Arthur likes this dream. Even if he woke to it bloody from Mr. Quenby's last beating, this little strange man got rid of it in a few words and helped him bathe, washed the blood off his face and out of his hair, dressed him in his own clothing and fed him soup and cake. It's comforting. The house is warm and when he's touched, skin is warm on his skin and the couch is soft enough
But. But there must be a price. His host keeps on giving him strange looks and he knows he knows. Knows about what a disgusting little thing he is. Knows that when he comes to that--
--but Mr. Quenby taught him well. He knows.
He catches the man's shirt when he's picking up plates. "Iwanttothankyou," he says before he can lose his nerve, and his fingers fumble with the belt.
His host pauses, running a hand through his long blonde hair before reaching down to pat Arthur's. "You don't have to if you don't want to," he says smiling.
"Oh," Arthur says. He. From here, he can smell the man, sweat and food and what might be dried blood and something he can't place, something that makes his ears tingle. The hand in his hair is calloused, but not by pen or by farmer's implement. He knows those. And he's seen little scars on the man's neck when he shifts in his green turtleneck, and he remembers pictures of samurai.
He wonders if he tastes anything as good as his cake.
"What if," Arthur asks, "I want to? This is only a dream..."
His host gives him a look before laughing--not Mr. Quinby's chuckle, but a barking, hearty cackle--then puts plates down, pushes Arthur away and sinks to his knees. His hands undo the drawstrings of Arthur's pants easier than Arthur did, and Arthur can only stare. "If this is a dream, then isn't it my job?" says his host, drawing him out, calloused hands cupping his balls, chapped lips kissing his shaft. Arthur makes a strangled noise as the man's mouth envelopes him, hesitantly tracing hands over high cheekbones before twisting them in thick hair, scraped and sucked and--he climaxes the easiest he's ever been, even by Palmer, even by Mr. Quenby, and his host swallows and laughs and kisses the inside of his thigh. "Better?" he asks, flicking a speck of cum from his laugh-lined mouth and sucking it off.
Arthur swallows. As his host stands, he can't help but watch and wonder what else his savior hides.
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rated nc17 for explicit sexual material and references to violence
Date: 2010-04-24 02:37 am (UTC)But. But there must be a price. His host keeps on giving him strange looks and he knows he knows. Knows about what a disgusting little thing he is. Knows that when he comes to that--
--but Mr. Quenby taught him well. He knows.
He catches the man's shirt when he's picking up plates. "Iwanttothankyou," he says before he can lose his nerve, and his fingers fumble with the belt.
His host pauses, running a hand through his long blonde hair before reaching down to pat Arthur's. "You don't have to if you don't want to," he says smiling.
"Oh," Arthur says. He. From here, he can smell the man, sweat and food and what might be dried blood and something he can't place, something that makes his ears tingle. The hand in his hair is calloused, but not by pen or by farmer's implement. He knows those. And he's seen little scars on the man's neck when he shifts in his green turtleneck, and he remembers pictures of samurai.
He wonders if he tastes anything as good as his cake.
"What if," Arthur asks, "I want to? This is only a dream..."
His host gives him a look before laughing--not Mr. Quinby's chuckle, but a barking, hearty cackle--then puts plates down, pushes Arthur away and sinks to his knees. His hands undo the drawstrings of Arthur's pants easier than Arthur did, and Arthur can only stare. "If this is a dream, then isn't it my job?" says his host, drawing him out, calloused hands cupping his balls, chapped lips kissing his shaft. Arthur makes a strangled noise as the man's mouth envelopes him, hesitantly tracing hands over high cheekbones before twisting them in thick hair, scraped and sucked and--he climaxes the easiest he's ever been, even by Palmer, even by Mr. Quenby, and his host swallows and laughs and kisses the inside of his thigh. "Better?" he asks, flicking a speck of cum from his laugh-lined mouth and sucking it off.
Arthur swallows. As his host stands, he can't help but watch and wonder what else his savior hides.