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 501st 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.’
No comments:
Post a Comment