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Show Not Tell Part One - Thom
That's the kind of stupid-clever thing they set us when they want to shut us up for a while, the kind of thing I try to set the youngsters I teach too, but I ain't very good at thinking up my own. Jujitsu's more about deep mind than body; that's what most beginners just don't get. Mind you, for them it ain't really. It's only at the lofty peaks of the dan grades that body comes second to mind and spirit. Fuck knows how I've made it so far, knowing that. My master says it's 'cause I'm too stupid for my shallow mind -- that's my intellect -- to fuck up the flow of kiai from my centre. Too stubborn, on top of that, to give in to the inevitable 'til it's a past tense, and often as not, proven evitable -- is that actually a word? Anyway, git says I follow the Way of the Ass. Charming old bastard, ain't he? Still, it's hard to argue with a shortarse Asian bloke who can floor me in seconds despite collecting his old age pension as of last Wednesday. Tap, tap, tappity, tap. It's like rain on a car roof, the noise, and there is a rhythm there somewhere, despite all the stops and starts, I bloody know it. The beat is a dotted straight line running through the random pattering. My shallow mind can't hear it at all, this line, but it's there all right, and the tapping swirls around it like a pole dancer. Or at least it's there 'til the typing stops altogether. I hear a warning intake of breath, the slight squeak of the caster of his chair as he turns, and then Joe asks pointedly, "Planning on lying there the rest of the day, my dear?" I put my hands behind my head and stretch out luxuriously on the bed, looking diagonally across the room to where Joe's sitting at his computer. "Bedding needs a change, mate. Stench has overpowered me. Lost all sensation in my extremities." Joe's wearing his open black bathrobe and a whole load of bugger all else. "Change it then." He smiles cheekily. "Your bedding," I point out, letting my gaze run down the bent line of chest and leg I can see uncovered by his robe. "Your nose," he replies, "and your stench as much as mine for that matter, seeing as you've virtually lived here this last week or so." He's right, and that's bad. Better make sure I sleep in my own bed tonight. It's just got so easy over the last few weeks to kip here. Good shag first, of course, another in the morning before he sods off to work if we wake early enough. It's the good life, all right. "Can't help it if I'm addicted to fucking you, can I? Ain't noticed you complaining." "I'm not, and I haven't. You're the one complaining." About the bedding, right. "I changed it last time, and I bet you ain't even washed the spare set yet. You're a lazy slob, y'know that?" "On the contrary, dear." Joe sounds half-distracted as he returns to whatever it is he's beavering away on. His infamous novel, I suspect. Usually is. "I work extremely hard, but only on things that matter." "And cleanliness don't?" I shake my head. I'm not his fucking maid. It's mid-afternoon, and his curtains are still closed, late sunlight filtering through in a dingy golden haze. "Good job you're so pr-- good to look at." Yeah, nearly said one of the bad P-words there, but seems I got away with it this time. Instead of answering me, Joe takes a bite from his pink-flavour chew bar, one of them pocket money jobs that little kids are meant to eat, not grown men who missed both brekkie and lunch. If I was feeling less of a lazy slob myself, I'd cook us both something containing actual nutrients. Mind you, that'd mean doing the washing up first, and sod that. Good that he's not reacting to what I almost said though. He's typing again now. Think he might be getting less sensitive... well, he could hardly be getting any more so, could he? He's seemed to expect me to be a telepathic genius since we started shagging, and I ask you, is that fair? I'm learning slowly to watch what I say, though fuck knows Joe's got the knack of making me feel like a total bloody moron with his games of guess-my-secret. Never tells me what he wants, does he? Not when it matters. Stupid things like the fact he wants ravioli for tea, or he don't like my favourite burgundy shirt, them I'm allowed to know. But if it's something important to him, then I have to find out in a daft fucking guessing game. Only way I ever know I've got it right is when he's not storming off in a moody, or going silent on me, or suddenly claiming he don't