Det Reese receives a call just as he was heading out for lunch. His colleague, Det Fusco scowls as the former waves his phone around with a shit eating grin.
A clear ‘hello’ greeted Det Reese’s ears, to which he responded with “Harold”.
“I’ll be having dinner earlier tonight, Det Reese. So I recommend you to have yours before-” A pause. Perhaps still uncertain on how to address the arrival. “-you reach the store.”
“Anything happening tonight?” The detective looks down at his stale coffee, then at his calender. Two small words in red described the day.
“Yes, something rather out of the norm. You’ll know soon enough.”
“Fine.” The detective acquiesces, a rare event. “Fusco owes me a meal anyway.” To which the other detective stops his munching and starts refuting impromptu. The taller detective just dangled his car keys and leather gloves in response to the complaint chute.
“I thought you’d want something better than a drive-thru,” Fusco says as they’re a couple hundred feets away from the speaker. “Don’t your boyfriend impose any health regulations you’re supposed to follow?”
“This line is definitely not the definition of fast food.” Det Reese says without answering the question.
“What, you have somewhere to teleport to soon?” Fusco taunts. “Off to a patisserie to snatch last minute cakes and bouquets to impress Finch? Not a smart move, since most of them would’ve long sold out by now.” That morning itself, Fusco failed to obtain even a chocolate donut from his usual go-to bakery. Patched with red heart balloons and pink flowers, all the detective managed to get was apple cinnamon rolls and walnut buns. Carter thought he’s going on a diet and applaused.
Det Reese remains unfazed but clearly he’s irritated by the speculation. “Budge, Lionel. The line’s moving.”
“These aren’t for you, Bear.” Mr Finch says as his pet huddles over with a curious nose. Right hand gripping on the side of a black gift box, the gold ribbon shivers as he walks upstairs. In his left is a bottle of champagne, golden fizzes concealed by the emerald green glass. The attached complimentary card is already filled with simple wishes, written with sepia ink for an additional flair.
Once he placed the items in their position, he pat Bear’s head before walking downstairs. The small swooshing tail follows the shop owner around like a roomba trailing dust bunnies. Not merely out of affection of course. Bear has been sniffing for treats since his breakfast and the shop owner only have the detective to blame. He’d have to reprimand the man for sneaking treats underneath the table too frequently, not even bothered with cleaning off the scattered crumbs.
But as strict as he may be, he couldn’t and wouldn’t leave Bear’s whines unattended. With a sigh, he acquiesced. Thankfully they already have a box of danish waiting in the kitchen, Det Reese’s courtesy of the day before he left for work.
“That’s the last bakery in the street, wonder boy.” Det Fusco states as he bites into his chicken nugget. His colleague walked out of the car grimacing, leather knuckles loosening on his way to the shop.
Det Fusco is left with three precious nuggets when Det Reese walked back empty-handed again, face darker than the snow-cleared pavement he’s walking on. His frustration would mean another unforgiving hour of silence as he drives them back to the station. They went to the outskirts of the city and yet not a single decent (a picky beggar is still picky) piece of sweet is available for purchase.
“He could’ve just bought one of those chocolate boxes from Walmart, but noooo, it must be artisan handmade or some shit,” Flipping the car lock, the detective shut his mouth as the burst of icy wind sit beside him.
After Det Reese storms away with his vehicle, Det Fusco whistles a small tune. He has to head home for a change of clothes since he’s got a date tonight. There’s a small box of Belgian chocolate in the his backseat, something he managed to lay his fingers on just yesterday noon. He’s got a date to impress, and unlike tall dark and menacing, he did his homework.
Det Reese almost didn’t want to leave the car. The engine is still revving, the windscreen wipers still squeaking to swipe away the thin coat of ice. He’d like to take another tour around town but it’s already half past seven, which means his chances of scoring anything presentable is slimmer than Bear getting called a cat during his walks.
He doesn’t have any time left to lament, so he took out the keys and walked out with his head hung low. Snow crunching and face stoic, he finally noticed that the store’s lights are out. He took off a glove and placed his hand on the display window. Still warm.
