Soon: 'Capstan'

Written with another place of publication in mind, this is fanfic-inspired but you don't need to know who's who, to enjoy the progression (I hope). 

It's a one-off short that could go long, in multiple directions. 

It's a favourite niche fetish of mine, so an indulgence, but it has broken my creative impasse. 

Join Kit and his fellow unfortunates on the capstan, shortly. 

Priorities (2/2) M/m; D/s; control; minor violence - Heartstopper fanfic

 

Naked on his knees, between my spread legs as I squat over a toilet bowlful of filth is, I think, the most natural place in the world for Nick. It’s his home - not Charlie Spring’s camp boudoir of a bedroom, as I imagine it. In fact, I should ask Charlie for a picture to confirm.

His scrumming thighs, folded at my feet, are thicker than they were in the changing room at Truham, and I credit Nick for not skipping leg day in his university gym routine. Physically he’s much more of a man than the confused dweeb I hooked-up with on the down-low after that fight in the cinema that left both of us with surprise erections. But kneeling on my bathroom floor, adoring and worshipping and giving me everything, he’s reduced to a whimpering boy, and honestly that’s the Nick Nelson I love.

Using both of my hands flat against the back of his neck, I leverage Nick’s head forward and onto a deeper oral penetration by my dick. The touch of that neck – the breadth of it, his slippery perspiration and the scruffs of hair awaiting a fresh trim, sliding under my clammy fingers – is enough to keep me rock hard.

As I’ve trained him, Nick pays attention to me during deepthroat sessions, being careful to look up and into my eyes to receive my feedback. Does it feel good for me? Should he be using his tongue to stimulate me more with detailed lapping – or am I looking for a simple, speedy throat job? Consideration of me before him, always, didn’t come easy to Nick, but over time I flipped his mindset 180 degrees such that now he’s a drone, working from my commands and focused on my sexual satisfaction. Well, most of the time, anyway – Nick’s a far from perfect slave boy.

For the ninth time, Nick attempts a passable kiss-n-hold at my dick root, where my pubes are thoughtfully trimmed down to a manicured lawn for the convenience of passing girl and boy mouths. The attention of his tongue to the sensitive base of my prick has it spasming, and the jabbing of my uncut crown at the very back of his cavernous throat has it leaking precum on touch.  

Instinctively he’d use hands on the floor to anchor himself, but I’ve denied him that security – that flexibility – by trussing his wrists, tight. My ‘ropes’ are improvised – my old Truham Grammar school tie and his, donated enthusiastically once he clocked my intended purpose of ‘fun’. In diagonal stripes of alternate dark and light blue, our tattered school ties draw Nick’s wrists together in the small of his back, squirming futilely.  

The kids at the mixed comprehensive across town, rated Inadequate by the school inspectors at their last visit, joke that the boys of Truham Grammar are massively gay. The barbs never stung me, obviously, but there’s a proper fuckin’ faggot struggling on my big dick right now. Our boys’ school made queers out of some of the lads, for sure.

Nick gags hard, choking on my quivering meat. His eyes are in panic mode, pleading with me, but why? He doesn’t want to stop, and I won’t let him anyway.

I nod back at him with a self-satisfied smile, but no words. By his neck, I force him onto me further. He’s so close to hilting me for the penultimate cycle, but drool is starting to spew again from the corners of his mouth, uncontrolled like a saucepanful of rice boiling untended, and his fingers and toes agitate furiously. I accept he’s trying very hard for me, but a wall has been hit.

Nick overcomes the opposing force of my hand grip and tears himself off my shaft, left throbbing wet and useless mid-air. His chin slumps to his chest as he gasps, hard, almost wheezing. He can’t look at me yet, because he knows he’s a disappointment.

I gather my own drool and roll it into a pellet in my mouth. I’m highly skilled at this.

Tentatively he looks up, facing the music. He’s still panting.

My ball of spit travels with such velocity that it hits Nick’s left eye before he’s able to react. His upper body jolts backwards and, far too late, he closes the lid on my goo, now foaming across his cheek. I’d love to say I’m able to hit an eyeball square, every time I spit in anger, but in truth my aim isn’t that reliable, and this was a fluke, though it couldn’t have happened to a nicer boy.

I’ve stung him, and not just literally. He wants to wipe away my spit, but his hands are tied.

‘Fuck, Harry,’ he groans, but there’s no anger in his tone, just failed resignation.

‘You need to be much quicker, mate,’ I laugh.

‘Yeah,’ he sniffs.

‘Or a more reliable submissive, in the first place,’ I say.

‘Okay,’ he notes, sullen.

‘You think I’m mean, Nick? Like, unfair?’ I ask.

He looks straight back up at me, even though it’s inviting danger were I inclined to launch a second gob bomb on him – and he knows I’m unpredictable. His spit-lashed eye has felt the assault and is bloodshot.

‘I think you’re mean, but also fair,’ Nick says with confidence, giving me one of his hedged university-standard responses that tend to wind me up.

‘Still the two face fucks to complete, then,’ I remind him.

‘Definitely,’ Nick agrees, hungrily.  

**

Our horseplay competitiveness started with school rugby, I suppose. Always bigger than me physically, Nick had the edge in the rough and tumble of scrumming and was tricky to up-end in the tackle, but I was quicker in the sprint and less clumsy with my feet, so found I could dance around his lunges, frustrating him as he chased after my disappearing greyhound legs.

