Chapter Text
Sunday around noon, Charles gets a call from Tozer. All Charles does is answer, “Hey” before Sol launches right in with it.
“What the fuck, man? We went to get some more tokens and then when we got back you were gone.”
“Uh. Someone caught my eye.”
“Jesus, Charles, you really can’t keep your trousers up, can you?”
“Go to hell, Sol,” Charles tells him, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. He’s still exhausted. “It was someone I’d rather not have seen me.”
“So you ran away?”
“Pretty much,” Charles admits.
“D’you wanna hang? Mountain Dews are on me.”
Charles doesn’t. But he needs to vent to someone and Sol is one hundred percent a better choice than Hickey. Neal would only attempt to twist the situation to his advantage, and Charles would find himself fending off advances in addition to pouring out his misery.
“Yeah,” he answers. “But not at the Fun-Plex.”
“Come on over, then.”
. . .
“This person you saw at the Fun-Plex,” Sol begins after Charles plops down onto his couch. “Some guy you used to see?”
“Yeah. Actually, the same guy I thought I was still seeing.”
“Oh, the doctor?”
Charles nods miserably. “I never invited him because I figured he’d never say yes. But it turns out he did say yes to someone. A lady someone, to be specific.”
Tozer huffs at that.
“Here I was, these last few months thinking something real was happening between us, something that mattered, and then last night he comes waltzing in to my space with his fucking wife. His wife, Sol.” Clenching his jaw, he groans in frustration. “I almost made it out of there unnoticed. But we bumped into each other in the facilities.”
“Didn’t go well, huh?”
“To say the least. Topped the evening off with a few choice words.”
“You broke up, then?”
“No, since I was wrong in thinking we were ever together. But I know I’m single now, if that’s what you’re asking.”
With a sheepish smile, Tozer looks down at his boots and says, “Well, then, if you need to let off some steam or whatever… Y’know, if you’d like help getting him off your mind…”
Charles barks out a laugh that sounds crueler than he’d intended, so he shuts his mouth and frowns. “I’m sorry, Sol. It’s not your fault I’m a bitter bitch.” Remaining seated, he lifts his chair and sets it back down right between Sol’s knees. He stretches his arms out and rubs his hands on Tozer’s thighs. Dancing his fingertips up the denim of the jeans he looks hard into Sol’s face as he unbuckles his belt. “But maybe you can help.”
“Uh, sure, happy to y’know, talk things over—” Here he trails off, giving Charles a wide grin. “Or whatever it is you’re looking for.”
Charles rises, kicking the chair backwards behind him, and gets to the floor. Licking his lips, he orders, “Get it out for me.”
Tozer’s fingers scramble to open his belt, unzip his fly, and comply with Charles’ request. He holds the base of his cock with thumb and forefinger in a loose circle—and only Sol’s hands are big enough to do this, to wrap around himself when he’s getting hard. It would take both of Charles’ hands to manage the same thing.
Sol tilts the head of his cock towards Charles’ mouth and whispers, “Come get it, babe. Get as much as you can.”
Charles slips the first half of it into his mouth easily enough, and he works that back and forth for a while, lathering it up with spit, stroking it with his fists stacked one atop the other. Sol’s cock is nearly too big even for oral, and Charles relishes the challenge. Especially now, when he has something he actively wants to push out of his mind. There simply isn’t enough room for Sol and Stanley in his head.
“Is that what you needed, doll?” Tozer asks.
“Almost. Fucking strangle me, Sol.”
Tozer lunges forward and grabs Charles’ throat with one hand and squeezes, pulling him in closer, sinking his cock further and further down until he dips into the airway.
Charles suppresses a reflexive cough and lets out a burbling sort of gagging noise.
“No, no, don’t struggle. Get it down.”
Going lax in Tozer’s hold, Charles gives in and lets himself be used. Sol drags Charles’ head back and forth like an extension of his hand as he wanks his huge cock with Charles’ mouth and throat.
“Jesus, it’s fuckin’ hot the way you just—let me play with you.” Sinking back in the recliner, Tozer gazes up at the ceiling, keeping a firm grip on Charles’ skull. “By the way, jerk off it you wanna, I don’t mind. I could go for some porno, though.”
Charles shrugs and tries to say something like, “Don’t mind if you put some on.” It fails to come out like anything resembling English. He does, however, unbutton his jeans and slip one hand inside.
It’s late enough that Cinemax is playing some soft-core shit, which probably wouldn’t cut it for Sol except Charles is busy gagging on him.
“Fuck me, the tits on this one are something. Not too ridiculous, just—perfect for grabbing hold of, y’know?” He pauses and snorts. “No, you probably wouldn’t, you little queer.” He pats Charles’ head. “No offence meant, of course. I appreciate that you’re a hungry cock-fiend. Gets me rocks off. Honestly, you give better head than any bird I’ve been with.” He holds Charles down for a count of five, then releases him with a “Fuck, yeah! That’s a good fuckin fairy.” Looking down with a wide grin, he warns, “I’m gonna feed you soon, Charlie. You want it?”
“Yes, Sol, yes.” He squeezes his cock and then gives it a slow stroke, mentally measuring its size against Tozer’s and he knows he pales in comparison. Charles is smaller than average, well under six inches and it would be a bit of an embarrassment to take it out for a side-by-side visual. Even imagining that scenario brings a flush of humiliation to his face.
“Throat? Face?” A guardedly hopeful expression crosses his face briefly as he adds, “Up the arse?”
Charles laughs.
“What?”
“I would, seriously, I’d love to take you sometime, but I need more warning than that. You’re liable to split me open otherwise.”
“I suspect you’d like that.”
With a shrug, Charles explains, “I’d cope in the moment, surely. The next day I’d have trouble walking. I’m not sure you appreciate how magnificent your cock truly is.”
“I appreciate that women can rarely get it all up their cunts, no matter how hard I try to stuff it in there.”
“Oh.” It takes Charles a moment to understand, that he’s talking about the length versus the depth of the hole in question. “Right. Wow, that’s an image. Anyway, I could take all of it. But I’d need to get ready.”
“What would you do?” Sol asks, turning the volume down on the porn to hear Charles better. “To get ready?”
“Play with lube and my fingers for a bit at least. A toy would help.”
“A dildo?” he asks, getting a little breathless, wanking twice as fast as he’d been fucking Charles’ throat.
“Yeah, at least a seven-incher. I’d have to bounce on that fucker for a while to loosen up. Because—” He spits into his hand and takes over from Sol. “I’d want—” He ducks his head down and briefly sucks at Sol’s left nut. “To take—” The right. “You all at once.” With both nuts sucked into his mouth together, he rolls them around on his tongue.
“Holy fuck.”
“I’d want you to just slam in all—the—way. Skewer me in one go.”
