Unconditional Sex

The slowest of slow Saturday nights. They were at Patrick’s flat (Jeff’s idea), drinking Patrick’s Guinness (Jeff’s idea), watching porn (Jeff’s idea) from Patrick’s cupboard (Jeff’s idea) and eating jelly (Jeff’s idea). Steve blinked blearily. Come to think of it, the whole shebang was irrefutably Jeff’s idea. So where the bloody hell was Jeff?

Ignoring the semi that was slowly beginning to nudge against his flies, stimulated by the amazingly low-key homegrown pornography, Steve put down the glass he thought he was holding that was in fact non-existent. “’trick?” he slurred.

Patrick grunted, lying with his ankles crossed on the top of the sofa, his torso resting upside down on the main body of cushions and his head dangling scant inches from the floor.

“Wuzz J’ff ‘ere?” the taller man managed, around his alcohol intake.

Large dark eyes narrowed woozily in his direction. “Hrng.”

“Right.” Steve smiled goofily. “Yay.”

He blacked out.

*

The most reliable sign of a truly terrible night of boozing was that gut-wrenching point when thinking induced pain.

Steve tried to prevent himself groaning. That would mean movement, movement was baaaaaad. His brain was currently trying to retreat from all sensation, all perception of the outside (and much of the inside) world. This was why it took him rather too long to work out where he was.

Warm and comfortable, he was definitely in a bed or on a sofa. Or on top of someone else. The warmth was unexpected- his place was usually freezing in the morning. His cheek was cushioned on something oddly hard and there was a strange implement of some description poking the back of his neck- he reckoned it was probably a bedpost. That would be normal.

…But wait a minute…With the dreadful, slow-motion inevitability of an iceberg floating down a canal towards a barge full of gunpowder, recollection was sweeping majestically into Steve’s brain. He wasn’t at his place. He wasn’t at home. He was at…Patrick’s…on the…sofa?

What right-minded sofa had hard bits on it? He’d already discussed this at great length, sofas were designed to shield the unsuspecting user from trauma, or skin abrasions or…

The sofa cushion beneath his cheek moved. With it, the unidentified implement poked further into the back of his neck. It was hot, stiff and moving slightly in a horrifically recognisable way.

Steve leapt upright, his face etched in a petrified scream, and fell backwards as agony reared its ugly, lashing head in his brain and mugged his nerve endings. Oh God. Oh God. He’d woken up with the Junior Patrick humping his neck. No triple-strength bleach could ever scour him clean.

Patrick, still vaguely upside down, mumbled a little at the sudden movement and slid gently to the floor, curling into a ball around his impressive morning erection. Steve bit into his fist, holding back the mortal embarrassment that was soon to engulf him in a screaming inferno of shame. Jesus Christ, waking up like that with Patrick. It was disgusting. It was stomach-turning. It was unbelievably, cripplingly, heart-stoppingly arousing.

Never one to disappoint in mornings or moments of great stress or tension, Steve’s cock was standing to proud attention in his boxers. He moaned as blood rushed from his head, away from the pain to focus in his aching groin.

It was obvious he was a masochist of some description. Shame and humiliation should not feel this damn good. Neither should firm flesh under his cheek, the press of toned abdominal muscle feeling suddenly, vastly superior to the giving softness of a woman’s gently curved stomach or what Jeff had once gleefully described as the ‘jelly-effect’ of a cushioning breast.

He wasn’t gay. Steve dug his hands into his thick hair, fingers digging at his scalp. He wasn’t gay. He didn’t fancy men. He didn’t fancy Patrick.

Patrick who was now uncurling from his foetal position on the floor, one arm flying up to land over his head, the other resting on his stomach as he turned in his sleep, his lips smacking unconsciously, his legs spreading as if in invitation…That was some tenting, right there. Steve stared, unaware of his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. Donkeyman indeed.

No, stop. Stop right there. Stop thinking about it, stop thinking about him. For God’s sake stop staring at him.

Later, he would say it was suicidal curiosity. Whatever it was, the compulsion seized him in a vicelike headlock, urging him to lean forward, to get a better look at it, get a better look at him. After all, his dick reasoned with his flagging brain, you’ve always liked Patrick more than you should. You’ve always…looked…at him as an open opportunity. You’ve never been closed-minded- think of that threesome with Jane and her friend Christopher…

Sidling up to the prone form, he was holding his breath, trying frantically to hold his pulse though with limited success, he leaned closer to the oddly tempting body, his head level with Patrick’s crotch, his alcohol-addled mind crooning this was a good idea, this was a great idea…

Until Patrick woke up, of course.