We’re fighting again on Nick’s tenth and final throat fuck, which I’ve made special for him because I know he loves to finish in ecstasy – and so do I. Using his strength Nick tries to wriggle off my veiny dick, but with my stamina, I’m determined to keep him impaled by his mouth for as long as it takes.

It’s not an equal contest: he’d arrived fatigued, and servicing me perfectly – or attempting to, at least – has sapped Nick’s energy further. Now he’s drained, I dial-up the pressure: Okay, I admit it, I’m mean with gay boys.

I tug Nick by his hair and yank him by a shapely ear or two – anything necessary, to stop him writhing away from me. It hurts him, and he makes deliciously muffled yelping noises around my fat dick meat. Outwardly he wants this to stop, now, but I don’t. I reckon a large part of him won’t want it to stop, either – I get Nick Nelson too well.

It will feel as though he’s starting to suffocate on my engorged prick. When able, I move a hand to the front of his neck and press down, firmly, on top of his Adam’s apple. This distresses and disorientates him but his pretty gingernut dick, bobbing semi-hard, shows me his confusion of sensations in the moment.

Like suction pads Nick’s lips are mashed into my abdomen, taking me to my girthy root. I have hold of him by his scalp, and the colour in his face has changed from his natural strawberries and cream wholesomeness, through flustered raspberry to something approaching blackcurrant. His neck, though, remains pale.

For throat fucks 1-9 the deal was that he’d hold at my root for a measly four seconds, counted, but deepthroat round 10 is freestyle, to be held to my whim indefinitely.

In the end it’s Nick’s desperation that accelerates my climax. I burst down his throat to the sight of his rope-like vascular tension and the cacophony of his wild gagging. My cum spurts in four intense pulses, shot to the rear of his throat, cramming a mouth already swirling with his drool, and his regurgitated puke.

Nick’s eyes are at their most beautiful when they’re loaded with his free-flowing tears. One last time I stab him with my dick, brutal.

He gurgles on my precious seed. I know he wants it – who wouldn’t? – but right now he hates it, and me, and himself. I fucking love breeding throat.

A lava-like mess spills wherever the seal of his lips is broken, seeping stickily, occasionally orange.

Well broken, Nick’s choking splutters that once roared from his core, die in a steady decrescendo. His beetroot cheeks drain of colour at pace, but his eyelids droop closed in slow motion. I pull him by his hair until I, too, am drained completely.

He hasn’t bitten down on my dick once, throughout, and that’s a totally awesome achievement by Nick. When he deserves that praise, he’ll get it.

I drag him off me vigorously, and vault over his slumping body so he can collapse onto the rim of the toilet where – with great violence and noise – Nick heaves-up my spunk with his sick, layering it onto my filth festering in the bowl. 

I stroke his sticky back and make soothing noises for as long as it takes him to feel slightly human again. It’s several minutes but there’s no rush, now.  

Once his need to puke has become less urgent, Nick straightens himself on his knees in front of the toilet, gasping between cummy coughs originating from his tickling throat, still partially clogged.    

‘Wow!’ he puffs. (That’s definitely accurate – not Fuck! or Shit! but Wow!)

‘I need you to clean my dick,’ I say, pointing to my flaccid shaft and a stray string of cum dangling from the head, halfway to the bathroom floor.  

**

‘What’s eating you, Harry?’ he asks. ‘There’s something, I can tell.’

It’s highly unfair of him, because I’m caught in a mellow comedown mood.

I need a rest so I’m back on the toilet seat puffing a menthol flavoured vape, to chill with. Nick’s standing (as instructed), taking drags of a bubble gum vape: I’d found it in the convenience store and thought of Nick who, I’d heard on the ex-Truham grapevine, has a passion for bubble gum flavoured milkshakes. Totally, pathetically, tragic – it’s like he’s 9.

His is a rude question I don’t have to answer, and I shouldn’t, but I do, because I feel the need to share.

‘You’re the only person I see professionally – boy or girl – who I don’t charge,’ I say. ‘And yeah, that gnaws at me.’

He blanches, having opened Pandora’s fucking box in his well-intentioned but naïve Nick Nelson way.

‘Well, in principle I’d be happy to pay to see you, but you know what it’s like for money, as a student,’ he stutters.  

He has failed to understand.

‘Nah. What nags at me is that I don’t even want your money. It feels like we relate in a much deeper way than any of my other clients. But that’s our history, isn’t it?’ I say.

He gives the shyest smile that starts to arouse me again.

‘We had three difficult years, but working through that sexual tension with you, session by session, taught me a lot about myself,’ Nick says. ‘And honestly, I am grateful you see me for free.’

He’s perceptive, for sure, but I’ve often wondered whether Nick is too smart for his own good. Him doing psychology at university isn’t something I’ve ever got comfortable with or approved of. I would have preferred him to become a personal trainer, or a builder maybe – anything useful that wouldn’t involve trying to drill into my head as an academic case study, every time he reappears. Still, it is what it is.

‘I may have learnt a bit from you too, mate,’ I say. ‘Over the years, anyway.’

‘Cheers,’ he shrugs, embarrassed.

‘And I thought you did okay today, right? Not brilliant, and there’s always room to improve a throat fuck, but your… devotional technique… has come along fine.’