A brush of smoke gathered in front of him as possibilities speeds through his mind.
Ignoring the ‘CLOSED’ door sign, the detective pushed the door open and stepped in. It’s fine. He still have his gun.
Mr Finch didn’t hear the door opening and thus got startled by the exclamation. He ordered himself to calm down and turn around, put up a bold front. Right after a couple of exhales, he did. But his hands still subconsciously fumbled onto the shirt he’s wearing while his lower lip stiffens under his gnawing teeth. He tries to swallow but small bubbles gurgled up his throat like a boiling kettle.
The detective with his damp hair and slack jaw, dropped his heavy trench coat onto the ground unceremoniously. His face was frozen in the windy cold, but now the breezy blows are obstructed by the thick walls and the remnants of whatever frost he carried dissolved under the residual heat in the building. Warmth thaws the freeze, it’s nothing special. But atmospheric warmth coupled with a generous view of bare legs is too warm.
His legs are moving on its own. Desire trumpets when he got close enough to realize Harold’s wearing his shirt, oversized enough to reach mid-thighs. As if it’s not enough, the pair of milky thighs are brushing against each other like it’s suffering from chills. They were thin like sticks just last year, but now they have enough flesh to cover the blood vessels and knobby knees.
Maybe he could warm them up. Preferably with his hands, mouth or torso and then clamp the pair of legs around his waist as they proceed further. Feeling the heat upon him, he pulls off the other glove. His hands are too sweaty and grabby, fingertips itching to sink into some flesh.
With bated breath, he towers and inspects the smaller man, partially relieved that not a shade of pallor streaked the snowy skin. Fingers and kneecaps pink, blood circulation running fine. Harold allows him to look all he want, quiet and obedient as a doll when John reaches out to thumb on his face. Just as the detective inspects, Harold observes the speckled gold in the man’s eyes, slightly parted lips to exhale awe.
John’s hands finally glides through the tendons and muscles, kneading languidly from the calves to the kneecap, then to the thighs and then down again. Everywhere he touches, he could feel the goosebumps and nervous exhale against his scalp. Mr Finch seems to be allowing the increasing proximity. The sum of their body warmth is overwhelming enough to have water droplets dancing around them, on them.
‘You’ll catch a cold, wearing just that,’ The detective gasps almost frightfully, calloused hands letting go to grip on the tableside behind the bookshop owner. His sock covered soles are planted beside the cowering plump feet, height towering over the shivers of sand brown and tender cotton. He’ve seen how cotton candy melt with just a gush of wet breath. Maybe that’s his current fear.
‘And you’re warm enough for the both of us,’ Mr Finch says, conscious of the hot thrumming against his chest. He resist the urge to look behind, knowing his small hill of clothes are barely folded on the armchair.
‘Why did you turn off the radiator?’ Det Reese asks while knowing the answer. ‘You’re chilly.’
The room is warm, but barely. The shop owner probably switched off the radiator just a moment ago just as he take off his clothes for the sake of a surprise. He could perfectly imagine how the now florid Mr Finch would’ve hurriedly shuck off most of his clothes as he eye the clock warily while being careful not to bump into the bookshelves or to tilt the new books into a cascade of unromantic mess. Maybe after the detective sat on the couch, he’d casually walk into the room, tell him about his day while crossing his legs intentionally.
The detective led his hand to the small of his partner’s back, scrunching up the clothing that is comparatively loose on his partner. How he would love to tread lower without permission. All this while, he’s nothing if not careful. Not even generous kisses would be interpreted as a detour to bed.
But this is an invitation. And if it wasn’t, Harold is eager to persuade. The shop owner starts mouthing the detective’s neck and pooled his arms around his waist. The light eyelashes flaps behind thick glasses as John’s shoulders get pulled down, chapped lips pressing against his jaw to feel the day-old stubble. Kisses are not yet awarded, but they are promised.
Thus the detective decides to concede. His fingers kneads into his usually boring cotton shirt that is now anything but boring, knowing that no matter how many creases and wrinkles there are, it will be ironed out. All stains cleaned no matter how stubborn they are or where thet are. He don’t have to bite on his gums to resist the temptations today.
