Date: Sun, 26 Sep 2004 14:03:02 +0100
From: vindacatrix@ntlworld.com
Subject: "Rent - part 4"

Rent - part 4
(M/M, Oral)
Copyright C.J. Davies

Standard disclaimer - don't read if you're under 18, easily upset
or have problems (serious or minor) with gay-themed erotic stories.
If your country/area of residence says this is naughty and illegal,
well, I'm afraid I don't have a "get out of jail free" card you
could use.  Please, use your common sense.  Whilst the characters
in my story may or may not practice safe-sex, you really should.
Not that you're foolish enough to eschew condoms merely because
fictional characters don't use them, are you.

This story, or any part of it, may not be copied, re-edited, sold,
or molested in any way without my saying it's okay.  My specially
trained winged-monkeys are now armed with crossbows, and despite
their instructions to shoot for flesh-wounds only, their aim is
generally rubbish - don't risk it!  Re-posting is okay, as long
as you leave this preamble in place and full credit is given where
it's due.  Any comments, criticisms or offers of gifts and/or sexual
favours may be made to vindacatrix@ntlworld.com

If you fancy reading some more of what I've written (it's slightly
less porny, I ought to warn you), you're welcome to check out my
site www.plenaryindulgence.co.uk

Again, muchos thankosos to the lovely people who have written to me
already; hopefully part four will live up to expectations...

Chris


-----------o-n--w-i-t-h--t-h-e--s-h-o-w--(-a-g-a-i-n-)--------------



Rent (part four)



I guess the aftermath of your first time all depends on
your relationship with your lover.  If you're happily
coupled then you probably get to lie together in sticky,
post-coital glow.  If he's just some buff hottie you've
scored with at a club and taken home (or, should your
schedule be snug, taken to the nearest toilets), then I
imagine you're keen to wipe up the spunk and locate
your quickly-shed underwear.  If your first time is with a
hooker, then - trust me - your thoughts quickly turn to
whether he takes Switch or Visa.  I slumped by his side,
drool easing from my ass and slicking my already
sweaty buttocks, mentally ransacking my wallet.
Obviously, aside from cards and cash, it contained a fair
degree of guilt, as I was suddenly overwhelmed by the
truth of what I'd done.  All I could hear was the voice
inside my head piously reminding me that (a) your first
time should be special, (b) it should be with someone
you love, and (c) you shouldn't have to pay him.  Before
I knew it, tears were trickling down my face.

If this were romantic fiction, Adam would here tell me he
loved me, brush away my tears and we would rescue
each other - me from my sexual paranoia and he from
his sexual prostitution.  We would live happily ever after,
and possibly have a cat.  But I promised you honesty,
promised me it in fact, and thus honesty is what we're
getting.  He sat up beside me, sinuous arms curling first
to lean on his knees and then to run both hands through
his sweat-heavy hair; I could smell the heat from him,
mixed headily with the scent of my own ass and his
thickly cloying juices.  Out of the moment and the
overwhelming lust, the blatant honesty of it shamed me
and I blushed, deep crimson.  Somehow, this is the
most intimate part of our evening together, closeness
beyond the fucking or the kissing, this proximity of hip-
to-hip.  My stomach cramps with the urge to reach for
my boxers, to cover myself in my glairing, reeking
nakedness, and I battle to avoid instinctively covering
my eyes, as if my own lack of sight will render me
invisible on these sheets that smell of boisterous boys.  I
satisfy myself with squeezing them shut, then feel the
flex of the mattress as he, I assume, turns to swing his
legs over the side and stands.

The vastness of the bed, once a promise of our sexual
expansiveness, now dwarfs and belittles me, mocks
with the cut that I cannot hope to fill it on my own.  That
it was Adam's sex that ever did so, and I was merely
hole and helper.  I am laid out as meat for him, should
he care to look; thankfully, I can't see either way.  My
eyes stay blinkered until I hear the thump of his
bedroom door closing, and I'm left alone in the room.
Test messages bleed to each fuck-sodden extremity,
priming them for something other than hormones and
penetration, until I judge myself ready enough and
clamber about to find my scattered clothes.  Sweat and
come mat the fabric to me, oil the glide of cotton and
denim over goosebumped skin.  I feel for the square
lump of my wallet then, paranoia enflamed, extract and
open it to thumb through what cash there remains.
Against all odds, I have enough.

