N.B. narative shift - First-Person-Singular Thoughts From The Crypt -
I slam the door behind Harris, shooting the bolt across the solid oak barrier between us. He's still out there, I can sense him, trying to pull 'imself together, re-adjusting his bits, those ones I just stirred up so nicely for him, so's he can walk. I grin smugly, the wanker won't have an easy job of it; he'll be poncin' around worrying that he's not presentable for public view right up until he gets home.
I don't for a moment think he'll want to come back in but I don't relax until I know he's gone; then I let myself collapse against this door, resting my forehead against its coolness. My arms are high and wide above my head, elbows, hands and fingers spread, pushing hard against the ancient wood - craving its support as if I could absorb it through my skin.
My opinion of Harris has, in words of simplistic understatement, done a complete arse about face. There's been a change in him, slow but steady, the past few weeks; I doubt if any of the other bleedin' Screwbies have noticed but it's not been difficult to see - if you were watching. But the others don't take the time even to look at him much nowadays, never mind watch. Except, of course, the Watcher: he sees a lot, lot more than he likes to let on. He might have retired from the profession but old habits die hard and he absorbs knowledge like a hurricane absorbs a fart. He'll have some words of wisdom to bestow on the kid's new sexual proclivites, might just be worth asking him what he thinks of the situation.
Finally I'm able to peel myself away from the door to stag... saunter back to the sofa. I let myself drop down on to it, stretched full length with my head pillowed on the arm and light another cigarette. Damn, my hands are shaking, who'd have thought? I grope under the cushions and pull out a reasonably full bottle of Jack, take a few healthy swigs and start-to with some serious thinking.
Yeah, the brat's whole attitude has been shifting recently. The first thing I noticed was the usual acerbic banter he delights in throwing at me was losing its malicious edge. In the last week it's all but dissolved into... embarrassed bravado is the best I can think of. I've been expecting him to start chucking handfuls of mud at me - the tried and tested way to start a wrestling match with the one you want to get close to. Aah, the tactics you grow fond of during childhood are hard to let go.
Got to admit, it's been fun seeing how far I could push him before he cracked. His burning stare has been keeping me cock warm for weeks now - and when I bent over to look in Rupert's fridge last night, thought he was going to choke. Silly sod didn't notice that the beer I was supposed to be unable to find was right there on the middle shelf. Damn, it didn't even click when I went back to fetch it 10 minutes later and drank it in front of him. Too busy pretending not to watch what I was doing to notice what I was doing it with.
But fuck me sideways seven times from Tuesday, who would have thought that less than 24 hours later he'd have been around here with a bit of the old follow-up? Lad's got a pair after all - I wonder if they're still as uncomfortable as mine? Aaah, that's better. Sometimes all you need for sweet relief is the feel of a zip going down. Oh yeah, going down, that's made me think of what I was saying to Harris and, while he's hardly my chosen fantasy, thinking of a mouth on a cock is a sure way of building up any man's sexual tension. I might not admit it often but this isn't the first time motormouth, here, has talked himself into an uncomfortable situation. Perhaps if I stroke the er, situation, gently, I can get it to calm down a bit.
First step in soothing an uncomfortable situation: get patient comfy. Jeans off, one foot on floor and the other up on sofa, legs floppin' wide an' relaxed. Yeah, that's feelin' good. Just stroke, now, nice an 'easy. One hand playing my balls, pressure just hard enough for that lovely ripple of almost-pain and the other hand finding a nice even rhythm up and down my cock. And, yes, stroking is good.
I sink in to the moment: mind pictures flash across the silver screen that's the back of my closed eyelids and they re-enforce the bolts of sensual hunger that my hands are sparking throughout my body. Images back through the years, back through the decades: so many bodies, single or multiple; so many places; so many positions; so many hands and mouths and deep, grasping, soft bodies; soft, full breasts and perfumed hair and deep, grasping, soft, pliant, generously-giving bodies.
My hand speeds up and pleasure roils through me as I think of the strangeness of firm male lips, strong male tongue desparate against mine. And so what if I can't banish the phantom I've conjured, of watching a dark-eyed youth wrap his mouth around the head of my cock, sucking, sliding that for-once-silent mouth further and further down, pulling back up a little way then pushing back down, teasing inch by inch, finally taking me all in until we become one seamless being joined lips to torso, then sliding back up, teeth scraping against my screaming flesh until he reaches the head again, tongue pushing into my slit, lapping the first drops of pre-ejaculate, then curling under the foreskin, orbiting tightly around my increasingly weeping head and oh god, yesss, harder yes, harder, an even-more powerful sucking as he repeats the sweet torture again and again, dark hair falling over his face, his head bobbing faster and faster, and yessss, please, oh fuck, suck me, yessss, oh god yesss, Xander, god yes, oh god, jesus Xander, yeah, just like that, christ don't stop; up and down my cock, this manchild's muscles-tongue-teeth all conspiring to pull me up higher and higher, think I'll never reach, body twitching, pulling, straining to hit that summit, throat raw with silent howling, tension higher and higher and tighter and blinding and screaming and jerking and shooting, spurting, splashing and shaking and bloody-holy-jesus-mary-and-joseph that boy can give head!