I practically bounce into the flat, I'm so excited. I spent all morning jumping through hoops and calling in favors, but I did it! I got the tickets! Now all I've to do is persuade Quinn to come along tonight.
He raises an eyebrow at my barely concealed excitement. "What's gotten into you?" He asks. "You look like the cat who's got the cream."
"I did, sort of," I grin. "Don't ask me how, it took a lot of finagling, but I managed to get us concert tickets for tonight. Siouxsie and the Banshees!"
Quinn groans.
"Well, aren't you excited even a little bit," I ask irritatedly. It really took a lot of work getting those tickets.
"Should I be?" Quinn replies. "I mean, last time I checked, Siouxsie couldn't sing, Steve couldn't play bass, and Robert had left to whine for that goth outfit, which probably was a good thing because he was the only one with something bordering on musical talent in the band, though I think he should have stuck to playing guitar..."
"Quinn," I whine. "I'm really excited about this gig, alright? I haven't seen them play since they were still called Suzie and the Banshees and Sid was playing drums for them. Can you try not to piss on my party too much?"1
"Why don't you ask Nicky to go?" Quinn says quite unabashed. "He'd like that sort of thing. I'm sure he'd be more than happy to go with you and listen to that racket."
Figures. He's trying to get out of it. Well, not with me. "Want me to start fucking Nicky as well? I think he's warming to the idea of blokes shagging in general," I snap.
Quinn gives me a long-suffering look. "I sincerely doubt he'd put out for you," he smirks, "and you are too much of a top to actually let him shag you into oblivion on a regular basis. Besides, I thought we'd come to an agreement concerning the whole monogamy question."
"You know that's not what I meant," I sigh. "Quit stalling. You are my lover, therefore you are the one who has to go to gigs with me."
"Do I really have to come?" He whines rather petulantly.
"Don't know about coming, but you'll have to go with me," I grin. "This is one of those date-type situations. Besides, I went to that god-awful French film with you, remember?"
"You're never going to let me forget about that one, are you?" Quinn sighs dramatically.
"Not for a while, no," I shrug. "And remember that time you dragged me to that gallery to view pornography?"
"It wasn't pornography Rob, it was art, which is why it was in a gallery in the first place," Quinn chuckles.
"Quinn, that wasn't art," I complain. "that Mapplethorpe guy2 is a seriously sick fuck. I mean, I had never even seen a ten-inch erect dick before."
Quinn sighs blissfully. "Nice, wasn't it?"
"Well, yeah, there might have been some erotic value to the entire exhibit, but," I shudder involuntarily at the thought of that dick breaching any part of my body, "that thing was huge!"
Quinn's stepped up close while I was talking. His face is so close now, I can feel his breath against my throat. "Wanna fuck Rob?"
"Hell yes," I moan before I can think about it. "Hang on, no, you're trying to distract me, aren't you? Trying to get me all hot and bothered so I forget all about having to get ready for the concert."
He frowns. "Shit, for a moment there I thought it was working."
"Nice try," I mutter, "but I don't think so. We'll have a lot of work to do to make you presentable for the show."
"Like what?" Quinn asks.
I grin and open the bag from the art supply store. "I'm going to do your hair lover; got a lovely teal shade that'll match your eyes."
Quinn laughs and then groans some more. "Firstly, I just want to state for the record that if I'd had any doubts at all that you were as bent as a three-bob note, they'd have vanished right around the second the word 'teal' crossed your lips, and secondly, no fucking way in hell are you going to dye my hair. I have to go to work tomorrow and the little old ladies who come in with constipation would have heart attacks if I'd tend to them with teal hair."
"It's alright, it's not dye," I explain. "It's spray paint, it'll come straight back out after the gig."
Quinn looks at me incredulously. "You want to spray paint my hair? Have you totally lost your mind?"
"No really, I've done this before," I say. "It'll color your hair without the need for bleach, and it's stiff enough we can do you a mohawk. Plus, it really will come out again tonight."
"How? With paint-stripper? " He snaps.
This is the bit I didn't want to explain in too much detail beforehand. He just had to ask though, didn't he? Fuck. I suppose I'd better spill the truth then. "Uhm, mayonnaise actually..."3
The expression on Quinn's face is priceless. It looks like he's trying to decide whether to laugh out loud, strangle me, or call the guys with the straightjackets on account of my being as mad as a hatter. "You must be fucking joking," he finally says.