Opening the bedroom door I expect, hope, to hear the
hiss of his shower - some sign of normality from him, as
well as some degree of trust in me, that I will leave
recompense through innate honesty ascertained within
our brief relationship.  Instead, he is sat in the kitchen;
damp t-shirt clinging and askew, combats pulled on,
zipped, but unbuttoned and belt ends hanging slackly.
His sockless feet rest, gangling toes flexing, on the lino.
He doesn't offer me coffee, which I'm grateful for.

I pull the cash out of my back pocket, where I had folded
and stuffed it from self-consciousness about wandering
his flat, currency outstretched and distancing.
Sheepishly I handed it over, watched through darting
glances how he tucked it away with only a cursory rifle
through with his nail, head briefly dipped and then back
to give me a half-smile.
"Thanks" and I cringe inside, afraid of this cementation
of our liaison.
"I'd better... y'know... go..."  I'm back to stuttering and
mumbling, torn between my desire to flee and my still-
present desire for him, my wish that he wasn't someone
I'd just illegally procured for sex.  He stood, took a step
towards the door.
"Okay, yeah."

As I stand with my hand on the latch, I try to think of
what you're meant to say to the rent boy who's just
taken your cherry, and whose juices you can still feel,
mashing away inside of you.  Maybe we're both getting
nervous - he wants me to leave, now, so that he can
strip the bed and wash a stranger's sweat from his
buyable body.
"How about I give you my number..." he starts, and I
nod, if only in thanks to him for filling the silence at least.
To my relief he hasn't a stack of business cards; he
dashes off the string of digits on a pad lurking by the
straggly phone, rips off the sheet, hands it to me.  I grip
it forlornly.
"Look, I hope your first... I hope it was okay."  The tears
threaten to reassert themselves; I'm a million miles
away from the slut who begged to be fucked harder,
who ground his fingernails into a boy's back whilst
screaming out, pulling him deeper.  I turn to the door
quickly.  Outside the first traces of light are knitting
themselves through the night sky.  The air is muggy and
leaden, and as I step out and through it I can almost
hear the sucking sound as it squelches around me.
"Thanks..."  I can't look at him, only make my way back
through the paths and hope to find a taxi on the main
road.  A few steps away and I hear his door close.

___


It's one of those things that you think will never cease to
affect you, never cease to bring about those feelings
you had at the time - in this case, the shame and the
embarrassment.  And in a way, it didn't stop affecting
me... it's just that the way in which I thought about it
changed.  I stopped thinking about Adam as a mistake,
about the short time we spent together as dirty or wrong
or as something I should never had done.  At quiet
times, I found myself pulling out my mobile and scrolling
to his number, which I'd saved from the scrap of paper
whilst waiting, my head-reeling, for a taxi on the night I
left him, and simply sitting, staring at it on the screen.
The backlight would dim and shut off, and I would stay
there, eyes gently unfocussing.  But worse were the
horny times, the times when I was amped-up and
throbbing, and I would sit with the thickness of my cock
in one hand and my phone in the other, his number the
backdrop to my memories of our fucking.  Toying with
the soft-sheathed hardness and imagining it was his
own; wishing, no, aching to lie next to him, beneath him
again.  And then the apathy and exhaustion after
splaying my juices wildly was not only the normal
tiredness a boy feels in such a situation, but also the
recognition of my loneliness.

I guess it comes as no surprise that one day it went
from scrolling to his number to thumbing 'call', trembling
in rhythm with the ringing, stomach churning as he
answered the phone.
"Hello?"
I daren't hang up, for all my anxieties, because the urge
to see him has grown so great that any moral quotient
lies deflated and ignored behind me.  I dread my voice
cracking.
"Hi, Adam... it's Tom..." and now I can't remember
whether I even told him my name, all I can wonder is
whether this constriction in my chest is a panic attack or
merely a coronary... "I was hoping to... well... see you
again."
There's a pause; I hold my breath.  How picky is he with
his clients?  Will he turn me down?
"I'm free tonight, actually... unless you were wanting
something later in the week...?"
Lights and adrenaline burst in my head; it needs to be
tonight, before I lose my nerve, before it takes further
weeks to call him and see him and know him and his
intimacy again.
"Tonight!"  I force myself to calm.  "Yeah, tonight would
be good.  What time?"
The arrangements are simple - his place, mid-evening,
same price as before - discussing cost sending fresh
chills through me.  I hang up elated and at the same
time miserable, disappointed in myself for all that I'm
proud.  It's only early in the afternoon but I hurry to the
shower, with a cock that has found itself painfully hard
despite my sour fear.  As I soap and scrub and rinse I
try my best to avoid touching it beyond the perfunctory,
after the first lathering leads to my slowly milking out
thick, pearly streams of pre-come that drool languidly
into the shower tray.  Mentally I smack my hands away,
tweak up the cold tap, feel my excitement flee as the icy
water beats down me.