“Babe—” Sol jams two fingers in Charles’ mouth, presses down on his tongue, and smiles at the way Charles instantly sucks on them, hard. He moves to pull them back but Charles catches them on his teeth. “You vicious little bitch,” Sol curses, and Charles meets his eyes and whines. “My cock. Get back on my cock, I’m gonna come.”
Charles lunges for it, plunging it all the way down until his nose is squashed against Sol’s treasure trail.
“Don’t back off, don’t you fucking back off now, you dirty slut. You need this as much as I do, you need to swallow my spunk as much as I need you to drink it down. Don’t you?”
Charles nods incrementally but emphatically. It’s such a relief to have someone other than Stanley enjoying him. There’s an entire world of men out there, and Charles doesn’t have to settle down any time soon—or ever.
“I’m gonna come, but how about you? Are you gonna spunk in your trousers, just from wankin’ a bit whilst I pound your throat like a pussy?”
He shivers and that’s answer enough.
“Good boy, Charles. This I why I put up with all your shit, your obnoxious personality… Because the fucking mouth on you… God!” He punches the left armrest of the recliner as he jerks the arm slung around Charles’ neck, as though he could get the young man any closer. Pumping shot after shot down Charles’ throat, he gasps, “Swallow it, fuckin’ swallow it all, baby. That’s it, Charlie, that’s bloody perfect.”
It may not be exactly perfect for Charles, but at least it’s a welcome respite.
On Tuesday afternoon, Charles is back at the Fun-Plex. He’s not looking to break any records today, he’d just kill to have a decent few hours with his mates. But Sol falls into a pitched pinball battle with two of his Marine buddies and while Charles could join them, he doesn’t have the energy for it.
So he takes yet another cigarette break. Hickey comes to sit beside him on the steps to the loading dock, pulling on his outdoor skates as Charles finishes his smoke.
“Hey, sorry to hear things went tits up with your doctor friend.”
Charles exhales in a heavy puff and stares at the dwindling end of his cigarette. “Yeah, whatever.”
“No, not ‘whatever’, man. I could tell you were getting attached. But it’s probably best not to, y’know? You’re still young, you don’t need to tie yourself down anytime soon.”
Standing and stretching his arms over his head, Charles looks up at the dishwater-grey sky and rolls his eyes, because Hickey is all of three or four years older than him. He’s no wizened sage, and anything he says is primarily for his own benefit. One thing Charles knows about him is that he’s always working an angle.
Hickey has one leg pulled up behind him, balancing himself with a fingertip against the wall as he stretches the muscles of his thigh. It’s a feat of poise that Charles would never dare attempt, not without wrapping himself head-to-toe in packing paper first. But Neal Hickey is something else on skates: he moves like a dancer on quad wheels.
“Heard you did Tozer a favour the other day.”
Fuck. He nearly says it aloud. It’s not like he’s ashamed of it, he’d just prefer Hickey didn’t get wind of it.
“Got me to wondering. How bout—”
“No.” It comes out with more force and anger than Charles had intended, and sounds viciously rude.
“‘No’? Just like that?”
Next thing he knows, Hickey is somehow right in front of him, and Charles has been literally backed into a corner.
“Think your mouth’s too good for me? Nice try—I know where it’s been. I’ve watched you and Hartnell blow twelve guys together in a single night. So don’t pretend you’re too classy for a quick face-fuck in an alley.” He’s smirking now. “You’ve done it before in this very alley, remember? You were too busy sucking on my nuts to notice the police officer. Then I stood right over there—” (here he points a thumb over his shoulder toward the blind end) “while you took him all the way to the back of your throat to get out of a public indecency charge. I heard you gagging on him.” His lips are nearly pressed against Charles’ ear when he concludes in a murmur, “It made me so proud, to have a slut like you.”
Hickey drags the flat of his tongue over Charles’ cheek and it makes his skin crawl. But he’s also undeniably hard.
“Let me help you forget that straight ponce. Let me fuck him right out of your skull.”
“Go to Hell, Hickey,” Charles spits.
Then a hand closes around his throat and shoves him back against the wall, hard enough to rattle his spine and feel the vibration in his ribs. “Get on your knees.”
“Make me,” Charles dares him, and it would sound more bad-ass if it didn’t come out in a wheeze.
He always forgets how strong Hickey can be when he’s determined to get his way. They’re the same height, but Hickey is on skates and willing to fight dirty. A knee connects with Charles’ groin and as he doubles over in blinding pain, a hand on each shoulder forces him to the ground.
Gravel bites into his knees through the denim of his jeans as Hickey yanks back on his hair, forcing his face up. Charles doesn’t resist when Hickey jams a finger into each corner of his mouth to pry his jaw open.
When Hickey’s cock squeezes past his tonsils, Charles hears him moan deeply, theatrically.
“Missed this cunt of a mouth, love. Missed dumping my cum in you.”
It doesn’t take long—brutality tends to push Hickey far, fast. With bollocks slapping against his chin, Charles gulps futilely for air as Hickey leans in on his toe-stops and thrusts down his throat.
“Don’t ever forget, this is what you truly are: a back-alley whore. You’re no one’s boyfriend, and you never will be.”
It’s a good thing Charles’ eyes are already watering, because he can write off his tears as a mere physiologic reaction.
“God, you’re fun to wreck, though,” Hickey pants, pulling out just in time to paint a stripe across Charles’ nose, before plunging back down to finish. “Fuuuuck, Chas, don’t ever hold out on me like that again. Kay?”
He just shrugs and wipes his eyes. He doesn’t bother to clean off the cum, not until Hickey zips up and merrily skates around to the front entrance.
Then he doubles over and, clutching his abdomen, retches into the gutter.
Charles doesn’t change his schedule, because why should he? He’s not going to tiptoe around his life in the off-chance Stephen Stanley should happen to grace the premises with his presence. Surely the bastard has learnt his lesson: stay the fuck away.
But on the second Saturday after the disastrous sighting at the arcade, Charles catches a glimpse of Stanley from the corner of his eye. Once he gets the chance to turn his head for a proper look, the figure is gone. But he knows what he saw.
And so that very Thursday, he heads to the cinema as though there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, nowhere else he could imagine being.
Decidedly not thinking of Stanley, Charles saunters lazily down the incline until a man half-turns towards him in his seat and raises a finger in the air as though summoning a waiter.
Perching on the edge of the chair beside him, Charles enquires, “And how may I be of assistance tonight, sir?”
“What’ll a blowjob cost me?” he asks bluntly.
On a whim, Charles runs with it. “Not much. Five pounds?”
The guy pulls out his wallet to give Charles a fiver and then points to his crotch. Charles sticks the note in his back pocket, bends over, and gets to work. But he’s barely begun when the back of his neck prickles. Sensing someone standing behind their row, Charles glances up.
The man hisses, “Pay attention,” and Charles ducks his head back down, but not before catching sight of a familiar outline against the back-light of the doorway.
“You can look around for other custom once you’ve finished me off. But for now, put your mouth to work.” He says it in the tone of someone accustomed to being heeded.
