by Jane Davitt

Gene's mouth tastes of beer, whisky, and cigarettes, and his tongue stabs wet and hard into Sam's mouth. It's vaguely disgusting more than arousing, but Sam can't stop going back for more. They're not kisses the way he's ever defined the word; no slow, sweet glide of mouth on mouth; no layer of lipstick to be worn away patiently; this is just more of the same old, same old as they fight for the upper hand.

While down below the waist, their hands are cooperating nicely, thank you, in silent efficiency; teamwork at its finest as zips hiss down and dicks pop up. Gene -- stubborn bastard -- won't follow Sam's lead and use just a little bloody finesse, oh, no, God forbid. Christ, is it too much to ask for that his dick not be wrenched at like the gear stick in Gene's long-suffering car? But it's working, for all that he's got a memory of washday and a mangle stuck in his head. For every practiced, considerate flick of Sam's thumb through the stickiness welling up, the only soft part of Gene's dick, for every nicely judged ounce of sliding pressure as he jerks Gene off, he gets more of those rough, painful grip and grinds, and another demanding, possessive thrust of Gene's tongue. As feedback loops go, it's a good one.

His dick's getting chafed and his forearm's cramping when he realizes that they're both holding back, trying to make the other come first. Typical. Time to get creative…

He pulls away from that ashtray of a mouth, reconsiders and dives back in for one more taste, then drops to his knees and discovers that even Gene's dick tastes of whisky. God, he must have drunk so much, it's oozing out of his pores.

His come tastes like Sam's, though, richly bitter and strong, overpowering every taste and every smell, so that the frayed carpet under Sam's knees, too thin to cushion them, and the tug and stroke of Gene's hands in his hair are all that anchor him to this time, this place, this man.

Sam swallows and licks and takes his mouth away from still hard flesh to look up. Gene's eyes were closed, but they open as if Sam's gaze is a key and Sam sees satisfaction gleaming there, sun on sea.

A second revelation has his mouth hanging open for a moment. Played. He's been bloody manipulated -- "Oh, you bastard."

"Knew I'd get you down there one day if I played my cards right." Deft hands deal with the task of tucking, adjusting, zipping up as Sam sits back on his heels, his erection sticking up foolishly, abandoned, wilting slowly. "Oh, don't look so brokenhearted, Sam, I'll see you right."

Sam rears up and punches him in the stomach. When Gene's breath leaves him in a pained rush and he doubles over, Sam drags him down and gets on top of him, pinning him to the floor, wrestling with him, the bucking, writhing body under his the perfect surface to rub off on.

Somewhere between the punch and his climax he gets a cut lip and a blow that leaves his right ear hot and swollen, but Gene's got two hands and the other's where it should be and they're both smiling when Sam leaves Gene's second-best pair of trousers reeking of something besides the pub.

As usual, Gene's gone moments later with no more than a nod as he shoves a damp tea towel with a picture of Blackpool Tower on it into Sam's hand. Given what it's just wiped up, it's going in the bin, not the wash, but Sam waits until the door's closed to put it there. The last thing he needs is Gene making a joke that's just bound to have Fairy Liquid as the punch line.

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