It was all Steve could do to suppress the screech of shock as the still body began to wriggle into life. He started to shift backwards, but Patrick, driven by some inner, unerring instinct, had gravitated towards him, hands grasping at the material of his black jumper, pulling him close. Steve gasped as he was dragged, unresisting, into Patrick’s arms, pressing against Patrick’s body. He couldn’t bite back the whimper as Patrick’s undulations brought their clothed cocks together, as heat and friction intensified with blessed contact. Steve’s hands were scrabbling desperately now, fighting to release himself from Patrick’s grip even as his hips ground automatically against the unyielding thrust of Patrick’s dick.

Don’t let him wake up, please don’t let him wake up…

Fate obviously hated him. Patrick’s eyes were fluttering, about to open. His awakening was clearly stimulated by the…stimulation that was simultaneously wiping out all of Steve’s higher faculties.

Dark eyes opened.

They stared into shocking green pools.

Time rushed past, but paradoxically solidified the air around them with its stillness.

Steve froze, his treacherous body pausing in its greedy quest for release. Thoughts were flicking before him in Patrick’s unreadable gaze, questions and answers, queries and question marks and bold, steely decision.

Strong hands slid up under Steve’s arms, skimming underneath his shoulders and down his back in a single, fluid movement. Steve helplessly arched into the touch, his head flying back as the unconscious action jolted his hips forwards into Patrick’s. The questions in Patrick’s eyes rose like rebellious peasants and the smaller man rolled Steve onto his back.

Clearly he was having a minor blood supply crisis and had decided to go along with what could technically be classed as mutual rape.

Steve didn’t particularly care. All that mattered, all that was important was the relentless, unceasing pressure pushing down on him as Patrick straddled his legs, the delicious, skyrocketing friction between them, the surging lust that was controlling his every submissive whimper and plea as his arms came up to wrap around Patrick’s neck, urging him to greater efforts.

His unvoiced prayers were answered. Patrick, with a superhuman effort that seemed to come with the overlarge territory, backed up. He clambered off his protesting friend, reaching down to yank him to his feet. Both wobbling unsteadily, Patrick took Steve’s arm in a punishing hold and shoved him towards the far door. “Bedroom,” he growled, stalking behind his compliant friend.

There didn’t seem to be much choice in the matter. Clearly Patrick preferred his unprecedented homosexual experiences to be in comfort.

The bedroom was dark, its walls midnight blue. A room for nothing but nocturnal activity, then. Steve made his way to the massive king sized bed, dropping onto silk (silk??) sheets like an ungainly stone. He turned to lie on his back, looking around the gloom. “Patrick?” he called, uncertainly.

A rustling sound answered him. He heard a door creak open and the scrape of plastic on plastic. There was a click, then a small red light flashed into life on the opposite side of the room. Steve heard the other man shifting around then, for a split-second as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out Patrick standing at the bottom of the bed. A split second flashing past in the blink of an eye, then a rough body was clambering over his, settling on top of him as his shirt was tugged unceremoniously over his head. Falling back into the sheets, the air strikingly cool on his bare chest, Steve stared up at Patrick as the younger man eyed him speculatively.

“Well?” he asked, nervously.

Patrick shrugged and reared up on his knees to begin undressing.

Steve felt a shudder of self-consciousness roll queasily through him. Not a good sign. He chose instead to focus on the bronzed skin uncovering before his eyes, swallowing hard as toned muscle fluidly shed concealing fabric. God. Those nights spent at the gym were worth it.

The flash of a grin caught his eye and Steve gulped again as Patrick grazed fingertips over his own chest, stroking down, skimming the flat stomach to pop the button of his jeans. Almost of its own accord, Steve’s hand reached out, trembling, to unzip tight denim, gasping as the thick cock sprang free of its confines. “No underwear?” he asked, his gaze fixed greedily on throbbing flesh.

“Well-spotted,” Patrick groaned as tentative fingers stroked him, unintentionally teasing, maddeningly light. “More,” he ordered, shifting to allow Steve better access.

It was obvious who was in control. From his posture, his aggression in pinning Steve, his domination of the older man. Steve suppressed a moan as the command sent a jolt straight to his dick. To be so easily mastered, so easily controlled…Submissive, he surrendered to that darkness, melting with no resistance to Patrick’s easy authority. Still clothed from the waist down, Steve kept his eyes turned humbly downwards as he stroked his fingers along the impressive length, stimulating the blunt had with his palm, his motions clumsy- this was a lot harder from the opposite angle.