He has permission to not acquire permission.
Eager to display his gluttony, he wanders beneath the moderately thick cotton, finding no boring briefs but just plumper flesh, cool and soft against his palms. How he relishes to find them peeking from between his fingers, another vast improvement from just last year.
Puffs of white laced their gasps, Harold’s like a halting automatic train, shuddering smokes as he squirms into the touch. A leg bends between the bare wobbly thighs, enabling Harold to rub himself against the black slacks. He did, and allowed his mouth to be sealed to prevent the moans from leaking too soon. His cock and sacks are enjoying the delicious friction against the tough cloth, all the while his ass gets groped and pulled apart, hole nervously clenching and unclenching on cold air. The shirt that was supposed to reach his mid-thighs now barely covers his hardening cock. Poking the shirt upwards with a small circle of pre-cum already, he hopelessly wish at the very least that it won’t dirty the detective’s trousers.
While his mouth gets devoured, the shop owner could feel himself lifted and placed atop of the table, his ass plopped on the icy surface while his cock wobbles. The table has been mysteriously cleared of any obstacles. Mr Finch get pushed until he’s resting on his elbows, carefully positioning himself so that his leg would be subjected to lesser pressure.
Det Reese almost couldn’t contain his saliva. Laid on the table like a feast, the stiff cock, taut balls and puckered hole are all exposed for their eyes only. His own cock is tenting against his zipper, eager to meet Harold too. Breathing heavily, he tries pseudo-fucking the small hole, humping his crotch against it just to see the flushed cock wobble out more pre-cum. They usually go slow, their foreplay so long and lingering that they only start with the fucking when they’re close to cumming. The detective wouldn’t say that he’s close, but he certainly wouldn’t want to cum in his pants. So when Harold started grabbing on his arms, stuttering for him to stop the horseplay, he obediently paused and rummaged around to find his wallet. From within he fish out a small pack of lube which earned a raised eyebrow from his companion.
“For emergencies. But it’s not a lot.” The detective ripped it with his teeth, pouring it onto his palm while he eye Mr Finch’s displayed regions hungrily. The lube was only enough to coat his left hand and Mr Finch was about to suggest that they retrieve their supply from upstairs when a thumb pokes past the rim, a finger pressing on his perineum.
His message came out rather incoherent instead. The sensitive hole bites on the thumb as his thighs bump against the table’s surface. Two more fingers gets inserted impatiently, wideing the muscles like they’re barging angrily through a crowd. The timid owner gave a shy shake of his head as the thumb gets taken out, only for another finger to slide in. Now three digits are buried to the hilt as the same hand palms the hanging sacks.
“Oh.” Mr Finch utters, fingers lacing into the creased shirt. Even with the brash treatment, his cock still drips pre-cum onto the shirt, waggling for more stimulation. He could hear the belt clanking, fly unzipped quickly as the fingers continue to scissor, thrust, and poke into his asshole so that the detective can start fucking him as soon as possible without worrying that he’ll break.
Idly, he wonder if he remembered to turn the ‘welcome’ plate around. What if someone walked in and is instantly blessed with the view of their activity? A pair of bare legs clamped onto a humping waist, the store owner got fucked so vigorously that his moaning replaced the welcome bell. What sort of impression would this imprint on the customer’s mind? Perhaps they’ll scrunch their nose in disgust just knowing the books they flipped may caught the stench of their sex. Mr Finch squirms uncomfortably in his own thoughts, gulping ravenously as his fingers crawled upwards to find the detective’s sweaty cheek and flushed ear. John kisses the wrists almost immediately, and pulls down his briefs. The steamy cock, engorged with cum and eager to please, sprung out immediately. Just as the detective leans in to kiss his neck, Mr Finch then remembered that he did turn the plate around.
What a relief. Mr Finch thought funnily to himself, watching the girth brush past his inner thigh. The fingers retracts from the damp hole. Det Reese hurriedly puts on a condom and pump the cock with any remaining lube. As the cock head begins to enter, Mr Finch bit on his lips to shut any discouraging statements. But his lover realized the dilemma himself soon enough.
