fire drill

‘Where are you?’ you say. It’s 9.15 am and you’re stuck outside in the office parking lot in the middle of a fire drill, shuffling your feet and watching the muster point wardens disinterestedly checking people off their lists.

‘Kitchen,’ he says, on the other end of the line – you called him just to say hi, and also to pass the time, and also you’re maybe in love with him. Just an unofficial little bit in love. You can hear the clatter of dishes in the background, the sloshing of liquid. ‘Coffee.’

There’s a little silence.

‘Whaddaya wearing?’ you say, singsong, almost a joke but not quite. He clears his throat, makes a kind of grunting chuckle.

‘Housecoat,’ he says, ‘and those, uh, those shorts you got me that time.’

That takes a minute to hit, but then

‘oh!’ you say, and stop. You’d tossed them in his basket for a laugh when he’d been through town a few months back and you’d done a 2 am Walmart run: a black micro-fibre thong dotted with grey stars. You take a second to picture it stretched up snug around his balls, tight over the line of his –

He’s talking.

‘…not so bad,’ you catch, ‘and as you know I’ve got one fine fuckin’ ass.’

‘Shit,’ you say, and your co-workers look at you, so it must have been pretty loud. ‘I never thought you’d actually – gosh – what are – I mean, you’re just hanging all thongalicious in the kitchen?’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘since you ask, I’m sittin’ on the edge of a table and I’m gonna jerk one off pretty quick here.’

‘Shit!’ you say, and take four steps away from the cluster of officemates, turn around. ‘Fuck, c’mon, you can’t do this to me – I’m stuck in a fire drill.’

‘Too bad you ain’t got my hose,’ he says, but before you can mock him there’s a groan over the line, so low and gut-real it makes you flush up your throat. ‘Oh honey wish you were here.’

You lick your lips.

‘What are you doing?’ you say, a little frantic, ‘they’re gonna call us in soon, quick quick.’ You can see the wardens starting to nod at each other across the parking lot. ‘What are you – are you – how hard are you? Are the shorts pulled right down?’

‘Yup.’ You can hear his breathing pick up a little and the thump of something – a chair leg? – in the background. ‘Got ‘em pulled right down under the balls, like you like ‘em.’ You flush bright red, put your hand up to your face. ‘And I’m – yeah, I’m hard as they come, honey – fuck.’

‘What?’ You’re walking back up to the building now. Everyone else is inside and the last of the monitors is standing at the door, obviously waiting for you. ‘Shit – I can’t really say any more, going back into the – I’ll listen though, keep, keep telling me.’

‘OK,’ he says, and you’d swear you can hear the thwick thwick of his fist jerking quick over his dick. ‘That’s hot, baby, you on the line but you can’t touch yourself or even make a noise – uggghh, getting close – christ – bet you’re getting wet cause you want it, don’t you, you want this dick so good and hard between your legs, baby, fuck, fuuuuck, just say yeah, say it, say it, Christ I’m gonna-’

Yeah,’ you say, halfway up the stairs, perfectly still and gripping the rail with one hand like it’s salvation, and you hear him grunt twice close together, long and torn up from the bottom of his chest, and you’re gripping your phone so hard it’s leaving dents in the pads between your knuckles.

He laughs, warm like melted honey, and it goes right through you.

‘Ok there?’ he says, and you take a light shuddery breath, make your feet start up the stairs again. You’re astonished they’re working.

‘I’ll call you later,’ you say, like a threat, ‘once I’m home,’ and he says

‘You’d better.’

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fire drill

friction

It’s late when you pull into the parking space in front of the motel – dark and silent, 2 am, no one around. Gusts of wind are blowing some plastic bags around the lot. You’re here for a family wedding, drove up late after work; inside the motel room your cousin will already be asleep, snoring, probably, but – you’re horny, want it so bad your knickers are already wet inside your tights.

You look across the car, and he glances back and flashes a grin.

‘OK, babe?’

‘Yeah,’ you say, distracted. He’s still wearing his suit from the office. When he unbuckles his seatbelt you turn your body a little towards him and shuck your low heels into the footwell, brush your hand down the length of his arm.

‘You wanna stay out here for a bit?’ you say.

He looks across at you and cocks an eyebrow. One corner of his mouth twitches like he’s laughing at the question. You make a noise in your throat, exasperated arousal, and give his forearm a tug.

‘Come over here.’

He does, slides across the seat towards you, and as he does you shift around and over to straddle him, one of your hands braced on the seat back behind his head. You drag the other hand down his chest, knuckles slipping over buttons, coming to rest when your little finger touches the metal of his belt buckle. He kisses the hollow of your neck, wet-warm breath ghosting across your collarbone.

‘Hey handsome,’ you say, ‘take off your tie.’

He does, eyes fixed on your face, tongue slipping between his lips. His hands fumble a little, fingers tugging at the knot. When he gets it undone you take it, wrap it around his wrists and tie it in a simple knot, watching his face. His eyebrows are cocked up in flirtatious interest, face open, cheeks flushing pink.

You kneel up in his lap and push his arms up behind his head and back a little, so that his bound wrists fit snug over the headrest. The long tail of the tie has a foot or so left hanging, and you stretch it back to the hook above the backseat door. The tabbed pocket of fabric at the tie’s end slips neatly over the hook. He could get out of it with one jerk of his arms, if he wanted to. But you’re thinking, hoping, that he won’t want to.

For a few seconds you’re distracted, gone lust-blind over the way his arms stretched right up behind his head make his jacket ride up high on his shoulders and his biceps bulge, strained so hard against the jacket that you can see the muscles working through the fabric. His body is arched back a little, following the taut line of the tie, and he shifts, spreading his legs apart, feet shuffling against the floor mats.

