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There's something palpably, unmistakably hot about the way Martin looks tonight, in his dark navy suit jacket, sky blue shirt, grey tweed trousers and tie. Maybe it's his particular attention to detail, crisp, cuff linked sleeves flush with his wrists, or that dainty paisley chief in his breast pocket. Maybe it's those blues and greys working their magic, beatifying his fine, silvery hair and beard, striking up his eyes. Never mind that you're in an auditorium full of people, you simply cannot take your eyes off him.

He's busy, immersed in conversation, yet all that fidgeting tells you he notices. How he tugs at his ear concertedly before glancing over at you. The thought quietly eats away at his brain. Rocking him back and forth on the balls of his feet while scratching the back of his neck. That you're so close, hanging over by the doorway, a corridor which leads to the rear entrance of the hall. His gaze catches yours as you vanish. All he needs to do is follow.

Outside the building, there's no time to spare. So it surprises you how relaxed he is when you've grabbed him by his lapels. Grinning, apparently amused at how little ol' you has shoved him right up against a wall. Although his tune changes quickly, to a lowly, needy groan once you seal his mouth, starting to wrestle with his jacket, his tie. He clutches your waist, rising to cup your breasts while you suck at him, drawing out air until he can't take it anymore, forced to push your face away.

Martin cackles, head lolling loosely from side to side. Hungry for that whiff of want trembling at your fingertips while you hustle to unfasten his trousers, shirt front flapping. You unzip his fly. He can't quite believe this is happening. Neither can you. You smile, cupping the side of his face.

The mess you've made already. Tie divorced from his collar, hanging in a loop across his front. Those neat lapels now dishevelled, jacket slipping off from his shoulder, pocket square spilled out the breast pocket. Pink lipstick faintly smeared across his mouth. His hands busy themselves over the hug of your hips, skirting up your dress and tugging at your panties. As if he doesn't care one bit about how desperate and debauched he looks. Out here, in some dingy half-lit alleyway.

"You're impossible," he murmurs.

"Says the hot daddy in his pretty little suit," you reply, grooming a patch of his scraggy beard, gleaming salt-and-peppery, almost out of sympathy. "Question is, what are you gonna do about it?"

His jaw is soft, your thumb trickling down his throat. Martin licks his lips. Thin and small, like your own. You're drawn in, to mirror, fit with him, hands roving up and down your spine, dwelling on the small of your back, kiss moist, breathy. It excites him, being laid bare like this. Erection already tenting within his boxers. His tongue melts in your mouth, turning your stomach aflutter. Needing more. Buttons pop off as you grasp the fabric at his chest, tearing his shirt apart, down to his navel.

"Fuck," he hisses, peering down at his chest, flesh suddenly exposed to the chilly night air. Under your touch he gasps a little, shutting his eyes. Fine, goose pimpled skin over his pectorals, so smooth and delicate. Below, a bit further, that soft, squishy little belly. What you'd do with your mouth over his whole body, if only you had the time.

The scratch of his beard along the side of your cheek stirs your insides, leaning in towards your ear. He whispers, his voice dripping with a smirk. "Just so you know, you owe me 300 bloody quid for this shirt."

In response, you grind into his bulge. Martin slaps your ass hard.

"Oooh! Daddy's angry."

"No, Daddy's going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk."

"Oh, really now?"

He nails you down in his gaze, positively snarling. "Yeah. Really now."

He grabs your wrist as you sneak down to his groin. Yet he doesn't stop you. You delve inside his boxers, pull out his cock. Both of you groan at the contact, the firm grip you have on him as you guide him between your legs, the wet slide of his head along your folds. That face looks so cute, so appetising when it's all scrunched up, determined not to fold while you centre on your clit. Tease and rub yourself in slow, steady circles, pleasure throbbing within your nub. Swollen, glistening hard. Just like his cock.

You lose focus for just a few seconds. Seconds in which the weight of him shifts and spins you around. Slamming you against the wall with a cry, legs sprawled. Dress straps dangle about your arms. Your leg hitches up, and he grabs hold of your calf, spreading you even wider, cock poised at your entrance. He sinks the tip inside you, just to give you a taste. Feeding your mouth, his tongue teasing this time, kisses scattered over your chin. His fingers comb thoroughly through your hair to jerk you back, craning your head. You're panting as you feel his growth scour every bare inch of your throat, sucking your skin red. Rough and wet and hard. You're laughing. Mocking him to go harder still.

You can't help yourself.

His cock jams inside you with a rock of his hips, slapping against yours. You howl, not even ready for all of him yet, but you're still laughing, loving every minute of this. It's not a side of Martin many get to see. All that repressed Catholic anger deep down, pouring out, all over you. Thrusts swift and sharp, severing you open. His grunts seethe, taking hold of your throat. Fucking you like an animal. Almost pulling out of you each time, deliberately, leaving you in a panic, thinking he might not finish the job. Withdraw completely and walk away, leaving you crushed up and soiled. Craving for more.

Except he can't help himself either.

His weakness: Watching you unravel. Unable to resist pounding into you faster and faster, until you yield. Your face flushed, body growing erect, rising with the smooth slide of his cock inside you, soaked in your juices. Moaning at the sky as he keeps filling you, right to the brim. You're closer than ever, about to spill. Pinning your forehead to his, making sure his eyes were nowhere else but on yours. Nails digging into his bicep, raking down the nape of his neck. You can feel him too, peaking, poised to come.

This orgasm flashes, kicks long and hard, both of you screaming out till you're spent. He doubles over, cock softening inside you. Lets you go. On both legs all of a sudden you stumble a little before he grabs your waist, helping you to regain your footing. His earlier jibe isn't lost on you, but he's determined to rub it in, eyes widening with raised brows, his chuckle infectiously snowballing the pair of you into laughter. So much so that you're needing the wall again for extra support.

Luckily no one spots you both while you lazily slip your clothes back on, appearing calm and presentable once more. As if none of this had ever happened. Aside from the minor issue of his shirt. He buttons up his suit jacket fully, turning out the shirt collar.

"You had that whole open shirt thing going in the mid-noughties, didn't you?"

He clears his throat. "Early noughties, actually."

You're waiting for him to speak further. Make up some snarky verbal aperitif that signalled a return to his typical smart-ass self. Martin takes your hand, grinning sheepishly as he squeezes it, warm and soft. Exhales a contented sigh.

He walks you back into the auditorium without a word.