fancy going out no more now despite being all over the idea like flies on a butcher's bin five minutes ago. Don't know why I put up with it really. Yeah, ok, so I do. Never had it so good, have I? Sex, that is. Best fuck ever is my Joe, and yeah, he's all mine when we fuck. Gives himself up to me like nothing and nobody I've ever known, and oh hell, yeah, I like it; don't care what that makes me. I own Joe then, all that lankily gorgeous body currently not even half-draped in black towelling and all the fucked up soul inside it too. Afterwards though, nah, he's not mine then. "You're staring, darling," he says, a smile in his voice, and I focus to see him looking my way again. "See something you like?" "Could say that. How much longer you planning on writing War and Peace over there?" "Sadly, I'm not currently writing." I give him a level stare. "Using your keyboard as a drum kit then?" "Talking to someone." Right. Would be just like him to be cybering it up with some stranger when he's got me starkers on a bed right next to him. You look up 'perverse' in a dictionary, you'll see 'Joseph Kelly' written right there in the definition place. Not that I mind. As I say, I don't own him. I swing my legs off the bed and sit up, grabbing my jeans from the rubbish tip that passes for a carpet in this room. Think there's a kind of purply fuzzy job under here somewhere, but I rarely see it. Only time Joe's place gets cleaned up proper is when the landlord's about to do an inspection. I pull my jeans up my legs and then stand to fasten them. Been a pleasant Sunday of sex and bone-idleness, but better get on now. Lying watching Joe type ain't my idea of a good use of time. Once I'm dressed, I walk over to stand behind Joe at his narrow computer desk. He hurriedly closes the window he was working in as I approach, making me laugh. "Hope you've told 'em you're hung in godlike proportions." I ruffle his already mussed mane, making him look like a goth with its finger in the socket. He cranes round to give me one of his 'silly Thom' looks. "I doubt very much that Chris would appreciate knowing that, even were it true." Ah, his little brother. Fair enough. He misses his family, I know, since they moved closer to the big 'N' on the compass. Yeah, Sunday's a family day; should be home with Mum and Dad myself really. He looks me up and down and frowns. "You're looking depressingly clothed. Off somewhere?" "Yeah, thought I'd go say hi to the old folk, work out some, maybe the pub tonight. See you there?" The 'silly Thom' look moves up a defcon level to 'stupid Thom'. What the fuck have I said now? Joe pinches the bridge of his nose. "Have you really completely forgotten?" Bugger. I try; I really do, but it's no bloody good. Only diary date I can remember for 'round about now is this coming Wednesday when I've got a grading evening for a bunch of my students. Some definite belt changes coming up there. "Swiss cheese," I say, pointing at my temple and trying my 'making nice' smile, which has been seeing a load more airtime since the new season's schedule hit the airwaves. "Only 'cause you don't want to go," Joe says, sounding pissed off as he faces front again and calls up his chat window. I take a quick shufti over his shoulder and catch my name more than once in the text higher up, but Joe types something real quick and minimises the window again before I've had a chance to read more. "You outing me to the kid?" I ask, suddenly suspicious. "Don't change the subject. We're due at Claire's tonight." Aww fuck, Claire's. He's so sodding right about why I'd forgotten. Christ, I'd rather clean his shitheap of a flat for him than spend an evening with him and his squawking faghag. "Think I'm going down with something," I announce dolefully, running my hands over my face. I badly need a shave; bottom half of my fizzog feels like coarse grade sandpaper. "Might have to pull a sickie." "There isn't a proctologist man enough for the job," Joe says waspishly, which I think means he's calling me an arsehole. Hell, he's probably right about that too. "Just don't get why you need me along." He sighs heavily, somehow making it totally bloody clear with just that noise not only how much I'm letting him down, but also what a fool he was for expecting anything else from me -- see, I can speak 'Joe' pretty damn good about some things. "As I told you," he says, "you know, in those five minutes before your brain went on holiday to Barbados without you, this isn't one of our