his waistcoat, one at a time to the beat of his music. Completing that task, he rubs his hand over the seam of his slacks and moans as he presses his palm down.
Eames finds that he’s mimicking the gesture, hand wrapped around his bollocks, his shaft resting against the inside of his wrist. He kneads at himself, softly toying, before moving up to wrap his hand around his cock. He doesn’t take his eyes off the man.
The model spreads his thighs farther, thrusting haltingly into his palm. He stops and leans back, stretches his arms behind him. The waistcoat has fallen open and underneath the thin material of his shirt, Eames thinks he sees the outline of something. The material is too dark to be sure.
Eames reaches for the lotion he’s set on the desk, squirting a small amount into his hand and closing his fist to warm it. After a second he continues stroking himself, allowing it spread in a fine coat of slick over the entirety of his shaft. Pulling back his foreskin, Eames works his fingers over the head of his cock, sensitive and leaking from stimulation.
The man continues his slow tease, undoing the buttons of his shirt. Finally, Eames is able to see underneath. Peaking out of the open shirt is purple satin lingerie that matches his discarded tie. Eames smiles at the level of planning and coordination in tonight's outfit.
Eames strokes himself in long smooth arcs, taking his time as the model takes his. The shirt is completely unbuttoned by the second slow song, and the man strokes a hand over the shiny material, pinching at his own nipple and sucking in his breath at his pleasure.
“I’ve been so good today. I deserve something nice. Is anyone going to give me what I deserve?”
Eames wants to give him everything he deserves and more. He wants to press the man into the mattress and run his tongue along every inch of his skin. Eames wants to make him shatter under the ministrations of his tongue, only to put him back together and take him apart again. He wants him moaning, bent over and clenching around Eames cock, panties torn away and only the suspenders and stockings left to cling to his skin. Eames wants to dig his hands into the lace and pull those hips back, using it as brace.
The man undoes the cuffs of his shirt, slipping out of the sleeves. He tosses the shirt to the side, too busy to care about placing it carefully as he had the tie and jacket. He grabs at his chest with one hand the starts to unbutton his slacks with the other, long fingers flicking open the fly. The movement reveals purple lace and satin behind the zipper.
Eames’ pace has been picking up unconsciously. He finds he’s close, and backs off, wanting to savor the slow undressing, wanting it to last. He has all night, so long as the model does as well. And then it hits him, like the night before, the model could be whisked off into a private chat, hidden from him in his time of need. Finding the thought entirely distasteful, Eames regrettably navigates away from the video, clicking on his account to add credits.
If anyone is going to occupy this man for the night, it’s going to be Eames.
When he returns to the room he finds that Arthur has removed his trousers and is standing beside the bed again. The knickers end up being a thong, tucked underneath a frilly suspender belt. The man’s cock strains against the material, too large to fit within the minuscule amount of fabric when fully erect.
He turns, revealing the pert globes of his arse, and smooths a hand up the cheek of his bum, patting it slightly. Eames has to squeeze the base of his cock with force when the model bends completely over, a mimic of the move two nights ago. The man straightens back up, with a box in hand.
“Which one should I use tonight?” he asks, playfully.
Drawing out the first toy, the man grins wickedly. Eames wishes so much that he could see his whole face, see the game in the man’s eyes. He also wants to know for certain that this beautiful creature is Arthur. The model pulls out a few more toys. There’s a large, black dildo, a silicone plug, and a textured vibrator. The room demands the vibrator nearly unanimously. Eames would be happy with any of them.
“Vibrator it is,” the model confirms, dropping the other toys back into their box.
He climbs onto the bed and scoots back. Leaning on his elbows, the sensual dip of the man’s collarbones hollow with shadow as the angle of light changes. He turns the vibrator on to a low setting and teases the bud of his nipple with the tip. Then he runs the toy down his stomach until it reaches the hollow of his hip.
Snagging the band of the thong with the vibrator, the model plunges the toy into the underwear seemingly thrusting it over his perineum, but the panties obstruct the view. He withdraws the vibrator slowly and sets onto the bed between his open legs.
Eames has had enough of this teasing. He wants the man to himself. He wants the man displayed, open and shameless, thrusting the toy inside himself as Eames watches. Eames clicks the private chat button, stealing the man away from the rest of the room.
[ Darling, the things you do to me. ]
It takes some effort to type as he continues to stroke himself. He has to lean forward to type, which is at odds with his desire to lean back and wank away.
“What do you want me to do?” The question is low, barely a whisper as the man plays with the edge of his underwear.
