Smoing Hot

Dan responded to the ad Laura placed on Adrian's behalf on Saturday night. They ended up hanging out on Sunday, with Dan receiving more fellatio before going home to bed.

All Adrian's point of view for the next few chapters.

Comments appreciated, unless they're insults or rants about NI or other politics.

_____________

I get to sleep just fine, and wake up not too grumpy when my alarm buzzes, forcing me out of bed to turn the fucker off. I shower, and there's something different about my skin.

I smell different. I'm not sure what I think about that.

I make my coffee, two rounded spoons into the cafetière, usual routine. Time for a smoke while it brews... Oh,

fuck

.

OK, seeing as I'm not giving in and running down to the shop this early - I'm not dressed yet, either, towel round my waist perfectly good attire for brekkie - I'll eat breakfast. 'Change your routine,' Dan said. So forget the porridge, let's have... Eggs. I can do eggs. Someone once told me protein for breakfast was good for the brain. Two eggs scrambled, some buttered toast, let's sit at the table rather than the counter.

It works. I mean, I'm still craving a fag, but it's OK, bearable. Good meal, actually.

I whistle and get to work by eight-thirty, to get on with the calculations for a report I need to draft today. It goes smoothly enough, but the client isn't going to like my findings, that's for sure. I pace back to the kitchen for more coffee, and realise I'd normally call this a fag break. I decide to have a coffee break, out on the balcony, instead.

It's not the same, no matter how much I look at the steam from my mug and pretend.

I get back to writing the report, but trying to be diplomatic isn't going well when I'd mortgage my own grandmother for a cigarette.

Even a cheap rollie.

Arse.

I knock back the coffee and head back to the kitchen for another. Maybe I could switch to better caffeine as an acceptable vice?

It reminds me of Laura's theories on substitutes.

And Dan's sure a better distraction than a mere drink. He suggested eleven; it's quarter to now.

I text him. 'Hi. Still on for coffee?'

'Can do. I'll bring biscuits.'

Succinct. Suppose he really was working at whatever it is he does.

But he appears on the dot of eleven, complete with a pack of supermarket Bourbons, packet of Hobnobs, and a pint of semi-skimmed dangling from his finger.

"I do have milk, thank you! I'm not some student type, with nowt in the fridge barring strange moulds building new civilizations!"

"Not that. Thought you might be into hipster-y grinding your own beans and not daring anyone pollute the hallowed nectar with milk. Or leastways, just not have any." A Be Prepared bloody Boy Scout. Or maybe, just wants to be sure of getting his cuppa?

"I drink tea, remember? OK, I have a mug of fine coffee of a morning, but then I'm happy with normal stuff. Coffee or tea?"

"Tea, please."

I put the kettle on and chuck two Barry's teabags into mugs. It's a taste of home. I find myself tapping my fingers on the counter-top, waiting for the kettle to boil, wishing I had a fag. And knowing he'll probably notice.

"Still clean?"

Fuck him. The tosser doesn't know what he's talking about. Kicking coke and all was a doddle compared to the clutches of nicotine, which I've failed to kick a dozen times before. But I keep my tone civil.

"Not had a fag, no."

"You're doing well. Have a biccie."

I glare at him. "You thought I'd only have healthy food in the house?"

"Possibly. Didn't want to risk it. Also, polite guest, me brought up right, I was. Why? Do you have a larder full of biscuits and cake?"

I check the biscuit tin. Half a digestive. The bastard knows me better than I know myself.

I pass him a mug; he adds milk and makes himself at home on my sofa. I should be annoyed at his presumption, not to mention the crumbs, but he looks good there. No gel in his hair today; he looks almost sweet and fluffy in worn jeans and check shirt, but I get the impression there's more going on in his brain than he lets on.

Like planning on when to get his dick out for maximum results of me choking on my Hobnob. "Come on. It's the distraction you wanted, right? It's this or Homes Under the Hammer, so: make your choice."

Easy choice, over that crap daytime show. Homes under the Hammer is like the worst clients at work, wanting renovations for peanuts and never caring about regs getting stricter all the time.

I'm not going to compare the attractions inside his trousers to a good episode of Bargain Hunt, though.

It's as good as last time. I lose myself in the feeling of his groin and a thick cock filling my mouth more than any cigar could ever do.

'Come back for some more? Yes? Yes!' Yeah, all right, the Bargain Hunt catchphrase has a sudden resonance, but I'm sure never thinking about Tim Wonnacott and his weird teeth that way.