normal evenings. Of course we wouldn't need you for one of those; you'd be as much use as a hole-puncher in a condom factory." Ah right. "Yeah, dinner party or something, yeah? Remember now." Christ knows what passes for a posh dinner from Claire's kitchen. She cooked me scrambled eggs once. Amazing how they looked exactly the same when they came back up again later. Yeah, she was my friend first, my girlfriend to be exact. Took her with me on those double dates me and Joe used to have back then, and they hit it off like the towering inferno. Was enough to make me think he weren't gay after all, but I didn't know about the faghag thing back then. Bloody weird, if you ask me. Can't see me getting all hot under the tight bits for some dyed in the fluff dyke, but fuck, maybe it's different for girls. Anyway, I split with her shortly after her attempt to poison me dead, but by that point I reckon she was only going with me so she could hang out with Joe. Was a few weeks before I discovered they were still seeing each other. Told him I didn't care providing he kept the homicidal bint away from me, which he did do, most of the time. Apparently though, us shagging means all old agreements are now off. "This is really important to her," Joe says. "She's put a lot of work into the planning, and if you don't come, the numbers will be buggered up." "M'sure she can find herself another pretty poof from her apparently endless supply to make up any shortfall." She hadn't known any back when she was with me. Least, she never mentioned any. Since being all buddied up with Joe however, she's managed to befriend many of his long line of one or two week stands, or so Joe has told me anyway. He's still her favourite though. They meet up with each other and do nothing but bitch about everyone else they know, which undoubtedly includes me. Bloody fantastic, that. Oh Christ, I wonder if he's told her about us fucking. Sodding hope not. Last thing I want is her spreading it around the whole of Rabford. Ain't ready for that yet, that's all. We've been fucking for almost three months now, which has to be some kind of record for both of us, but it's not long enough to change my whole life over it. And let's face it, admitting you're shagging your mate in a place like Rabford requires a UN peace presence and a strict curfew to 'smooth the transition'. Still, it might be the weirdest sodding thing I've ever had in my life, but not like I'm saying no to it any time soon. It's so fucking good. I start to smile down at Joe, thinking that, and then notice his face. Shit, Defcon Red, we've hit 'fucking idiot Thom' face without me even noticing. I rewind over the last few moments. Did I forget to say 'Simon says' or something? Oh shit, I said both the P-words, didn't I? 'Pretty' and 'poof' all snugly together like. "Wasn't meaning you in that description," I say hurriedly, before realising that means I'm saying he's the ugly one of the bunch. "You're the handsome, er, gay one, not a, er, that thing I shouldn't've said." He stares at me and then laughs, bad face all gone. "What's that you're always saying to me, Thom? It's a good job you're so nice to look at?" I grin sheepishly and flex my biceps for him. "Look! Muscles! Now what was it you were saying about me not having to go tonight?" He sighs, but he's still smiling as he stands and turns to me, stepping close to tap one of his long fingers on my nose. "It's just one evening, Thom. Do it for me, eh? Then you can ask me to do one thing I don't like in return, and I'll have to do it." That's got potential, and anyway, I'll do it whatever -- give in, I mean -- know that already. Hell, I knew it from the start, and now he's standing in front of me with his robe wide open, and I can't think much further than his body 'cause it don't matter one microscopic little iota that I just had him three-quarters of an hour ago. Need him again, right now. He's got muscles too. Not like mine; his laziness is the undisputed champ in the ongoing war with his vanity. But he lifts weights enough to sculpt himself, enough to make him a little like one of them marble statues I've seen by the blokes that were really into beautiful boys, but, you know, all in the name of art. Yeah, right. I trace a finger down from his collarbone, through that hollow over his breastbone, down over his non-existent belly to the nest of hair, black against his pale skin, and the sleepy cock resting within it. Wanna wake it up. Rise and shine, my little pal. I