Sex in Seven Shades

Etharei


Rating: NC-17
Warnings: A dash of angst, and use of toys.
Disclaimer: Queer as Folk and all the characters and situations featured therein are the property of Showtime, Cowlip Productions and their affiliates. I’m only borrowing them for purely non-profit, recreational purposes, and promise to replenish the condom and lube supply when I’m done.
Summary: “I didn’t say sex isn’t still a big part of it.” Mikey takes another draw from the joint. “But you actually like him, don’t you?”
Author Notes: Written for the ’Icon Challenge’ at the qaf_challenges community. There have been a few minor changes and corrections from the original version, but nothing that affects the plot. Completely unbeta’ed, so all errors are mine alone. Dedicated to my big sister on LJ, anorielle.



”The color of the object illuminated partakes of the color of that which illuminates it.” – Leonardo da Vinci


Sex in Seven Shades

“He’s more than just a trick now, isn’t he?”

It’s a rather unremarkable afternoon on a weekend, and Michael is enjoying the biochemical effects of illegal narcotics on the floor of my loft. I’m sprawled over a cushion next to him, equally stoned but still sensible enough to not lie on cold hardwood. We’d reached the mostly-silent-and-lost-in-our-own-heads phase. Blowing out a pathetic trail of smoke, Michael suddenly decides that a conversation is in order.

I consider pretending to have no idea of whom Mikey is referring to, but I feel really, really comfortable where I am, and so make a non-committal grunt.

“For once, it’s not just about sex anymore,” Michael continues on, sporting a big goofy grin for some reason. “It’s more than just sex.”

“s got a great ass,” I mumble irritably. “Lily-white and tight and-“

“I didn’t say sex isn’t still a big part of it.” Mikey takes another draw from the joint. “But you actually like him, don’t you?”

I punch him lightly on the arm and snatch the joint away before Michael’s inner twat starts showing for good and I’d have some explaining to do to his mother. My eye catches a glimpse of something dark grey under my sofa, and I don’t look, because I know it’s a sock from some retail store that’s entirely the wrong size for me and stinking with dried sweat that’s not mine. And I don’t know what that is, what to call it when stuff-that-isn’t-mine starts cluttering up odd corners of my home, my space, and I don’t just dump them in the trash.

But I’m guessing it isn’t exactly hate.

“He’s easy,” is all I say. I hear Mikey’s derisive snort, and thank the powers that watch over all cynical, self-serving bastards that my best friend thinks only on the surface.

Fading sunlight casts a shadow of the shutters across the floor. I don’t know why people think sunshine- no, damn it, sunlight, is yellow. It’s white, brilliant and glaring and warm, and without it nothing has any colour. My left foot touches something cold. I look down and see an empty bottle, the perfect example of something dead and colourless.

The bottle rolls a little, out of the shutter-shadow. Light, or at least a slice of it, collides with the glass. The white shatters, bleeding the spectrum all over my sole.

#

Babylon thrums with coloured lights and shining metal, but step into the bathroom and the world turns red. Mikey had just called to say that he’s missing another night, David had made plans for dinner, blah blah blah into the storyline that I know, without a doubt in my mind because I know Michael and I know guys like David, would not end in happily ever after.

Not that anything ever does.

Finding an empty stall, I pull Justin in after me. I take a sniff of the popper first before handing it to him. His body is still moving to the beat of the music being played outside; there is no pretending that he is Mikey, because Mikey will never give me less than his entire, full, devoted attention, especially when he has me alone in a tiny bathroom stall. This is Justin, Justin who doesn’t have a sixteen-year history of pining after me. He is infatuated, yes, but not desperate, not yet, it’s too soon. And I suddenly don’t like how he’s still caught up in the pulsation of the world on the other side of the stall door. I want him with me, all of him, all here.

So I wrap my arms around him, pulling him close. He doesn’t resist, but doesn’t stop moving either, and the beat that still half-owns him becomes even more pronounced when his body is practically grinding against mine. It’s the music, I think, the eternal thumpa-thumpa, challenging me for dominance over one insignificant blond twink.