‘Absence makes the dick throb harder,’ he jokes, but I don’t laugh along with him: too familiar, and I need to keep distance.

‘Come to me,’ I tell him, pointing to the floor whilst snapping my fingers. Obediently he leaps to it, laying down his vape on the bath top then stumbling back onto his knees, one each side of my feet and close to the point of hemming himself in.

‘Charlie tells me you’ve put up your rates. £150 an hour?’ Nick checks, with an undercurrent of concerned surprise on behalf of his boyfriend.

‘Yep. It’s the same rate everybody else pays, to see me. Charlie has to empty his fuckin’ piggy bank each time he needs to get off on his submission!’

‘Right.’

‘Charlie Spring… piggy bank…get it?’ I rock with laughter. ‘Oink oink!’

‘Sure,’ Nick says, in serious mode, and it disturbs me when he fails to appreciate my humour. So I decide to rub it in.

‘Mate, I’ve had Charlie’s face shoved deep inside this toilet bowl, right onto my shit and used toilet paper, whilst I gave him really nasty verbals, and he fuckin’ loved it! He was sick everywhere, but as we know, Char is used to being randomly and abundantly sick. Also… I had the toilet brush handle shoved right up his ass… mate, I wish you’d seen it!’

Nick’s head has flopped, and he looks directly to the floor. I’ve touched a raw nerve, taunting him because I can satisfy Charlie sexually in the way his own boyfriend can’t, even if he were around, which he wasn’t for the ten weeks of term. My power dynamic is working sweetly just as their relationship becomes a distant one, for large parts of the year.

‘He says he’s seen you three times, whilst I’ve been up in Leeds?’ Nick checks.

‘Four times,’ I snap back, sure of the number. It’s no lie.

‘Okay… well… maybe one of us lost track… or I mis-remembered the conversation,’ Nick agonises.

‘Maybe,’ I say, taking care to add a slice of incredulity to my tone.

I wonder what he’ll do next. Break down in tears? Have a go at me for being morally repugnant? Storm out? Grab his phone and text Charlie in a rage?

Nick raises his head.

‘Thanks for… y’know… sorting out Charlie, whilst I was away,’ he says.

‘It’s always a pleasure. But you and I have a problem we need to resolve, Nicholas Nelson,’ I say, ruffling his damp hair like he was my pet dog.

**

Fucking Nick hard up the ass is special.

Number one – he’s tight, and though I’ve done my bit to loosen his boy cunt, he’d benefit from serving as the party pass-around at an end of season rugby bash, fuelled by drink and lowered inhibitions. Basically, Nick is an anxious bottom prone to complaining that it hurts, though he self-controls his whining with me because I find it irritating, and I couldn’t care less that he’s sore when his hard dick tells me I’ve got it right.

The easiest way to turn Nick charmingly bashful? Tell him his destiny is to power bottom.  

Number two – I use minimal lubricant. Dryish is the way I like to fuck, boy or girl. Sorry, not sorry.

Number three – as stated, I choose to tap Nick’s ass in irregular places where he’s uncomfortable, mentally and (usually) physically. It was fun to breed him on the tabletop in his mum’s dining room, and because I had the horn too badly, we didn’t even bother to clear all the cutlery away, before we started: he wanted to, but I forbade it. The laid silver canteen rattled like mad as I ploughed his ass; Nick on his back on the tablecloth, legs folded-up to his flanks as I held his ankles for leverage. The grimacing of his face as I shafted him with my full length was a sight and, yes, there were a few boy tears which didn’t discourage me.

I pulled-out quickly, post-orgasm, and my cum backflushed over the delicate cream tablecloth from John Lewis. Yes, Nick’s mum had a dinner party arranged for that evening and – no – Nick had no idea how to launder a tablecloth in four hours, and neither did I. The icing on the cake was Nick’s excellent relationship with his mum: he was absolutely mortified by the cummy mess he’d made before her special occasion, and it was too funny. Helpfully, I told him that if all else failed, he should blame Charlie Spring for overexuberant bottoming. The ludicrous thing being that we believe mummy Nelson is of the understanding that her son fucks!

Anyway, where I get to is this: Tonight, I spent myself in Nick’s throat pussy, and he only has an hour in my diary which isn’t enough time for me to get the horn back and have another run at his ass. But I do need that warm clench, because I’ve missed it and I’d be seriously pissed if he took the anal opportunity elsewhere, so we need to have a bargain.

I ask Nick to excuse me for a minute or so, during which time he mustn’t move. In fact he’s very self-disciplined, and where most lads would reach for their phone and scroll social media in a vacuum of ninety seconds, Nick remains rooted to his position of supplication in front of my toilet throne, head bowed.

I settle back.

‘If you genuinely respected me…’ I start, letting my sentence tail-off.

‘Harry, you know I respect you.’

‘And, if you actually loved me…’

‘Well, Charlie is my love interest, but I suppose, in a way, I…’

‘Then, you’d consent to me being your keyholder, Nick.’

And from the small cardboard box I retrieved from my bedroom, I flourish the cock cage in silvery, skeletal steel in which I intend to imprison Nick’s dick, for an unbearable sentence.

‘Chastity…’ he twigs, like he’s slow.

‘Yep. To be worn until the next time I’m available to drill your ass. Then, I promise you, it will come off.’

Nick frowns, balancing competing emotions, I hope. He is, at least, taking me seriously.

