Date: Tue, 18 Nov 2003 23:15:49 +0300 (MSK)
From: septimus@mail15.com
Subject: Glimpses: One

GLIMPSES: ONE

by Septimus


I can always tell when you're there. The doormat is out of its usual place
and, usually, I can hear the TV blaring away inside.

Even when I'm tired from a hard day and looking forward to a little peace
and quiet, it gives me a warm, comfortable feeling to know you're there. I
like it when you just come over, use your key to get in, and take over the
place as if you own it. In a way you do, own it I mean, but you are sure are
a messy guy!

I knew what I'd find and I was right. An empty two-liter soda bottle in the
sink, a half full one on the table, cap off. Chip bags on the floor. And you
in the den flopped on the couch watching some moronic kid show cartoon about
space explorers or some such claptrap. The sound is turned up loud enough to
bounce pictures off the wall.

"Hey, turn that down to a dull roar, will ya?"

"Hi!" You bounce up from the couch and come to greet me, keeping one eye on
the tube as you come.

"Cool outfit," I say. "Bet they loved it at school today!" My usual
sarcastic swipe at your habit of coming over and immediately losing
everything but socks, boxers, and tee shirt.

"They did man! What? You don't like it?" You pirouette around the room
holding the hem of your boxers out between finger and thumb, like a tutu, a
silly grin on your face. I grab your arm as you dance past and pull you into
me, smelling your hair. I recognize my almond shampoo. I rest my chin on the
top of your head and hold you like that, my arms around your chest. Your
hands are lightly on my forearms and your eyes are still on the screen.

"Your hair smells good," I say.

"Pervert!"

"You take a shower?" Your chest under the tee shirt feels solid, hard.

"Yeah. You mind?"

"Course not. Gym again?"

"Yeah. I sneaked out early again so's I wouldn't have to shower."

"What's the big deal anyway? Just a buncha guys."

You shrug your head and it slips out from under my chin.

"I dunno. I just don't like it is all." Your arms fall to the side and then
snake back between us, moving palm down over the front of my trousers.

"It's big" you say, still looking at the TV.

"No it's not." But it is, actually. Not hard, but just...large. Still
hanging down but yet at that any-minute-now angle of repose. Heavy.
Sensitive. Wary.  "Don't do that, sport!" I flinch away from your probing
fingers.

"Why not? Doncha like it?" But you stop and bring your hands to the front
and put them back on my forearms.

"Just want to get outta my office clothes is all. I'm whacked!"

"Oh, yeah?" You tilt your head back and do a comic leer and flutter your
eyes like a silent movie vamp.

"Pervert!" I turn and start into the bedroom to change. You bounce over to
the couch and flop down, turning your back at me as you do.

"Yeah, but you love me, doncha?"

"Nah!" I say and disappear around the corner into the hall just ahead of a
dirty Nike.

*

It's too warm for sweats and I don't need shorts because I am too tired to
go for a run. I settle for the same thing you're wearing, less the socks,
and slouch back into the den.

"Slob!" you say, and then "Itakeitback!Itakeitback!Itakeitback!" as my
fingers dig in for ribs and tummy and you roll into a squirming ball on the
sofa. I take advantage of your contortions to toss you further down the
couch and flop down in the comfy spot you have vacated.

"No fair!" you kneel on the sofa, hands on my shins, your face a mask of
mock fury and total derangement.

"Losers weepers!" I say.

"I'll make ya weep!" you yell as you throw yourself on me and began a tickle
assault on my chest and ribs. And then suddenly your hands are much lower
and the laughing stops. I feel your gentle fingers on my cock inside my
boxers, still in its somnolent state, for a second or two anyway. You are
watching my face and I am watching yours. The mask of fury is gone now. Your
mouth is slightly open, as if you are about to say something, your
gray-green eyes steady and unblinkingly on my face. I sigh, more a release
of breath than anything else.

"Good?" you ask. You're are smiling that smile now. The feel of your gentle
fingers through the cotton of my underwear is soothing, almost hypnotic.

"Ummmmm!" I groan.

"You VILL answer me ven I osk you a qvest-yun, Mr. Bond!" You are big into
accents these days, some of them very good but some not very good. This one
is not so good.

"I don't gotta ansa you nuttin'" I sneer, but I don't do anything to stop
what you are doing.

"That's not how James Bond talks," you point out.

"I'm not James Bond," I reply.

