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“Malcolm, are you sure Vivienne won't be here?” John asks as Malcolm is struggling with the door lock in front of his apartment.
“John, I told you, no. We'll be alone.”
John looks around the hallway suspiciously, listening for sounds in the apartment that weren't there.
“And where is she?” John asks again.
“It's obvious that she's in the store,” the lock finally gives way, “too much work.”
“And Joe?”
«He's old enough to go to school, John, in case you didn't know, or maybe he's skipping school now, I don't know.”
“Do you take me for an idiot?”
“Why “take”? You're the one asking stupid questions. In any case, Vivienne and Joe wouldn't be bothering us at all.”
Rotten makes a surprised face.
“What? Why did you even fucking invite me back then? Are we really going to have tea, as Malcolm suggested?” the guy thinks, but instead he says irritably, “I don't care, I just don't want to see them.”
“I said you won't see them,” now Malcolm says nervously.
They enter the apartment, which John and the others visited quite often. So there's nothing suspicious except that Malcolm invited him alone.
“I'll put the kettle on now,” the man says, hangs up his coat and heads for the kitchen.
John also follows him, taking in the surroundings.
“What's this?” the guy suddenly asks.
“This is… this is a new suit, trousers, and a shirt with bandages.”
“With bandages?”
«Yes, there is a belt between the knees that binds them, and on the shirt as well.”
“I want to try it on,» John says urgently.
“I don't think that's a good idea,” McLaren says. “The costume is only in a few copies so far, we wanted to put them on the shelves right away for tomorrow. They are difficult to make…”
“I don't care, I want it.”
“But that's not what we agreed on,” Malcolm says with displeasure, but calmly, leaning his hand on the tabletop.
“What do you mean, we didn't agree?! You said yesterday that I could pick out anything in your damn shop.”
“I've already given you a lot of clothes, John,” the man protests again, “thank God Viv doesn't know about this,” he adds quietly. “And it's not a shop, it's my apartment, in case you haven't noticed.”
Malcolm's argument is more than weighty, and John is silent for a moment, fuming more and more.
“If I don't try on this suit now, you won't get anything more from me, okay?” Rotten blurts out.
After being silent for a while, mulling over John's words, Malcolm finally says sternly, “What are you talking about, John?” and he looks at him intently with a grin, “If you're talking about refusing to sing in a band, then I don't think you need to take such a risky step because of the clothes.”
“Yes, he's mocking, really mocking. He pretends that there is nothing between us, never was and cannot be. The bastard.”
Johnny stops talking, not knowing what to say, even though it's never been a problem for him. He considers the answer for a moment, whether to be outraged that Malcolm wiped his feet on him or just pretend that nothing happened. He chooses the latter: “Just tell Vivienne that I bought the suit. I don't think you need to be taught how to lie.”
“Who’s teaching whom?” Malcolm says softly, almost inaudibly, walking past John, as if accidentally brushing his shoulder while he is standing like a statue, tense from this conversation, “Okay. I think it will suit you very well, you still need to try it on, “Malcolm leans slightly towards John saying, “are you ready?”
“Ready for what the fuck?” John thinks, but he doesn’t dare say it, and just goes to the bathroom to finish it all.
“You don't have to lock yourself in, the whole apartment is at our disposal.”
Johnny turns around and irritably throws his shirt and trousers on the sofa, which is standing in the middle of the so-called living room, which is both the kitchen and Vivienne's workshop, and begins to unbuckle his belt. He already regrets that he wanted to come here.
…
The past weeks have been crazy. Rehearsals, first performances, endless trips to pubs and clubs. John naturally noticed that Malcolm had friendly relations with Steve and Paul, especially with Steve. He was jealous, he was a loner in the group, the same as always. When Malcolm invited him to the club, Johnny wasn't too surprised, after all, it was just another party, and Malcolm said he was treating him.
“Where are Steve and Paul?” asks John, when they have already ordered cocktails.
“They're not here,” McLaren replies casually.