Well, the homo pigs will roost before Brian Kinney is defeated by tasteless techno mixes. My hand slides up to the back of Justin’s head, gripping him by the hair, neither gentle nor harsh, and I attack his mouth with mine, practically shoving my tongue inside. He moans, arms flying up to grip my shoulders, pressing himself against me. The beat is still there, still in him, but is steadily being drowned out by his efforts to create more friction between our bodies, especially our groins. His tongue tries to fight back, to get around mine and push into my territory, but I don’t let him; I can hear myself making these strange, animalistic, hungry noises as I pretty much ate at his mouth, my teeth wreaking havoc on the tender skin of his lips.

The stained plastic wall of the stall rattles when I push him into it, covering his body with my own. I meet his lightly glazed eyes, knowing that I have his full attention now. Ha, fuck you! I mentally flip the music. But I’m also horny, and I suddenly discover that at some point one of us had pulled down the zipper of Justin’s cargoes. He leans against the wall, breathing hard, lips swollen and wet, his legs on either side of mine and the white of his briefs flashing through the opening in his pants. I can’t take my eyes off the visible bulge under said briefs, and as I watch a wet spot grows right where the tip of his cock would be.

That pretty much did it. I don’t suck cock outside of the loft, especially not in the backroom of Babylon, but we’re as hidden from view in the stall as anyone can be here. I go to my knees, letting out a moan when I manage to pull down Justin’s pants and underwear and cover the head of his weeping dick with my mouth. I blow him, hard and fast, sort of apologizing for my treatment of his mouth earlier. He has both hands gripping the top of the stall separator, and from the way his knees keep trying to lock and failing, I know that his arms are all that’s keeping him upright. That normally talkative mouth is making its own sweet music- a stream of incomprehensible moans and grunts interspersed with my name.

I love cock. Nothing else on Earth comes close to the taste and texture of dick when it’s hard and pulsing with blood, steel-stiff hardness encased by soft membrane. These days everyone tries to be so damn polite and sensitive and ‘politically correct’, but really, size does matter. And Justin has a very respectable cock, both in length and girth, especially for someone his height. I decided to pay my respects to the wonder that is a long, erect dick and relax my throat to take him all the way in.

He practically shouts, trying to buck up against my hands pinning him to the stall. I hum, relishing the taste of pre-cum leaking down the back of my throat, as I think of the rich blood coursing through capillaries beneath the fragile skin between my teeth, bright red and pulsing.

#

“Brian?”

I don’t bother giving any indication that I’d been paying attention, but the kid’s learned not to expect any.

“Would you consider us friends now?”

I crack an eyelid open at Justin. “Huh?”

He takes another drag of the joint, his inhale burning a little point of orange on the lit end. He’s perfectly capable of rolling his own, I’ve seen him do it, but his first choice is always to steal mine. And he always tries it when I’m too comfortable to care.

My eyes are drawn to those pink lips as they close, almost delicately, around the brown roll. (Doesn’t take Freud to figure out what else I’d rather have him put his lips around). “You said that time, when I was running away from my mom, that you’re, quote, ‘Not my boyfriend, partner, not even my friend’, unquote.”

“Nothing gets past you, does it?”

“It’s the same for you. All this forgetting shit is just a lazy avoidance tactic.”

Talking while stoned has always been dangerous, for me, so I decide to nip it in the bud by rolling over on top of Justin.

He looks at me, strangely passive, and what might be read as bemusement hovering above his lips. Speaking of which, I lower my head and press mine against them. The scent of weed dances between us, smoky and electrifying. I let my tongue slip out, sliding it between his lightly chapped lips with a gentleness that I only dare to use with him.

A friend? But you don’t fuck your friends, even heteros agree with that. Yet not just a trick, no matter how many times I say it, not since the second time I took him home.

For some reason I feel compelled to watch his eyes. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, and I ignore the implications behind my ability to map out his body, to make him moan, to have him any part of him in or under my hand without ever having to look down to see what I’m doing. He seems to sense something there, too, something new that’s floating in the air over us, because his gaze remains locked to mine, even when I push into him in one slow thrust and drive the breath right out of him.

The joint is forgotten, its orange point crumbling into ash.