"No, I'm serious. I know this because this one time Nicky and I got drunk and... you know, we really don't have time for that right now, we need to start getting ready," I reply. "Look, I promise you, it'll all come out with mayonnaise later tonight."
Quinn shakes his head in disbelief. "I really have to go?" He asks again.
I shrug. "If you want to have sex again before the month is out, yeah you do."
"Hey, that's blackmail!" He exclaims.
I shrug again. "Well you know what they wrote about us punks in the papers; we were filthy obscene criminals, the whole lot of us, so yeah, blackmail is kind of with the program... sex or no sex, Quinn, it's your choice."
"Not really a choice, is it?" He grumbles. "Alright, where do you want me?"
I smile in triumph; that's my Quinn alright. Mention him not getting a good shag for a couple of weeks and he's as malleable as jelly, as sweet as a kitten. "Bend over, hold on to your ankles, and close your eyes, and don't open them or move till I tell you to," I instruct.
"Want me to drop the trousers as well," He asks suggestively.
"Maybe later," I grin. "I'd rather not be distracted while I do your hair."
He grumbles some more but gets into position while I shake up the spray can. I'm actually quite glad he's still wearing his trousers, otherwise I'd be done for. Even fully clothed he's a sight to behold like this. "Ready?" I ask rather huskily.
"No, but I've no choice, it seems. I just want you to know that I'm fairly certain there's a whole bunch of French films coming to the Westend in the next few months. Some of them without subtitles I'm told. There's a couple of new galleries down near Charring Cross Road as well..."
I smile at that. "I love you Quinn," I say and he doesn't say anything in response. Well, he can't, because I've started spraying and molding his hair into a mohawk shape and unless he wants to end up with a mouthful of spray paint, he better not say anything for a few minutes.
It's a good color too, even if I say so myself. It will really match his eyes. I've already picked out a pair of leather pants for him to wear and I borrowed a tight ripped shirt from Nicky that'll just make him look like a Greek god of the punk variety and shit, I'm getting hard watching him bent over like that. He's so very, very hot sometimes.
Finally I'm finished and I look at my handiwork. This will do rather nicely I think. "Alright, I'm all done with the paint," I say. "Don't move though, you have to stay like this until the paint's dry."
"How long's that going to take?" He asks his voice somewhat muffled.
"Dunno, maybe twenty minutes?" I reply.
"Fuck, what am I supposed to do until then," he groans.
Oh, I have a few ideas," I say my voice husky and deep. I start rubbing my hard-on against his arse suggestively and he shivers a little. "I do believe I could make the time pass rather quickly," I whisper, panting a little.
"Please," he moans.
I'm already reaching around his waist to undo his trousers. I manage to unzip him with shaking fingers and I push his trousers and his drawers all the way down to his ankles to look at that round white arse in front of me. Fuck. He's hot and so perfect I could come in my pants just looking at him.
I run my hands over his thighs and back a few times and he moans and wiggles his hips a little. "Fuck, Quinn, you have no idea how hot you look stood there like that, bent over and ready," I pant.
"For chrissake, if I look so hot then do something about it and fuck me already before I die of old age down here," Quinn mutters impatiently.
I don't need to be told twice. I grab the lube from the shelf and quickly slick up a couple of fingers. I'm so hot and bothered, I'm having trouble seeing straight, but he is too, by the sounds he's making. I plunge my fingers in and out of him quickly a few times, just enough to make sure I'm not going to hurt him, while I undo my own trousers with the other hand.
I don't even bother pushing down my trousers—no time, gotta be in him right now!—just pull out my hard dick and dribble some lube on it randomly. "Can't wait Quinn," I pant. "Got to fuck you right now."
He just moans and wiggles his arse a bit more; guess that means he's ready. I pull my fingers out of of him and replace them almost seamlessly with my dick. Plunge in in one hard fluid movement and he whimpers. I have to stop myself from coming right there, right then, I'm so excited. I wait a few moments, just long enough to calm down a little and make sure I'm not going to finish within seconds, but either which way, this isn't going to last long.
"Get on with it and fuck me hard," Quinn moans.
So I do. It's sloppy and messy and totally uncoordinated: wild animal-like rutting. I thrust and plunge grunting like a pig and barely paying attention to anything besides the sensations coursing through my body. My hands are scratching and clawing his back and hips—he'll have bruises come morning—my balls are slapping heavily against him and my dick seems to have taken on a life of its own. This is punk-rock baby, all that's missing is the pounding beat of the music and I can hear that in my mind.