Balancing himself with a hand on either armrest, Charles sinks down, and the guy grunts as Charles’ lips brush the base.
“That’s right, you know what your mouth is good for. I’ve sure it’s seen plenty of use by now.” He pats the top of Charles’ head off-handedly before stretching his arms across the backs of the neighbouring two seats, then tilts his head back. “Take your time, let me enjoy you.”
Once Charles has his dick lathered up with spit, the guy pulls it from his mouth. Holding it up against his belly, he lifts his hips. “Get acquainted with my nuts, why don’t you?”
Since money changed hands, Charles feels rather impelled to oblige . Laving the flat of his tongue over the cool skin of the sack, he listens to the man let out a deep sigh.
His fingertips dig into Charles’ scalp, then form a fist around of a hank of hair. He kicks a foot up onto the seat in front of him and begins dragging Charles’ mouth over his balls in a circle. “Like that, you cunt. Don’t act like you’re too good to have a stranger’s bollocks rubbed all over your pretty face.” He groans theatrically. “Now this is the life: watching some cheap porn and getting my needs attended to by a very young slag.”
Reaching over across Charles’ back, he smacks Charles’ ass once before grabbing it.
“What would it cost to fuck you?” he asks.
Charles searches for a diplomatic way of declining, but he hasn’t yet been given the opportunity to speak.
“Ten?” the man asks with a chuckle. “Or do you think your arse is worth more than that?” He gives it another resounding slap and Charles wonders how many other patrons are watching now, besides the obvious one. “I might pay twenty. If you let me shag you raw and breed you.” He slides his hand up to the small of Charles’ back and tries to force it beneath his jeans. At the same time, he pulls Charles’ face off his bollocks and gazes down at him. “Well?”
Charles takes a moment to gasp for air.
“Or do you not do that? Are you just slutty enough to suck dick for cash but not enough to ride it?”
“I might,” Charles pants. “For the right price.” Who’s he kidding? It’s not about the money, although fifty pounds would be great. It’s about who might still be watching.
“We can discuss later. Right now, I need a throat to fuck. So open up.” Holding the base of his cock in a fist, he guides it into Charles’ mouth then guides Charles’ head down. Moves both his hands to the crown of Charles’ head and forces him all the way down with a disgusting wet burble.
“Fuck,” a new voice grunts from nearby. “Sign me up.”
“I’ll sure he’ll take you next,” the man calls out. “Approximately five minutes from now, once he’s done choking me down.” Then more confidentially, he hisses at Charles, “You hear that? You’ve got a queue forming. Better decide what you’re willing to do for what price. Me? I’d be happy to feed you cum every day of the week, but would love shooting it up your arsehole. Enough to offer you twenty-five quid. What would you say to that? Sounds like a good deal to me, making some decent money doing something you already do for a hobby. Don’t pretend you’re too classy to whore out your holes: you’re choking on a stranger’s cock in public.”
Charles gurgles on his saliva as bubbles ooze from the corners of his lips.
“God, I love cheap, young bitches. Nothing like battering the throat of some sweet-faced thing with my middle-aged cock.”
“No fucking kidding,” the observer agrees. “I’m going to choke him with mine.”
Charles lifts a hand to give a thumbs-up a moment before two hands are pinning him down as the guy grunts like an animal while he empties onto Charles’ tongue.
“Tell me,” he growls after releasing his hold on Charles’ skull. “How does that taste? Does it taste like five pounds?”
Charles takes a moment to swirl it around in his mouth before gulping it down. “Better,” he whispers. “Much better.”
“Good boy,” the man tells him with a wide smile. “Here, take another fiver. You’ve earned it. Now, hurry over to your next john. But I’ll be looking for you the next time I need an outlet.”
As Charles accepts the bill, he catches the flash of gold on the man’s left ring finger. Just another undersexed married man. Like Stanley.
He rises a bit shakily from his seat and when he turns toward the aisle, perceives movement from the doorway as someone abruptly turns away. He can’t be sure, but he suspects Stanley had been there the whole time. Spitefully, Charles hopes he’d witnessed the exchange of money.
You see? I don ’t need a relationship—just rent money.
He’d begun to hope for more from his life, but it turns out that was just wishful thinking.
. . .
Half an hour later, Charles pops out the back door for a cigarette and Stanley is right there, already halfway through his own smoke.
“I thought I saw you,” Charles says acidly.
“Indeed. How much did you make this evening?”
“I’m sorry?” he asks innocently.
“I saw you taking their money. How much did you bring in?”
“None of your business.”
With a sneer, Stanley turns from him. “If I offered to pay you, would you agree to talk to me?”
“You couldn’t afford it.”
“Is this what you did before I met you? Did you just take pity and not charge me that first night?”
Charles stares at him, open-mouthed. “Jesus. No.” Shaking his head, he repeats, “No, you bastard. And I will never pity you for having to live with the choices you’ve made.”
Stanley tosses his cigarette to the ground and puts it out with a heel, then turns to leave. Hands stuffed into his front pockets, he gets a few steps away before suddenly stopping and looking back at Charles to tell him, “I pity you.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns and continues his shuffling exit. Charles shows his middle finger to the doctor’s back. “Go to hell, old man.”
The last thing he thinks he hears from Stanley is: “Already have.”
The week after, Charles sees zero sign of Stanley until he calls it quits for the night. When the double doors bang shut behind him, Charles looks up from his newly lit cigarette and there’s the bastard, leaning against the front of the building as though he’s been waiting there for Charles all night. Perhaps he has.
Exhaling smoke from his own lungs as he straightens to his full height but continues to face ahead, Stanley greets him by asking, “How many men was it tonight?”
“Fuck you,” Charles says matter-of-factly as he leans against the wall several feet away, then answers anyway. “Five.”
Circling closer, Stanley asks, “Did swallow them all?”
“Nearly,” Charles answers, absently rubbing his left earlobe.
Stanley leans in, peering at him, then enquires, “Is that cum in your hair? Above your temple?”
“Probably. Second-to-last guy was wanking into my face. A few shots went wide, bastard couldn’t aim for shit.”
Stanley laughs, and it sounds genuine. For a split second, it almost feels like they’re two people having a conversation. But they’re not.
Charles pulls together a bit of courage to ask, “Why do you keep coming round here?”
“I’ve nothing else to do with my Thursday evenings. I’m certainly not going to go home and stare at the wall.”
“But why trail me and lurk in the shadows?”
After a heavy sigh, Stanley says, “Because there’s this empty space with your outline, and I don’t think anything else will fit.”
“Are you kidding me?” Charles responds with a mirthless laugh. “Do you have any idea of the size of the gaping hole in the centre of my life?”
Stanley mumbles something and Charles darts a tentative glare toward him.
“Speak up, if you’re going to say something.”
“I said, I am a bit taller than you.”