Not that that was bothering Patrick. The younger man was starting to thrust into his grip, grumbling low in his throat. “Steve…” he breathed, hoarsely. “God…you’re as rough as a Catholic virgin…”

If he’d had any blood to spare his cheeks would have been scarlet. “S-sorry,” he replied, his cheeks burning with a phantom blush, the cringing embarrassment firing unfamiliar chemicals in his groin, making his aching dick pulse against the seam of his constricting jeans. Bad sex…so damn good…

Patrick’s hands were braced either side of Steve’s head, muscles quivering with the effort of holding himself up as awkward pleasure took the knife-edge off his need, working him to a glistening stage of controlled desperation.

I wonder…

It took some subtle manoeuvring, but he was soon in a position to just drop his shoulder so, lift his left leg here and push… Steve rolled Patrick onto his back, feeling a surprising jolt in his stomach as the younger man’s half-closed eyes snapped open and he found himself on the end of a questioning, almost threatening look. Dark eyes narrowed, the mouth pursed to speak, to order…

Steve threw himself ‘southwards’. His eager lips traced the heated skin of Patrick’s dick, stretching over the bulbous head as he used the superior weight of his lanky form to keep his partner from pushing into his unprepared mouth. Patrick’s musk filled his nostrils, he could taste him, salty and indefinably masculine, overriding his senses, sending him into sensory overload. He flicked his tongue out to sample, wrinkling his nose instinctively- it was an acquired taste, then.

Lain across Patrick’s lower stomach, feeling muscles twitching at his action, his arm held his friend still. His fingers were wrapped around the base of Patrick’s cock, pumping rhythmically. The younger man moaned under him and his hips rolled in attempts to thrust up into Steve’s mouth. Never before had the gag reflex seemed like such a bugger.

Amateurish and tentative, Steve let Patrick fill his mouth, tonguing (and, embarrassingly, slurping like a drooling idiot) hot, hard flesh. He gradually got used to the sharp, musky taste, his previous aversion taking on a ridiculous air as he found himself eagerly laving his tongue against the pulsing hardness, the indefinably exhilarating flavour of pre-cum scintillating in his mouth.

It didn’t take long- but then it wouldn’t. A combination of lingering drunkenness and the height of arousal generated by the wrongness of what they were doing…Patrick stilled, his body arched, tense as a drawn longbow. Steve felt a quaking under his fingertips and barely had time to brace before Patrick groaned, low and rumbling, his hands came up to twist in Steve’s hair, forcing the older man to take him deeper. Fighting the urge to splutter and cough, Steve complied, his hips humping unconsciously against the firm bed, echoing the now slight movement of his tongue and Patrick’s thrusts, which were becoming harder and harder to contr…

Patrick came with a guttural cry, hoarse as a howled-out wolf. Steve’s head jerked instinctively back, but he was held in place by Patrick’s hands as his friend fucked his mouth in frantic motions.

The whirlwind calmed and Patrick sank, loose-limbed and heavy, into the sheets.

Steve moved when the hands released their grip on his hair, spitting his mouthful somewhat unceremoniously on the sheets, sitting back on his heels and staring at the flushed body laid out before him, still heaving like a racehorse after a gruelling few furlongs. Did I do that? Patrick’s eyes were closed, his hands moving in unseen patterns over his chest.

“S’rude to spit,” came the voice, a little unsteadily.

“Sorry.”

One of the endlessly-shifting hands lifted, as if entranced by a snake-charmer’s music and moved with an unerring instinct to touch the obvious denim-covered bulge. Steve moaned, his hips shunting obscenely towards Patrick, pressing his dick into the unyielding push of Patrick’s hand.

“I want you to fuck me, Steve.”

Patrick’s voice was oddly flat, toneless. But the words were enough to make Steve whimper, even as the hand cupping him squeezed slightly, massaging him through the rough material. Abstract, unprompted, words sprang to his mind, I’m 33, single, with neat hair. Even I think I’m gay!“I…I th-thought…”

“I don’t want you to fucking think, I want you to fuck me.” The voice was getting stronger, more forceful as the businessman recovered from his explosive orgasm. “I want you to shove your cock so far inside me, you could give yourself a blowjob by sticking your tongue down my throat.”

Steve whimpered again and he nodded, subserviently. “Have- have you ever…?”

The hand tightened again, almost painful, almost too much Oh God if he came now… “No.” For a heartbeat, Patrick sounded unsteady, perhaps even nervous. Steve was too busy trying to drag his flagging attention span from the unbearable pressure on his cock, the fingertips that were managing to stroke his balls through thick cloth.

“Lube?” he managed to gasp, “Condoms?”