[ I want you to come. Whatever it is that you need. I want to watch you come for me. ]
The man smiles. “I can do that,” he says, and he takes his own cock in hand and gives it a pull.
[ Has anyone ever told you that you have impeccable taste in clothing? ]
Arthur smiles as he strokes himself and cocks his head to the side. "Once or twice," he says.
Arthur tips his head back, exposing the long line if his throat. Eames' grip tightens just enough to stave off his orgasm again. He wants to see Arthur, all of Arthur.
[ Do you ever show your face, darling. Or are you always a man of mystery? ]
"You talk like you're in a James Bond movie. And no, I don't. And yes, international even. Tell you what, why don't you shut up unless you want to see something specific, and I'll do what I do best."
Eames grins to himself. He has to admit, he likes the attitude. Then again, Arthur’s attitude has always been one of Eames’ favorite attributes. He’s not kidding himself tonight, if this man isn’t Arthur, he has no problem with projecting Arthur onto him.
Arthur tugs the straps of the lingerie top down over his shoulder, letting one nipple peek out so he can play with it better. It looks slightly gawky, him leaning on his elbow and playing with the nipple with that arm’s hand, but when he pulls the thong down with the other, fully releasing his cock, Eames couldn’t care less.
He continues to pull the thong down his leg, lifting his bum off the bed to let it slide underneath. He has to place his hand down to balance when he tugs it off his ankle, which allows the top to slip down more. Eames is perplexed by the idea that he could be so turned on by this, but the contrast of satin the man’s pale skin is breathtaking.
Eames jerks himself languidly as Arthur pulls the slip off. One of Arthur’s nipples is pink and pebbled from being toyed with. Eames can’t bite the other one to match like he wants to. He can’t taste the saltiness of his skin, or smell of spice of his cologne —if he wears any. Suddenly Eames is stricken by what he can’t have, which makes him desperate for what he can.
[ Darling, I may die if you don’t use that toy soon ]
The soft ping of his message on Arthur’s screen makes Arthur pause from caressing his body.
“I was wondering when you’d speak up,” he mocks, but obliges by grabbing a bottle of lube. “How do you want me?”
[ Now that’s a loaded question. In my lap, across my bed, bent over my desk. ]
“Funny. Seriously though, it’s your time we’re wasting.”
[ Then, please, on your knees. I want to see your beautiful arse. ]
“As you wish.”
Arthur kneels on the bed, naked, lithe and pale. He swivels gracefully and pushes his arse towards the camera. Eames has a perfect view of everything: the dimples of his lower back just before he bends over, the slope of his flank, the pull of his muscles underneath his skin.
Every bit of hair on Arthur’s body is shaved away, leaving him glistening as he pours lube between his cheeks. The slick drips down the crack of his arse. He uses a finger to catch it near his balls and push it back up and inside as he slips the finger into his tight hole. His mouth drops open a little as he gasps at the feel of his own finger.
Arthur is looking over his shoulder towards the camera, and Eames wishes more than ever that he could see more than the hint of loose hair curled around his neck and ears, more than just his beautiful mouth. Eames wants to see the fucked out look he knows must be the man’s eyes, see the droop of them as he struggles to keep them open against the pleasure of being worked open.
Arthur adds another finger, humming in approval. Eames can’t help but speed the pace of his own hand on his cock. It’s a beautiful sight. After two fingers Arthur picks up the vibrator and flicks its switch with his thumb.
The toy buzzes quietly, set on a low level. Arthur drags it lightly over his balls and across his perineum, coating it with the slick that is still dripping down. He presses the tip at his entrance, teasing the bud of his arsehole. He doesn’t press in, just swirls it around lazily. It’s as if he’s waiting for something.
[ plaese ]
Eames types too quickly, misspelling the word. He corrects himself hastily, remembering Arthur’s comment from earlier.
[ Sorry, please, darling. Please fuck yourself for me. ]
Arthur laughs as he reads the message. He complies by letting the toy sink slowly inside him and groans when when his fingers press against his skin when nearly the entire toy is inside. He waits a moment before withdrawing it, pulling it almost completely out, before he slides it back in. Fucking himself on the toy, Arthur moans with pleasure. Eames can see him shudder every once in a while, where he must glance the vibrator off of his prostate.
Eames is fucking his own hand steadily now, feeling his orgasm build behind his balls. His hips twitch up out of the chair and his breath comes in short huffs. His lip stings and he can taste the copper of blood. He didn’t even realize he’d been biting it. He releases it and lets out a groan.