The glare Charles levels at him is unambiguous and fierce… for a moment, before it crumbles into peals of laughter. “You fucking asshole,” he gasps between laughs. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.” He leans back against the wall and stares up at the sky, not that he can see anything in the haze of the city’s light pollution.
This is why he can’t hate Stanley through-and-through: because all the reasons he was drawn to the man are still in effect.
“When I came back the first Thursday after seeing you at the arcade, I was half-hoping you wouldn’t be here. But there you were, doing precisely what you’d done before me, what you did the night that you made my whole world implode.” He rubs his hands over his cheeks and Charles can almost hear the scratch of his stubble, he can feel it against his own palms. “Acting as though nothing much had changed.”
“All I did was go back to my pre-you world. But you, you’re still not going away. Even though it should be obvious what I’m doing. I’m trying to push you out.”
“And don’t you see? I won’t go until you force me. Because I am stuck here, nothing else in my life is real. If you’re gone…” He looks away, shaking his head.
“Then we’re both stuck,” Charles concludes. “How do we get out?”
“I’m not so sure I want to.”
“It can’t hold, you know,” Charles tells him, and after Stanley gives him a nod of acknowledgement, they head off in their separate directions.
It’s nine-thirty pm and Charles shifts on his stool at the cabinet. His eyes are beginning to burn but he hardly notices. He’s got a stomach full of Dr Pepper and nachos and it’s the up-teenth stage.
Over his left shoulder, Tozer reads out the current score and Charles hadn’t known he was standing there. He nods in acknowledgement. He’s on his way to a top score and as long as he beats Hickey’s top marks, he’ll push ASS from the leaderboard for good.
He lets the mothership capture his fighter in her tractor beam and uses the moment to crack his knuckles, pop his neck, and take a long drag from his soda. It’s mostly cold water at this point, the crushed ice melted and the Dr Pepper diluted. The dregs of the drink gurgle in the straw just as his back-up fighter comes into play.
“Here we go,” Sol tells him. “Knock her dead, son.”
Everything flows together: Sol’s encouragement, Tina Turner over the sound system, the pulses of enemy laser fire. Charles can sense the trajectory of each coloured pixel, and he knows how to respond. He frees the captured fighter and continues onward with two ships fighting in tandem.
Two swirls of enemy fighters curl around the screen and he clears every last one. His fighters are the only shapes remaining when the screen lists the number of hits and bonus points. Charles stretches his fingers out and wiggles them and is just getting back into position as the next level begins.
STAGE 0
“Holy shit,” Sol whispers.
Some kid far in the background murmurs, “Wait, doesn’t that mean—”
And the display glitches out. Charles stares at the muddle of pixels for a long moment before he recognises the kill screen. He hadn’t realised he was this far in.
“Oh my God, dude,” Sol gasps. “You killed it.”
“Yeah,” Charles agrees. He’s blinking hard and fast as his eyes begin to water. It’s hard to focus on the letters as he selects C-D-V.
“No, look at your score.”
He stops rubbing his eyes for a moment to read the final tally beside his flashing initials: 999999. “Oh. Huh.” His legs are rubbery when he stands up and shuffles toward the nearest bench. Sol follows at his elbow, poking him with a bottle of water. Charles takes it just to stop the jabbing. In the back of his mind, he’s aware of a crowd gathering at the cabinet. He hears phrases like “perfect game” and “once in a lifetime.”
The main thing is that he kicked Hickey’s ASS off the board, and now the list is entirely populated by CDV’s.
Hickey grins at him from across the table. “How bout a celebratory blowjob?” he asks, and Charles knows it’s not an offer for Hickey to do him a favour.
He snorts.
“Fine, be a bitch,” Neal says with a shrug. Then slinging his skate bag over one shoulder, he fucks off toward the rink.
Charles turns to Sol. “How bout a celebratory blowjob?” he asks him.
Sol winks.
That night, Charles skips Cinema Arts.
But he’s back two weeks later, in the main theatre with his scuffed hightops propped on the seatback in front of him, popping his gum a little too loudly, but he wants the other patrons to know he’s there and that he’s bored.
A stout older gentleman moves into his row, takes a seat three spaces away, and eventually glances over.
Charles blows a bubble that bursts disappointingly quickly, then gives the guy a sheepish smile, like, Well, I tried.
The man is looking at his mouth rather intently. Charles slides closer and after a few forays into niceties, the gentleman is quietly chatting him up.
The guy’s name is Francis, it turns out, and he’s Irish, which is a welcome bit of variety. Charles swallows his gum and blows Francis right there in the middle of the row, not being particularly discreet about any of it. In fact, he’s probably making more noise now than when he was chewing his gum. He goes at it from the neighbouring seat, turned sideways and bobbing like a novelty drinking-bird toy, minus the top hat. Francis looks directly ahead at the screen with one hand resting lightly between Charles’ shoulder-blades. He keeps quiet on his end until the last few seconds, when Charles senses eyes on him and pauses his slurping to look up and give him a wet smile.
“Christ Jesus, you pretty thing,” Francis gasps. “Don’t stop now—finish me off, for pity’s sake.”
Charles does it out of more than pity. Standing up, he waves away Francis’ nonverbal offer of some sort of reciprocation—he’s in the mood to service only, not get off. But as a sort of apology for his brusqueness, he says, “Hey, keep an eye out for me, yeah?”
“Will do,” Francis promises, patting Charles’ lower back as he steps into the aisle.
There’s a broad-shouldered figure at the left entrance, back-lit by the bright lobby. No features are distinguishable, but Charles would recognise that outline anywhere.
Saying nothing, Charles gives a cute little bow and executes a flawless about-face to waltz down to the screen. Two separate men rise as he nears, indicating they’d like to waylay him. Charles lifts his chin toward the nearest guy and says, “Evening, sailor.”
With a light laugh, he holds out his palm. When Charles gives him his hand, he finds it pulled to the man’s lips for a kiss.
“Oh, ain’t you a gentleman?” Charles asks, startled.
“Only up to a point,” the man answers, and that’s perfect for Charles, who introduces himself by first name alone. “Fitz” is the name given in return, surely a nickname of sorts, but unimportant.
Fitz’s tie is hanging loosely around his neck, unsecured by a tack or bar—which allows Charles to grab hold of it and pull the man right up to the aisle. A peripheral check confirms that Stanley is still by the door, so Charles kneels down—half-illuminated by the lobby lights—and unbuckles Fitz’s belt.
“You can be rough,” Charles whispers up at him.
“I can be rough, or you’d prefer it if I’m rough?”
The only answer he gives is a smirk, followed by an open mouth with a dangling tongue. Closing his eyes, Charles waits. He isn’t kept long before the heavy head of a cock is laid on the flat of his tongue. He sucks it into his mouth, closing his lips around it, and looks up.