‘Hmm. I dunno, Harry. I’m really not sure this is a good…’

‘We make a bargain,’ I cut through his prevarication. ‘You save your sweet ass for me, and only me. In return I give you your pleasure back, as a priority, the day after I fly back home. I promise.’

‘You’re going away?’ he asks in a higher pitched surprised tone.

‘Sure. Me and my dad are going to Dubs for ten days. It’s gonna be fuckin’ lush, mate.’

I swagger a bit on the toilet. It’s the holiday of a lifetime, so far.

‘You’re going to Dublin?’

‘Ah, no! We’re going to Dubs… Dubai, you fuckin’ pancake!’ I gloat through my putdown.

‘Oh, right. Nice,’ he concedes, sounding unconvinced. I don’t think Dubai is a Nick Nelson sort of vacation destination – he’s more of a caravan in Skegness with factor 50 sun lotion type of loser.  

‘But don’t worry, I’ve thought of everything,’ I tell him. ‘In case I die during the desert 4x4 experience, or sink my jet ski, I’m going to leave a spare key for your dick cage back home. With Ben. Obviously, I’ll explain the situation to him and ask him to keep things discreet, cos it’s sensitive.’

I watch anger rise again from Nick’s thick neck, flushing his face afresh.  

‘Umm, I’d rather you throw both keys down a fucking well, than leave one with Ben Hope!’ he rants.  

I laugh. ‘That’s a bit extreme, mate!’

‘Seriously, Harry, it’s totally out of order to involve Ben in our…’

‘Relationship?’ I finish his sentence. ‘You know, you should be thanking me, Nick? Not only do I let you see me for free, but I’ve actually spent my own money investing in you, with the cock cage. Like, how proud does that make you feel? Who else takes that much interest in your future?’

‘Plenty of people!’ he blurts, riled.

‘Also – this cage was pretty much a bespoke order, for you. Not many fetish suppliers stock male chastity in size XS, to suit your weeny peanut dick.’

I roll back on the toilet seat, howling.

‘Oh please, Harry – give it a rest. You know my dick is barely smaller than yours! I’m bored of your shit, now.’

I’m sure Nick senses what’s coming, and perhaps he was actively inviting it? I even give him a pause during which time he could shuffle backwards on his knees or turn his head, but his poise stays rigid between my feet. He’s prepared and accepting. Dare I say it, welcoming? 

Nick appreciates the fact I’m an ambidextrous slapper. This time, it’s his right cheek that takes the force of my open palm, and now his head does spin in recoil at the hefty clap.

‘Matching stripes, huh?’ I suggest of the second handprint, though my first on the opposite cheek has faded.

‘Yep,’ he agrees, weedy. Inevitably, Nick has watery eyes again.

‘Look, the time will pass quickly,’ I reassure him. ‘And the Saturday I get back, we’ll go for a curry at the Truham Tandoori, maybe, and have a proper catch-up whilst you’re still locked-in and sitting opposite as my wifey. We’ll come back to my place, I’ll fuck your desperate ass on the pool table, I reckon, and then that chastity comes straight off, I absolutely promise.’

‘Harry, it could be hot, but please just give me some time to think…’

‘You know, it would be great to hang-out with you, over the summer,’ I say. ‘Like, spend quality time with you… talk more… not just sex. We probably should have done that more, ages ago.’

Nick looks stunned – totally wrongfooted. He wasn’t expecting this conversation to turn leftfield, but I needed to strike whilst he felt pressure.

He clears his phlegmy throat, emotionally choked.

‘Um, I only see you, Harry. I hang-out with Charlie and our friends. I’ve never, ever, wanted to hang-out with you and your bunch of twats.’

And now it’s my turn to be stunned by the definitiveness of his rejection. It was brutal, and he’s the very opposite of a brutal character.

‘I meant, just the two of us,’ I say. ‘My twattish mates are just as dispensable as Charlie’s alphabet mafia crowd, right? Like, what is Isaac claiming to be this week? Ace, or is it incel, because he’s honestly too fat to fuck?’

I’ve pushed Nick hard, and it’s like I can feel the heat of his fury down there in his submissive position. Most boys would lash-out but Nick remains very still aside from his sexy pensive blinking, collecting his thoughts, thinking before saying.

This is literally the first time I’ve shown a glimpse of my torment to a client, and I know I’ve fucked-up royally. Submissives don’t see me to give me therapy, though it often works the other way around.

‘You’re lonely, right?’ Nick says. In his honey-smooth tone, there’s no sense he’s judging me.

Of course he’s right, nail-on-head, but I can hardly admit it. His sexual needs are intense, and I know Nick’s had his own tortured anguish over the years, but in every sense he’s always been a good boy: straightforward, honest, trusting, hard-working – the best sort of qualities. I can’t claim any of those attributes, and that makes me feel so fucking low.

I’m mute, for once, and rely on him to break the suffocating silence.

‘So, I won’t be hanging out with you…’ he declares, solemn.

‘Look, it’s okay. Let’s just move on,’ I say quickly.

‘But it would be an honour to have you as my keyholder,’ he says. ‘And, if you’re willing to get harder and darker with me, when you’re back from holiday…’

‘Of course I am, you doughnut!’ I agree, fast.

‘Well then, in that case, would you like to kiss, before I clean your bathroom and get going?’

