Almost Never Disclaimers & Chapter Index

Chains.

"Keep that up and I won't answer for the consequences," Stuart panted, gripping the shoulder of the night's companion, his compulsive thrusts shaking the lift.

The bloke pulled back long enough to say, "S'alright. I'm sure you'll be up for an encore, yeah?"

"Oh yeah," Stuart murmured, and groaned luxuriously as the bloke set to again. He prided himself on iron control, but this was a bit of a novelty-- he'd never had someone impatiently set on him and suck him off in the lift before (sure, in the toilet at the club, in the alley, in the car, and the hallway, but not the lift)-- and if they were making a night of it, why not?

The bloke really was quite skilled, his hands kneading Stuart's arse roughly while his mouth engulfed and stroked him. With a delighted moan Stuart shoved forward, one more good deep thrust and perfect, just perfect, the orgasm shot explosively from the top of his head down through his cock, his ears were ringing felicitously as the other man swallowed him down.

Fucking brilliant.

What was his name again?

Nick, that was it. Nick. "Well, Nick," Stuart tried it out, slumping against the wall with soporific contentment, "that's me knackered for the time being. You're gonna have to carry me to the door."

Nick chuckled, throwing aside the gate to the lift. "Why not?" he said, grabbed Stuart round the waist and hefted him up. Stuart grabbed the taller man's neck instinctively.

"Oi, that was a joke," he protested without much force, drawing his keys out of his pocket as Nick laughed, slung him around and got an arm under his knees.

Nick set him down a few steps inside the door of his flat and considerately shut it up and threw the locks. Nice manners; more than Stuart could say for a lot of the men he'd had in here. Great mouth, sense of humor, thoughtful. A good pick-up for a Saturday night. If Nick was as good for a shag as he was for a blowjob, Stuart wouldn't mind if he hung around 'til Sunday brunch; they could have another round in the morning before Stuart pitched him out.

"Nice place," Nick said admiringly.

"Want a drink, or anything?"

"Nah."

"Well, then. What do you like?" Stuart asked directly, stripping off his shirt.

Nick gave him a lingering look. "Funny you ask," he said. "Most don't. It's sort of assumed that everybody likes the same kind of things."

"And you don't?" Stuart slid out of his trousers slowly, making a bit of a production out of it, enjoying Nick's avid eyes skating over him.

"You could say I've got specialized tastes," Nick answered, wriggling out of his t-shirt and jeans. "Not a lot of people willing to indulge me, I'm afraid."

Stuart stepped out of the husk of his shed clothes, moving silkily toward the other man. "Try me," he invited.

Nick surveyed him from top to toe. After a moment, Stuart sussed it out; the other man's eyes never came back up again from the traditional once-over.

"That's funny, a thing for feet," he said. "I mean, you'd think you'd be copping off with drag queens in heels. Or at least a bloke in sandals."

"Not a lot of sandals on Canal Street in October," Nick breathed, his eyes still trained on Stuart's feet. "And when I saw you-- you're perfect. God. Everything about you, just perfect. And I was right."

Stuart followed Nick's gaze down and looked at his own feet. They were just feet; they'd acquired no mystical erotic aura due to Nick's riveted attention. As far as Stuart could tell, they were just like any other bloke's feet, except they were attached to Stuart-- but then, that ought to be distinction enough.

"D'you mind... if I..." Nick didn't seem quite able to articulate whatever it was he wanted, but Stuart was game for anything short of Nick actually lopping off his feet to take home as a charming souvenir. The bloke'd given excellent head; he'd earned a bit of humoring, by Stuart's reckoning.

"Sure," he said. "Might as well get my money's worth out of those pedicures." Nick gave a stifled moan; Stuart grinned sharkishly and beckoned. "Bedroom's this way."

Which was how he wound up on his back, ankles dangling off the end of the bed, while Nick knelt on the floor and slobbered gratefully all over his toes. It wasn't doing a whole lot for Stuart, but judging from the heavy breathing and enthusiastic tonguing coming from his guest, Nick was having a splendid time of it down there. Indulging him a bit was getting the bloke beautifully wrought up. After a few minutes of this he'd likely be going mental, and the following shag was practically guaranteed to be brilliant. That thought was enough to get Stuart going again, though he still needed just a bit more time to recover fully from the lift.

He was reaching for condoms when the phone rang.

"You don't mind, do you?" Stuart asked rhetorically, picking up the receiver. Nick muttered something incomprehensible, still sucking wholeheartedly on Stuart's instep.

"What?"

There was a beat, then Vince said, "Hiya. I was gonna leave a message. Thought you copped off."

"I did. Didn't you?"

"And you're done already? Wasn't he any good?"

"He's still here. What about yours?"

"The shag's still there? And you're taking calls? Stuart--"

"Never mind that, what did you phone about?"

"It was a bloody nightmare," Vince said. Stuart could hear him settling in on his couch, a dim sursurrus of television whispers flowing in the background. "I had to chuck him out. He was shouting the place down before it was over. My neighbors are going to have me strung up."

"Why'd you get rid of him?"

"He got out a pair of handcuffs and started coming across like NYPD Blue, the bastard."

Nick's tongue slurped along the undersides of Stuart's toes, and he laughed, instinctively kicking a bit.

"Oh, thanks very much," Vince said indignantly. "I'm glad you're amused. I'm only sitting here with a cricket bat in case he comes back, but it's okay, you just have a laugh, I don't mind."