“Fuck.” The detective whispers, barely halfway in and he’s sweating. He needed more lube.
“Go on,” Mr Finch says with a tied tongue, but the detective shakes his head. The grip on Mr Finch’s thighs loosened and the cock slid out with a small slurp. The store owner almost whined until the detective started crouching in front of the table, his face too suspiciously close to the owner’s wetting crotch. Before he could stop him, the pair of lips he just kissed proceed to suck on the wet hole.
Douching was of course done prior. But this is the first time the detective attempted rimming. He wanted to push on the stubborn head, stop the devious tongue from slicking up his insides. But it’s futile. His treacherous cock is already leaking pre-cum happily as if he’s getting fucked, sputtering and drawing a puddle on the white shirt. Just a nibble around the puckered rim is enough to prevent Mr Finch’s from rejecting the service. It was more than enough to make the store owner clamp his thighs tighter beside the detective’s ears and clench on the slimy intruder instead. Joyfully buried between his lover’s thighs, John made a peculiar sound as he sucks harder on the loosening pucker. Harold couldn’t investigate the noise through his fogged glasses, nor would he attempt. Even if he did, his own erect cock is also half obstructing the sight, bubbling on the tip and leaning like the tower of Pisa. All he could take note of was that it sounded like a grumble, something like Bear would make when he’s hungry.
The loud slurping eventually ceased, and Mr Finch could now clearly hear his own unbecoming sobs. As if to shake him out of his daze, Det Reese shoved in the fingers again to push in all the natural lube. A crook of his fingers on the prostrate easily sent another jolt across Harold’s body.
“You liked that.” Det Reese smirked, watching the half-lidded eyes and mouth, high cheekbones tinted with paint-like scarlet. To have the tight-lipped Mr Finch increasingly vocal of his enjoyment is a monumental achievement. He relishes whatever moment he can get.
Mr Finch didn’t respond to that. The room is cold, his neck reminiscent of a dull pain. His throat is drying up but droplets of sweat are scattered on his forehead and back. With feverish eyes, he take a glance at the detective whose stroking his own cock languidly, staring covetously at the owner’s moist hole. Baiting and waiting. On most days, Mr Finch wouldn’t take any of the baits recklessly. But this isn’t reckless, is it?
“Turn on the radiator,” The voice came out too hoarse for his own taste. He pulled out the detective’s fingers and substitute them with his own. He had to applaud himself for doing so without fidgeting. “Hurry.” He pries his hole further, pushing in fingertips to ease the ache and that prompted John into moving.
Det Reese impales while holding one of Mr Finch’s legs by the crook. His lover is bent slightly forward, trying to steady himself against the couch in order to endure each thrust. Despite the awkward footing and the hot huffing beside his ear, it’s not all that uncomfortable. The cock slid in like a hot knife slicing butter and slid out like pulling a lollipop from pouting lips. His hole is so drenched that it almost felt like he could take in John’s sacks.
There was an extra condom in the detective’s possession, so they applied it on Harold’s cock as a good measure to avoid staining the couch. As Harold gets pushed towards it repeatedly, his latex coated cock rubs and pokes against the rough cloth, swaying according to John’s thrusts. In fact, his whole body is reactive towards his lover’s momentum. When John plunges in too deep and fast, thin string of drool falls from Harold’s lips, loud moans crawled out of his throat like hiccups. Whenever John pulls out deceptively slow, he’d clench on the thick cock longingly and frantically, especially so when only the cock head remains. He’d be lying if he said he’s entirely passive in their lovemaking. He’s enjoying it as much as John is. After how the cock excavated its path, he couldn’t bear the hollowness that follows every time it leaves. How else could it be explained, whenever the hole slyly gobbles up the retracting cock or, when it suctions greedily at each balls-deep thrusts as though begging for John not to leave? Brushing against Harold’s prostrate again and again to grant him immeasurable pleasure, how could Harold, shy as he is, hide his gratitude towards such a benevolent lover?