Chatting a bit about this and that, Johnny feels more and more someone else's touch on his shirt. It isn’t that he objected, it is a common thing for him, the men didn't go any further than that, or John didn't give them a reason. However, tonight is a good night, Malcolm invited him alone, without “those idiots Steve and Paul,” all the attention is on him, he doesn’t have to defend territory, he feels relaxed. Malcolm, as it seems to John, is trying to surprise him, to interest him, talking about art, fashion and his vision of the Sex Pistols, and he, in turn, really wants to talk to him, to have lunch with a really smart, as it seemed to him, adult. At least be understood by someone.
After four drinks, his eyes are already blurred, his coordination is disrupted, and over the noise of the crowd, he hears Malcolm saying something, leaning toward him.
“What?” Johnny doesn't understand the meaning of what is said, he frowns and tries to see a clue in Malcolm's face. He leans even closer to his ear, touching his belt with his fingers, touching his shirt with his fingers, to which the skin on his lower back is wet from the heat, and says: “Maybe you want to relax, can I help you?” retreating after saying that, McLaren looks at him carefully. Johnny doesn't say anything, but he doesn't move either.
“Let's go,” the man says and gently guides him towards the bathroom, taking him by the elbow. Johnny goes forward obediently.
The decision is made too quickly, alcohol and speeds speak for him, pumping all the blood from his head right into his penis.
Johnny still obediently goes into the flimsy booth and stands against the wall, watching as Malcolm follows him and closes the door with a latch.
The cabin is too narrow, too dirty. Malcolm turns to him. Johnny is not thinking clearly, but he feels that Malcolm is looking at his clothes, hair, watch and collar around his neck, as if looking through him, John feels like a mannequin. His thoughts are interrupted, he hears someone, barely standing on his feet, taking a piss in a urinal. McLaren involuntarily turns his head at the sound of running urine. Immediately, John sees the man turn back and look down at his fly. Johnny is breathing heavily, waiting for Malcolm's actions. He carefully covers the bump on John's pants with his palm, stroking the contents. Johnny tenses and takes hold of Malcolm's shoulders, anxiety mixed with excitement. He glances at the lock on the door, thinking of quickly escaping from here, but Malcolm's hand, which deftly unbuttoned his fly and dived inside, made John change his train of thought. They were standing so close now that John rested his chin on the man's shoulder. He gently and softly touches his cheek to his cheekbone. The man's skin is a little rough, Johnny notices that his hair probably grows very fast. He draws in the scent of his hair and the remnants of perfume from his neck. “Only old people use it,” he thinks, involuntarily remembering their difference… in age, in origin, in financial wealth. His thoughts are drowned out as Malcolm picks up his pace. He presses his hip painfully against John, preventing him from making sudden movements, his hand is working down between them, Johnny feels that the man is also standing.
He awkwardly tries to kiss Malcolm, thinking that it is probably necessary that what is happening between them should not be so detached, opening his mouth and lightly touching the man's lips, waiting for him to respond to him, but he does not respond. John is taken aback for a second. “Do you hate kissing me?” McLaren only leans forward slightly to John's lips, forcing him to lift his chin a little and lower his eyes, and immediately descends to his neck, breathing hotly into it and touching his lips to the skin above the collar. John relaxes again.
The movements on his cock are pretty rough, it seems Malcolm left a bite on his neck, but he's not sure, the feelings are bursting. Johnny knows he's going to come soon, but he wants something else to get to the end. He pushes Malcolm away from him a little, breathing heavily, and with the last of his strength turns his back to him, pressing his buttocks against his groin, leaning his hands on the partition.
He wants to be included. Malcolm, of course, understands this. He takes John's cock again, which is trapped between the man and the dirty partition, now pressing his cheek against it. John feels Malcolm's erection from behind, but no one takes off trousers. The man moves his hips, pretending to do what John so desperately wants. McLaren makes a final jerk with his hand and presses against John as hard as he can, John cums.
Malcolm immediately wipes his hand with the remains of toilet paper. Johnny turns tiredly towards him, inhaling deeply through his nose and trying to focus his eyes. It falls on McLaren's fly, which is still noticeably bulging.