run the back over my finger down his foreskin and feel a little surge in my own cock when his twitches, all obliging like. "Keep you to that promise," I tell him. "Know exactly what thing you don't like that I'm gonna ask for too." I look back up and meet his now kind of avid gaze, his mouth a little open and his lower lip glinting where he's been licking it. Don't think he's really registered what I said, and that's a good job probably. I flutter my fingers under his balls like tickling a fish, and he snorts, stepping back a little as he tries not to laugh. Yeah, I like that. Can't get enough of how he reacts to me, all the different ways. I move my upper hand round to hold the back of his neck and pull him in for a kiss. He comes back willingly enough. He's soft and pliant and tastes like an echo of all the fucking and other naughties we've already had today. That and pink-flavour chew, anyway. He makes me ravenous all over again. I cup his cock as I kiss him, loving the feel of it thickening and rising under my palm. But he pulls back suddenly, ripping his lips from mine in a way that almost hurts, like he's taking some of me with him. "Thom, shit. Uh, fuck, my brother." "Rather fuck you." I grin. "He'll understand; come back here." I pull Joe's face to me again and capture his gob more fiercely. Gotta make him forget Chris waiting for him on the 'puter, make him think only of what I'm doing to him. I grip his cock properly as I jab my tongue between his teeth. He makes a high-pitched whimper into my mouth, pushing into my hand. When I release his mouth, he's gasping for breath, and his hands grip my head, trying to pull me back in. I grin again. "Bed. C'mon now." But I shouldn't've interrupted things as he shakes his head as if trying to clear it. "Let me... Let me at least tell him goodbye." "No." Well, he likes me all dominant, don't he? I grab his arm and start to pull him bedwards. "Do as you're told." He digs his heels in, pulling back. "Fuck, Thom. I mean it. He's family. Please. Just a few minutes, that's all." I look at him carefully; he seems to really mean it and not to be egging me on to use more force. Sodding hard to tell sometimes though. "Five minutes tops and then I'm lifting you over my shoulder and carrying you to the bloody bed." I let go of his arm, but before he has a chance to move, I grab his prick, which is jutting out hard as a taunt between the open drapes of his robe. "This your debt and promise, mate. That makes it mine 'til the debt's paid." He gives me a constipated look. "You can hardly detach it and take it with you, darling." "Nah, you're not listening." I run my thumb over his wet cock head, drawing little circles. "Saying it's mine. Belongs to me. I get to say what you do with it." His long lashes are blinking madly as his eyeballs seem to be doing their best to roll up into his head. "And... fuck. And what d'you want me, uh, to do with it?" I let go. "Just keep it nice and hard," I say with another grin. I strip quickly while he's getting rid of Chris so that there'll be no buggering about when he's done, but Joe's still typing away like a chimp on happy juice when I'm standing starkers by the bed making a ball of my socks. He's being a good boy though. Every once in a while, one of his hands slips down low and strokes his prick, keeping it how I like it. "Time's nearly up," I tell him, throwing my balled socks at his head. When he don't even look round, I take my own prick in hand. "Call yourself a gay man? There's good cock here going to waste." I stroke myself slowly, knowing I look damn tasty in the warm filtered light. He glances over, but then looks back at his screen... for about three seconds before briefly freezing and then turning back to stare at me. "Oh, Thom," he says appreciatively. "All you need is the oil. You look like..." He makes a strange, back-of-the-throat noise and shuts his eyes. "All for you, mate. Just gotta type 'bye-bye' to baby bro." "It's not as easy as that," Joe says, his re-opened eyes glazing over as he stares. "We're trying to arrange something here. Something I want to talk to you about actually..." "Yeah?" I ask, not really caring. I move to stand right next to him, my cock practically brushing his arm. He pulls back enough to stare at it then up at my face, his own wearing a pained look. "Please? Just two more minutes? I..." He licks his lips, almost looking nervous, then looks back down at me stroking myself. His hand drops to his lap and gets busy, and he