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Ten Years Later

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Ten years, 6 girlfriends, 18 jobs, 4 multi-level marketing schemes, one short-lived attempt to keep a dog and three pregnancy scares later, Jeremy looked at Mark and thought, "Well, why not, then?"

Mark had aged rather well, Jeremy thought. Or maybe it was just that since he'd always dressed like a 40-year-old anyway, the change was hardly noticeable. More to the point, he, Jeremy, was not aging so well, and he couldn't really risk some widow with an eye to the main chance swanning in and swooping Mark off his feet. If that happened, Jeremy had no doubt he'd be put out to pasture faster than you could say "Heather Mills."

It was time, Jeremy decided, to do some swooping himself.

He'd need to do research, first, of course. Not that he was totally without experience: there had been that time in that club, and that other time with that musician and that other time with, and OK, so maybe he should have put some of this together earlier. But it was all long ago, and anyway, a few swallows do not a summer make.

Best to go cold turkey, he thought. Delete and from his phone and keep all his porn strictly man on man. Or man on man on man on man. That was good, too.

Figuring out how to bring the subject up was trickier. No one turns down a blow job, Super Hans liked to say. But the problem, Jeremy thought, was that Mark was in fact exactly the kind of wanker who would turn down a friendly blow job and go on and on about boundaries and rules and we don't live in ancient Greece, Jeremy.

So it'd have to be a stealth blow job, but that was easier said then done.

The morning was no good. Jeremy thought about it often: sucking Mark off as he slept on those ridiculous stripy sheets of his, picturing his face when he woke up and realised that yes, that was his cock in Jeremy's mouth. But Mark woke up at half six every morning.  Jeremy managed half eight once, but the flat was already empty and there was a note on the fridge reminding him to buy eggs.

The roofies were Hans' idea, but he must have misjudged the dosage or something, because next thing he knew, Mark had fallen face flat on the carpet, and it wasn't like he could just do him there, really. Jeremy's back wasn't what it was, for one thing.

Nothing for it. He'd have to go for the direct approach.

Jeremy stripped down and eyed himself in the mirror. Who was he kidding? He still totally had it. A bit of a waste to keep it just to Mark, really, but he figured they could go halfsies on some girls once they had the gay thing sorted out.

He crawled into Mark's bed. God, it was comfortable. He remembered this from the last time he'd done it in here. Why would Mark never share the magic secret of his softy soft sheets? ("It's called 'washing them more often than every leap year, Jeremy,'" Mark had said, which was, of course, totally a lie.)

Anyway, this would work, he was sure of it. Mark would be here any minute now and he'd walk into the bedroom and there Jeremy would be, a naked Greek god, lying on his bed, waiting for his hero home from the wars. Jeremy shifted a bit, grabbing hold of his cock. That was rather good, actually. Not that he could see Mark actually fighting. But maybe if it wasn't so much Mark as someone blonder, someone more like, well, more like him, really. Jeremy pictured himself in a military uniform. God, he was gorgeous.

Mark walked in an hour later, cross from the tube delays and a tiring day at work. He walked into his bedroom and saw Jeremy snoozing away, starkers, with the sheets twisted round his limbs and stained with bits of baby oil and what he hoped weren't well, emissions, but probably were, dammit. Typical Jeremy, he thought. Probably didn't even get out of bed to walk the girl out. And now he had to sleep on the bloody sofa. Perfect, Mark thought. Just fucking perfect.

Jeremy might have left it at that, because fuck, this seduction thing took up a lot of time. But then he and Mark were in the offy and Martine from the 3rd floor just walked right up and started asking him about sherries. As if Jeremy wasn't even there. And was that Mark laughing at her stupid joke about the Lib Dems?

Clearly, desperate measures were called for.

Jeremy waited until Friday evening, because clearly Mark would need to sleep in after their grand night of passion. He put on his best soft shirt, sniffed his armpits, right, they were fine, and walked back out into the living room.

Mark pointed at him with the TV remote. "Going out?"

"No, mate. Staying in." Jeremy plopped down on the sofa. "What are we watching?"

"The World at War."

"Oh, excellent." Why was Mark looking at him in that strange way? Well, best to get on with it.

Jeremy leaned one arm against the sofa and let the other drop oh so casually toward his cock.

"Say, Mark."

"Ummmm?" Mark had turned his focus back to the Nazis.

"Would it be OK if I blew you?"

"Ummmmm. Sorry, what?" Mark still wasn't really paying attention. Jeremy scooted closer and put his hand on Mark's dick. Mark dropped the remote.

"I said, could I take off your trousers and suck your cock, Mark?"

Mark was still staring at him in shocked silence.

"You could keep watching the Nazis," Jeremy offered. You couldn't say fairer than that, really.

"Jez." Mark licked his lips rapidly. Jeremy decided he needed to do this before Mark started in on some speech, or before the Germans started bombing Stalingrad. He leaned over and undid Mark's trousers and then slid off the sofa onto his knees. They really needed a new carpet, this was one was right thin.

There, was that tenting? That was tenting. "Right," said Jeremy. "Cheers, then." He reached forward and fished Mark's dick from his pants. It felt bigger than he'd thought, and warm, too. Quite nice, actually.

"Jez." Now Mark was breathing heavily and reached down to tentatively stroke Jeremy's hair. "Jez. God."

Jeremy grinned. He knew this was a good idea. He gave Mark's cock a few more strokes with his hand and then leaned forward and swallowed him down. Brilliant.

Fuck you, Martine from the 3rd floor, he thought, fuck you. Mark was his.