Later, then, in front of the mirror, wet towels at my feet, I
examine myself for stray hairs, for spots and for love
handles, so that I can tweeze, squeeze and obsess
respectively.  I force my hand to be steady as I pluck
away at monobrow and rid my shoulders of the few dark
dustings that threaten to turn gorilla-back in my old age.
Inwardly I freak out about what I'm to wear, the irony
that my outfit will only end up discarded at the foot of the
bed both present and ignored.  Soon I'm scrabbling
through underwear, browsing briefs and boxers,
eschewing the overt as much as the old-fashioned,
before manhandling my shortlist to the honest gaze of
the mirror and trialling each.  Eventually I settle upon
white boxer-briefs by HOM, curious for their horizontal
fly, and after that the rest of my outfit comes together
with reassuring ease.  It's only taken me an afternoon.

____


I find myself on his doorstep.  Well, no - to say I "found
myself" implies an easy, forgettable ride, rather than an
afternoon of anguish, moral-upheaval and more sexual
arousal than the set of a Bel Ami movie.  Cash weighs
down my pocket, the scant lightness of paper money
wrapped in a heavy band of disapproval.  I thumb the
doorbell, wait to hear his tread through the hall; I'm still
waiting to hear it as the door opens.
"Hi, Tom... come in."  He welcomes me as an old friend,
and I wonder what his neighbours think, whether they
assume of him the broad social circle of the young, or
whisper behind their Neighbourhood Watch stickers
about the slut next door.  Holding the door wide he
presses back against the wall, and I slip past him with
the brush of our bodies' sublime.
"It's good to... um... see you again" I mumble, feeling
six years old and in the audience of friends-of-the-
family, groping wretchedly for social niceties to mask my
abstract horror.  Meantime, I inspect him, comparing
him mentally to the memory I have of that night of firsts.

He's wearing combats again, blue-black this time, heavy
pockets lolling, with bare toes peeking from beneath the
hems.  They sit low on his hips, a sliver of his
underwear showing before the clutches of a tight tight
tight t-shirt, no, two t-shirts layered, take over, hugging
the contours of his stomach and pectorals.  His hair is
as casually-perfectly spiked as I remember it, his eyes
as engrossing, his lips as full.  I can feel myself
blushing, yet again, and so I fumble the money out in
diversion; he sets it, loaded, on the narrow shelf above
the radiator.
"You decided whether you want that drink yet?"
I can't help but giggle, letting out with it a great chunk of
my unspoken anxiety.  Adam smiles wickedly, hovering
in the archway to the kitchen.  I realise I can smell him,
that I can recognise that smell from our first night
together, even though I hadn't the memory or the words
to recognise or understand it then.  Something animal,
wrapped beneath layers of showering and deodorant
and fresh clothes and outward respectability.
Something unmistakably boy.  I take a step towards
him, towards the kitchen, but my glance towards his
bedroom door betrays my true craving; he chuckles.
"Come on" and somehow takes my hand and,
simultaneously, opens the door and pulls us through.

It's a short journey, from hall to bedroom, and again I'm
struck by the size of his bed in proportion to the room.
We stand for a moment, my hand still in his, as my eyes
take in more and his eyes rest on me.  I can feel him
trace tiny circles on my palm, on the back of my hand;
minute scribbles of intimacy that spread, like warmth,
through my arm and up around my shoulders.  Turning,
I meet his gaze; see his eyes dance across my face,
then briefly down my body, then back again.  I realise
I'm smiling.  It's only natural that our lips come together.

The kiss starts, if not chastely, then calmly at least, his
hands on the contours of my waist, mine reached
around to cup the jut of his shoulder blades, as our lips
smudge thickly and our tongues gently mash.
Nevertheless, hunger overtakes me, the urge for him,
this boy who has occupied my thoughts and my
fantasies so totally for what feels like forever, and as I
growl through our connected mouths I pull him close to
me.  His pelvis crushes against mine, and I feel his
growing erection against my own, as his hands slip
down across my hips and round, slyly underneath the
loose waistband of my jeans, to cup my cheeks.
Fingertips ease their way into my ass crack, kneading
roughly, stroking and brushing at the flinching tightness
of my hole, as his kisses grow deeper and, with the flare
of our shared lust, he begins to bite and nip at my lips,
smear his tongue across the flushing, swollen flesh.