“And you?” Rotten asks suspiciously and a little reproachfully, still watching Malcolm wipe his hand. Johnny sees that Malcolm is uncomfortable, he doesn't look at John's face.
“Some other time,” he replies and throws the paper somewhere on the floor, “will you go out first?” now he asks John sternly, finally looking at him.
Malcolm's voice sounds annoyed, John doesn't understand what's going on. Did he do something wrong, or did Malcolm not like it? “Some other time?” Johnny guesses that there won't be another time.
John thinks for a second and silently leaves the booth. Then he goes to the place where he left his raincoat, picks it up and leaves the club without waiting for either the end of the party or Malcolm.
…
While Johnny is unbuckling his belt, Malcolm cautiously approaches him from behind and lightly touches his waist from both sides. Johnny immediately tenses up.
“Will you stop? Do you have to touch me while I'm changing?”
“I just thought I'd help you pull off your pants.”
“I'll manage on my own.”
McLaren immediately backs off.
“Okay, whatever you say.”
Johnny feels Malcolm's obsessive gaze from behind him as he takes off his trousers and shirt and thinks about how his underpants are too small, he should have worn a pair of boxers.
After getting dressed, Rotten goes to a small mirror hanging on the wall and moves away to more or less see the whole image. Malcolm sits down slightly on the table and crosses his arms over his chest, watching the guy. For some reason, he doesn’t say anything, although he always tells Johnny how good he is in his clothes.
Johnny straightens his hair a little, still glancing sideways at Malcolm in the mirror. In the end, he decides to sit on the couch and ask, “Are we really going to drink tea and discuss future concerts?”
“Yes, why are you asking?” the man replies inexorably.
«Because…” Johnny doesn't understand anymore, “because you’ve just touched me.”
“So what? You're a good-looking young man, I'm pleased to get to know you better, tactile perception is very important for this.”
“This is crazy” John thinks.
“Is this a joke…? But what about then… At the club?”
John's voice is shaking a little, and he is beginning to feel like he was dreaming.
“What's in the club?” Malcolm looks attentively at John, who is frozen, not knowing what to do or how to react, and casually says almost cheerfully: “Oh, Johnny, I'm sorry, I think we misunderstood each other. You're a pretty guy, but I don't need anything from you.”
John feels like he's suffocating, he tries to say something, but he doesn't make any sound, not noticing how Malcolm is looking at him smugly, waiting for some interesting climax from the guy, but he looks like a dead candle with a wick still burning. After thinking for a couple of seconds, he finally says, “You know… okay, I…” Johnny grabs his neck, lowering his head and catching his breath so as not to lose his temper at all, “you did that on purpose, didn't you?”
“On purpose?” McLaren asks as perplexedly as possible.
“Yes, damn it! So that I can wait like a bitch for you to pay attention to me again. What the fuck are you doing this for?”
Johnny jumps up from the couch and turns away from Malcolm. He can't look him in the eye, he's ashamed, he doesn't want to show weakness, he doesn't want to show that he feels any affection for this man, but everything has gone down the drain.
“Disgusting, unbearable! When will he stop, stop staring at me when no one is looking, stop pretending that it's me who wants something from him, not him from me, stop using his fucking tricks on me? But you're falling for all this, John. Is it because of the clothes, because he's your boss, because he pays you? Stop. He doesn't pay me. We only had two shows, I don't think I earned even a penny.” Yesterday Malcolm gave him a tenner, and last week a twenty, just for a beer, as he said himself. The gesture seemed suspicious to John, but beer quickly drowns out any anxiety. Clothes. Yes, he certainly enjoys receiving them. Steve and Paul are past such generosity from the manager. He felt special. And who wouldn't?
“It's just your expectations, my boy,” McLaren says soothingly.
Johnny looks at the floor, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. He has nothing to say, and his shirt immediately turns into a straitjacket, preventing him from moving. He's still standing with his back to the man and is debating whether to leave right now or tell McLaren everything he thinks about him.