says in a small voice, "One minute? Please?" I shrug and step back a little way, but when he turns back to his typing, I drop to my knees in the clutter and twist his chair 'round on its casters. His bottom half moves with it, and I quickly kneel between his legs before he can turn the chair back. As I capture his cock with my mouth, a long strangled gasp comes from above me. I try not to laugh. Oh, this is nice. Oh yeah, don't get allowed to do this much. He's got these fucking stupid ideas about who gets to do what in our-- whatever the fuck it is we are collectively. He's the bottom, and cocks get put in him, mouth or arse. I'm the top, so I get to do the putting. I weren't asked about what I wanted to be, weren't even told, just expected to perform. That's because my Joe, for all he gets bone hard when I push him about a little, is in truth about as submissive as a 'copter full of SAS arseholes on a vengeance spree. I'm not kidding here. I mean, Christ, I've not the remotest doubt who wears the trousers between us, even when they're crumpled up round his knees as I slam into him over the kitchen table, my hand pushing down between his shoulder blades. He's still wearing them, still -- to swap metaphors a jiffy -- pulling the strings. I don't care. No, really, I don't. It's good, so I stay, and I put up with the stupid shit. Soon as it stops being good, I'll sod off, but I won't regret this time with him. Learnt a lot about sex, I have, and this is me who thought he knew it all talking. Learnt a lot about myself too. What's to regret? The day we first had sex was like the day I learnt my first Jujitsu move. Both changed me forever, one-way roads to places I'd never have got to see by any other path. I'm not who I was three months ago, and I don't want to be. But yeah, it does fuck me off at times that we have to stick to these moronic roles that might as well be gender roles for all the bloody difference there is. He says he don't want me calling him a girl then insists on the role of the woman, the one taking me in. If I'm coming over to the other, bendier side of the tracks, then I want to do it all, try everything at least once. Don't wanna get shoved in no pigeonhole, 'specially by someone with better reason than most to resent, you know, pre-determined parts, the games we play and all that. Anyway, sod all he can do about this blowjob, and he's not trying. He's still typing away above me, swearing at me softly, calling me a bastard in the same breath as he moans how good it is. I squeeze my hands between his arse and the chair and pull him down the seat a little so I can take his prick all the way into the back of my throat. Ain't done this before, though he's done it to me loads, and immediately I feel that fingers down the back of the throat sensation. Fuck that. I'm the master of my body. Spent years getting to know myself, my limits and my strengths. There's no discipline I can't master, physically speaking. This is a piece of piss compared to some of the stuff I've had to learn. I hold him there, not moving, as I breathe through my nose and will the sensation away. Don't take long 'cause I'm good. I'm well better than good. I start to move back and forth. His cock is long and slim, like him. There's something elegant about it, something almost posh. Got to know the thing pretty good by now. Know what it likes having done to it, the way it feels at different times, the areas to pay attention to if I want Joe to lose it. Know how it gives a little kick every time Joe comes. Now I'm getting a chance to study better how it tastes and smells. Know thy enemy? Well, in a way, yeah. Aw shit, I love this. Love the feel of him, the fullness in my mouth. Fucking love having a gobful of him. Gonna do this again even if I have to tie him up first. Reckon he'd like that anyway. His breathing's rough above me. He's still managing to type somehow, but the tap-tap-tap has slowed right down like a clock running out of twist, and not that I can really tell, but I keep thinking he's having to use the backspace key a load more. I've learnt from what he does to me. I suck, just enough. I play with my tongue around the underside of the head, 'cause he's so sensitive there I can make him come just stroking around there with my wet thumb. Tongue's gotta be better still, eh? Certainly making funny noises come from his gob. I take him all the way in again and swallow. Suddenly the typing stops, and I feel his hand in my hair. He's lasted long, longer