The stretch of my imagination, acted and re-acted
through all those hurried, impatient wankings, lends me
a familiarity, a brashness, as if he'd been present all
those nights rather than a shadowy, grinning fantasy I
fabricated whilst I frotted.  It feels like nothing to strip his
shirts from him, the arching flex of his sinuous torso a
cause for wonderment, his jutting nipples a greedy
target for my pinching, twisting fingers.  I can feel his
stomach flinching and tensing through my clothes and,
possessed, I quickly shed my own top and feel the
incredible heat of our chests together.  Then, with
questions of "may I?" and "can I?" summarily avoided,
unbuckling, unfastening his combats and letting them
sag to his feet needs no permission; he stands against
me, the crisp whiteness of his 2xist briefs a heady
contrast to the richness of his skin.  I lean back, still
breathless from his digits ministrations at the hungry
opening of my ass, peer down into the stretched chasm
between our upper bodies, gawking with barely-hidden
wonderment at the contrast between his muscle-waved
tone and my own, lean ribcage, bones jutting
ingenuously, pressed proud with each gasp that racks
me.  The thickness of his cock lays pointedly across his
hip, half-constrained by the scantness of his underwear,
straining to lurch forward; a translucent patch of his juice
spreads richly where the trapped, blunt head pulses.
The back of my hand brushes against its length, leaving
a smear of wetness, as I grope at belt, button, zip, all
things between me and kicking away trousers to stand
as undressed, as nearly naked, as he does before me.
Still he kneads at my cheeks, his lips now on my neck,
the delicate whorl of his ear just visible if I strain my
eyes down to peer at him.  The stroke of a tongue from
oesophagus to carotid thrills me, but this newness pales
as his care travels slickly down, loitering at nipples,
each suckled, lathed with his gluttonous mouth, then
down again to blur the hairs of my treasure-trail.

With one hand, a fingertip of the other still gently
probing at my hole, he hooks my prick out of the fly of
my shorts, the elastic mouth holding it upright, leaking
tip pressed against my abdomen.  His tongue runs,
teasingly, along the broad underside until it nestles in
the moist hollow where arching glans meets shaft; I look
down, only to meet his eyes as he stares up at me, lips
stretched sluttishly to half-encompass the end of my
erection.  It's only natural that my hands gently
reposition his head, fingers bunching and burrowing in
his hair, until the full length of me has disappeared into
his mouth and waves of golden pleasure flood through
me with each warm sweep of his tongue.  At first I'm
content to let him bob, the pace Adam's own, but soon
delight turns to greedy desire and, still cradling his head,
I long-dick my way in and out of his swollen, spit-slick
pout.  Before I can set a rhythm he pulls back, deftly
strips me of my boxers, before returning to engulf me,
pubes mashed against his nose, the end of me clasped
exquisitely in the quivering grasp of his throat.  And then
I begin to face-fuck him in earnest, drawing back until
only the head remains inside, then pressing forward,
buttocks clenching, until I'm again lodged fully within his
sucking, drooling gullet.  Behind me, his fingers deftly
continue their insidious work, scooping gobs of spit and
precome that leak from the corners of his mouth and
smear his chin, and using this to penetrate me.  His
touch within the tightness of my ass, stretching me, only
drives me on to further increase the pace of my
thrusting; staring down, seeing my hands muss his hair,
the hunger and raw desire in his eyes, the arch of his
back as he kneels, submissive before me, pushes me
inescapably towards the edge of my excitement.  I can
actually feel my cock swelling painfully harder, the
edges of my vision begins to tunnel; I groan in a voice
two-octaves lower than my normal, as I pull his head
fast into my groin and unload again and again into his
mouth.  His gulping massages me until the sensation is
too great, too overwhelming to the point of painful, and I
slide my glistening tumescence free of his lips.  Oysters
of spunk bubble gently from the slit, and I brush them
against his jaw.  He grins at me as I reach down and
help him to his feet.  I taste myself in our kiss.



End of part 4 - part 5 is part-finished and is to follow.

Like it?  Hate it?  Want a winged-monkey?  Mail me at
vindacatrix@ntlworld.com

Oh, and please, check out my site, www.plenaryindulgence.co.uk