Fitz looms above him, a smile drawing another pair of lines amongst the sharp features of his face. He isn’t modern movie-star gorgeous, but he is striking and really quite handsome. Charles would go home with him, and will if he’s asked. He treats this moment like an audition and pulls out plenty of stops. He twists a wet hand around the shaft, hums the tune to Let’s Dance, and uses the toes of his shoes to rock back and forth as he works more and more of the shaft into his mouth.
“Prove you can get it all down and then we can try some of that rougher stuff, what do you say?”
Charles opens his lips like he’s going to say something, but just pulls Fitz’s cock out of his mouth and lets a string of drool drip onto the crown.
“Bloody show-off.”
But still, he lets Charles play at his own pace. Perhaps he senses a layer of performance here, but that doesn’t seem to trouble him, nor does the continued presence of the silhouette in the doorway.
“Friend of yours?” Fitz enquires with a nod toward the individual in question.
“Him? No, not anymore.”
Letting out a bit of a chuckle, Fitz shrugs. “I’m sure he’s especially sorry about that now. And it’ll be even worse for him in a few seconds.”
“Yea—” But Charles doesn’t have the opportunity to complete even that one syllable before Fitz uses both hands to yank him down by hanks of his hair. The rest of Charles’ question turns into a gulp. Fitz’s cock is now undeniably lodged in his throat, and his scalp is burning.
“I hope that’s to your satisfaction. You strike me as the sort who doesn’t just like to suck a cock, but swallow it. Suffocate on it, even.”
He nods enthusiastically.
“Lucky me, then. I haven’t gotten the chance to fuck a face as pretty as yours in some time now.”
Charles senses another person’s—or persons’—presence nearby, but not Stanley’s. Just other patrons, eager for a bit of a show. So he makes it a little noisier and messier for their benefit.
Fitz clears his throat to get Charles’ attention. “Is the crowd alright with you?”
Pulling off with a pop, Charles answers, “Absolutely. As long as you don’t mind—?” Once he sees the shake of Fitz’s head, he continues in a louder tone, “My hands are free.” Immediately, his right hand is scooped up and brought to wrap around a cock. “Oh, that’s thick,” he murmurs. He bends over and spits into his hand, then strokes upward to spread it around. “If you fellows stand around me in a semi-circle, that’ll help. And you’ll have a better view.”
“Shit, we should get a camera crew in here. Do one of those amateur filmed-on-location productions, you know?”
Fitz nods sagely. “But darling, are you even twenty-one?”
“Just about,” Charles answers. “In March.”
The man he’s wanking groans. “That’s hot. I haven’t touched a twenty-year-old since I was one.”
Charles peers up and places the guy in his forties. Most of the men who frequent this establishment are thirty-to-sixty-something, so Charles’ presence alone spices things up, before he even interacts with anyone. “You know, I often think they should set up a glory hole in here. Say, in the gents’. What do you fellows think?”
“I think we already know what your face looks like,” one cracks.
“Yes, but the whole concept, it’s hot, right?” Charles asks, looking around at the men gathered by him. “I certainly get hard thinking about blowing complete strangers and seeing nothing but their cocks and bollocks.”
“How many of us do you think you could suck off in one night?”
“My current record is seven, but that was over like three hours.”
“You could do better,” Fitz assures him. “Given a steady supply of men, I’d say you could take twenty, easily. But you might want to have just a light dinner beforehand, to make room for all the cum.”
“You do swallow, right?” the left-hand man asks anxiously.
“Of course I fucking do,” Charles scoffs. “Why, the very thought!” He shakes his head in exaggerated horror.
“Didn’t intend to offend, just wanted to make sure…”
“That I’m going to take proper care of you. Yes, sir, I shall. You’ll leave here satisfied that your spunk has been securely stowed in my stomach.”
Fitz snorts and decrees, “Less chatter now, more sucking.” Interlacing his fingers, he places his hands on the crown of Charles’ head and shoves him down. It’s a bit unexpected: Charles has only been wanking and licking him for the past few minutes. That’s no excuse, of course, for the way he heaves.
“Don’t you fucking struggle,” Fitz growls. “Keep it down your throat until I want it elsewhere.” He holds Charles’ head in place as he snaps his hips forward, plunging the tip of his cock well down Charles’ throat.
“That’s it, boy. Take that fucking cock like you’re told.”
“And where are your hands?” Fitz reminds him with a shake of his head and a cluck of his tongue. “They’re empty again.”
Charles holds his hands aloft, opening and closing in quick repetition as an invitation. One of the previous two takes advantage of the offer, as does a new arrival.
“Oh, baby, is that your spit on my dick?”
Charles briefly lifts his hand from the first man to give the second a thumbs-up.
“Nice.”
“What about him? Poor boy’s probably rock hard.”
“Are you?” Fitz enquires. When Charles nods, he slots one foot between Charles’ knees, lifts the toe, and taps it against the zipper of his jeans. “Oh yes, there’s something of a tent here.” Gradually he presses it down.
Gasping around his cock, Charles tries not to think too much about what Fitz is going to say about his size. It’s too much to hope it’ll pass unremarked-upon, he knows. For the time being, though, Fitz seems content to torment him through his trousers.
“Dirty little slut is throbbing just from some dicks in his face.”
“God bless the cocksuckers of the Earth,” one intones.
“For they shall sup the uh… the nectar of our rods,” another jokes, and Charles chokes on his laughter.
Fitz grasps the base of his skull and gives him a long, circular thrust. “God, I love that spasming feeling. One of you, try to crack him up again.”
A man squats behind Charles and, slipping his hands beneath Charles’ arms, begins to unbutton his shirt. “Long past time we get you out of some of these clothes,” he explains.
Briefly, Charles lets go of the cocks he’s wanking to help pull the shirt and undershirt off over his head, then he’s back to work bare-chested.
“Pretty, pretty,” the behind-him guy murmurs. “I’m Graham, by the way. And I love your nips.” He brushes them with his knuckles and Charles feels gooseflesh break out along his arms.
“Did you like that?” Fitz asks and again, Charles gives a little nod. “Would you like him to be a bit rough with them?”
This time, Charles’ nod is emphatic.
“Well, gentlemen, I believe we have our answer. Graham, if you’re so inclined, feel free to torment his little tits.”
Graham’s breath is hot in Charles’ right ear after he scoots up to sit with his chest pressed against Charles’ back. He takes the lightest of holds on both nipples. “Are you going to blow me, too, once you’ve finished with the one in your mouth and the guys you’re jerking off?”
Nod.
“Good answer,” he says, underscoring this with a sharp pinch to both nubs.
Charles’ back contorts and he makes a pitiful (but highly muffled) sound of surprise, pain, and pleasure. Fitz moans, “Yes, like that, keep making him do that. It feels like he’s milking me for my cum.”
“Who are you going to blow next?” Graham asks, pinching again. “The guy to your left or the one to your right?”