The salt taste that erupts in my mouth actually does make my craving go away. I'd best not have any more sweet biscuits for now.

"You all right?" He eyes me curiously as I come up to sit next to him.

"Aye. That actually worked. Not feeling the need, for the minute."

He nods. "I'll have to pass it on to my sister as advice."

"Not sure it'll work in the long term."

I meant, as advice for a stop-smoking service to give to their customers, but he's basically taking it as a fuck-off.

Shit.

"Advice! She can't really tell clients to find themselves a dick every few hours, for life!"

He lets his shoulders drop again. "It's only the first four, maybe five days, at most."

"I haven't even managed two, yet."

"Look, I need to get back, do a phone call, but serious, if you need to call me after lunch, maybe round five o'clock too, I can do that. Return the favour, even. But I'm out this evening and all of tomorrow - work and footie team - so you'll have to find other distractions. Can you do that?"

I shrug. "There's all of Londonboyz and Grindr and Gaydar. Sure, I'll manage."

Way to make the boy feel he's merely a replaceable cock. Though that's what he

is

, just a nice neighbour with a good meaty prick. Not getting any more involved than that, no how.

"Uh-huh. Gotta run. You be good, yeah?"

"Woof, bloody woof."

He chuckles as he legs it towards the stairs. "Good boy, Gaspode!"

He's read Pratchett.

Not just a pretty face.

I return to the client report and make a clear list of the problems with their plans and repercussions of each one, followed by giving my own recommendations and why. Then I go back to delete phrases like 'this will avoid the high risk of your building burning down, killing most of the residents, and being an irredeemable stain upon your immortal souls, you cheapskate bunch of total cunting fuckwits.'

After two hours, I make myself sandwiches for lunch. Sliced meat and cheese, plus a couple apples, quartered. It's my default, easy and filling.

Dan's cock is easy and filling, too.

No, I'm not going to text him.

Not yet.

I continue my recommendations and costings, comparing insurance requirements. It's a solid piece of work.

I deserve a smoke.

I pace round the flat, and suck thoughtfully on a Bourbon biscuit, Then I return to eating it the proper way, biting off the top biscuit layer, gnawing off the rest of the chocolate cream, and finally eating the second biscuit. The sugar gives a slight hit but I still need my nicotine whack.

I remember the nicotine patches. It's time for a new one.

Thank fuck for that.

Not that it seems to be doing much. I decide to proof-read my report, then I'll call Dan just before sending it in. It's 3 pm.

I hold off calling him until four.

"Hey, mate. Thought you might've given up... giving up. Sure, but can you come up here? I'd just made my lunch, finally. Max is out, at work."

"Busy day, eh? Sure thing. Up in a mo."

Dan answers his door, holding a toastie in one hand, molten cheese dripping down his mouth. I want to kiss it clean but hold back. We're not that kind of mates. Not that really, we're mates at all.

He settles down in his settee. It's a cheap one from Ikea, as is most of the furniture that isn't clearly hand-me-downs from likely-deceased grandparents. The place has the over-cluttered feel you get when two households take over one place. I remember the family feud that nearly kicked off when my sister married and there was only room for one granny's dining table...

Dan's got a plate balanced on the sofa arm with another toastie and half a takeaway box of salad. He has heard of vegetables, then. I drop to my knees between his feet, as usual.

I could get used to this being 'as usual'.

This time, soon as I get the nod, I take my time, nibbling the very edge of his sensitive foreskin, then drawing into my mouth and sucking on it, probing underneath it with my tongue before it retracts. When it does, I start slowly rubbing his cock up and down with my hand, feeling that inner shaft hardening under the silky slippery skin, a couple bumpy veins but all a beautiful smooth pink shade, no discoloration or faults. So warm, next to my face.

Above me, Dan methodically chews through his late lunch. He's smiling, though.

He smiles a lot, but it's a good thing. Kinda lights up his whole face. Looks all open and friendly and up for anything. I like it.

He's gasping just slightly from what I'm doing, which is a good level to keep it at. I could go on for hours, y'know. He said he had to go out at six, so an hour here wouldn't be a bad thing, far as I'm concerned.

I dial it down while he munches the last mouthfuls, but as soon as he lays down his fork and dumps the plate on the floor, I take in his whole length. And let it slide out again. And repeat, ever so gently and slowly, holding the foreskin back, letting the ridge of his head just trace against my tongue. His tongue is just visible as his mouth hangs open, not moving.