#

After being badgered for a record time of two weeks about it, I relent and make an appearance at one of Debbie’s dinners. I sit next to Michael, and Ted is heading towards the seat next to mine when Justin unashamedly steals it. He grins at my raised eyebrow, and I have to suppress a smile at the rolled eyes and exasperated sighs being made by the others.

As usual, dinner is a heart attack waiting to happen packaged in condensed carbohydrates. Since Mikey’s hardly going to risk the wrath of his mother by bailing me out of my portion, I discreetly try to transfer some of the rich yellow lasagna Mrs. Novotny had slapped onto my plate to Justin. He glares at me, probably because living with Debbie makes antagonizing her only slightly less hazardous than doing so as her son, but like a good bottomless pit (for food, I mean; his actual bottom is a damn fine specimen) doesn’t say anything and shovels down the food I give him anyway.

He retaliates, though, by grabbing my hand at the end of the main course and shoving it into his unzipped pants. The table is a little chaotic, as Debbie and Vic start collecting the used plates and passing out dessert, so there are none to notice my little gasp when my hand encounters heated, bare flesh. My, my, the kid is learning fast. I send him an approving smile, moving my hand up and down his length slowly and deliberately. His breathing hitches, eyelids fluttering a little.

Unfortunately I have to release him once everyone has settled down. But who the fuck can eat coconut cream cake when they’re sitting next to a hot, horny, hard blond boy who’s just revealed that he’s not wearing any underwear under his pants? Even my brief ministrations had left a tinge of pink on his pale skin, and I can’t help but think of his equally pale butt turning red from sharp impacts with my hand. I take a drink of my water, and shift in my seat slightly to give my hard-on a bit of room.

He catches my movements, meets my eyes. Smirking, he brings up his fork, coated with white cream from the cake, and tentatively licks it; a small amount of white catches onto his tongue and disappears into his mouth. He swallows, drawing my eyes to the movement of the muscles in his throat.

I suddenly feel too horny to wait until I can take him to the loft after dinner. I get up, announcing my need for the bathroom even though the fact that Justin will also leave the table two minutes later to “get something from his room” will pretty much confirm what we’re up to.

On Mikey’s old bed I let him straddle me, and when he bends down to kiss me, I taste the lasagna, warm and heart-stoppingly yellow.

#

The headache greets me before I can even get my eyelids up. My body goes through the usual preliminary check- all bits are attached, nothing seems to be in pain aside from my brain, bladder is full. Oh, I’m not alone, and my nose informs me that it’s not Justin.

All right, up up up, there’s a toilet to visit and a trick to kick out. Except that, in the bitch line-up of headaches, the one bouncing a racquetball around in my skull must be some sort of mother whore.

Fuck. I really, really have to stop taking random shit when I’m drunk and high. Or at least have the foresight to not bring home a trick in the same night. I’d better get a grip, else this one’s going to be telling his pals that the great Brian Kinney can’t handle his chemicals.

I open my eyes and get up. Or, at least, that’s the signal I send to my body. The response I get is one eyelid opening half-way and the rest of me sort of rolling to one side. Double fuck. And the headache whore, realizing that I’m awake, happily pounds away harder.

I feel the bed move. Shit. Maybe I should make tricks sign some sort of contract about leaving once the sex is done.

Then comes a beacon of hope- someone’s making coffee!

Weird, I can still feel the trick’s body on the bed behind me. How many of them did I take home last night? Oh well, the one making coffee gets a special thank-you fuck from me. Once I can actually move.

“Hey kid,” a deep masculine voice called out, causing my ear drums to wince in pain. “You should be careful, I hear that Kinney hates people touching his stuff.”

I hear footsteps going up the stairs to the bedroom. Before this morning I’d have sworn under oath, in front of the barrel of a loaded gun, that I can’t recognize people from their footsteps. But the sound of these makes something in me relax.

“He does,” Justin says, thankfully in a quieter voice. I sense him coming around the bed, and my heart leaps, because I can smell coffee with him. What a wonderful, talented person that boy is. “Brian.” He touches my arm, and I force open both eyelids to look at him. He smiles at me in that adoring, sickly sweet way that usually makes me feel uneasy, but I’ll tolerate that every fucking day if he’d give me the steaming mug in his hands. Which he does. My hands are a little shaky, but fortunately it seems the rest of me is just as eager to get to the caffeine.