“I propose the two at once,” Fitz suggests. “If they’re both right in his face, he can alternate until one goes, then finish the other off. After that, Graham, it looks like it’ll be your turn.”
As if expecting the word turn, Graham gives both of Charles’ nipples a vicious twist. And since Fitz is giving him a breather and only occupying his mouth, he cries out, a clear plea of, “God!”
“God’ll be no help to you now,” the fellow on the left remarks. “He turned away from us all years ago.”
If Charles could speak, he’d say, And good fuckin’ riddance, too.
Graham keeps an eye on Fitz and, intent on pushing him along, holds Charles’ head down and begins to tickle him.
Closed in by a ring of strangers, with his hands occupied and his mouth full, Charles has little recourse but to submit to the torment at Graham’s hands. He’s gasping and twitching when Fitz barks, “Look at me. Keep your fucking eyes on me while I come down your throat.” He grips Charles’ chin with one hand, ensuring that his head remains still even while his body convulses. “Eyes on me, Charles. I want you to see how much I’m enjoying this.”
Oh, and Charles does see. His eyes have adjusted to the low light and the scene playing on the screen behind them is well-lit, so he has an excellent view of Fitz’s face—with the bright eyes affixed to Charles’, his so-very-slight smile, and the flush blossoming across his chiselled cheekbones.
Each time the head dips down Charles’ throat, his eyes go wide and then his eyelids become heavy. He struggles to keep them open until his access to air is restored. But keep them open he does, and he holds Fitz’s piercing gaze throughout.
“You beautiful, filthy little slut,” Fitz pants. “I want you to taste this.” He pulls back about halfway, until the head of his cock is resting in the cup of Charles’ tongue, then begins to spurt. “Well? Can you taste it?”
Charles nods and if he could speak, he’d say, Yes, sir, thank you, sir. The way he used to say it to Stanley, the way he’d said only a few weeks back.
“Keep it all in your mouth for now.”
He nods again but it turns out to be a big ask because Fitz continues to flood his mouth with heavy pulses. Cheeks bulging slightly, Charles keeps his focus glued to Fitz’s face and he waits.
“Now show me. Then turn around and let your audience see.”
He tilts his head back and opens wide, careful not to swallow any in the meantime, and displays the contents of his mouth first to the man who’d filled it, then slowly swivelling around to let the others have a look.
“Oh, wow.”
“Fuck me, that’s huge.”
With the circle completed, he looks back at Fitz, who is nodding proudly.
“Good boy. Now you may swallow.”
Charles gulps it down in one go, then shows his empty mouth to prove he took it all. Expecting Fitz to smile or pat him on the head or something of that nature, he’s surprised when the man takes a knee, cups his face in his hands, and kisses him full on the mouth.
When they break apart, Charles turns to the small group and suggests, “Hey, why don’t we go to one of the rooms? With a couch et cetera?”
“Wait, why aren’t we there already?”
“Because he was already blowing the first dude when we showed up, you twat.”
Charles is already headed to the front to get the key, and when he steps into the lobby, there’s no sign of Stanley. He returns to the auditorium, dangling the key in the air.
“Alright, everyone follow me to the Blowjob-a-ma-torium!” Charles announces with a sweep of his arms meant to communicate an inclusive invitation. “Everyone gets to blow a load in my mouth! No balls left undrained!”
As the group meanders down the hallway, the two men Charles had been wanking introduce themselves.
“Jim,” the one on the left tells him.
Charles holds his hand out to the side and says, “Charmed,” and they shake as they walk. “Lovely moustache, by the way,” he adds.
“Thanks.”
“And I’m Dundy.”
Charles can’t easily extend his right hand to the other man, so he tries to make up for this with a warm smile. “Hey, Dundy, I’m Charles.”
“I know.” He reaches over to tap the very tip of Charles’ nose. “We’ve met before.”
“Have we?” Charles asks, squinting in the admittedly poor light.
“Yes, you sucked me dry in the front row one night, several months ago.”
“Oh,” he says, trying to make it sound like he might be remembering now. He doesn’t.
“It’s fine if you don’t remember me. I remember you, though. It would be difficult to forget the best blowjob I’ve gotten in years.” He leans forward and tells Jim, “I told you about him. You’re in for a treat.”
Charles glances back over his shoulder at the man trailing their trio. “Hey, I’m Charles.”
“Robert,” he answers. He gives Charles a wave with his left hand, as his fly is open and his right hand is down the front of his pants.
“Pleased to meetchya,” Charles tells them. Arriving at the door of the centre booth, Charles unlocks it and flings the door open.
“Oh, good, there’s a chair.” He plops right down into it, slaps his thighs, and asks, “Okay, lads, who’s up first?”
. . .
When Charles heads out the side exit, Stanley is waiting by the door, smoking a cigarette.
“Don’t you think that was possibly a bit much?” he asks.
Charles makes a point to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand. “I thought it was precisely the right amount of too much.”
“Christ, how many of them did you end up taking? Six?”
“Eight.”
“Perhaps a slight overreaction to my presence?”
Charles tilts his head and pretends he’s mulling the over. “Well, the first guy—the one in the back that I sucked off alone—I was going to do him anyway. I’d decided that before I saw you.”
“And the rest?”
“A bit of a mad whim, I’ll admit. And I would have moved it to a private room earlier, if not for you.”
“So you admit the show was intended for me.”
“The fun was for me, but yes, the show was yours alone.” He leans in. “How did you enjoy it? Did you wank, thinking about how we got started? How I used to do that for you?”
“No,” Stanley tells him with a sniff of disdain. “I did not wank to your over-the-top performance.”
“How badly do you want my mouth right now?”
“Jesus Fucking Christ, Charles!” Stanley lets out a frustrated groan. “I’m trying to have a mature conversation about this, and you’re just goading me.”
“I don’t see what role maturity has in any of this. We met at a bloody porn theatre, the first time we touched was when I blew you with barely a word spoken between us. And I was foolish enough to imagine that something mature might come from it, that maybe this was something more than you getting off on me and me getting off on that. But it’s nothing now, and what we have here? It’s a shambles.” He shakes his head. “This is not something we can talk through and you know it.”
When Stanley speaks again, it’s not at all what Charles was expecting to hear.
“Did you even get off tonight?” he asks softly.
“What?”
“Did you get off, or were you too busy bringing off eight strangers?”
He blinks. “Why does that matter to you?”
Stanley has him pinned to the wall before he knew the man was in motion. With one forearm laid across his throat, Stanley presses his other palm against the front of Charles’ jeans. “It matters because I want to know whether I can make you come.”
Gasping, Charles wriggles in Stanley’s hold, unsure if he’s trying to escape or if he’s angling for more friction.
Stanley’s voice is gravelly when he continues. “I want to know if you’re going to come while you make me the ninth man of the evening.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Charles whimpers.
“Well? What shall it be?”
“No,” Charles says very quietly, and he senses Stanley’s confidence begin to deflate. “No, I haven’t come. You can make me.”