Arthur is fucking himself faster and whimpering into the depth of the room. He’s not even bothering to look back at the camera anymore, completely lost in fucking himself on his toy. Eames hears a strangled, frustrated moan.
“Fuck … I need more,” Arthur gasps then he shifts to sit back on his heels. Placing the toy on the bed, the dip in the covers holding it in place, he starts to bounce up and down on the toy. “Oh, fuck!” He circles his hips around, grinding the vibrator in his arse, before bouncing on it again.
It’s mesmerizing, watching Arthur fuck himself on that toy, and Eames becomes lost in the roll of his hips and the flex of his hamstrings. Time stands still and Eames’ world becomes a tunnel, solely focused on the man on screen. He’s absorbed in it, in Arthur’s pleasure, in his own, so it’s a shock when his orgasm finally hits. He shouts a hoarse obscenity as he spills over his hand and thighs.
Coaxing every last drop of come out of himself, Eames strokes lightly as he watches Arthur finish. Arthur has turned just enough that Eames can see the strained angle of his thigh holding himself off the bed as he drives the vibrator into his arse. Arthur wraps long fingers around his cock, wrist flicking and fingers held loosely as first. Then his grip tightens as he gets closer. Eames can see his stomach flex in and out rapidly as orgasm rips through his body. He sprays short arcs of white over his own hand and onto the bed. Arthur’s shoulders slump forward as every taut muscle in his body relaxes.
Propping himself on one hand, Arthur slowly pulls the toy out of his arse, and places it on the bed. He stretches momentarily, exposing the lines of his ribs. Sitting, he faces the camera and licks at the joint of the thumb on his soiled hand. His tongue flicks over every part of skin his seed has spilled on, darting between his knuckles and lapping over his palm until he finally sucks each finger into his mouth individually to clean them.
[ You are a thing of beauty. I wish I could fuck you properly. ]
Eames only types once he’s cleaned his own seed from his hand, though with a towel instead of his mouth like Arthur is doing. The comment earns him a wicked smile.
“Maybe some day you can.”
[ Bloody tease. ]
“Goodnight Mr. England,” Arthur says, before he turns the camera off and leaves Eames in the lonely silence of his hotel room.
The entire week is utter shite as Eames finds himself tailing the mark for three out of the next five days. This man is a bloody mute, he thinks to himself as he’s five hours into another stakeout. Cars are not actually that comfortable, especially when you have very little to focus on to distract from the lack of padding in the seats. Not having anything to focus on has also lead to very depraved thoughts of lacy knickers, blindfolds, high heels and lean men’s legs and how they would look in said heels. These thoughts have lead to the near inescapable urge for a quick tug in the car. It is, however, daylight and there are people about, so Eames resists.
It has also been a terrible week because tailing the mark means he can’t be near Arthur and he is dying to find some clue as to if Arthur really is his mysterious camboy. His camboy is the only relief from the monotony that is following the most boring target in the world. The model, or Arthur as Eames likes to think, has been online every night since that first show. Eames has managed to get in his good graces through flirting and idle chat, while also getting into his pants, figuratively, by stealing him away for private shows. He’s more talkative, or typative, or whatever you want to call it now since that first show. He finds that Arthur is very good at taking direction.
Eames has just sequestered Arthur again for the evening and he’s ready to dive right in when Arthur makes a request. “You should get on camera as well. I want to see you,” he says.
This is unexpected. He never thought of being on camera himself. The idea is appealing, but it’s really not a good idea, not if this man really is Arthur. He wants this tonight, and doesn’t want it to be ruined by revealing himself.
[ Who says I have a cam? ]
“Every laptop has a camera on it nowadays,” Arthur breathes.
Arthur is laying it on thick, already stripped down to his lingerie and stockings. The man sucks a finger into his mouth and then reaches down past the elastic of his underwear to dip between his legs. He gasps lightly when he enters himself. Eames takes his own cock in hand and brings himself to hardness.
A bit of time lapses, and Eames is tempted not to respond to the request, but he feels an obligation to answer for some reason.
[ And how is it that you assume I am on a laptop? ]
“Because I know it’s you, Eames.”
Eames stops stroking himself, completely caught off guard. He stares at the screen in dumbfounded horror as he watches Arthur continue to finger himself like he hasn’t just casually dropped the knowledge that he knows he’s been fucking himself in front of his coworker. Eames doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to type or how to react, or how to think about anything except one thing.
This is Arthur.
His cock twitches. Eames realizes he’s caught in a state of limbo. Either reveal himself and see where it goes, or deny and never be able to use the site again, or possibly face Arthur again, or maybe even be on the same continent as Arthur again. But then his higher sense of reason kicks in, knocking out the desire to flee. Arthur knows it’s him. He knows, and he’s still toying himself with his own fingers, waiting for an answer.
