turps

As I mentioned in my last post, I wrote a story to help test the MtYG site last weekend.

The request I was given was: I love genderswap or cross-dressing - silk and corsets, yum! Sex & food too, with the guys cooking. Lance/Howie or JC/Justin.

I decided to try something new and wrote Lance/Howie.

This was for

nopseud, who may be the meanest person ever, omg! But is also made of awesome and a fantastic friend.

In the spirit of these test weekends, it's not beta read, so if that bothers you, don't read.

The club is dark, the music loud, perfect for someone on the prowl.

Howie sways his hips as he walks, eyeing conquests. He runs his fingers over a bare back, the curve of a leather-clad hip, circles the dance floor and revels in the anonymous attention that’s directed his way.

It takes Howie almost an hour to find his prey.

The boy is standing at the foot of the stairs. He seems removed from the crowd that surrounds him, bored almost, uncaring of the admiring glances thrown his way. When a woman pushes close, leans in to whisper against his ear, dark-painted nails against his bare shoulder, the boy rebuffs with a slight smile and lets it fade as she turns away.

Relishing the challenge, Howie makes his move.

He walks with easy grace and sure confidence. Stands close, not touching, but the intent is there in the way he deliberately looks from the sweat-damp hair, down over muscular shoulders, a nipped in waist.

Howie bridges the gap, slides his hand over the swell of hip and tangles his fingers in the laces that trail at the small of the boy’s back. He looks at the boy and tugs gently, says, “Want to take this somewhere more private?”

“You’re assuming a lot,” the boy says. His cheeks are flushed red, his eyes darkly lined, his bottom lip slightly chapped. Amused-bored-challenging, looking right back

“You could say no,” Howie says.

“I could.”

The boy shrugs, exposing a slight gap between corset and skin. Unable to resist, Howie runs his finger along that gap, feels the heat of the boy’s body and smooth material, the bump of bone.

“But you won’t.”

“I won’t,” the boy says.

Howie lets the laces drop but keeps his hand against the boy’s back, the crossed laces and hooks under his palm. They walk for the exit, and Howie knows they’re being observed. He doesn’t blame them for looking, because the boy is beautiful, masculine, powerful. Attracting every eye.

The ride back is silent. The cab is hot, the windows misted against the bleak cold of outside. The boy rests his hand on Howie’s thigh, warm and solid and the anticipation is an ever constant, colouring each move, each assessing look between them as they’re driven to Howie’s home.

They get there and step from the warmth of the cab. The boy shivers, crosses his arms over his chest and Howie shrugs off his coat, draping it over the boy’s goose-pimpled shoulders. He smiles a thanks, his breath a cloud as Howie unlocks the front door.

There’s a lamp shining in the hall. Unopened mail piled on the small table. A pair of slippers lined up neatly against the wall.

Howie can’t wait anymore.

He takes back his coat and lets it slip to the floor. Then pushes the boy back, fits his hands around the curve of waist. The boy gasps, and Howie brushes his hand over silky material, over hips and thigh, then changes direction, goes across not down.

The boy is hard and Howie cups him through his pants, pleased with the resulting sound.

“Want to move this on a little?” The boy asks. He sounds composed, bored even, but his head is back, his eyes closed and Howie deliberately slows down. He palms the boy’s flat stomach, inches down his zip, unfastens his button so his pants fall open at the front.

It leaves the boy looking wanton, needy, breathing shallowly, his mouth open as Howie moves his hand, taking hold of the boy’s dick.

“You can move you know.” Gasped words and the boy is hanging onto control, but his hand is tight in Howie’s hair, his other pressed against the wall, as if grounding himself in place.

“I know,” Howie says, and contemplates drawing this out even further, but he can’t wait, drops to his knees and sucks. The boy’s fingers tighten painfully, but Howie keeps going, alternates sucking and licks. Looks up the length of the boy’s body and revels in the feeling of making him fall apart.

It’s over quickly, and Howie stands, his knees aching slightly as he rubs at his head. The boy – Lance – smiles and presses a kiss against Howie’s cheek.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Howie says. He grimaces as he moves, looking down at his pants. “I’m going to go change.”

“Well, you do persist in leaving them on.” Lance grins, unconcerned about Howie’s plight. “I’m going to get a drink.”

It takes Howie five minutes to run upstairs, pull off his clothes and wash himself down. He changes into pajama pants and an old washed out t-shirt, pushing his feet into his slippers when he goes back downstairs.

In the kitchen Lance is heating milk at the stove. He looks exotic and beautiful as he watches the pan, and Howie can’t resist standing behind him, pulling him into a hug. “You were wonderful tonight.”

“As always,” Lance says, grin concealed but obviously there. He spoons hot chocolate into the milk, stirring it in. “I thought that woman was going to pick me up before you got there.”

“Good thing she wasn’t your type.” Howie kisses the nape of Lance’s neck, then steps back. He starts to untie the corset laces, pulling at bows and carefully untying knots. Lance keeps stirring the hot chocolate, sighing when Howie unfastens with deft movements, until finally it’s completely undone.

Bare-chested, in tight fitting pants and boots, Lance reaches for two mugs and fills them with the hot chocolate, adding mini marshmallows for the final perfect touch. He waits while Howie drapes the corset over the back of a chair, then hands over a mug, says, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Howie says, and takes a sip, knowing that this is one pretense they’re guaranteed to try again.