With a slow nod, Stanley agrees. “You’re goddamn right I’ll make you.” He bites the nape of Charles’ neck, angrily, nearly breaking the skin. “You’ve no idea what I’ve been through, these last two weeks. How much I’ve wanted to kill you. How much I’ve wanted to fuck you.”
“Why not go for broke and do both?”
“Don’t mock me.”
“You should know me well enough by now to gauge when I’m mocking you and when I’m just being an idiot.”
Stanley leans back and studies Charles’ face before laying his right forearm across Charles’ throat.
Charles gives him a single nod and Stanley rolls forward on the balls on his feet, just enough for Charles to start feeling the constriction of airflow.
“I wouldn’t be able to fight you off,” Charles informs him.
“I know.”
Stanley’s breathing is heavy, laboured, as he puts more weight into it. Charles’ lids grow heavy but he forces himself to keep his eyes open and trained on Stanley.
The man relents. “Not tonight,” he sighs.
“Why not?”
“I need a few things. Since I’m not prepared to go to prison for this.”
“They won’t do much of an investigation. Not for someone like me. They’ll figure me for a rent-boy killed by a punter.”
Stanley looks at him sadly, but he must know the truth. A young fairy done in behind a porn theatre, what else would the police think?
“And my family won’t press for answers, even if they do catch wind of it. They washed their hands of me a few years ago.” He hears a small strangled noise but it’s not coming from him—it’s emanating from Stanley’s shut mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he says weakly. “Sorry I couldn’t give you what you deserve.”
“This is more than I deserve: your hands on me at all.”
“Why can’t we just… keep on with our Thursdays? I know it’s not enough, it’s nowhere near enough, but it’s something.”
“You know we can’t. Because I won’t stop. I’ll keep grasping for what I can’t have. Which is you. All of you, all the time.” He watches Stanley’s face as the man tries to come up with some way to make it happen. “You’d forfeit everything else,” he reminds Stanley. “Absolutely everything.”
“I know. And I can’t… can’t say goodbye to you, not when you’re still around. That’s why I keep coming back here, keep watching you.”
“See? We’re stuck in this holding pattern, treading water around one another. Neither ready to sink or swim.”
“So what you’re proposing, if I follow you, is—”
“I sink, you swim. Away.”
“How are you going to do it?” he wheezes.
“Like this, just like this.” Stanley rocks forward and Charles’ vision greys out.
“Oh, God,” he moans weakly. Stanley relents after an indeterminable number of seconds and though Charles’ eyes have been open the whole time, the details of Stanley’s face only gradually sharpen, and in stages like an auto-focus camera. “I sort of figured you’d cut me open.”
“I haven’t a knife handy. Not a serviceable one, anyway. Besides, I’d want you laid out on a table, in private. I’d want to take my time.”
“Wish you would.”
“I know.” He kisses Charles’ temple. “This isn’t the world for that.”
Sighing, Charles looks up with a sad smile. “No time like the present, then.”
“I suppose not.” Stanley takes a half-step back and surveys the alleyway. “Come along now,” he declares, breaking contact entirely before catching Charles’ wrist in his hand.
And Charles can’t describe how grateful he is, that Stanley persisted in this mad endeavour, that he’s let his pride take such a nosedive that he’s happy being dragged further in to the alleyway, into the misshapen shadows where they can be their horrible selves.
“Here,” Stanley announces, letting go of Charles’ wrist and giving him a shove over the shoulder-blades.
Charles stumbles briefly before catching himself with hands outstretched on the corners of two rubbish dumpsters. “Here,” he repeats dumbly, still stupefied from the suffocation and Stanley’s gruffness.
“Yes, here. With the rest of the rubbish.”
Swallowing and nodding, Charles unbuttons his shirt. Stanley steps in close behind him and unbuckles his belt, slides it out of its loops and drops it to the ground.
And Charles almost protests but the syllables dry up before they reach his lips. He won’t be picking his belt out of the gutter after, or ever, not if things go as planned. He lifts his eyes and examines the chipped brickwork in front of him.
This is the last wall I’ll see, he thinks, and laughs. But the sound is cut off when Stanley unzips the fly of his trousers and shoves them down his thighs.
“Spread your legs,” Stanley orders him. As he widens his stance, Charles hears Stanley spit into a palm. “And brace yourself.”
“That’s it?” Charles asks, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “You’re not going to have me blow you, not even for a little bit?”
Stanley groans. “That was the plan,” he confirms. “I’m trying not to waste time here.”
“When has it ever been a waste of time to use my mouth?”
“A minute,” Stanley permits. “Only for a minute or two.”
Smiling at his small victory, Charles squats—trousers still bunched below his knees— and opens his mouth: wide and round. Waiting.
Stanley is staring at the wall somewhere above Charles’ head as he gives his cock a single slow stroke before feeding it into his mouth.
“This is what got me into all this trouble,” he observes dryly. “Your unfairly talented mouth.”
Rocking on his feet, Charles keeps his eyes trained on Stanley’s face: set jaw, square chin. Charles holds himself steady with his left hand on Stanley’s thigh. His right forearm rests between his body and his thigh, hand dangling between his legs. Any other time, he’d be touching himself already. But now he’s saving himself, saving it for Stanley.
“That’s enough,” Stanley announces, unceremoniously stopping Charles with the sole of one shoe planted over the centre of his chest. He pushes, sending Charles tumbling backward.
With his legs bound together by his trousers, Charles falls on his arse onto the cracked asphalt. “Bastard,” he grumbles, wiping his mouth and scrambling onto his feet, righting himself with the assistance of the rubbish bins on either side.
“Call me what you will,” Stanley permits with a shrug. “Just drop your knickers and give me one more go.”
Hearing Stanley—staid upperclass twit that he is—speaking like this always gets Charles’ blood rushing. He nods, peeling his briefs down to join the trousers. “I’ll give you everything,” he whispers. “That’s all I ever wanted, was for you to take and have it all.”
Stanley rests his chin on Charles’ right shoulder and lets out a small choked noise. Charles lifts his left hand and brushes it over Stanley’s head.
“I wish—” Stanley begins, hoarsely, before choking again. “I wish… so much.”
“Don’t get sentimental on me now, old man,” Charles chides—not because he isn’t choking up, too, but because he can’t stand to admit it. “Just fuck me and finish me off. Finish it all off.”
Stanley nods and begins searching the contents of his jacket. “I could have sworn—” He pats down the breast pockets, then proceeds to rummage through the side pockets. Finally he removes the jacket entirely, then investigates the inner pocket. “Thank fuck,” he whispers in relief, pulling out a packet and ripping it open with his incisors.
“Really?” Charles laughs. “You’re worried about—” But he shuts up when Stanley slips a wet finger between his cheeks. It’s not a condom, it’s lube. “Ohh.”
“Don’t want this to hurt any more than it has to,” Stanley explains.