He's washed himself since I sucked him off earlier. That's really kinda hot - someone looking forward to having me again.

I concentrate on what I'm doing, licking up and down his shaft, not blowing, turns out he doesn't like that so much, but sucking all round his head and letting the base of his helmet bump over my lip-covered teeth. He likes that. So when he's a bit more energetic and I'm holding the base of his cock firm to stop him thrusting too hard, I let that ridge round his head bump directly over my teeth.

He groans in exquisite pleasure of agony, desperate to fuck my mouth, but I'm stronger than I look and hold him down in his seat. Gathering more spit, I take his head in and out over my teeth, gently yet so intense, and oh yes, this is really getting to him as he moans and bucks under me, my chest over his knees helping keep him down.

That sound he's making, like a deep whine, is getting me off. I pull in more saliva and bathe him in it, then get back to it, harder but wetter.

It's a muffled scream that comes out the back of his throat, but then as his eyes focus on my head, he manages a word.

"Please?"

I make a show of checking my watch. I've been kneeling here for half an hour. That should be enough to be remembered. I blow him a kiss, all camp, and put my face down again. I relax my grip on his shaft and let him face-fuck me, easing off. Soon he is filling my mouth completely, grabbing a handful of my hair near the roots, and now I'm the one being controlled.

Fucked.

I decide I'm not going to go for short hair, even if my hairline is further back than it was. I like having enough to sweep back, even tuck behind my ears on each side. It's not like when it was down to my chin all round, Happy Mondays style. That, and the E's and whizz, I'm too old for. But oral sex with a guy who knows what he's doing and what he likes - there are compensations to not being twenty-one any more.

Given my hands are now redundant, I reach down for my own cock. It's awkward, and I'm rubbing against his upholstery as much as my hand, but I'm stiff and desperate and this is as close as I've come to sex with someone else in a year and he's holding his dick against my tonsils and I swallow over it, stretching my throat.

A moment later he yells out as he tenses and then ejaculates, his come running out both sides of my mouth as he softens, releasing his grip on my hair. Meanwhile I'm whimpering, as I spunk all over the blue fabric of his sofa.

He hauls me up to sit by him again, by my hair and shoulders, and I do my fly up, hoping he hasn't seen.

The wet patch is obvious, though. He rubs against it with his bare heel. "Don't worry. Sofa's seen worse. Aaah... that was good!"

It occurs to me, that was over half an hour not even thinking about a fag. "Aye. A fun wee tea break."

He glances over. "Lot to be said for an experienced guy. How old are you, anyway?"

I give him the truth. "Thirty-eight. You? You said twenty-eight in the ad."

He nods. "Yeah. A mere whippersnapper."

"Eh, some live to eighty without more sense than they had at twenty."

"Uh-huh. Will you have more sense at forty than you did at twenty? Or just more experience?" Cheeky brat.

"Fuck, yeah. I was a right fucked-up twenty-year-old... Now...

well.

" I might as well tell him, let him tell me to piss off out of his life now. "I'm not an alcoholic nor a druggie, any more. Just imbibing reasonable amounts of booze with my sound stable job, and bein' a bitter, cynical widower."

That's startled him. Knew it.

"Widower? You were married?"

"To a fine woman, aye." That really needed an inhale on a cigarette and a nonchalant smoke ring. But Diane would be so proud if I actually managed to quit. And I'm not feeling the physical craving, right now this minute. I lick round my mouth for more of his come, instead.

He nods. He's going to ask if I did men before she died. They always do.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Haven't heard that in a while. It's a platitude, but what else can he say? It's not immediately changing the subject to his cock, which is to his credit.

I manage the required response. "Thank you. It's been nigh on four years, now."

"Still. You don't forget." He's lost someone. But I'm not gonna ask.

"True. You don't. I don't. But it eases."

"Yeah. Wanting a fag - that'll ease, too. What're you up to tonight?"

I shrug. "Monday night, might start on some more work so I can have a wee late start later in the week, but it's my regular date with Victoria Coren... Only Connect, the TV quiz show?"

He's going to think I'm a pretentious eejit, now.

"Oh, I know! The one what had Greek letters for each question then got accused of being elitist so they went for Egyptian hieroglyphs instead, with the sarcastic blonde poker champion with the great tits?"

"Thon's the wee doll, so she is. Er, aye, that's her." I hate translating perfectly fine English, but sometimes it's necessary, living over the water.

He nods. "It's mental, that show! Caught it a couple times - if I get a question right once it's cause for celebration."