As their tempo gets furious, an itching sensation near their intersection amplifies, tickling Mr Finch’s already well-stretched and suffering rim. If he could remember, or have the courage, he should ask the detective to trim. He’s not sure if he’s enjoying it, but it certainly is increasing his sensitivity as it squishes against the tight muscle at every pounce. Just the imagery of how each balls-deep thrust would allow for the thick hair to assault his ass makes him tremble in shame. The way how John’s sacks coincides with his own at every slapping thrust makes it worse. The fluids long seeped out and heading downwards, making each thumps wet and loud. He knew he tend to get wet during their sex, but this is by far a flood.
And the detective might’ve noticed but perhaps he’s too busy with his toil than to comment. When their activity require less creativity, he would be more vocal about his opinions. Mr Finch almost want to take the initiative this time in order to spice up the situation. But before he could, the detective took the opportunity instead.
“Really wanna see us in a mirror,” The detective whispers. “It must be fuckin’ wet down there. Please?”
Mr Finch exhaled loudly and shakes his head, shivering too much to even say a no. That earned him a chuckle and a deeper thrust, shaking him into submitting his body further.
His glasses must be askew because everything is lopsided. Even if it isn’t, tears have already blurred up his vision. But it doesn’t matter. He couldn’t see the array of bookshelves nor could he even distinguish the colors of the wall and carpet. The urgent thumping, splashing and clothes scrunching. The moans, groans, sobs and whimpering, it’s like an orchestra instrumented with both of their bodies. Other than hearing, he is only capable of feeling, like the wet bite on his neck, the sweat trickling down his horrendous spine and the mountainous pressure on his tipping toes.
John humps like a dog in rut. Growling menacingly into Harold’s ear while his cock penetrates through the tight walls like he’s a knight fighting for the king. Except he already won his prize and he’s consummating their union because he earned it.
His empty hand crept beneath the oversized shirt and goes upward. He kneads the belly folds affectionately, and then the loose fat on the chest which Mr Finch despises. He grabs onto the left breast, soft and supple, layered on top of a pumping heart which keeps his lover up and going. Beating fast, ba-dump ba-dump, faster than his thrusts.
Peering downwards from the owner’s shivering shoulder, he sees the shape of his hand, risqué under the half transparent shirt, pinching at a perk nipple until it’s peeking through the white. He could imagine the nub hardening, reddening between his fingers until they couldn’t hide beneath any shirt. Mr Finch holds onto the arm like a lifebuoy, moaning for the bullying to stop but whatever he tried to communicate only came out as desperate whines. The detective seems to understand and complied. But not without a price. Fingers sinking into the white flesh, John’s thrusts grew erratic. It became too slow, too deep, too fast and too shallow, but all brought out short and desperate screams from Harold, cock flailing in disorder. The eccentricity finally caused the store owner to spurt inside the thin rubber. His nails dig into the seat, scratching noises complementing his short wails.
John let go of the leg and bent his lover against the couch, prying the plump ass with both hands to continue with the fucking. The squelching noises were louder than before, splattering fluids brought out with every motion, drenching their pubic hair. Mr Finch sobs as his ass gets utilized further. Limp cock drenched in its own cum and flopping as his body gets rocked further from the assailant behind. Jolts are sent towards his flaccid cock, trying to excite it by pressing on the prostate consistently. Perhaps only if they reached climax simultaneously would he be spared of this suffering, so that his body wouldn’t have to take more than it could.
He could barely keep his feet in place, his toes hurt from and slippery from sweat. Within a dazed second, he fell head first into the couch, face buried in the seat. The detective wasn’t even startled, just fixed the sweaty hips in his clutches and resumed with his hammering. Harold sobbing accusations of the man behind him fell onto deaf ears as now he’s got something else to worry about. His cock is still slipping out of the filled up condom. Whimpering shyly, he tries to hold it in place so that the contents won’t spill onto the cushions. But what the store owner forgot was that, due to their vigorous fucking, their intermingling fluids are already wetting the side of the couch, which may never be noticed so long as the detective kept quiet.
And with a last thrust, the detective finally came. John’s hot cum got caught by the thin sheet of rubber but Harold still spluttered whines as the cock got buried too deep, pulsing as it ejaculates.
