Beecher / Mondo Browne
Many thanks to Ozsaur for super speedy beta, and to Mav for readthrough and reassurance -- reassuring me that this story is very wrong indeed, that is. Heh.
The words that cut through your thoughts are inevitable and you’ve been waiting for them -- although whether it’s been with dread or anticipation, you no longer feel qualified to guess. You don’t want to do this, but it might confirm some things.
You continue to look up at the burning eyes staring back at you across the darkened reflective expanse of Emerald City -- except there’s an emptiness inside you now. There’s no more fighting to do, and nothing you do or don’t do at this point really matters. You just are.
“Jesus, you're such a romantic. That the way you talk to your women?” It’s a joke you know Mondo won’t understand, but that’s all right. You only say it for your own amusement. Woman. Girlfriend. Transferrable property. Hole.
“Well, when I'm horny, the less talk the better.”
You feel the moistness of Mondo’s breath on the back of your neck, the heat of his presence behind you as his big hands grab at your waist.
No, there’s no more fighting to do here.
“Okay, lover boy, pucker up,” you say, turning to face Mondo, waiting for him to laugh and push you to your knees already so you can just get started. Instead he hauls you up closer and smashes his mouth against yours with rubbery, wet lips.
The kiss is unexpected, and you pull back, off-balance. Mondo’s eyes are closed, darting movement like REM-sleep flickering under his lids. Fantasizing? Maybe he really is trying to pretend he’s with a woman. Which might be interesting, except that it’s not. You don’t care about Mondo’s pathology, only your own.
Take one last backward glance over your shoulder at the shifting, shadowy, half-naked form watching from above. Happy? But you don’t want to give him too much acknowledgment. That would be what he wants. (Or thinks he wants. Or thinks he doesn’t want. Yeah, well, whatever. His bed, he made it. Too fucking bad.)
You turn back at the sound of a zipper and rustling cloth, and look down to see Mondo’s exposed meat, already hard, bouncing free from the tugged back elastic of his briefs -- a dark flesh arrow angling up out of a mat of wiry compressed pubic hair. You go down slowly so that you have time to reflect on what you’re doing, on what you are, until your face is inches from his cock, and you can count on the musky reek of his ball-sweat, and the hard roughness of the poured concrete floor biting into your knees to ground you firmly in reality.
“Suck it,” Mondo grunts, nudging his cock toward you.
For a moment, you’re annoyed at his intrusion. You know you could do the big, rabid, crazy thing and he’d back off -- people still talked about the unscheduled circumcision you delivered Robson two years ago. But you don’t want to go crazy, and you don’t want to back off.
You want to put on a show.
“Fucking suck it,” Mondo repeats, this time with a warning edge in his voice that makes saliva pool in your mouth, and you remember what you’re here for. You wait for him to shove his hips forward again, banging the head of his dick against your lips, and then you pounce, mouth opening wide to take him down fast and deep.
“Fuck,” he groans, as you slurp and swallow, adjusting around his thickness, “fuuuck.”
Having to blow Vern every night for all those months taught you a kind of ruthless efficiency at cocksucking, and you know you can get Mondo off so fast his head will spin. But being with Chris taught you something else, something you miss, and you feel a strange, aching desire to take some time to savor the shape and fullness stretching open your throat, to wallow for a moment in the pleasure of this power -- which right now is pretty much all you’ve got.
It doesn’t really matter who’s on the other end, does it? Mondo closed his eyes; so can you.
You lean in hard against his muscled thighs, forcing him to stagger back a half-step to maintain his balance as you swallow him down again and again, lost in the greedy possession of an elusive, manic high. You know there will be a crash to follow, but you can’t worry about that now. In the moment, you exist. You’re not empty, and that’s enough.
Mondo’s hands land with a thud on the back of your head and you almost feel like laughing. Nice try. His attempts to guide you dissolve into useless clutching and moaning as you continue to suck and pull on his cock, running your tongue along the underside of his shaft until you find the tender spot near the base you can tease with merciless flickers.
“Stop. Yo, I said stop!”
Mondo pulls away suddenly, rocking you back on your heels. His dick slides out of your mouth with a wet popping sound, and hangs there by your cheek, bobbing slightly, heavy, swollen and glistening with your spit. You wipe your mouth and feel like a slut, but that’s kind of the point -- although you didn’t anticipate having to notice it until later.
“Damn, Beecher. I ain’t ready to come yet.”
You’re grudgingly impressed by his willpower. You look up and he grins, slow and smug. You feel as though something is draining from you, but you’re not certain what it is. You get to your feet a little stiffly, knees protesting the hard punishment of the floor. Your throat is sore, lips bruised. Mondo is still grinning.
“I wanna fuck your ass.”
Of course. And sure, why not? You nod, shrug. What the hell.
Mondo closes his eyes and plants another sloppy kiss on your mouth. You wish he wouldn’t do that, it makes him seem like an overeager puppy, and it doesn’t bode well for the care he’s going to take with you in phase two of this operation. Not that it particularly matters. Mondo gives you a little shove toward your bunk.
This time you don’t even bother looking back again to see if Chris still watching. You know that he is.
Because he hates himself too.