Have I mentioned what a great kid Justin is?

I take two hearty swallows of the coffee without caring if it’s cool enough to drink yet- I’d still have drunk it if it were scalding hot, which Justin probably anticipated, because the coffee is hot but manageable. The headache stays, but the rest of my body seem to remember who the boss is. “You,” I croak, looking behind me at the toned, green-eyed brunette trick watching us curiously, “fuck off.”

Said trick doesn’t look surprised by this, and addresses Justin. “D’you need a ride somewhere?”

Justin looks at me questioningly. I shake my head. “He stays. You go.”

The trick huffs and gets up. I listen to him pick his clothes up off the floor in the living room, and try to ignore the smug grin Justin’s giving me. I finish the coffee and set the mug down on the table. “Looks like working at the diner has taught you some new skills.”

“It’s not just for you, you know,” he says in that low, quiet voice he uses when he’s horny. “I need you to be awake.” He nips at my earlobe, kisses a trail down my neck. “Since you’re driving me to school and all.”

I sigh. “What time is it?”

His lips curve into a grin against my collarbone. “Enough time.” He kisses my chest, tongue flicking over my nipple. He’s slowly tracing the outline of my pectorals when the metal door slides shut, marking the departure of the trick, but I barely hear it for my gasping as Justin’s hand slides down to wrap around my awakened cock. He takes his time, kissing a wet line down the centre of my body, even playing with the little hairs on my treasure trail, until finally he takes me into his mouth.

Memories of the night trickle back. Strangely, I don’t remember anything about the trick- I remember the pleasure, of course, always the pleasure, but not any specific actions- except for a single image, of me looking down at his green eyes right before he sucked me off. And as Justin’s tongue massages the underside of my cock, even that image slips away, earnest blue eyes replacing green.

#

Something catches my attention when I pick Justin up from the diner after his shift. He looks fine, normal, but the way he moves is slower than usual, a little stiffer, and the confidence that radiates from his body nearly as brightly as the smile that gave him his nickname is a little muted. I don’t say anything, not even a “How’s your day?”; most of the time I would often have to distract Justin in order to escape a blow-by-blow (and not in the more interesting sense of the word) account of his day.

But today he doesn’t say anything, only smiles at me as he gets in. That’s how I knew that something is up, and it isn’t a body part. I remember that he’s been taking shit from the homophobic pricks at his school lately, so I figure it must have something to do with that, and if he doesn’t want to tell me then I sure as hell can respect a guy’s right to keep his business to himself.

Even if I actually do want to know. Just so I can tell him to not be an idiot by letting the pricks get to him.

We get to the loft and he tries to pull me towards the bedroom, but I push him against the kitchen counter and start kissing him. In less than a minute we’re in full make-out mode, mouths moving down to necks as our hands start seeking out the bare skin underneath our clothes. I get a button on his school shirt undone and slip my hand in, circling his waist. I stroke his flank, but when I press down lightly on a spot on his side, he stiffens. He tries to cover it up, his tongue slipping into mine, but I’d sensed it, and the fear in him.

“Justin,” I say, pulling away from those tempting lips.

“What?” He won’t meet my eyes. “I’m ticklish there.”

I snort. “I know where you’re ticklish. And when I touch you in those places you giggle like a girl. What you felt there, that was pain.”

“It’s nothing.”

Justin.”

He bites his lip and glares at me. “It’s just a bruise. You took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“Let me see.” I tug at his shirt.

He pulls away, crossing his arms. “You know, I just remembered that I have a paper due tomorrow. I think I’ll just head back to Deb’s-“

“Sunshine, that’s the lamest attempt at evasion I’ve ever heard. Take your fucking clothes off.”