than I would've; gotta give him his due. "Thom?" he pretty much squeaks then clears his throat. "Thom, would... Do you fancy a--" He seems to give up for a few moments, his fingers tightening in my hair, but then he struggles on, rushing out, "A long weekend away in a fortnight's time?" He seriously wants to chat? Now? I lift my head up, holding him still in my hand for now. "This negative feedback on my efforts here?" "Huh? Oh. No, that was very nice, dear." I roll my gaze towards the artexing, and he adds with more underpinning, "It was lovely." I snort and sit back on my heels, releasing his cock. "So am I right in thinking you're asking me to go to Yorkshire with you?" "If you want to." "You want me to?" "I'd hardly ask if I wasn't happy with you coming along." I give him a wry smile. "You can't quite say it, can you? Can't quite say, 'I want you to come with me, Thom'." "Of course I... Oh, stop playing games! Do you want to come?" I got nothing on that weekend. "Might as well." Would've been nice if he'd said it though. "You outed me to them then?" He nods, eyes averted. "I had to. Mum was getting worried about where to put you, you see. To sleep, I mean. None of them will say anything to anyone down here. I got them all to promise." I'm probably safe. Maybe. "What they say to the news?" He looks at me for this one, smiling. "Mum was pleased. You know you're her favourite not-son. She's looking forward to seeing you. The brats too, even Chris. He said if I absolutely had to be gay then it was good I at least had a cool bo--" "Boyfriend?" "Yeah, sorry." Joe looks rueful. "That's what he said, but not what I said. I just said we were lovers now." "What's the difference?" He shrugs. "The level of monogamy, I suppose. You can have many lovers." I watch him carefully. His cock's getting soft again, and mine's already there -- bloody awful waste, that. His posture ain't good neither. He's all closed in on himself, protective like. "You wanna be boyfriends, Joe?" I ask. Know he does, see, and I got no probs at all with that idea. Last someone-not-Joe I showed any interest in at all ended up as little more than a quick grope thanks to the five-star paddy Joe threw. Had to get rid of the girl in a hurry so I could catch up with Mr Midweek Drama Queen, take him home, and give him a good seeing-to to calm him down. He might not tell me he wants me faithful in words, but he made it obvious enough that night that even 'fucking idiot Thom' could work it out. So no more cheap bits on the side for me, but as I've been virtually living with Joe since then, it's not exactly been a hardship. I'm telling you, I've never had so much sex, let alone so much great sex. Coming out a winner on both quantity and quality here. So boyfriends is fine by me so long as it ain't publicised like, but Joe won't admit he wants it, and I've got stubborn. 'Til he asks for it, he ain't gonna get it. And looks like he's missed out on another opportunity to ask as he's bloody well gone back to typing and ignored my question. I got a choice here. Can give in to my irritation, let it become anger and start a row to make my point. Or I can be better than that, better than him, and make like a reed in water, serene and rooted amongst the rushing torrent like I've been taught. Yeah, stupid to expect Joe to be more than he is. He's got his reasons for his fucked head. Some of them I know; some I can guess at. Patience not anger will win this battle of wills. Let's get back to what really matters here. Still sitting on my heels, I lean back on one arm and being to wank myself a return to hardness. The late afternoon sun's shining through the crack in the curtains, painting me with a whiplash of warm gold diagonally from shoulder to hip. My posture tenses most of my muscles, putting them in relief. I'm the perfect honey trap for any passing Joes; just need to attract the attention of one. "Look at me, mate." "Uh?" He glances over. "Oh..." He stares, ensnared. "Wanna watch me come?" "Yeah... er, no! No, stop that. That's my job. Er, demarcation infringement!" He types something quick on the computer and then suddenly is kneeling in front of me as the bye-bye-Windows music plays. "Let go of that." I look down at my hand as it slowly slides my foreskin up and down. "It got neglected so I offered it a new home." Grinning, I kneel back up and draw him close, pressing our torsos flat together. "You got bored with this body of mine already?" "Yeah, that's it," he says, a grin in