"Oh, yes you are! You're just trying to escape detection! You can't fool us,
Mr. Bond!" The last two words resumed the attempts at a sinister accent.
You've stopped now and kneel on the couch against my raised shin, your hands
gently resting on my knees as they rested on my forearms a few minutes
before. Then, as if you just remembered or thought of something you jump up
and run over to your clothes where they are loosely piled on an ottoman. You
come back with  a thin, blue canvas belt.

"Turn over and lie on your stomach, Mr. Bond!" you order.

"What for?" I ask. You lean in close to my face, your hands braced on my
chest. You do this sort of thing a lot: you squeeze whatever part of me
you've latched onto very hard, you screw up your face into that mask of
crazy fury, you clench your teeth together like the Hulk, and you speak very
slowly and huskily through your teeth.

"Just! Do! It!" you hiss.

I said you do this a lot, and you do. But when you do I read it that what
you are really saying is 'Pretty please, please, please! I really want you
to do this for me, but it's so much more fun if it looks like you're doing
it because I'm making you do it!' If there's anything I am totally guilty
of, it's giving in to you too easily on almost everything, particularly when
you get a chance to do some creative wheedling. I hesitate for a second, and
then roll over onto my stomach on the couch. Immediately, you hop up and
straddle my butt. I can feel your bare calves against my bare thighs.

"Verrrrrrrrrrry good, Mr. Bond! It will go much easier on you if you obey my
orders!" you say, in another of your accents.

"That's not the same guy," I point out. "That one sounds oriental." You have
taken my arms, one at a time, and very gently pulled them to the small of my
back where you have crossed them at the wrist.

"Right, Mr. Bond! Verrrrrrry perceptive of you! I am Chang Shu and I am a
specialist!"

"Oh? And what are you a specialist in, Mr. Shu? Bad accents?" I feel your
belt being wrapped around my wrists and snugged up with knot after knot.
You're finished then, and lean down over my back, your belly presses into my
bound hands. I resist the temptation to tickle you with my fingers. Your
mouth is so close to my ear I can feel the warm moisture of your breath on
it.

"Interrogation, Mr Bond!" You lean even closer so that your lips are now
actually brushing against my ear. "I specialize in interrogation ... by
torture!"

The whole thing, the play-acting, the tying-up, the weight of you on me, the
feel of your lips on my ear, and your hard belly against my bound hands--
the whole set up has done nothing at all to curtail the hardening of my
dick.

"And now, Mr. Bond, if you vill please to turn over, vee will get to vurk!"

"Hey, that was the German guy again!" I complain, as you help me to roll
over onto my bound arms.

"So what?" you say, grunting from the exertion of helping me turn over on
the couch.  "Maybe he just checks in once in a while to see how things are
going!" You seem angry at my implied critique of your acents, but not too
angry.

"You're amazing!" I say, and mean it, but have to laugh nevertheless. Then
the oriental gentleman is back again.

"You will soon see, Mr. Bond, just how amazing I can be when prisoners are
uncooperative!"

^'

"Good night yourself, Peter whatever the fuck your dumb name is!" you say.

"Hey! Watch your language, guy!"

"Well, I can't help it! I hate that f... guy!"

"Why don't you just turn off the damn TV? We...uh...haven't exactly been
watching it, you know!"

"Pervert!"

"Pervert? Me? That's FUNNY! Why you little... How about untying me, anyway?"
I start to roll over and almost tumble you onto the floor from your nest
between my legs. But you hang on and push down hard on my chest, shoving me
back flat onto my bound arms. I can feel wetness soaking through my tee
shirt from your hands.

"No! Not 'til you tell me..."

"Tell you what, Mr. Shu? I thought you were finished interrogating me."

"Not him. Me. Tell me."

"Ok, what? Tell you what?"

"Was it... you know, fun? Did you like it? You sure seemed to like it? Wow!
Did you ever!"

"You know I did. It was... well, it was very...special. I don't know what
else to say right now. I haven't even really got my breath back yet. It
was... great!" You beam with pride and I feel warm inside when I see that
familiar big smile of genuine, unfeigned happiness grow across your sweet
face.

"I was good then?"

"You were better than good! You were unbelievably, tremendously,
magnificently fantastic!" I meant every word of it.

"Well, OK, then! Turn over and I'll untie you." And then you add, with a
giggle, "Mr. Bond!"

^'

Your comments about my little vignettes are indeed more than welcome. They
are also my only pay! Comments also help to encourage me to write more of my
little glimpses into two lives. Septimus@mail15.com