He licks up an early drip of cum, then looks up again, showing me it running down his tongue. Gets me going, every time. Then he gets serious, wrapping left arm round my arse, right hand grips the base of my cock, and he’s sucking furiously, hand rubbing me up and down. Man, it’s so good! Sadly, I last only seconds, before I come in his clever mouth.
He swallows a bit, lets the rest run down his face and get his T-shirt all mucky. “Good start. Now I want that fuck, what you got interrupted…”
I’m not correcting him that I didn’t do anything more than he did to get the filth turning up. My man’s dropping his own trousers as fast as humanly possible, bending me over so he can shove his fingers up my arse to test how ready I am, finding whether there’s any lube left from our previous go-round five hours ago, so no, I’m not arguing!
“Go for it,” I tell him, rather than wait about for him to find a bottle of slick.
“Sure. One mo. Yeah, you’re still gagging for it, ain’t ya?” He stretches me open with two fingers and some spit, then replaces them with his cock. Even with the silicone-based stuff, it’s not gonna be totally smooth and easy. But I’m a kinky bastard, who doesn’t mind a bit of pain reminding me I’m a dirty sinful arse-bandit.
My left arm’s on the wall, just like earlier. The light above is isn’t on, only the lamps in the lounge, so it’s nearly as dim. Dan’s got me round the chest. He holds my cheeks apart until he’s forced his cock-head inside me.
It burns. I squirm, this way and that, which spreads the lube about just about enough. Now, I can force myself back into him.
Only he does it first. Firm, confident strokes, fucking me hard.
It’s so good. I’m going limp on him, propping myself up on the wall, being held and treated like a sex object. Forget fire analysis; this is my main talent in life!
He forces his cock as far in me as he can go, twists, retreats, then fucks my remaining few brains out.
Amazingly, my cock is wavering, trying to get stiff again. Seeing as my other arm is doing nothing, I reach down.
“Oi! Nah!” Dan slaps my hand away. It wrecks his rhythm, the bastard. He pauses, wonderfully still. “Nah. You’re just showing your cock off. Anyone in that street could see it, remember? Then those police appeared. You showed the police officers your cock, you did. Yeah. Balls the size of your head, you have, sticking out your dick in front of fucking cops.” He reaches a hand down and pulls on said balls. I think we can safely say the image has turned him on.
“Yeah… Keep going…”
I mean, keep fucking me. Which he does, slowly, but he’s whispering, “The total dogs’, you are. Complete dogs’ bollocks, letting yourself get handcuffed while showing your cock, cool as, to the cops. Bein’ all calm about it. Total cool. And you tripped up the other guy, before he could catch me up, didn’t you?”
“Mm-hm.” It was mostly instinct, but if he thinks it was bravery, I’ll take it.
“Total, fucking, dogs!” I feel his hard thrusts all the way in my rib-cage, like he’s just ejaculated into my liver. I love it when he gets possessive. He lets me pull him to our bed, where we collapse upon it. The navy-blue bedding shows off cum badly, but a) it hides lube pretty well, and b) I kind of like seeing our jizz stains. Proof of a good recent sex life!
I kiss my man, so glad to see him after my unplanned evening up the cop shop. I run my hand down from his hair to his bum.
“Nice not to be interrupted, innit?”
“Aye, it is.” I give up and laugh. We’re both going to be fantasising about my arrest, I know it. What if the coppers had decided to join in? Or the secret photographers? Or if Tanya had needed to re-enact my blow job?
“We’d best be good boys until you’ve done your trial bit. It’s next month it starts, right?”
“We can but hope. There’s probably going to be a half-dozen trials – the council, the firms what sold the materials, the firm the council contracted the works out to, the ones they sub-contracted to… Could go on for years.”
Dan winces. “I hope they get you in early, then.”
“Ah, it’s just our new normal. But if you like, I’ll record my whole statement in the morning and let the police team keep a copy, as well as everyone I can email it to. Come on, pet! We’re both used to vigilance; sure it’ll be fine.” Dan joined the British Army as a teenager and got dumped into Northern Ireland, so he knows even more about serious death threats than I do.
I add, “Just one thing, though. Did you have to call fucking Gareth?” The man will take the piss for years.
Dan shrugs. “I didn’t have Sam’s personal number, and I didn’t think you’d want your other colleagues to know.” Fair enough. “And Gareth’s not like when he was your student mate, won’t push it. OK, sure, he’ll take the piss in private, and serve you right, but I’m pretty sure he won’t say anything in front of anyone else.”
“He’d better not.” I kiss him, all forgiven, and we sleep.
We’re watchful over the next month. Any parcels go to Dan’s work, where they have scanners. We get the neighbours to call for take-out for us. Don’t have a car anyway, but I do check when hiring one. I work irregular times and places anyway; Dan ensures he never leaves work alone.
“It’s just like being back in the fucking Army,” he grumbles.
“Ah, the 21st century being shit again? Even the nostalgia’s not what it used to be.” Since the high of the 2012 London Olympics, Britain’s been on a downhill slide. I’ll spare you my political opinions. Instead, I distract him with my body. “Go on, soldier boy. Interrogate me.”
We’ve learned any such role play has to be cheesy as hell, so neither of us get triggered by it. As he gets down to inspect my crotch carefully for any hidden contraband, I mention, “Shame I don’t have a copy of those photos. The one with you kneeling like this looked good.”
He leans back. “Ask for one! You’re entitled. Data protection law, innit.”
“What?” But the man’s right. I can put in a Subject Access Request, because it’s ‘data’ about myself. So I dig out the email of the police and ask.
They send an automated response, about how ‘no potential evidence that may be used in court may be supplied under GDPR’, which is the new EU-approved legislation that replaced the Data Protection Act. On the plus side, they can’t charge for it any more. I confirm that all charges were dropped, meaning there’s no ongoing case, and I’ll happily receive the image in any format, emailed or via any other means. So comply, please.
Over the next month, I forget the request. There’s been some low-level harassment, but nothing particularly worrying. Or maybe, both of us have our calibration of ‘worrying’ somewhat askew? I figure, no-one’s shot at me nor even punched me one, so we’re OK. A few pics of us, out and about, got mailed to us, which the cops have investigated. As stalking goes, it’s pretty mediocre. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a good photo of myself out of it! The last bunch were almost good profiles.
I’m working, in the office, when I get an email from the police. I assume it’s some kind of warning about something that’s happened, so I click on the attachments, to look. It’s the efficient way to get through emails with lots of linked docs, like I receive several times a day.