The right answer is no, but my guard rails have already fallen, so is there any point in continuing my act?

‘Yes,’ I say.

I fidget back on the toilet seat, tap my knee to shepherd him, and he straddles me facing the cistern. The plastic groans under our combined weight, twisting.

Nick hesitates, taking sharp breaths. Moving at the same time we wrap arms and hug.

My dick and asshole have been swiped by Nick’s tongue on countless previous occasions, but never my own tongue, and he’s been monogamous in reserving his most intimate affections for his lover, Charlie. 

Joining lips then probing, I extract fragments of cum deep inside Nick’s mouth and remember it’s my own juice I’m retrieving from the awkward gaps between his imperfect teeth. Memories aligned, still powerful, we’re all over each other at once, greedy as fuck.

**

 

 

Priorities (1/2) M/m; D/s; control; minor violence - Heartstopper fanfic

Novelty musical doorbell chimes.

That’s my dad, in a nutshell.

When I was nine, I thought it was a laugh to programme the unit to play an electronic simulation of Three Lions, when England were in a major football tournament.

When I was thirteen and mates were about to call round over the long August holiday, I set the box to play Boys of Summer, though it turned-out Christian and Otis had never heard the song and didn’t know who Don Henley was, either. That’s when I started to realise Dad’s ‘funny’ doorbell machine with its jukebox of greatest hits from the 80s was, in fact, totally lame.

Mum wasn’t impressed by the novelty doorbell installation, either. It’s not the only reason she’s no longer married to Gary Greene, but it was definitely on her (very) longlist of his inadequacies.    

Dad’s away until late tonight. As the leading party planner in town, he got the gig for the Truham Grammar School leavers prom this year. You should know, I banned him from tendering for this job whilst I was at Truham: I told him that if he dared so much as quote for it, I’d go and live in the fucking orphanage rather than face the shame at school. He’s going to be DJ’ing for year 13 in a couple of hours, and you better hope those fuckers from the year below me like plenty of Madonna and Duran Duran.

Anyway, getting bored with waiting, I figured I could have one last piece of fun with the unique doorbell module, and adjusted it to play It’s Raining Men by (a synthesised version of) The Weather Girls at the highest volume, when the push was activated by Nick Nelson. It was pissing down, after all – a typically shit early summer day in England. The thing is, though, that rather than press the fucking bell he’s just texted me from the doorstep, to let me know he’s here. And I hate it when people spoil my schemes.

I knew he’d arrived, because I’d gone to the window on the half-landing when I’d heard car tyres advancing warily over the pea gravel driveway. From a semi-hidden vantage point I’d watched him sit in his car for three minutes, engine off but wipers still pulsing furiously, wearing that anxious Nicholas look, composing himself until a fog of windscreen condensation made him invisible to me. If he’d seen me watching him, he didn’t wave up in acknowledgment, but I didn’t care whether he had or hadn’t.

The little Fiesta is packed with stuff, to the extent Nick had needed to remove the rear parcel shelf and stow it inside his car. He’d accumulated a few bits during his first year of university, and his fresher room in hall had to be cleared-out before he left.

I’m coming, I text back.

It had been my plan to make him wait, but because he’s getting soaked on the doorstep I extend that wait, and then because I’m pissed off by the lost opportunity of the doorbell joke I count another twenty seconds, so it’s almost a minute until I open up, slowly, making the hinges creak Halloween-style.

‘Hey,’ he says, smiling behind his dripping bangs.

‘Let’s not start that way,’ I tell him, bluntly.

He appears taken aback. Perhaps he’s forgotten, we’d developed a particular way of relating to each other that worked for me.

‘I missed you… genuinely,’ he says, dropping the smile but retaining confident eye contact.

I nod.

‘Why the fuck didn’t you text me from your car, and wait for me to come to the door? You’re the same old wet twat, Nick.’

‘Right,’ he says, blushing. Very pretty.

‘So, my dad has just had the wooden floor polished, and he’ll go apeshit if it’s ruined. Take your wet layers off before you come in, yeah?’

**

‘How’s life been with you?’ he asks, forcing a strained smile from me, remembering the last few months.

‘It’s been a lot of Gary and Harry, trying to bring some order to my dad’s chaos in the business. You know – making sure people get their quotes quickly, issuing invoices, chasing invoices, dealing with the VAT, building a shit-hot website for him, looking at e-commerce. Really productive, actually. I got a B grade in Business Studies A-level, remember?’ I remind him.

‘I remember,’ Nick says, but he should have sounded more interested. ‘And, away from work? How’s the gang?’ he changes the subject, cautious in the tone of his enquiry.

Now he’s raised a fat grin from me.

‘Well, let’s skip to the headline: Imogen Heaney, last month, fucked anally in my bedroom until she squealed like a pig. Definitely her first time up the ass, mate. You should have been there, honestly!’

‘Ha!’ Nick tenses, looking down and not finding the fun in my tale. ‘Imogen’s great, and she’s also my friend. How long have you two been seeing each other, then?’ He needs to know.

I laugh. ‘Mate, it lasted twelve days and four fucks, in May. It’s not like either of us want to settle down, right? But there were a few parties and, y’know, the opportunities were there. Like, you should have seen the state of her when I fucked her up the ass… tears literally streaming down her cheeks, man, but she was well getting off on it!’