This was where it initially ended, but I added more below. If you'd like a bit more plot (or just storytelling?), please read on.
Continuation (written on October 1st )
Mr Finch could feel John’s breath behind his neck, cock still fully buried. Pinned on the couch like a toy, even if it’s futile, he remains adamant in keeping the slippery condom around his own cock. His ass is still in the air and he’s lying on his belly. Needless to say, it’s utterly uncomfortable. He wouldn’t even want to imagine how ridiculous he look, and more so the fact that he got fucked into this display.
If things ended there, this may just be an awkward but still point ending 1. Neither the beginning nor the end; like an ongoing dance that’s halted not in performance, but concealed by the lowering curtains. To the spectator, it is inconceivable on whatever that may follow. Will John continue to thrust, or will he pull out and retrieve a hot towel for their comfort? Perhaps he may even fill the tub and pour themselves champagne as they soak.
Mr Finch felt like a spectator himself, and thus knows not what may follow. A small helplessness grows albeit he willingly surrendered himself to the whims of his partner. As part of the gifts on this special day, he have made an internal undertaking to comply to John’s actions at least halfheartedly, like a newborn pup whining in its owner’s hands.
‘You alright?’ John finally speaks, hands kneading Harold’s hips as he eases out slowly.
‘Fine,’ which came out weaker than he intended. Harold clears his throat and responded once more. ‘I can’t stay like this for long,’
‘Yea fuck, ok, sorry,’ John says and pulls out with a plop. The lubricated cock has a slight sheen even under the dim lights. He stared at the gaping wet hole longingly before pulling Harold to his feet. The predicted wobble led Harold right into his arms again. Staring down he noticed how Harold holds onto the sliding piece of condom with trembling fingers. As endearing as the sight may be, he kisses the warm cheek and helped him to tie it into a small balloon. A dissatisfied whimper is made when the detective then wiped the store owner’s flaccid cock with the white shirt though.
‘Now it’s even more filthy,’ Harold mutters.
‘I’d still wear it,’ John admits honestly but Harold clutches onto the back of the sofa like he suffered shock.
We should probably sit. John thought, attempting to guide Harold around and to the sofas. They made baby steps like penguins but Harold shakes his head when John signaled him to the seats. His knees are shaking but he refuse to taint the furniture.
‘I’d rather sit on the ground.’ Harold huffs. He said he’d obey, but he never said he wouldn’t haggle.
And so they did. John laid a couple of cushions on the floor and then layered them with his shirt and coat. Finally Harold’s brows unfurrowed and he acquiesced.
‘These needs to be dry cleaned tomorrow,’ Harold mutters as he sits on the black coat carefully. But no matter how meticulous he’s being, it’s undisputed that his wet genitalia is making direct contact with John’s weatherbeaten coat. He squeezes his thighs shut at the idea, head lowering as his hole clenches at the thought. He’d get rid of this coat before John even noticed it’s gone. Never would it see the daylight again.
John sat beside him topless, about to wink when Harold points downwards.
‘You haven’t removed it.’ Harold stares at it awkwardly, awfully conscious that he’s reminding John to remove the condom that was just inside him. Repeatedly. Although the cock seemed slack, but the rubber sheath is not ready to slip off on its own.
John seems to be nonchalant about it and shrugs. Then he waves a hand non-threateningly against the books which costs more than the sofas, individually.
‘You can help me pull it off.’
Harold’s brows flew upwards, eyes glossy with disdain. His cheeks grew less feverish after their lovemaking ended but now it’s red once more. John’s laughter seems to be teasing him prude. The glossy cock sways according to its’ master’s movements like a comical sketch.
‘It’s not gonna bite. C’mon, Harold.’ John chuckles as he pulls Harold’s hand to it. Warm flesh weighs damply against his palm, giving Harold’s arms goosebumps. He could hear his own stuttering breath as his fingertips reach the rim near the base of John’s cock. He could feel the tingling of wet pubic hair that are probably soaked with his own fluids.