his voice too as he rubs against me. "This'll only be the fourth time we've had sex so far today. I must be losing interest." He moves his lips to mine, and we start kissing again. God, he's like my personal opium, like the Turkish delight that boy in that book betrayed all his sibs for. Who am I betraying to taste this sweetness again and again? Myself maybe, or him -- that'd be worse. Fuck, don't think about it, just taste, feel, and try to breathe occasionally. "Joe," I mutter as our lips part briefly. "Hungry for you." "Bed?" he pants. "Yeah." I pull us both to our feet, and then, 'cause he was easily longer than five minutes, I grab his arm, bend, and put my shoulder to his midriff. I've lifted him before he even knows it's happening, folding him in two over my shoulder like a rolled rug. "Bloody hell, you git!" He's not happy. Crying shame, that. I walk the all of two steps needed and throw him down flat on the bed, quickly following him onto the mattress. Lying on top of him, I grin as I grab his wrists, pulling his hands above his head. "Just calling in my debt, mate." Suddenly, he's breathing fast through his nostrils, snorting like a horse that's just run a race, tossing his head from side to side, the muscles flexing in his arms as he struggles. "God. God, Thom." He thrusts up with his hips, grinding against me. "Thom, please." Oh yeah, that's right. I got him now, totally. He's mine again. Mine. "Tell me what you want." "You." His eyes are huge below me. "Always want you. Inside me. Please." Ain't I already in there, Joe? That's what I want to ask. Don't, of course, just get up on my knees to find the condoms and lube. "Roll over," I tell him. "Wanna take you from behind." "But I--" "Do it." I use the voice. Shouldn't really, I know. A kiai-charged voice is a tool to be used only in emergencies -- to stop some idiot student badly hurting another, or try to psych out an assailant. I use it anyway, and Joe gasps and rolls over, all arguments just the dust of dead ideas. Sometimes I think I should set up a Budo shrine in my bedroom just so I've got something to make nice to every time I misuse my bloody discipline. As I work lube into him, he shudders and writhes, wordless noises spilling all over the sheets. He's so beautiful like this -- helpless in the throes, nearly crying with need, and utterly fucking mine. That's another sin against the code, of course. This possessive thing goes right against the traditions. I got no excuse beyond his beauty. He makes me ache. There's this thing I've seen in martial arts flicks when warriors keep their sword sheathed during a fight, using the scabbard as their weapon. It seems to mean that, for one reason or another, their heart's not in the battle. Putting a condom on before fucking Joe always feels a bit like that, like I'm holding back, not giving my all. Joe'd have a fit if I ever didn't use one, and so he should. Still never feels quite right though, this barrier between us. I push inside and start to fuck him slowly. Would be so easy to just surrender now, let the dragon inside take over and just ride its tail; Joe's as hot and tight as a fever around me. But not yet, gotta keep the dragon curled for just a little while longer. I bite Joe's shoulder, and he groans. It's all about angle and pressure, this part, them and pure bloody skill, but I got oodles of that. I keep control, pacing my breath, pacing my thrusts, following a tribal rhythm that's now pounding somewhere dark and primordial inside me. I let the sensations from my prick flow over me like rushing water, felt and then gone, felt and then gone. I'm the master of my body. Don't get the idea this is easy. Once Joe is lost somewhere deep within himself and is panting in the same rhythm as I'm fucking him, then I know he's ready. I rise to my knees, my hands on his hips, pulling his arse up with me. He shows no reaction to being moved, just to the brief interruption of services, which I quickly restore. Now I fuck him with one hand wrapped round his cock, not moving it, just applying pressure in that same slow beat. Takes about fifteen seconds for him to come, crying out something wordless and shivering like something delicate in a breeze. Then he collapses, limp dish-rag style, beneath me. There's a sheen of sweat covering the marble of his back. So fucking beautiful. I close my eyes for a few moments, taking shuddering breaths. Then I realise I don't have to hold back no more, so I let the dragon free. No more thinking