Splotches, dark blue and purple, running down his left side and pooling on his hip. On his pale skin it looks eerily like grape juice stains, like the ones he accidentally spilled on my expensive white Hugo Boss shirt once. I’d yelled at him about it, even though I didn’t stop fucking him and the juice just dried on the fabric. Now I get this weird feeling, because they look so similar to those strains that it makes me feel like he’d transferred the stains onto himself. And I’d much rather have him stain my whole fucking wardrobe purple, than get a single mark on his skin.

(Pretty much everyone I know tries to get me to “better my ways”, but what really does the job is these crazy associations that no one else would’ve come up with. So I’m fucked up- is that news to anyone?)

I trace a finger over the marks, trying to quell the rush of anger that had swelled up at the sight of them. I know that this is part and parcel of being out at high school, I’ve had my fair share of battle wounds, but that doesn’t make me any less pissed off. Actually they make me angrier, because isn’t the world supposed to be better now? Don’t you live through that sort of shit because you hope that one day someone won’t have to?

“They’re ugly, aren’t they?” Justin says quietly. He’s usually comfortable in walking around with less than his underwear on, at least in the loft, but today he fidgets nervously, and I can see him glance longingly at his clothes. “So. Erm. I guess I should be going. They’ll be gone in a few days-“

I grab his arm, stopping him. His eyes meet mine, but I don’t let go, not until I figure this out; finally, with silence buzzing in my ears, I realize that what I’m seeing isn’t so much as shame at having been picked on, been fucking bruised by testosterone-high homophobes, but shame at me seeing him bruised. Stained.

Kinney’s pretty little twink, no longer bright and pretty. Fuck.

With a weird feeling in my chest, I lean down and lightly kiss the darkness on his skin. He sighs, relaxes, arms going around my shoulders. I take us into the bedroom. He lays down on the bed, trying to keep most of the bruises out of view, which means that he’d be lying on them. I stop him, rolling him over so that he lay on his right side, leaving all the damn bruises exposed. I kiss his hip, gently and wetly, moving slowly up his body, making sure that my lips visited every fucking bruise.

He gasps softly at every touch, making more noises than my gentle treatment would warrant. I look over at his face; his eyes are shut tight, and there’s something in his expression other than pleasure, something that makes a lump grow in my own throat. I expect him to start crying, and glimpse a hint of moisture on the eyelashes of one eye, but he doesn’t, doesn’t let on except for a few gasps that sound suspiciously like sobs.

I’m reminded of how useless I am with these situations, perfectly clueless, so I do what Kinney does best, and hope that it would at least provide distraction.

He expects me to enter him, and I do, but not with my dick, even though it was hard. (I mean it both ways.) After reaching his neck, where I briefly put my tongue in his ear, I slide back down his body. I reach the luscious swell of his ass, and my hand slides around his hip to grip his cock at the same time as my other hand spreads his cheeks. I burrow my face into the warm crevice between those soft, firm muscles; I hear him cry out, and he pushes back a little before he can stop himself. The movement causes my nose to bump against his hole. I force air out of my nose over the puckered opening; on the other side my hand starts stroking his cock. He whimpers, saying something that could have been “Oh God, Brian.” I lick at his hole, letting my saliva drip down onto it, then point my tongue and breach the guardian ring.

The sound he makes is a hybrid of a shout and a groan. I push my tongue further into him. There’s a hint of acid, but mostly he tastes earthy and hot. I don’t actually rim all that often, but a great ass deserves to be sufficiently paid homage to, and Justin’s is definitely one. He moans and tries to jerk his hips, and it’s hard to tell if he’s trying to fuck my hand or fuck himself on my tongue (probably both), but I hold him still with my other hand, taking care to not put pressure on the bruises. (Whoever said I’m inconsiderate?)

Gradually I increase the speed of the hand on his dick and the delving of my tongue. His moaning gets faster, more breathless, until his whole body tenses and he lets out a strangled yell right before warm liquid spurts out of his cock. I move up so that our bodies are aligned, though I keep stroking him until he’s soft. I slide my cock between his butt-cheeks, the area around his hole still wet with my saliva. I rut against him, and he helps by clenching his buttocks, providing enough friction for me to come in less than a minute.