‘Gonna have your nasty way with me?’ he says, eyes bright and flickering. You don’t answer, just peel off your tights and press down deep into his lap, grinding over his crotch, knees digging into the back of the leather seat. One of your hands touches his elbow and slides slow down his bicep, down to his shoulder, slips inside his jacket and trails down over his slightly arched chest. When your thumb brushes over a nipple and he puffs out a breath you pause and roll your hips, intrigued.

‘You like that?’ you say. He opens one eye.

‘Fuck yeah.’

You don’t reply, just unbutton his shirt and flick the same nipple again with the pad of your thumb, brushing upwards. You can feel his thighs tighten a little beneath you and do it again, twice, three times. His mouth is open a little now, breath growing laboured. You put one hand down on his hipbone, hard, and with the other you roll his nipple gently between three fingers, mouth closing over the other. His hips ride up then, not quite bucking but thrusting, surging forward. The nipple pops under your tongue. You can taste his sweat and feel the prickle of hairs around his areola. You suck a little harder, getting a sort of rhythm going between your fingers and tongue, and his cock jerks beneath you and tightens the crotch of his dress pants.

‘You do like that,’ you murmur, quiet, against his skin.

‘Hnnng,’ he says. He’s flexing his arms a bit, not hard enough to release the tie but enough that his pecs are jumping a little under your mouth. You tighten the hand on his hip and can feel him tilt his head to the side, throat bared. His cock twitches again and he shifts, uncomfortable now, pushing his hips up into you, but you raise yourself up on your knees a bit, teasing him, letting his crotch just brush against your knickers. There’s a second or two or maybe four (most Disney promises don’t stick but you’ve found out as an adult that time does stop, sometimes) where the tension is like a physical thing, eyes fixed on each other. Something unfurls in your gut and it’s not quite arousal or – no – it is, but it’s more than just slick, swollen flesh – not separate from that, exactly, but fuller, thicker, another layer, the drag of some sensory tide between you.

‘Babe,’ he says, hoarse, and you put your hands flat on his chest and close your eyes and grind down hard on the swell of his cock, keening low in the back of your throat. Then you’re unzipping his trousers and his cock presses up into your palm; he’s wet through his shorts. You pull him through the fly and run your thumb over his crown, breathing heavy.

‘Glovebox?’ you say, and his head’s back against the seat now, eyes blinking fast, but he grunts yes and you scrabble behind you, get one hand on the handle, pop it open. Papers fluttering, gum, car registration – there, a strip of condoms. You tear one open with your teeth and he gets his head up to look at you, flashes a grin. Then you’re pulling your panties to the side and sinking down around him.

You try to draw out the teasing, rolling your hips a bit to grind up over the root of his cock, forcing yourself to go slow, slow. He’s quiet, just heavy breathing and sporadic grunts, but the movement of his face does the talking for him; he’s biting his lips, eyes closed, head straining hard back against the headrest. When he starts to fuck up into you, hips pistoning, desperate for more, you make a satisfied noise and let him, bearing down hard to meet his thrusts. It’s fast and all friction now, shallow wet thrusts that quicken the nerves all down your spine and punch little noises out of you with each stroke.

‘Fuck,’ he says, ‘fuck, fuck, I’m gonna come, sorry, fuck, gonna come -’

‘Yeahhh,’ you say, soft, throaty, and as he arches up he gives his shoulders a twist and his arms are suddenly around you, tight and strong, and his fingers are dragging along your lips and trailing into your mouth.

‘My turn,’ he says.

friction

coax

Geoff rocks the plug a little, and the widest part of the stainless steel bulb pulls heavy against the inside of Mark’s ass. He’s drowning again in the feeling of dragging suspension, the plug tensile on the edge of slipping either in or out, and he wants both and neither. It’s a discomposing kind of pleasure, like sensation has abandoned individual nerves and is pooling heavy and strong, stronger than him, in the cord of his spine.

The plug slides back in, and Mark’s panting, head thrown to the side. He’s on his knees, naked. Geoff is on his back beneath him, still mostly clothed, face just below Mark’s chest, one arm up around Mark’s hips so his fingers can coax the plug back and forth. His other hand is against Mark’s chest, splayed flat, fingertips pressing into the skin. When he’d said he wanted to watch – not coquettishly but with a dark seriousness – Mark had thought he meant, well, the action behind. Not this, not looking right at Mark’s face.

He lets the plug sink so deep Mark feels it like braille at the back of his skull, presses it a little so not just the bulb and the stem but the base of the curved handle are inside him, and then shallow tugs, quick and shuddering-good. This isn’t teasing. Mark’s done teasing. This is something else, peeling him open and licking along his bones.

He’s still panting, he can’t get his breath, can’t shake himself lucid from this feeling.

‘I’d like to know what you’re thinking,’ says Geoff. There’s a growl on the edge of it but the sheer impersonal force of the way he says it winds a fist right into Mark’s gut. His eyes are rolling back in their sockets and the world’s gone smeary-white.

Auuugh,’ says Mark, and arches his back more, presses harder into the pressure of the plug. Geoff quickens the movement of his hand and Mark gives a naked moan, on fire from navel to knees.

‘I can’t,’ he says, frantic, without knowing what he means. ‘I can’t I can’t.’ Geoff slides a little further down Mark’s body so that Mark’s cock, bobbing stiff and dripping, brushes against his lips.

‘You can,’ he says.

coax