It's over much to soon. I think I yell some and then I'm coming hard and collapsing onto Quinn's back.
After a few seconds of trying to catch my breath, I move to get my weight off of him and somewhat guiltily remember that, what with him holding on to his own ankles, I probably should have given him a hand. I reach around to pull him off and find that he's wet and softening already.
He chuckles. "Finished a few seconds ahead of you there," he says still quite breathlessly. "Think we'll have to do this again some time real soon, it was nice."
I laugh. "Yeah, we're going to do it again in another twenty minutes," I grin.
"Oh?"
"Well, you've still got to do my hair, right? I picked up some fire-engine red spray paint for myself, you know, because you said you wanted to see me with red hair..."
Quinn's dick twitches in my hand. I do believe he's getting hard again. Can't wait for him to fuck me like this...
*****
I surreptitiously glance at Quinn for about the millionth time this evening. He looks good. Too good. With the mohawk done up in green spray paint, his eyes heavily lined in metallic silver, which only makes the irises look so much greener, he's looking utterly edible. Add to that the skin-tight strategically ripped shirt and Nicky's leather pants that are two sizes too small and... well, I've had a hard-on for the past two hours. Can't even concentrate on the band much.
Not that I'm not looking damn good standing next to him. My own hair is spiked up and fire-engine red, my eyes are lined in black kohl, and I'm wearing a studded leather collar and chainmail. Not real chainmail of course, rather, a chainmail shirt, the type that was briefly fashionably about four or five years ago. Thank Christ I've kept all my gear over the years. I somehow managed to squeeze into a pair of tartan trousers so tight, I wouldn't be able to sit down even if I wanted to because one of the seams would give. Then there's boots of course; big, clunky black combat boots.
I quickly turn back towards the stage and Siouxsie when Quinn's eyes swivel towards me. I can almost feel his gaze on my arse. He's been doing that a lot this evening, unashamedly starring at my arse in those impossibly tight trousers when he thinks I'm not looking. I don't think either one of us has been paying much attention to the band on stage. Christ, those tickets were a bloody waste of money; should have just stayed home and fucked the living daylights out of each other.
This time I manage to look at the act on stage for at least thirty seconds before my eyes are drawn back to Quinn. He grins and raises an eyebrow, then he leans towards me to shout above the din, "you're enjoying yourself, yeah?"
His lips are so close I can feel his hot breath tickling my ear. I briefly consider jumping him, right there, right then. Five years ago I could have gotten away with it; people would have thought I was doing it for shock value because, let's face it, five years ago everything was done for shock value, but this is a much more mainstream crowd and I don't think we'd be able to pull it off. Instead I grab his hand and start dragging him towards the exit; I don't give a damn about Siouxsie anymore.
"What the hell?" He asks once we're out of the crowd.
"Need to get you home right now!" I growl.
So he shrugs and lets me drag him towards the tube. God knows how, but we make it back to the flat without my tearing his clothes off along the way.
Nicky's sat in front of the telly and rather surprised; he wasn't expecting us back this early. His eyes linger on Quinn for a few long moments before he looks me in the eye and mutters, "shit, when he looks like that I'm half-ready to shag him myself."
"Mine!" I growl and Quinn starts laughing even as I tug him towards the bedroom.
The minute the door slams shut behind us, I've got him pushed up against the wall and I'm devouring his mouth—there's no other way to describe it—while desperately grappling with the zipper of those goddamn leather pants.
"Was there something you wanted?" He teases a little breathlessly when I let go of his tongue.
"Get those trousers off, now!" I order, my knuckles white with the effort of not ripping them off of him in impatience.
He smirks and wiggles out of the trousers as requested. Then he stands in the middle of the room, dick jutting out in front of him and quirks an eyebrow at me. "And now?"
I grab both our belts off the chair they'd been carelessly thrown on earlier and hiss, "now, you're going to stand over there by the bed, arms up against the bed frame."
He mewls but hastens to comply so he's stood facing the foot of the bed, arms spread wide like Christ crucified gripping a bedpost in each hand. "That how you want me?"
"Fuck yes!" I whimper.
I fight back the urge to touch myself, because that'd end the proceedings rather prematurely, what with him stood there all quivering and ready and oh-so-very-sexy with the silver eyeliner and the green hair. I quickly get up on the bed and start wrapping a belt around his left wrist and then around the bedpost his hand is holding on to. "Tell me if this is too tight," I grind out.