"It's right fiendish, so it is." I don't tell him I aim to beat the teams' scores. "Bout ye? What you up to this night?"

"Me? Out with a couple mates from - me old work. Regular thing, y'know."

"Aye, I do. Good craic?"

He laughs. "Belting. Some of 'em, after a few jars..."

Gotta love ex-colleagues who are funny after a few.

He pauses. "Just so you know, Max'll be back in a bit." We both adjust our flies and laugh. "He's not, like homophobic, like, but I try not to shove it down his throat... ah man, you know what I mean!"

"You not gone out with anyone since you moved in with him, then?"

"Eh, there was a lad, for a few months - kept the queer stuff in the bedroom - but other than that, just one-offs, like."

He gives me side-eye, his easy confidence gone. Confession time. "Couple years ago, I was living with a girl. Louise. Anyway, we'd been together nigh on two years, when I had to tell her, it wasn't her, just I was as gay as a fucking window and she was the last one to believe it..."

"Ouch."

"You don't say. Anyway, ended up spending many nights in Max's spare room rather than all cringing with my folks, then we figured might as well buy a place together when he got a job in the Big Smoke - London house prices are only going up, I wanted to give living in London a go, you know, if you want the proper scene, it's got to be London or Manchester..."

"Or Brighton."

He shakes his head. "Nah. All the gays, yeah, but it's like a small town. I'm a city boy."

"Brighton's boggin' terra - expensive, and all."

"That, too. And swarming with tourists. So, anyhow, I like London, I reckon. You, lived here long?"

"Came over for college, stayed. Only gone back once or twice a year since; not even that, the last few years. I moved to London after uni, had a few jobs. Ach, too much money and not enough handle on life, I had then. Liked London, though. Slightly pulled myself together, then I met Diane... a grand wee woman. I was turnin' twenty-nine. She made me sort myself out with a grand pile of therapy, we married, she got ill and died, leaving me at thirty-four vowin' never to be such a wee eejit again... we had a wee house down Crystal Palace way, livin' the dream. I sold it after and hunkered down in a wee flat near here, then got myself this place when it was built. Noisy, it was, the first year when the other floors were still being done out, but since then it's been grand."

So much more I could say. Like how I was queer as fuck before and during my relationship with Diane as well as after, but where do you start?

"How did it work with her? I mean, like, were you straight enough, at all?

"Oh aye, no problem. I like the ladies, so I do. Loved her, fancied her, fucked her." I figure out his real question. If I'm not like him, am I just sucking around for fun, as it were? Not sure what to say, there. But he gets his own words out.

"Did she know? I mean, did you do men, before?"

And I laugh. I might as well tell him.

"Did I? Is the Pope Catholic? How it was, right - I tell people I met her through work, which I had, briefly. Only I really got to know her when I was at this sex club, on my knees," - I wave my hand, meaning like what I was just doing here - "and when I'm done, she sits on the arm of the couch looking down on me and there's her to me, 'Do you offer that to the ladies too?'

"And she's this dead gorgeous redhead, so she was. So course there's me to her, 'To a few exceptional ladies. Was there anyone ye had in mind?' And me with the biggest wee smile. And she sits herself down next to yer man, he pushes off, and she lifts her wee skirt..."

I grin at the mere memory. "We took it from there, really."

"Yeah? She didn't mind, you having men?"

"Not at all. Encouraged it, more like." Where's a fucking cigarette to punctuate a conversation like this? "Long lecture on safer sex - no fucking less she was there, condoms in place and all - but nah, she loved the fact that I loved doin' men but still wanted her. Not so much pushing me onto other women, but I didn't mind that. Wasn't like I was missing anything, so it was."

"Wow. Wonder what I'd have done if I'd met a woman like that. How did you feel, like all your Christmases come at once?"

"Prayed thanks twice daily and upped donations to charity, and wondered how on earth I deserved it!" Her getting sick felt kinda like fate, I'd always thought. "We couldn't be that lucky for too long, I guess. But, bout you, like? You didn't want a woman that was your only one. Might ye have, if you coulda been with men too? Or was it more, nice having a wee wifey at home, but you really were just wanting the lads?"

"You've got it. I just wanted guys... I mean, I liked living with her, she was sweet, my family loved her... but it was more like me and Max are. Friends. I mean, like, I had her, too, and it wasn't like I suffered doing it, but my heart, it just wasn't in it... To start with I thought I was like you, liking some women, some men - but then I realised, however much I tried, I just don't like women that way..."