now, just Joe, Joe, Joe... ... Afterwards, I pull myself out and lie beside him, my arm over my eyes. I feel him roll onto his side, and then fingers deftly remove the condom from my poor over-used cock. "Ta," I mutter. "Don't go to sleep, darling. You haven't time." Joe's voice is all purry and mellow. "Know that." I don't move though; feel too nice. I smile, I think, or maybe I just think about smiling... I jolt awake as the gently bobbing boat I'm in hits rapids, and I'm thrown about. It's Joe shaking me, of course. "Weren't asleep," I claim. Wonder how long I was out for. "So you make a noise like a buzzsaw when you're awake?" Joe asks, and I know he's grinning. "You need a shower, a shave, and clean, smart clothing, my dear." To go to Claire's in, oh yeah. Bugger it. With a groan, I get out of bed and start getting dressed again. "Put the bed linen on to wash while I'm gone, ok?" "If you insist. I prefer the smell of us to artificial meadow flowers. Which one of us is driving tonight? Or should I ask which one of us is drinking? I could book a taxi, I suppose." "Nah, I'll drive. Don't think I trust myself to drink at a dinner party of Claire's. Besides, one of us has got to be sober enough to call the ambulance when we all go down with amoebic dysentery." A pillow hits my arm, and I make the mistake of looking down at Joe. "Aww Christ, mate. Can't you at least try not to look fuckable for long enough for me to get out your damn flytrap of a flat?" His hair is wild, like Lord of the Flies wild, and he's lying stretched out but with one leg crooked up. His face is red with stubble burn. 'Spect mine is too; one of these days someone'll have to notice, surely. Some days we go to work with lovebites on display. Dad's been casting odd looks my way, and I think that's one reason I ain't been going home so much. Stubble burn looks good on Joe though, as does stubble itself for that matter. Weird thing to find sexy, at least it is for me as I've always loved smooth, soft skin. He's grinning at me. "You say the sweetest things." Then the grin clicks into earnest. "Claire's putting so much effort into this. Be nice." I wave a hand airily before tucking my tee into my jeans. "Yeah, I'll be on my best, no worries. Still don't get why she needs me to make up the numbers though, 'less..." I frown as the thought hits me again. "Tell me you ain't outed me to her. Not Claire Ramsey, mate. She's got a mouth like a crack whore's legs." Joe ain't so fuckable when he's scowling. "I haven't. And at least try to remember you're talking about my best friend, Thom." You ask me, that remark deserves a scowl right back, but I busy myself buttoning my jeans as I say casually, "Thought I was your best mate." His eyes frown while his mouth smiles. "You're..." I wait, but nothing comes. Bloke needs some verbal laxative, I'm thinking. "I'm what?" Less than best? More? Is it possible to be better than best? I seem to have forgotten to be that bloody reed in the river. Bugger. "You're you," he says, looking away. "You know how much... You must do." Fuck knows how I would, 'less I've finally developed those much needed psychic powers in my ten minutes kip back there, but I'm feeling guilty for pushing him now; should've stuck to my previous resolve. You can't make even the best-trained dog grow wings and fly, no matter how hard you whistle and yell. I sit on the bed to put my trainers on and pat his leg as an attempt at white-flagging it. He watches me for a while then says, "It's making things difficult between me and Claire, not being able to tell her. I always share everything with her." He'll talk to that bint and not me? I let my eyes close and let all the things I want to throw back at him like fists just wash away. Have to, really. Our screaming rows always end up with me feeling like a fucking monster. I even manage a smile as I stand up, grabbing my jacket. "I'll be outside in my car ready for you around six. Don't keep me waiting, eh?" "Thom," he says as I head out into his living room. "I..." I pause, but nothing more is said, so I fill the silence myself, calling out as I head for front door. "For what it's worth, you are my best mate." As I shut the door behind me, pounding music starts from within his flat, like he's trying to wipe out the echo of my words. |
For the past twenty mins, the tap-tap-tapping of Joe's fingers on his bloody keyboard has been filling my lovely, lazy Sunday afternoon like a challenge set by a sensei to find rhythm in chaos.