[ How the bloody hell did you know? ]
“You and Ariadne were not being very discreet about trying to find out what is underneath my clothes. Though I have to say, points to you for being the less handsy one, I would never have guessed.” Arthur’s face dips in frame for the first time. His hair is loose, curling into his face and he smiles impishly. “Also, I tracked your IP.”
[ It’s always the small things, isn’t it? ]
“You should know better.”
[ So what now? ]
Arthur grins and pulls his hand out of his panties, snapping the elastic lightly. “The way I see it, you have two options. You can either get on camera and we can continue …” Arthur pinches a nipple between his finger as he speaks, “or there is a key waiting at the desk for you. Hilton, room 300. I’m starting now, whichever you choose.”
Arthur reaches off the bed and grabs a glass plug. He licks along the smooth surface before sucking it into his mouth. Eames doesn’t hesitate; he’s stumbling into pants and a shirt before he can get caught up watching Arthur’s show. He grabs his keys from the desk and darts out the door.
The Hilton is ten agonizing minutes away by car. It seems like an eternity, with the vision of Arthur licking around his plug like a lollipop stuck in Eames’ head. He probably looks half mad when he finally makes it to the hotel. He parks the car in a garage and nearly runs to the reception desk. Every moment not in Arthur’s room is a moment wasted.
The receptionist is fairly quick about retrieving the key. He may be projecting the I will knife you if you don’t give me what I want vibe, though. He tries a smile as he snatches the key from her and dashes to the elevators. Everything takes too long and he fumbles with the key card when he attempts to open the door, cursing when he drops it on the floor.
When he finally makes it into the room he finds Arthur sprawled on the bed face down. He’s grinding himself into the comforter and moaning lightly. His panties are tossed aside, leaving him with only a suspender belt and stockings on. Eames is a little disappointed at not being able to tear Arthur’s knickers away, but he forgives the loss when he sees the round end of the the plug nestled between Arthur’s buttocks. He approaches the bed and leans down to press lightly at the plug. Arthur moans and Eames hears the soft pings of messages coming from a laptop on the desk.
“Attention whore,” he jokes, but it comes out too hoarse, sounding possessive.
“Jealous?” Arthur asks and attempts to turn over on his back.
Eames presses between Arthur’s shoulders, stopping him from turning onto his back. He thumbs at the plug again, then wraps his fingers around it, tugging it out just a little. Arthur gasps, thrusting his arse in the air, following the pull of the glass. The pinging becomes a barrage of sound as message after message pops up.
“Hold on one second,” Eames says and he walks over to the laptop.
Arthur turns his head and watches as Eames makes his way over to the computer. Eames sees himself framed in the camera, chest hair peaking out of his severely wrinkled, salmon colored shirt. Eames hits the mute key. The screen is flooded with messages, anonymous men demanding attention, or to know what is going on, or who the mysterious new guest is.
When he turns around, he gives Arthur the most wicked smile he can manage. Arthur returns it with a soft smile of his own, before biting on his bottom lip and stretching out a hand, beckoning Eames over to the bed. Eames slips out of his shirt. He kneels beside Arthur and strokes his fingers down Arthur’s spine, feeling the skin break out into gooseflesh beneath his fingertips.
“The things I want to do to you,” he murmurs.
“So do them,” Arthur replies, arching his back as Eames’ fingers trace over the curve of his arse, slipping past the lace suspender belt to tease the gap between Arthur’s thighs.
Eames is already hard, his cock straining against the fabric of his trousers. He gets up to slip them off, pulling his shoes and socks off with them. Naked, Eames returns his attention to Arthur. He kneads Arthur’s bottocks before urging Arthur to spread his legs. Dipping between them he places a light kiss to the back of Arthur’s balls. Then he moves up to lick lightly at the stretch of Arthur around the glass plug. Arthur moans his approval and thrusts his hips back, searching for more.
Eames wraps his fingers around the plug again and pulls slowly. Arthur’s hole flexes out, unable, or unwilling to release its grip on the glass. When Arthur’s arse finally releases the toy, his hole is left gaping, stretched and red. Eames licks around the ring in soothing strokes and feels Arthur’s muscle flutter around his tongue.
The sounds that Arthur makes get higher in pitch as he grinds himself into the hotel bed. The lace belt is slipping out of place as Arthur squirms beneath Eames’ tongue. Eames can see the indented line the elastic has left on Arthur’s skin.
