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17 March 2006 @ 02:19 am
 



"Harris, what the FUCK have you gotten me into?"


Steph shook his head and lumbered off the bed in search of the other bathroom. For some unspoken reason, he needed to be alone. The house was long and low and it took a few wrong turns before he found a half bath off the open kitchen. He leaned one hand on the wall and pointed his still half hard dick at the center of the toilet to pee. He closed his eyes and let this simple human function try to make him feel normal again. He shook off his dick, flushed and turned to the sink. He ran the cold tap and splashed water on his face. He realized the look in his eyes is the one he wore when he's in ‘head space’, as Kane used to call it, and smiled wryly. Dammit, he thought, I am such a whore.

"You are sincerely fucked in the head, Tweak."

The Artist sat and watched the boys take off in their separate directions which surprised him. He always figured them to stick together and this must have been one hell of a mind fuck for them. He smiled and listened to the shower start then stood and followed Steph's path. Lazily, he lit a cigarette and leaned in the kitchen doorway, watching Steph's every move.

Steph's wasn't sure if it's the whiff of fresh cigarette or the slight movement against the moonlit glass but he's shocked to stillness when he saw the Artist's backlit figure standing in the kitchen watching him. His posture was one of lazy power and it sent a jolt of fear/anticipation straight to his balls. While Steph stared, the Artist smiled slowly as his eyes raked over Steph's body. He took slow measured steps towards the bathroom, dropping the cigarette into an ashtray on the counter, his eyes smoky and dark. He is not done with this night.

He stepped up behind Steph and maneuvered him to face the bathroom sink, placing his hands on either side of Steph's head to force him to look into the mirror. Then, wordlessly, the Artist runs his hands down Steph's neck and arms, then his back. His hands don't stop as they lower Steph's jeans. The Artist stood and looked into Steph's startled eyes reflected in the mirror. One finger slid into Steph's crack and he toyed with the man's hole, watching that precious expression for every nuance.

Steph was shocked at just how quickly he dove back into ‘head space’. His breath caught as he's breached and a gorgeous shiver runs up his spine. His mouth drops open, head falls back and his eyes drift closed as the rough fingers work at the tight ring of his ass hole. He wants to gasp and call out but he's been trained too well, and he is too stunned, and the sound catches in his throat.

A low laugh follows some spit and both of the Artist's hands spread Steph's ass. Still staring into the mirror, he slides in deep, shoving Steph forward to grip the edge of the sink. As an afterthought, he still hears the shower running full blast. Now that he has the man pinned, he wrenches Steph's arms behind his back and begins fucking the tight hole slow and easy, quickly ramping up to a hard and fast fuck. His breath is ragged as he watches Steph's face contort with pain and need. He had wanted this one the minute he saw him sitting next to Harris. He knew this one would be just as easy. A crook of a finger, a firm grip, and he could do anything he wanted with either of them.

'Oh, fuck' Steph thought and knew he was off the deep end. He tried to keep his eyes open, knowing that's what's expected. He had not been back to the House in years, but time telescoped and he was suddenly under someone else’s control. He panted, pleasure racing through him, the pain a delicious counterpoint. Seeing the expression on the Artist's face was like throwing gas on the fire and Steph struggled not to come and tightened his ass on the thick blunt cock. He wanted to moan. He could break the hold on his wrists, but he knew it was symbolic. Fuck, he thought, now I understand why Harris can’t stop going back.

The Artist smiled at the fact that Harris' little friend here was also a professional. He knew it. Felt it. Could smell it on both of them. He stepped up the pace to sheer brutality. His lips were clamped closed, breath coming hard through his nose. He let go of Steph's hands and yanked on those dark curls, forcing him to stare in the mirror as he pounded harder. When he came, it ripped through his body and he knew he was leaving bruises on the man's stomach from the sink cutting into his flesh. He could feel Steph quivering around his cock. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. He reached low and took Steph's balls into his hand. Leaning forward even harder, he murmured darkly into Steph's ear.

“Now.” And waited for the man to come.

Steph's mouth dropped open, he gasped uncontrollably with the whispered permission, came like a jolt, eyes open and unseeing. The Artist stayed buried deep until Steph was trembling beneath him. The Artist took a step back and tucked himself back into his pants. Steph jumped a little as the Artist pulled out roughly, the pressure of the other body gone replaced with cold air, and hung his head into the sink. Without a word, the walked to the wine cabinet in the dining room to look over his collection of fine vintages. Then, he notices the shower has stopped and Harris is laying naked, sprawled over his bed. The night was still young, he thought and chose a very mellow cabernet. Still in the dark, he walked to the built in bar and rummaged for the bottle opener.

Steph stood like a puppet with cut strings. He sagged, elbows down on the basin, gasping for breath and shivered with residual pleasure. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so thoroughly fucked. He's reduced to a speechless mass, just barely able to move but managed to pull up his jeans and begin buttoning them. He snuck back to the bedroom, felt like a rabbit with a coyote on his tail. He wanted to run out the front door, but he's not leaving without Harris.

The buckle of Harris’ belt hits him square on the largest bruise on his ass and he woke with a start, wet hair sticking to his unshaven face. Steph stood silently nodding to his clothes. Harris moved slowly, feeling every muscle ache, and dresses. Steph was biting his tongue not to start screaming for them to bolt.

They crept through the house wordlessly. In the darkness, a cork from a wine bottle popped. Steph grabbed Harris’ upper arm in a vice, shuddering, and they froze. Their eyes spoke volumes as they picked up the pace to the back door, to the car, to the street.

The drive home was painfully silent. He could smell Steph’s fear under his usual scent and didn't want to talk about it. They walked to Steph’s apartment, just like old times. Still without a word, the back door to the porch creaked open and they stripped, falling under the mountain of comforters on the futon under the night sky and curled close, holding onto each other for dear life and tumble into and uneasy sleep.

Just like they always did after a trip to the House.

The Artist leaned on the railing of his back porch and watched the sun come up. The sky is painted golden and red as the city came alive. He drained his glass and tossed the empty bottle carelessly into the recycle bin and made his way to the bedroom.

He could still smell them on the sheets as he drifted off to sleep.
 
 
 
stunt_dickstunt_dick on March 17th, 2006 10:24 am (UTC)
And I was ASLEEP!!!! Fuck.... nothing like tellin your friend.. fucker...
lowendtweaklowendtweak on March 17th, 2006 10:29 am (UTC)
We've been over this, Easy. Oh, shit. just fucking call me...fucker.
dramaticmuzak on March 18th, 2006 06:22 am (UTC)
Harris slept through this yea? Scary thing is - I know the layout of that house like I know my own.. I know what color the bathroom is.... and the kitchen.. this is seriously fucking with my head, Tweak...
lowendtweaklowendtweak on March 18th, 2006 06:45 am (UTC)
Hey...babe. I wish you didn't have to go through this. I'm coming over. Don't move.