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Fighting the Spiders

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Should not be doing this.

But – oh shit – he kisses – like he’s on fire. Or something.

Yeah. That metaphor could be better.

Fucks sake Gimli.


Kisses couldn’t.

Out the taxi. Fuck, might have known he’d live in some up-itself fancy flat. No. Apartment. This is not a flat.

In the lift. Mouths locked together again. Fuck but he’s good. Hands everywhere. Mahal, the leanness of him, the muscle. Hair loose, swinging over my face.


And then – inside – and – oh holy Durin – he’s straight down on his knees. Nuzzling against me, undoing me with – oh shit – his mouth – while – oh shit – he’s opening a condom – where was that? in his pocket? – and – oh fuck – no way – no sodding way – but he is. He is actually unrolling it onto me – with his mouth – and – his hands are on my hips, holding me – pulling me in – oh shit – never had this before – bloody elves.

Always do everything perfectly.

Fuck that feels good.

He looks up at me, and then pulls back – with the most – amazingly obscene sound – and,
“Slow down, dwarf,” he says, “thought you wanted to shag me bandy?”

Shit. Bloody elf hearing.

He stands up again, but somehow, while he was down there, he seems to have kicked off his boots, and his jeans are – not stuck round his ankles, like any mortal’s, oh no, bloody elf – jeans are on the floor – no underwear of course – and he turns away from me, bending – oh Durin help me – bending forward over the back of the fancy leather sofa.

And – Mahal but elves don’t believe in hanging about – he is all lubed up and ready. No doubt why he goes out on a Friday night.

“Yes?” he asks, and I realise he thinks I am hesitating.

“Admiring the view,” I say, and then I am behind him, and – I see he is scrambling to take his top off, so I reach forward – pressing myself against him, feeling his desperate push back so needy he is – and twist my hand in his collar,

“Leave it,” I say, “looks good.” Don’t know why, just – looks sexier than naked somehow. And he instantly stops, doing as I say, and the thrill is – uncomfortably strong. Can’t help myself – he just looks so good – and he seems to like it – I slap his arse, watch him quiver, hear his gasp,

“Yes?” I say, “you want me to fuck you? Say it, elf.”

“Yes,” he says, “yes, please, fuck me, like this, now, hard, please.”

That was pretty clear, I think, so – oh Durin forgive me – I do. Hard. Like he said. And he is hot, and tight, and good, and he moans, he cries out, he comes, no need to touch him, no need to do anything at all except – thrust in as hard, as deep, as often as I can, until I come inside him. Well, inside the condom. Fuck that feels good.

And then I pull out of him, start the slightly unpleasant process of taking the condom off, carefully, knotting it, and doing my flies up. Thinking – oh fuck. Now the haze of lust has worn off, this is going to be pretty sodding awkward.

Neither of us is that drunk. Drunk enough to do this, not drunk enough not to know we shouldn’t have.

He is my boss.

Well, employer.

Shit. Really, really shouldn’t have done that.

Better make my excuses and go.

But somehow – when he turns to face me, still half dressed, hair mussed up, sticky, and not quite perfect anymore – somehow, he looks so young, so – vulnerable – that when he says,

“Tubes’ll be fucked this time of night. You’ll be half way home before you find a taxi. Stay – you could – I – its Saturday tomorrow. No need to be up early,” I find I want to – even before he adds, “besides, I’m not bandy yet. Need to work through a lot more of a packet if you’re going to manage that.”

Shouldn’t do this.

But – I’m going to.