Lying on our backs, panting, he touches my hair and presses a gentle kiss on my temple. He drifts off to sleep with his hand on my shoulder, and I feel thankful that he doesn’t know, will hopefully never know, about the stains I used to sport, purple and dark blue.

#

Justin’s eyes are bright blue in the sun-soaked streets and deep indigo between cum-stained sheets.

He looks at me questioningly, because I’ve just cringed upon realizing that I’d unwittingly created a semi-rhyme in my head. I ignore him and return my attention to the computer, where the presentation I’m preparing for a client meeting in the morning has sat unchanged for ten minutes. The background is indigo, which was what had prompted the comparison in my head.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, getting up from where he’d been crouched over his textbook on the kitchen counter and stretching. “Something’s been bugging you all day.”

“Go back to your schoolwork,” I growl at him. Though, really, if the kid can get 1500 on his SATs while doing hardly any homework at all (he never, for example, seemed to have homework on the nights I take him to the loft), it’s pretty hard to come up with any reasons for him to actually study.

“Bri-an,” he whines in that annoying, sing-song voice he has. “You’re not going to get any work done with whatever this thing is up your ass, so you might as well tell me.”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “My boss is making me go to this formal function on Friday. A real black-tie event. He expects me to represent Vanguard and score a few clients there.”

Justin nods. “So, what’s the problem?”

“It’s a complete waste of time? I’m going to be stuck in a room full of plumped up peacocks comparing the size of their bank accounts. Fawned over by old women whose husbands have gone to greener pastures, or young women whose husbands have gone to pasture.”

“And there’ll be a gay waiter or five who are just waiting for you to show them the size of your bank account in the bathroom,” Justin retorts with a grin. “What’s the real problem?”

I glare at him. “There will be dancing. Formal dancing. And I just know that some old broad’s going to ask me to dance with her.”

Justin blinks. “Dancing? You, the unchallenged stud of Liberty Avenue, is intimidated by the thought of taking little old ladies for a nice spin around the dance floor?”

“I’m not intimidated.” I reach out to pinch him. “I just- I haven’t danced the formal shit in a long time, and if I fuck this up, the word is going to spread and I’ll have a harder time getting future clients to take me seriously.”

“Hmm.” Justin cocked his head in thought. “So either you get someone to give you crutches and you can claim to have a sprained muscle or torn ligament or something, or you can refresh your memory with me now.”

“You?” I look incredulously at him.

“Country club boy, remember?” He shakes his head. “I’m actually surprised that you know how to. Doesn’t seem like your thing.”

“It isn’t,” I reply. “In college Lindsey convinced me to take a few classes, because she needed a date for her cousin’s wedding.”

Justin smiles, and seems to be on the verge of saying something else, but he stops and walks over to the stereo. I turn off my computer while he flicks through my extensive music library. He takes a while, and I don’t even know if my collection contains anything suitable, so I use the time to push the furniture in the living room to the side, clearing a space. Finally he pops a CD in. The song that starts playing is something I don’t even remember owning, one of those really cheesy ballads from the 50s. Maybe older.

We stand in the middle of the cleared space. Justin holds out his arms. “OK, show me what you can remember.”

At first it’s a little awkward, but it turns out that it’s like riding a bike or having sex- once you know how to do it, you can’t completely forget. I put my right hand on his waist, and hold up his right hand with my left. His left hand rests on my shoulder, the middle finger directly on top of the line of the seam on my shirt, and something about that point of contact relaxes me. Seeing my uncertainty, he starts counting the beats, “One- two- three” and cues me in. My feet remember with each step, though it’s pretty damn basic. Left forward, right to the side, slight rise and feet together. Right back, left to the side, slight rise and feet together. Left forward-

“Stop looking at your feet,” he tells me, and I bring my eyes up to meet his. Nearly all the lights are on in the loft, his eyes should have been as blue as they are under the sun, but instead they’re dark, deep, indigo. It occurs to me that lust isn’t the only thing a person can feel during sex, no matter how much I believe it’s the only thing they should. I feel a little uneasy, but I can’t look away. Justin’s hot, I’ve been telling him that since night number one, but what he really is, is beautiful.