Before he can make a decision, Malcolm approaches the devastated John from behind, interrupting the storm inside: “Your song… is it ready?” and starts unbuttoning his trousers.
“Almost,” John answers uncertainly, not knowing which problem to focus on: a raw song that he promised to finish a week ago, Malcolm's refusal, or his hand in his pants. He slips right into the unbuttoned fly under Johnny's underpants, the hairs appear between his fingers, lightly stroking his cock.
“You said you didn't need anything,” John says.
“And you?”
Malcolm squeezes his scrotum. Johnny can't think of anything else now.
“Did you say 'some other time' at the club?” Johnny says awkwardly, swallowing.
“Yes… it seems like it happened,” Malcolm can’t remember actually saying such a thing, but he lets the guy continue.
“I want it now.”
“Okay… since I promised,» Malcolm replies with a note of disdain, as if a debt has been demanded of him.
Johnny doesn't know where to start or how it all starts. He gently takes Malcolm's hand out of his pants, turns around, and kneels in front of him.
McLaren has a Cheshire Cat smile on his face. John is silent, looking up at the man with the eyes of a hunted fawn. Malcolm notices that they contrast strongly with the aggressive black bandage suit. His eyes are almost pleading, and his hands seem to be folded in prayer. Malcolm feels like a god.
“Come on. Start, boy,” the man unbuttons his fly himself, making John's upcoming “humiliation» a little easier.
Malcolm's penis is naturally circumcised, John seems to like it. It's quite long and neat, the way it can be seen from his leather pants, when John's gaze kept dropping there, when… yes, since he met him.
Taking out his cock, John begins to suck it gently, like ice cream, he can't stand Malcolm's gaze, he closed his eyes, imagining that someone else is doing a blowjob now. John feels the man grabbing his hair at the back of his neck and squeezing it tightly into a fist. He gets tense, he's scared, and he lets his teeth out a little. Malcolm really wants to pick up the pace, but at the last second he changes his mind, loosens his grip and only ruffles John's hair a little, stroking the skin on his head. The guy doesn't like having his hair touched, he hates it. Still, he relaxes, takes his cock with his hand at the base and begins to actively suck, as he knows how, but he does not know how. He begins to taste the lubricant on his tongue. John puts his hand on Malcolm's slender thigh, wrapping it around him, and starts sucking faster. He doesn't look at Malcolm, right now only his cock exists for him. Now the McLaren is the dummy here.
McLaren's cock is already tense enough to cum, Rotten feels it, he doesn't know if he wants to feel his cum on his tongue or on his face. However, McLaren allows himself to decide for him. Now he's holding John by the hair, pressing down on his cock. It isn't that the guy is resisting, but he is in a bit of pain. Cum pours right down his throat, he doesn't have time to react. Malcolm just hopes he doesn't suffocate.
When it is over and McLaren regains his cock, John awkwardly stands up and begins to wipe the remnants of saliva on his mouth with a bandage shirt, he doesn't care that it isn't his. Johnny feels dirty, he wants to wash up and even brush his teeth. He's confused and disarmed.
While John is trying to come to his senses, Malcolm calmly asks, after buttoning his trousers: “Is this what you wanted?”
“I wanted a suit,” Rotten barely squeezes out, naturally, not too convincingly.
McLaren thinks he doesn't want to wash it, and giving it to Vivienne for washing is also not an option, then he would have to explain the traces of snot, saliva and semen on the shirt.
“You can take it, it fits you perfectly,” the man says smugly and with a smile, approaching the guy and adjusting the straps on John's suit now.
At the same moment, Rotten feels something wet in the penis area, he lifts his shirt and sees a small wet spot in the fly area. He looks up and sees that Malcolm has noticed it too. He feels terribly awkward, like the time his father caught him jerking off. He expects McLaren to make a sarcastic joke.
“Let's go have tea, my boy,” Malcolm says without reacting to John's embarrassment and goes to put the kettle on, pretending that nothing had happened. John exhales and pulls down his shirt, following him.