I watch him bite his lip, and I wait. Ultimately, carefully provoked, he just can’t contain himself.

‘Nice,’ he says, loaded with sarcastic disapproval. ‘And they say the age of romance is dead!’

If Nick wanted to disrespect me, he should at least have taken a more defensive stance in the hallway and readied himself for my retaliation. But we’re stood facing-off, and he’d not taken note of the fact I’d been shuffling towards him during the last two minutes of conversation, closing the gap between us in a subtle way until I could practically feel his breath.  

The single slap from my open palm cracks like gunshot around the sparsely furnished hall, with no carpeting to deaden the soundwaves rippling upon the maximum impact collision with his left cheek.

I’ve caught him by surprise and, too late, his neck bucks his head away from my attacking hand, already retreating. He stumbles backwards, toppling into the rising staircase spindles, but flings out an arm to stabilise himself against an antique half-moon table, rattling the array of decorative porcelain ducks displayed upon it, arranged meticulously by size courtesy of our cleaner. (Mum has poor taste, too, and didn’t bother to take her full collection of hoarded catalogue crap when she walked out on us).

You know in cartoons when there’s a hilarious ‘accident’ and the victim is drawn as cross-eyed and stunned to the spot? Well, that’s Nick Nelson in my hall, and it’s massively satisfying. The imprint of my hand – each of my spread fingers, stretched long – is clear across the breadth of the familiar rosy cheek I’ve missed for a full semester.

‘Fuck!’ Nick groans, testing the sting lightly with his own thick digits.

‘Did I miss your ear?’ I ask, with a veneer of concern.

‘Mmm… yeah,’ he stammers, stock-taking where he’s hurting most. ‘It’s ringing, though.’

‘It will do,’ I say, matter of fact.

‘That was harsh, Harry,’ he protests. ‘It was unnecessary.’

Well it’s a point of view, I suppose, but not how I see things, and he knows me well enough.

He’s straightened-up and his eyes are no longer crossed like Bugs Bunny slammed behind an opening door courtesy of his nemesis, Elmer Fudd. We’re facing again, but he’s been careful to keep me at arms length, this time. I smile at him.

‘Remember the cinema, in year 11? The fight in the corridor, after the film?’ I tease.

‘Of course I remember it. Apart from anything else, you’ve brought it up about five hundred times, since.’

‘Sorry, mate,’ I say, oozing insincerity. ‘I know it’s hard to dredge over chequered memories, but specifically, the moment I called Charlie a pathetic fag, and you got a fucking boner in your jeans, in front of literally all the lads, and then you lashed-out like you were a crazy!’

Nick gives a dismissive snort, moving his eyes back to the floor.

‘That was a difficult night for me,’ he says. ‘The worst, even. In my mum’s car on the way home… I’ve never felt so much anger… so much confusion.’  

And I won’t claim to be a compassionate man, but I do at least nod to acknowledge his perpetual trauma.

‘Well I got a stiff prick too, when I punched back. And that night… it was the start of us,’ I remind him.

‘I know,’ he murmurs.

‘But also, it was the start of you showing respect to me, which is why I’ve just mentioned it for the 501^st time, and why I come back to that slap,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ he whispers, mulling our history together and trying to make sense of it, as I find myself doing.  

‘Mates again? Fresh start?’ I suggest.

‘Mates,’ Nick agrees, raising his head and making a smile of his stung face.

I extend a fist, not to hit him but looking for a fraternal bump, and with hesitance he reciprocates.

**

Nick’s grey joggers, blue hoodie and Nike trainers are in the double-lined black bin bag I found for him, and made him leave outside my front door. He’s enough of a drip, as it is.

He’s been standing opposite me in his remaining dry clothes: the sky-blue T-shirt, tight white boxers, and black ankle socks. Now we’ve cleared the air, I check him out properly.

‘You’ve bulked a bit,’ I say, assessing him head to toe with leering eyes.

‘Umm, yeah. There was a gym in my hall, so it was fairly easy to stay in shape. And the rugby, obviously.’

‘In the uni squad, right?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, well, the third XV,’ he says, bashful at his modest achievement.  

I screw my nose to project disappointed surprise.

‘So, you have something more worthwhile to aim for next year then, don’t you?’ I say, staring him out.

‘I guess,’ he says quietly.

But Nick has self-improved since Christmas, no doubt about it. He’s squarer at his shoulders, stretching the fabric of his plain T, but also more defined over his pectorals, and his tit nubs make twistable buttons bumping the cotton. His core looks stronger, and his scrumming thighs are sturdier than ever. He’s not a schoolboy anymore, but I’m looking at the whole package including mental growth as well as physical. We’ll have to see about that.

Also, Nick has got hairier. The down on his thighs is denser and I reckon the same will be true of his chest fluff, when the shirt comes off. He has grown-out some fuzz along his jawline, copper-gold to match his neatly trimmed hair.

‘You stopped shaving, or don’t they have razors in Leeds?’ I ask him.

He pretends to find me funny, recognising the need to be more emotionally balanced around me.

‘I thought I’d try something different,’ he says. ‘Also, not needing to shave in the morning is a blessing when you have 9am lectures and need to get across campus…’ he drones on.

‘I don’t like it,’ I cut across his monologue.

‘Oh?’ he says, scythed.

‘No. I think I’d enjoy face-fucking you more clean-shaven.’