Now that he’s in proximity with it, he knows why it’s still staying on. It’s half-hard. John’s refractory period is too short for their own good. But it should be easier to take off than when it is fully erect. He could try nudging it off.
‘Tell me if it hurts.’ Harold whispers, tongue peeking out unconsciously.
‘Well you gotta hurry, or else it’s gonna get harder for you,’ John resists from gearing into a full bodied laughter to preserve the tension. He succeeded. Harold’s brightly lit cheeks and downcast eyes are evidence enough that he caught the innuendo.
With a couple of tugs and a small pull, the condom fell off. John’s cock is now jutting slightly and slimy in it’s own cum. Harold hands the condom to his partner hastily, but still unable to avert his eyes before he witness how John rubbed himself clean with his own briefs. He’d have to put that into the washing machine on its own.
The store owner was wondering about his partner’s follow up plan until John pulled a large sofa cushion and plopped it on the floor. Patting it twice as an invitation, he offers a smug grin before laying his head on it. It would’ve been a pleasing sight were it not for the half erect cock that’s dangling according to John’s movements.
It’s almost like an invitation to ride him.
‘Lie down with me.’ But that’s all John said, and Harold complied with a minor fidget. His legs are still bare and his ass is still sore. But once he laid down, it mattered lesser than he could bother. There aren’t even dusts on the ceiling to count, just bland decor and tints of the dim lights by the side. Yet it’s as tranquil as lying beneath a bed of night clouds.
They stared at the ceiling in silence until John started talking. He started off with his day in the station and then his endeavours in trying to obtain a decent box of chocolate, followed up with how Fusco actually got a date this year, so he didn’t snatch his box out of pity. His tone fell as he described how he couldn’t even get a box near the outskirts and Harold thought he was about to apologize.
‘I’ll get a couple tomorrow. Or the day after. I can probably even get you one everyday. You want that?’ John whispers.
Harold allows a small grin to visit his face. How typical of John to devise his way around his obstacles.
‘I still have a strict diet regime to follow, no thanks.’
John nods, and settles with two boxes despite Harold’s soft objections. He then turns around to face Harold.
‘I’m still kinda hard,’ John murmurs, grinning as Harold’s serenity breaks into a wide eyed glare. Scooting closer as if to gather body warmth, his left hand caresses Harold’s pale thigh. His hand shy as compared to his shameless demeanor.
Harold haven’t mustered up the courage to look at the glistening eyed wolf beside him. He could feel the dexterous fingers sliding to his ass, but it didn’t travel closer to tap on the damp opening. It just stood there kneading on the white mounds, waiting.
Maybe if he ignored John long enough he’ll go away, so he kept his eyes where it is. Perhaps they can consider pasting some glowing star stickers up there, although it wouldn’t be useful whatsoever in the day. He’d ask John about it next week. Maybe he won’t remember this ocassion vividly enough to relate two and two together.
And on certain nights when only Bear could provide him company, looking at artificial stars might remind him of this moment.
He try to remain passive whilst the hot breath assaults his neck but the ceiling really isn’t that thought provoking. It was probably just a minute before he surrendered again.
‘What would you like me to do about it then?’ Harold finally murmurs, his hands clutching on the white shirt just slightly.
Like a desert explorer finally gaining permission to drink from the oasis, John nibbles on Harold’s earlobe and mutters his intentions as if it’s a secret.
Upon hearing it, Harold’s eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings in the wind. The risque suggestion isn’t moderately enough to elicit a ‘no’ from him, but more importantly, it’s another of John’s attempts in pulling him further into the titillating side of lovemaking. Long have they gone from the vanilla flavoured sex, and now venturing into the deeper pools hand-in-hand.
But if he were to be honest to himself, he would admit that his own cock stirred with interest at the idea. There’s a little devil in all of them, after all.
‘Just this once?’ He whispers back, hearing his own heart pounding.
‘Unless you want more,’ John says softly, and finally taps on Harold’s still stretched opening like a door.
And Harold merely opens his thighs to answer John’s prayers.
- ‘Still point’: TS Elliot’s ‘Burnt Norton’ 1936