“You didn’t bother with condoms when you sucked my dick. Lube in the pocket of my jeans.”

Someone had obviously been a Boy Scout. He was held for a moment longer, then Patrick released him with a smirk. Steve all but fell off the bed in his haste, scrabbling with the discarded trousers until nerveless fingers found a thin, well-used tube. He turned to the bed and stopped, staring at his friend. Patrick was sprawled across the dark silk, his every inch proclaiming his dominance, his mastery in his kingdom. Moving slowly, showing off the fine musculature of his arms and shoulder, Patrick kept his eyes locked with Steve’s as he reached over to switch on the bedside lamp, dimming it’s garish brightness to a sultry glow.

Steve gulped as the desirable body shed cloaking shadow, bronzed in the dim light. Returning the scrutiny, Patrick’s dark eyes were travelling over his bare chest, skimming his anorexia-flat stomach. “Get your jeans off.”

The older man complied, helpless to resist the command. Hungry eyes watched him, Patrick’s hand smoothing down over his chest to fondle his cock, his face alive with his own sordid power. He drank in the slim form, smiling at the blush staining Steve’s cheek as he peeled his jeans from surprisingly good legs. The sight of Steve’s dick, standing to painful attention, almost crippling Steve’s movements, sent a pulse of lust through the younger man, causing him to emit the smallest of growls.

Unsure of his next move, the dark-haired man waited at the foot of the bed, his head bowed, his eyes peering at Patrick through his floppy fringe. Patrick gestured for him to come closer, spreading his legs wantonly, reaching out his hands to grasp Steve’s shoulders when the other clambered tentatively up the bed to nestle over Patrick’s body.

“Patrick,” Steve began, tremulously.

“Stop thinking.”

Steve shuddered. He jerked his eyes open when soft lips touched his, scarcely aware he’d closed them. The kiss was weirdly chaste, an innocent brush of lips to contrast with the touch of Patrick’s hand weaving between them to take the lube from Steve’s nerveless hands. “Ready to explode?” Patrick asked, his tone challenging, at Steve’s surprised moan when a slick hand took his rock hard cock and stroked cool gel along the overheated, throbbing flesh. Light, maddening touches caused the tortured organ to jerk in Patrick’s hands, caused Steve’s hips to thrust, desperate, at breaking, needing more…

The younger man let out a breathless chuckle, pressing a smooch to Steve’s cheek when the older buried his head in Patrick’s shoulder, with a tiny whine. “Easy, boy.”

As if he was a nervous dog.

Now supporting himself on one hand, Steve followed Patrick’s lead, his touches now somewhat wayward as long-awaited sensations melted his brain.

Patrick’s other hand was wrapped around Steve’s back, fingers digging into his flesh, anchoring him, keeping him from running, not that he would run now, not when he was being teased and tormented, so so deliciously… Together, almost in synch, their hands moved in echoing movements, fingers moving ceaselessly, constant, slippery touching, caressing, pumping…Their chests were barely touching, the occasional friction of Steve’s light dusting of hair scraping Patrick’s smooth torso… Both of them too far gone to think about anything other than crass, coarse stimulation…

Within moments, within years, Patrick’s hand was wrapping insistently around Steve’s, dragging his touch from the begging cock to the ring of puckered flesh, coating his hand.

“Please.”

The first sign of control being relinquished. But did he really have any choice?

He only just remembered that Patrick, in this respect, at least, was a virgin.

*

Afterwards, after their frantic, frenzied passion, Steve lay next to Patrick, their limbs sticky with sweat, heavy with exhaustion, their minds nicely broiled.

“Did we…?”

“Yep.”

“Was…was it good?”

Odd how neither of them seemed at all drunk anymore. Perhaps unexpected gay sex was an all-new pre-emptive solution to drink-driving.

Patrick groaned with effort as he rolled over onto his side to look Steve in the face. They stared at each other in silence, both blushing a little, both a little awkward, both afraid of the intimacy that being lovers had forced on them. “You may be the best fuck I’ve ever had,” Patrick said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh.”

“Mm.”

“You…you were-“

“I know, Steve. Now shut up, will you? Performances like that require lots of sleep. Assuming, of course, you’ll still be here in the morning?”

*

Neither of them claimed to be in love. They never discussed it, not really. To all intents and purposes, they were still just a couple of mates. Unconditional sex.

Susan didn’t question her boyfriend’s occasional nights spent in Patrick’s bed- just as Patrick didn’t question Sally’s nights at Susan’s.

And now, taking pride of place in Patrick’s cupboard, was a new tape. A tape whose label simply read ‘Steve’.