‘Ah, right,’ he gets my point. ‘Um, sorry.’

‘I suppose we’ll manage,’ I say. ‘But you can always check-in with me before you take big decisions with your appearance. Something to think about, maybe?’

‘Sure,’ he says meekly, but I’m not convinced he intends to make a hotline of our mobile numbers. Our connection tends to go dead, when we’re apart.

Reading Nick’s body language I deduce my coldness is getting to him, from the tic-like clenching and re-clenching of his fists and the squirming of his toes in damp socks, to the dewy perspiration over his forehead that has replaced rainwater falling from his curvy bangs as the primary leakage.   

‘So, how are you finding Leeds?’ I ask, more casually.

Relieved at the pressure release, he manages a flat smile for me.

‘Yeah, it’s been a great year. I love the city, and I think choosing psychology for my degree was the right decision, in the end. Hall was fun, too…’

‘Fuck all of that,’ I silence him again. ‘Grindr? Recon? What are you using, and what have the hook-ups been like? Getting ass-fucked by Yorkshiremen much? There must be loads of closeted farmer boys up in the Dales, right?’

And I know he’s had a long drive, and he may have been up late last night saying farewells to his fresher mates with a final poignant party, but Nick looks totally beaten under my barrage.

‘Number one –  I’m bi, remember?’ he says, with a weary air of frustration but no petulance, I’m pleased to note. Keeping-up his bi fantasy narrative must be exhausting.

‘Total bullshit!’ I blurt. ‘You were never gonna be one of the lads, Nick, and I wish I’d worked that out before year 11. Are you trying to convince me you’re mining pussy on Tinder or something?’

‘Actually, I’ve never really got into online dating or sleeping around,’ he says. ‘I feel I’ve got everything I need back home, with Charlie, and…’

‘And?’ I push him.

‘And with you, obviously,’ he says, diligent in looking me in the eye.

 I ease off for a moment. His pumping chest extends his T-shirt sexily.

‘Well, it’s good to know you’ve got everything ordered in your head,’ I say. ‘But it doesn’t sound as though you’ve been training your gag reflex much, ‘oop north,’ I suggest.

‘I haven’t much,’ he admits, with a shy arching of an eyebrow.

‘So, do you feel you deserve some practice with me?’ I ask.

He fidgets on the polished wooden floorboards in his socks, struck by that characteristic Nick Nelson paralysis of becoming literally dumb when asked, straightforwardly, what he wants.  

‘It’s all okay, you know,’ I reassure him. ‘Whatever you’re feeling, it’s fine, and stays between us.’

He seems to appreciate my change of tone. The clenching fists unfurl relaxed by his sides.

‘Harry, I’ve been waiting to practise deepthroat with you – counting it down – for two months, no lie. Obviously, I want to, please.’

Unthreatening with my movement, I step forward into his space and clamp my slapping hand onto his pumped forearm, also fluffier than when we last got together for his ongoing sexual awakening programme, over Christmas.  

‘I need to know: did you drive straight to me, or did you see Charlie first?’ I ask, disturbing his tiny curls with my fingers whilst staring into his face insistently.

‘Umm, straight to you,’ he says, awkward, but I’m confident I’m hearing the truth. Nick is both a rare liar and a poor liar.

‘Good call, mate,’ I say.

I take him by the shoulders, only to appreciate the extra distance between them since Christmas, but Nick misinterprets my move as an invitation to hug and launches himself upon me impulsively, like a soppy bear. He smells hot – a dash of Lynx body spray, not overpowering, getting squished by his nervous perspiration. Though it’s dangerous to become emotionally involved, in truth I’d been counting down as well, and the fluency of his embrace is fucking intense. I surrender, wrap him by those shoulders, and we press silently for a whole two minutes.    

**

‘Gosh! That’s a surprisingly big dick!’, Imogen Heaney had told me, pulling a shocked face in her dipsy way. What the fuck was with her surprise? Cheeky bitch, and it’s a good job I don’t slap girls – or at least, not routinely.

It’s obviously true, though, that my prick is even larger than you might imagine from looking at my height and build. Over-proportioned, it’s way more impressive than Nick’s peanut cock – not that I’m interested in dick, so I couldn’t care less other than it being something to tease him about. ‘How the fuck do you aim with that tiny toggle, mate!?’  He can laugh it off, I’m pleased to say. It’s just locker room banter, isn’t it?

My rules are different, girls versus boys. It was good enough for Imogen to deepthroat three-quarters of my length, choking as she was, mascara running with her fat tears as I tugged at her hair. With Nick, the only acceptable throat fuck is one that sees his lips kissing my belly at the dick root. Nick understands my expectations, agrees with them, and loves trying to meet them.

Well, actually, it’s more complicated than that: Nick hates loving it. But he’s the one studying psychology at a top university, so no doubt he’s rationalised what the fuck it’s all about. I just blow-up balloons for baby shower parties and act mean.  

We’re in the main bathroom, because Nick is miles away from earning the privilege of using my bedroom for sex. Since that year 11 flare-up in the cinema and the start of our smouldering thing, we’ve fucked in my kitchen; the garage; Truham Grange nature reserve, at dusk; his car, and in the gents toilets of Truham Vale services on the southbound carriageway of the M29 motorway, where I needed to mouth gag him with the old school tie, before I bred him in our tight cubicle.