The track ends, but the next one is a three-beat too, just a little slower, and we keep on dancing. At some point we start kissing- it’s hard to tell when, exactly, because it feels natural, like a part of the dance, and maybe it is- and my feet lead us to the bed while our hands leave a trail of clothing in our wake.

And when he wraps his legs around me, and I enter him (I’m wearing a condom, don’t worry, that’s part of our dance, too), his eyes shine beneath the bright blue lights, a deep, deep indigo.

#

Eventually Michael remembers that he’s supposed to have dinner with his mother and Vic and David, so he makes his excuses and leaves. I clear away greasy take-out boxes and little strips of aluminum foil, and idly consider dropping the “It’s over, it’s been fun, but I’m bored of you” bomb on Justin now. I will, one of these days, because it’s impossible tonot get bored of the same ass, the same face, the same person after a while. I just haven’t yet, that’s all. Still, maybe it’s time for a little break. Maybe a visit to Boy Toy.

This lasts for approximately five minutes. Then I hear my door slide open. I think it’s Mikey coming back for something, and continue stuffing the trash into a bag. My assumption is promptly proven wrong when a very cheerful blond teenager comes into view.

“Hey, guess what arrived in the mail today from an online catalogue?” Justin asks, almost bouncing on his feet.

“That princess tiara you’ve always wanted?” I snipe.

“No. It’s something even you will find useful.” He reaches into his backpack and extracts a thick violet dildo. My eyebrows go up at the sight of it- I estimate it to be about ten inches- and his grin grows wider. “I was hoping you’d help me try it out, but if you’re busy-“

“Bed.” I grab his arm. “Now.”

Within minutes we’re naked on my bed, him on his hands and knees and me lubing up the dildo behind him. Unless he’s keeping something from me this is the first sex toy he’s bought himself, and I feel oddly proud about it. I consider taking a picture, of him with his ass in the air and me sliding in his first self-bought dildo. But the horny little fucker doesn’t even wait for me, just wets his fingers in his mouth and pushes them into his ass, opening himself up, knowing full well that the sight of him fucking his own fingers drives me crazy, and all my attention is focused on the matter at hand. As it were. I growl and slap away his hand.

“Can’t wait, can you?” I purr into his ear. “Can’t wait to have this big, thick dildo up your tight ass?”

“Yes,” he groans, spreading his legs further and wiggling his butt.

“Do you want it, Justin?” I slide the tip of the dildo down his crack, and prodded at his glistening hole, teasing him.

“Yes, Brian.” He’s trying to push down on the dildo, to impale himself, but I’m not letting him. “Please.”

“Slowly, Justin,” I whisper. “I want to slide it into you slowly. I want to see your ass take it in, inch by inch. And you’re going to lie still, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he says breathlessly. “Just do it.”

I start pushing it in, as slowly as I promised to. His breathing turns shallow as it penetrates him, and when it’s all inside I pause to let him take a few steadying breaths. Then I pull it out, a little faster than he’s expecting, eliciting a gasp, and the sight of the long shaft sliding out of his hole makes me consider deciding this to be enough of a test run and changing to the real thing. Which is, by now, achingly hard.

But I continue fucking him with the violet dildo, and I can see him trembling with the effort of keeping still. Before replacing the toy with my dick, I change the angle and stroke his prostate once. He releases a breathy groan, and then a yelp when the next invasion is not by plastic but hot, incredibly hard flesh.

“You can move now, Justin,” I gasp, pulling out slowly and snapping my hips forwards, driving into him. I have no idea how, even after being opened up by a ten-inch dildo, he can still be so fucking tight around me.

I lose myself in the familiar movements, and Justin’s body is almost undulating as he tries to meet every thrust. I think of what I said to Michael, and the truth in it- Justin is easy, because with him I don’t have to work so hard (or at all, really, but where’s the fun in that?), I don’t have to go out to get my needs met, and I don’t need to explain every fucking thing. He understands, in a way that the others can’t, that sex can also have the beauty and caring and all the other sentimental shit that people think are important. Just because it’s sex doesn’t make it any less.

We fill the space between and around us with sweat and breath and moans, and when we explode, the world is, for a moment, wild, warm, white.

~ Finis ~