He uses the lingerie to pull Arthur to his knees, gripping the lace and pulling at the straps attached to the stockings. Snapping one elastic band against Arthur’s skin earns Eames an amused hum. He ignores the urge to snap it harder, to make Arthur’s skin red. That can wait for another night. He’s too worked up from this whole week and all he wants is Arthur’s arse. He wants to eat it, or fuck it, or come inside it. Maybe all three. So Eames starts with the first and buries his face into Arthur, pulling him back by the hips for more leverage as he licks wildly and presses his tongue into Arthur's loosened arsehole.
Eames loses himself for some minutes before he comes back, realizing that Arthur is hoarse, voice choked and begging, calling for attention.
“Eames. God. Fuck. Eames … I need.”
Arthur’s cock is leaking, bobbing up and down as it hangs towards the bed. It’s flushed red, so hard, and Eames can tell that Arthur is close to coming just from this. He thumbs over Arthur’s slick hole before moving from the bed to find his trousers. Digging out a condom, Eames tears it open and slips it on quickly.
He pushes Arthur’s shoulders down so that Arthur’s arse is pushed farther in the air. Arthur is spit-slick but Eames searches for more lube anyway. He finds a bottle near the edge of the bed, beside the box of toys he’d seen Arthur pull out before. Eames dribbles a generous amount directly into Arthur’s waiting hole then he tilts the bottle to get some on the rim. He thumbs around the ring teasingly then bends completely over Arthur, chest against Arthur’s back, to whisper in his ear.
Arthur grunts in approval, then nearly wails as Eames slides into him. Eames is slow about it, taking his time to glide all the way in until he’s sunk in completely. His hips are flush against Arthur’s arse which is baby-smooth underneath his fingers.
Eames grips at the suspenders, pulling Arthur back as he rolls his hips experimentally. Arthur nearly whimpers when Eames finally pulls out farther, just keeping the tip of his cock inside the slick, wet heat of Arthur’s arse. Eames drives back in, setting a leisurely rhythm with his thrusts.
It takes nearly no time at all before Arthur is coming onto the sheets. His long fingers are wrapped around his dick, pale white against pulsing red. Eames can feel the clench of Arthur’s muscles when he comes. But he’s not ready for it to be over yet.
Arthur is boneless and compliant with orgasm. Eames pauses to turn Arthur over so he’s lying on his back, arms splayed across the bed. Arthur’s softening cock bounces lightly with Eames’ thrusts, catching the lacy edge of Arthur’s belt and dirtying it with come.
It takes Eames five more minutes to reach orgasm. He comes with his thumbs tucked into the edge of Arthur’s thigh highs and his mouth against Arthur’s neck. He’s wet, covered in sweat and the slide of of his skin on Arthur’s is too hot for comfort. He reluctantly pulls away, unhooking his thumbs from the stockings’ elastic top and sliding out of Arthur completely.
Eames stumbles to the bathroom to deposit the condom in the trash as well as grab one of the complimentary cups for water. He fills one and downs it quickly before filling it again. Grabbing a towel he dampens it with warm water and heads back into the room. On his way to the bed Eames closes the laptop, cutting off the video feed.
He sets the glass on the nightstand before cleaning Arthur with the cloth gently. Arthur is lolling into sleep, but his mouth twitches as Eames runs the wet fabric over ticklish areas. When Eames is done he props Arthur up and hands him the glass. Arthur drinks enthusiastically until the entire cup is gone.
Eames takes the glass from him and sets it back onto the table. They lay back down and pull the sheets up. It’s a very short time before they are both asleep.
In the morning they shower. Arthur hops in first, leaving Eames to doze for a bit before he wakes and joins him beneath the faucet. They run hands over each other, bodies slick and warm, but there’s no time for sex so they’re both left wanting, allowing their half hard cocks to grow soft and wait for later that night.
Arthur doesn’t allow Eames to watch him dress. He forces Eames to stay in the bathroom until he calls out. Eames emerges to Arthur doing up his tie, a dimpled smile plastered across his face as Eames views him in the floor length mirror. He’ll have to wait for tonight to see what Arthur has hiding underneath his suit.
When they arrive to the warehouse together, Ariadne gives them the most self-satisfied smirk he’s ever seen on a person. Arthur has the good sense to blush a little, not much. Eames doesn’t bother to appear embarrassed. After lunch he stops by Ariadne’s work station, depositing a box of chocolate, a thank you note, and a new vibrator in the middle of her paper models.
He manages, for once, to convince Arthur to leave early for the day.