If you ignore the gold-plated taps (Dad’s choice) and the rubber ducks in their elaborate ‘house’ by the bathtub (Mum), the family bathroom isn’t one I’m ashamed for a casual fuck date to see. Importantly, the glossy floor tiles (white) are wipe clean, and that’s another reason I’ve brought Nick here, and not (eg) the garden shed. In the corner I’ve readied a mop and bucket, a bottle of disinfectant spray and some cloths, for later: the clean-up job will be for Nick to complete, and I’ll supervise to let him know he’s missed bits.

The floor in front of the toilet is a mess, already, spoiled with puke in deposits resembling mini pizzas. You see, I’m not talking about a great cow pat of sick, launched projectile against the nightclub wall after that dodgy kebab proved too much on a stomach full of vodka mixers. No, what I’m describing is the result of multiple episodes of Nick’s throat becoming overwhelmed by my dick and spluttering-up a gooey mess, where his thick drool is the dough of the pizza, and the technicolour contents of his stomach are the exotic toppings.

‘Was it a heavy drinking session last night, babe?’ I ask him, tutting at the puke-flecked mess he’s made of my bare feet.

‘Kinda,’ he admits, muffled around my stiff dick meat, and I guide him deeper onto me using my hand against the back of his damp neck, applying moderate forward pressure.

If you’re wondering, Nick Nelson has a beautiful velvety throat. It’s a soft purse that makes my dick tingle before he tries anything with his tongue, but it was a shallow clutch when we first started our thing, and I had to coach him in depth training which didn’t come naturally, to our mutual frustration which I guess, on occasion, I let rip with.

This evening Nick is working to objectives I set, as reasonable: to kiss my abdomen around my dick root ten times, holding there for a minimum four seconds on each occasion before releasing. He’d been excited at the stretching brief, if daunted, but I’d pushed back the golden fringe that had flopped over his left eyebrow and reassured him, calmly, that I knew he’d make a fantastic job of it.    

I’m perched on the front of the toilet seat, legs apart - not massively comfortable, so he better be quick about it – and Nick is on his knees in front of my throne, leaning down and in with his face, gobbling.

I’ve given him a foam kneeling pad to help, but on the other hand, the toilet bowl hasn’t been flushed all day, and I had curry and beers with Ben and Otis, last night. Laughing, I’d asked Nick if the situation reminded him of that afternoon in the toilet cubicle at the motorway services, and he’d accepted that it did. The stench is totally offensive, but my nose is much further from the filth.

Anyway, Nick has managed eight qualifying throat fucks already, though he’s caused loads of disruption with his retching and puking, his panicked gagging on my meat, and his regular refusals to take me to my hilt as instructed, instead backing-off mid-shaft and needing to repeat. 

I’m more patient with Nick than he deserves, but I can see he’s trying. Also he’s crying, and that gets me so hard in his mouth. I don’t mean bawling or even sobbing, just soft and achingly pretty tears rolling silently over his dick-puffed cheeks.

‘What’s up, mate?’ I ask him, as he completes his eighth impalement and drips his salty sorrow at my feet.

He sniffs. Nick’s been leaking clear snot since we started. Tears, snot, phlegm, drool, puke – he’s such a leaky gingernut, in general.

‘Just so hard, that’s all. I know I’m a mess,’ he says.

My hand is caressing the top of his skull, but now I use it to guide his head into a tilt so that he looks directly up into my eyes, whilst I stare down into his.

‘Do you wish that you and Charlie were sexually compatible?’ I ask. ‘Like, one assertive top and one subby bottom? Or… are you enjoying your excuse to explore dominant men, same as he does?’

The depth of my question catches him off-guard, as intended. There’s a string of his drool extending elastically from his chin, as he thinks. His eyes, already hooded from a term of fresher partying, now have a shattered look – verging on broken. But still, they’re erotic in that mesmerising, I won’t let you down, overtly loyal trait of Nick.   

‘I do wish Char gave me everything I needed, but also that I could give him everything he needed. Because otherwise, we’re basically perfect together. But it’s powerful that we learnt to communicate with each other about our needs, and I think it’s made us a stronger couple, actually.’

And I fight to avoid tearing-up myself, because he’s such a decent and true lad. Maybe his studies have given Nick a deeper understanding of human nature over the last year or so, but the way he narrates his own story and can get comfortable with it – well, it’s impressive, I admit.

I just wish he didn’t treat me like I was a stupid outsider since we were 15, and ongoing.

‘You’re alright, you know?’ I say.

‘Cheers,’ he says, making a smirk of his battered mouth.

‘Back to it, then? I prompt. ‘Two more and you’re done, so aim to satisfy me fully.’

‘Sure.’

About 'Priorities'

 

Something rather different. 

‘Priorities’ is a Heartstopper fanfic I wrote for another outlet, but I feel some of you might enjoy it. If you’ve not seen this Netflix drama, then I’m afraid the fiction will have little impact, but if you’re a fan of the show then my dark take may appeal!

Synopsis: 

Harry Greene has an edgy new side hustle as a sexual dominant, with the arrogance to exploit it – and everyone – to the full.

Nick and Charlie remain best friends, lovers, emotional magnets… and sexually incompatible, to an irreconcilable extent.

Nick’s returning from his fresher year at Leeds University and must decide upon his first house call. After all, it’s a matter of priorities.

Narrated by Harry.