"It's fine," he replies huskily. "I like a bit of pain."
"Good," I say while slinging the other belt around his right wrist and fastening it tightly to the other bedpost. "Not going to be gentle Quinn. Need a safe word?"
"No, no safe word," he rasps. "Make it good. Make it hurt."
My hand flies to my groin, squeezing hard, trying to stave off the impending orgasm. Don't want to come until I'm inside him. I can see a little trickle of sweat running down his temple and his lips are dry and slightly parted; he's breathing hard. His eyes are impossibly wide open, pupils dilated to the point that only a sliver of green is surrounding them, emphasized and made brighter, if that is possible, by the thick line of silver around his lids.
I tear my eyes away and start unbuttoning my trousers with shaky hands. I reach for the lube, spread some over my raging erection with trembling fingers—I like rough, want to do him hard, but I've no intention of causing lasting damage—and then I'm behind him, taking in the quivering muscles of his back and his head bowed low in submission. Like Christ on the cross. Holy mother of god, sometimes I'm a sick fuck.
"Spread them," I order, my voice low and hard and full of authority.
He complies.
I don't give him any warning, just line my dick up with his arse and go for it. Oh, sweet Jesus, he's tight! Tight and hot and maybe not entirely ready, but he likes it rough sometimes and he's whimpering.
His arms are straining against the bonds as he tries to move back towards me, tries to climb further up my dick when I'm already balls-deep inside him. I can see the muscles in his shoulders and back straining with the effort. I draw back a bit, slowly, torturously, and then plunge back fast with all my weight behind it. He curses.
Obscene, filthy, totally enthralling words; begging and coaxing and urging me to fuck him deeper and harder and more. Make it hurt a little, show him just who's running the show. I start thrusting hard and fast, the rough chainmail shirt abrading his back whereever it rubs against him. Then I bring my arms around the front of him to scratch down his chest, drawing blood no doubt, and he's rocking back towards me as much as the restraints will allow. Think I've died and gone to heaven.
I'm grunting with the effort of both fucking and trying not to come too soon and he's mewling and whimpering and begging for more. Begging me to fuck him faster, harder, use him, make him hurt. It can't last long. Not the way he's egging me on.
I move up closer, shift my arms and run them across his shoulders and outwards until they're aligned with his and my chest is flush against his back. Then I wrap my own hands around his wrists, around the belts holding his wrists in place, and hold on for kingdom come.
Two, three more hard thrusts and I'm coming. It starts down at the base of my spine and travels like quicksilver but in slow-motion, spreads from there to my toes and my fingertips. I've never felt anything like it before. Feels like I'm coming over and over again in fact. Got Quinn's sweaty and shaking body pressed into my chest and my dick just keeps on twitching inside of him, over and over and over again. This must be paradise.
Afterwards, I'm just hanging on to him for a few minutes, getting soft and panting hard, trying to keep from blacking out and he's shaking and making little hitching noises. I reach one shaking hand around and find his dick; he's still hard and painfully so.
I slowly lick my way up from where my head's resting against his shoulder to his neck and ear. "Want to come Quinn?"
"Please," he almost sobs.
I shift my hand a little, tease my fingers down to his balls which are drawn up close to his body and squeeze slightly. "You like this, don't you? Being completely powerless, utterly dependent on my whims and foibles?"
"Yes," he hisses. "Please Rob, make me come."
I slowly unwrap myself from him, step back a little and admire the view. He's stood before me, leaning forward slightly, shaking, quivering, his muscles bunched tighter than should be possible with sweat running down his spine. His back is almost raw and bright red from the beating it took when my chainmail shirt rubbed up against it none-too-gently. My eyes shift down to his legs spread wide. He's got a little bit of come dribbling down his thigh which is almost enough to get me hard again. Almost.
I walk around and climb up on the bed in front of him. There's scratches and red welts and trickles of blood all down his chest; he's looking used and utterly fucked and incredibly hot. His eyes are still tightly shut, the silver eyeliner smeared all around them. I reach up my hands, thread my fingers with his and lean forward to kiss him, impossibly gently and hard all at once.
I run my tongue across his dry lips, push it inside his mouth, demanding but slowly and sweetly too. I run it across his gums and the roof of his mouth before wrapping it around his own tongue for what seems like forever and no time at all. He moans into my mouth and shudders and then I feel wetness spreading across my skin at groin height where there wasn't any before.
*****
© KJB 2002-2003.