"Not that spot, that tickles," Stuart said in Nick's general direction, then returned to the phone. "It's not my fault," he told his friend, "this bloke's licking my feet."

"God, was it fetish night at Poptastic? Somebody should've warned us," Vince complained.

"I don't mind. And since when do you have any great objection to a little role-playing? I thought you used to do that bondage shite all the time with that boyfriend of yours, Daryl or whatever," Stuart sneered. He could hear a bit of rustling and some damp squelchy sounds from the foot of the bed that told him Nick was getting started on the festivities without him, which along with the general drift of the phone conversation served to make him immensely cranky.

"Darren," Vince corrected grimly. "Yeah, I did a bit of that with him, but I knew him. I'm not about to put myself in the hands of some total stranger like that; it's mad! Anyway, Darren had these cuffs with a special latch you could throw to get out of them whenever you wanted. This nutter had actual handcuffs with locks, no latch, no nothing, and he seriously expected me to go along with his little fantasy scene. Honestly, I'm a bit worried. He was bloody insistent. The next person, you know, he might not even bother to ask."

"It's a shame," Stuart said, "he was quite nice. Fabulous arse. I had half an eye on him myself."

"Well, thank god you didn't take him home," Vince said. "I've got bruises starting on my arms where he grabbed me. I just shoved him out. You probably would have tussled with him the second he got barmy and next thing you know you're in hospital--"

Stuart threw himself up to a sitting position, ignoring Nick's guttural moan as the other man reached the home stretch. "Are you saying he laid a hand on you? Holy shit, Vince! I'll be over in ten minutes. Get dressed again if you're not already. We'll find the fucker and kick his bloody head in. Why didn't you call emergency and have him hauled off? Maybe we still should call them in, he was kind of big. Still, two to one. Fuck, do you remember where I put that mallet handle I used to keep around?"

"No! Stuart, don't be daft. It's not that bad, honestly it isn't," Vince pleaded. "I'm not about to get the police involved, he'd just say he was drunk, that he was joking or something. His word against mine, and for all I know he was drunk or high, and besides, he could be anywhere by now. I'd rather just spread the word around the Village for everyone else to look out and avoid him."

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Stuart paused and went over the conversation again mentally. "Did you really get out the cricket bat?" he asked.

"Well," Vince said reluctantly. "Yeah. I mean, just for reassurance, like."

"I'll be over in ten."

"You don't have to. What about--"

"I'll be over in ten," Stuart repeated.

A moment of silence, then Vince said quietly, "Yeah, okay."

Peering over the foot of the bed, Stuart found Nick sprawled blissfully on the floor, one hand on his wilting cock, the other cupping a palmful of come against his thigh. Stretching back, Stuart grabbed a box of tissues from the bedside table and tossed them to his guest. "Clean up and get your kit on," he ordered crisply, "I've got to chuck you out as soon as I'm dressed. Hope you've got cab fare."

He had to wait at Vince's door for what felt like a painfully long pause before the locks opened up and Vince let him inside.

"That peephole's bloody useless," Vince apologized. "You could've been the abominable snowman, I can't tell a thing through that glass. I never really used it before."

"Let me see," Stuart demanded as soon as the locks were thrown.

Vince made a face, but he put his arms out obediently. Harsh purplish marks were forming on his skin, five livid spots on either wrist.

"Jesus fucking Christ," said Stuart. Just looking at the bruises made his throat ache. "Vince, you're such a twat. You call me up and chatter for half an hour and then you like let it drop in passing, 'Oh, and I was attacked tonight.' We've got to do something. Look at these, I bet they can match them up with his hands and tell it was him."

"What's that gonna prove?" Vince asked pessimistically. "I've had worse marks from rough sex--" he caught Stuart's furious look and said hastily, "Look, I tossed him out on his ear before anything happened, it's fine."

"Vince, this is something," Stuart insisted, taking his friend's hands and turning up the marks on his wrists again. "We should call the police."

"That'd be a laugh," Vince answered sourly. "I can hear it now. 'You just met this man tonight, did you? And you brought him into your home? Do you even know his last name, y' bloody poof? Oh, I'm sorry, I'm afraid we can't help you without at least a full name.'"

"We've got to do something," Stuart repeated.

"Tomorrow," Vince replied, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "We can come up with something tomorrow. I just want to get some rest, yeah?"

Stuart surveyed the room, taking in the haphazardly tidied-up stacks of videotapes, the pillows and afghan on the couch, all the lights on, Doctor Who playing muted on the telly, the cricket bat leaning against the end table. "Yeah, all right," he relented. "C'mon, get your stuff together, I'm not sleeping out here."

Vince opened his mouth but one dark look from Stuart was enough to quell whatever he'd planned to say. "Sure," he answered instead, gathering his covers and pillows, and he followed Stuart to the bedroom without a word.

He let Vince settle into bed before climbing in with him and wrapping his arms around his friend.

"Just like old times," he said. "All those sleepovers, back when we were in school. That was always a laugh, yeah?" Stuart ducked his head, pressed his face against Vince's shoulder, eyes tightly closed. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Vince turned to face the other way. Stuart chose to interpret that as an invitation to spoon with him, and took him up on it, nestling close against him.

"This all right?"

"Yeah. 'S fine." Vince sighed shakily. "Thanks for coming over."

Stuart found Vince's hand in the dark, gripped briefly and let go. "Any time."

***

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