“At this rate, it’s not going to hurt at all.”
“I’m not just talking about the sex,” Stanley reminds him. “But after.”
“Right.” He’d almost forgotten. And as Stanley slides his entire index finger inside, Charles lets his mind go blank. “More,” he demands. “I need more.”
“How like you,” the voice in his ear laughs. “To always need more.” But he gives Charles what he’s asking for anyway, working a second finger inside and driving them both as deep as they’ll go. “I bet you already want—”
“Your cock,” Charles rasps. “Give me your cock, all of it in one go, don’t fucking tease me now.” He can feel Stanley nod.
“Turn around,” Stanley orders. “I want to see your face.”
Taking a deep breath, Charles turns. He lifts his hands, palms up, toward Stanley. It says, This is me, this is all I’ve got.
“I’m yours,” he whispers.
Stanley exhales and sort of chokes on it. He takes one of Charles’ hands in his, interlaces their fingers, and closes his palm. He closes in on Charles, backing him up against the wall, and presses his other palm to Charles’ cheek.
“Would that I could keep you.”
“You could,” Charles argues, but he sees Stanley’s face and knows how wrong he is. Someone else could do it, perhaps another version of Stanley in a slightly different world. But not this one, not here. They’re both shaking their heads now and Charles amends his statement. “I wish you could. But I guess, in a way, you’ll always have me after this. In a way no one else will.”
As Stanley’s hand closes around Charles’ throat, they lock eyes.
“Thank you,” Stanley whispers. “Thank you for this ultimate gift.”
Charles nods. Stanley leans in to kiss him.
It’s an odd kiss, with Stanley short of breath and Charles not breathing at all. But even with his vision greying out and his extremities beginning to tingle, Charles darts his tongue across Stanley’s upper teeth. Then a thumb guides his jaw down and Stanley’s tongue is on top of his, shoving it back inside his mouth. It’s relentless, forceful, and soon Stanley is tonguing his mouth in sync with the thrusts of his cock and the stroke of his hand around Charles’ hard-on.
. . .
Stanley’s pulse is thudding so powerfully, he can feel it in the tips of the fingers wrapped around Charles’ throat. When the young man’s head droops onto his shoulders, Stanley relaxes his grip.
“Not yet,” he murmurs. “But soon.”
“Mm,” Charles agrees. “I’m getting close.”
“I want to time it perfectly. Want you going just after I make you come.” When Charles’ climax is ebbing, that’s the precise moment Stanley will tear him away from the world.
He spits into his palm and repositions his hold on Charles’ cock. As he fucks the boy against the wall, he makes sure to stroke him to the beat of his own cock.
“Are you going to—” Stanley is in the process of asking when Charles opens his mouth in what would be a gasp or a shout but is now silence, and comes into Stanley’s hand.
“Me, too, Charles,” he murmurs and as he loosens his hold on Charles’ cock, tightens the hand around his throat. “I love you,” Stanley whispers. He doesn’t think he’s imagining the crooked little quirk of Charles’ lips—and he is acutely aware of the way the boy clutches at him even harder.
And he’s sorry, he’s so fucking sorry that this is the only time he’s said this, that now is the only time he possibly could.
Stanley is just starting to come undone when Charles’ entire body shudders, his fingers twitch violently and he kicks against Stanley’s lower back. It’s frightening, the way his body still wants to live even after his mind has acquiesced. And though Stanley has seen this fight innumerable times, it’s still awe-inspiring, and is in fact even more tremendous when it’s the body and mind of someone he knows well and deeply. But he does not let up.
Seconds later, Charles’ body gives up. Stanley’s climax, however, does not. He continues to pant, sweat running down along his spine, and he’s still rocking into Charles, or rather, what was Charles.
The young body is motionless and limp but still so bloody warm that Stanley doesn’t want to pull out. He stays right where he is until his softening cock slips out on its own.
He carries Charles—Charles’ body, that is, he has to correct himself—to the jacket he’d discarded earlier, and lays him down on it. Carefully, he dresses him. He’s not going to try to hide the evidence, but he would like to afford him some sort of dignity.
You killed him after you fucked him in an alley, where’s the dignity in that?
He can make it a bit less awful, though. Charles may have delighted in cheap, meaningless sex, but that’s not what he and Stanley shared. It’s not what Stanley wants him to be remembered for.
The eyelids are only three-quarters shut and Stanley uses his thumbs to close them entirely. An impulse has him digging into his front pockets and looking through his change. He places a 50p coin over each eyelid, then stands up and walks away.
Five months later, give or take, Stanley takes a wrong turn and finds himself standing in front of the Fun-Plex. He hadn’t been looking for it, hadn’t even realised how close he was. But as he stands in front of the entrance, he suddenly knows he needs to be here. Shoving the door open, he walks inside. Without knowing what exactly he’s looking for or where it is, he takes some minutes before he’s standing by the Galaga cabinet.
A young man is seated at the stool in front, engaged in a ferocious and colourful space battle. Stanley peers at the screen and watches until the ship at the bottom explodes in a burst of enemy fire.
“Aw, shit!” the man hisses, raising his hands from the joystick and buttons in surrender. But Stanley is staring at the monitor where the top scores are now on display.
- CDV
- CDV
- CDV
- CDV
- CDV…
The man swings around and points at the game with a thumb over his shoulder. “Want a go?” he asks.
“No, thank you. I don’t play.”
“Compared to Chas, no one does.” He half-turns back to the screen, waves at the top scores before they’re replaced with the title screen and its strident demand to INSERT TOKEN.
“You know him?”
Eyes narrowing, the guy nods cautiously. “I did. We were mates before he died.”
“I’m sorry,” Stanley tells him, thinking there’s no way the man will ever know just how sorry.
Crossing his arms over his broad chest, the gamer continues. “They said a punter did him in. But I’m unconvinced.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Me? I think his married boyfriend did it. To keep word from getting out. Because knowing Charles’ mouth, it was liable to get out, sooner or later.” He holds Stanley’s gaze for a few beats longer than comfortable, as if to drive his point home, before suddenly relaxing and rising with his hand outstretched.
“I’m Sol, by the way.”
“Stephen.”
They shake and it feels like the start to a duel.
But Sol smiles a bit sadly and says, “Anyhow, looks like his initials are gonna be up for a while. Me and Hickey were always asking him to walk us through his end-game strategy, but he kept that to himself. Like the name of that guy he was seeing.” With a shrug, he adds, “All I know is he was a doctor.”
Stanley can’t be sure, but it looks like the man is smiling slightly as he scans his body, eyes lingering at Stanley’s hip where his pager and ID badge are still clipped.
“Nice to chat, though. Have a good evening.”
Stanley murmurs something in return and after the man leaves, he continues to stand in front of the cabinet and watch the screen flash between GALAGA: INSERT TOKEN and the top scores.
- CDV
- CDV
- CDV
- CDV
- CDV
