By Marianne
I can always tell when you're there, when your parents are gone and the house is yours. The doormat is out of its usual place and, usually, I can hear the record player blaring away inside.
I like it when I come over, use your key to get in, and we take over the place as if was our own. But you are sure are a messy guy, Nigel! Your mum is right about that one!
I knew what I'd find and I was right. An empty two-liter soda bottle in the sink, a half full one on the table, cap off. Chip bags on the floor. And you in the den flopped on the couch playing records, your face buried in a comic book of some kind. The sound is turned up loud enough to bounce pictures off the wall.
"Hey, turn that down to a dull roar, will ya? We have business to do ‘ere"
"Nick!" You bounce up from the bed and come to greet me, you glasses fall off. Simon is right; you will look better without them bloody glasses you wore forever!
"Cool outfit," I say. My usual sarcastic swipe at your habit of coming over and immediately loses everything but socks, boxers, and tee shirt.
“What? You don't like it?" I see that silly grin on your face. I grab your arm as you stand in your gangly build, past and pull you into me, smelling your hair. I recognize my almond shampoo. I rest my cheek on your chest, and hold you like that, my arms around your stomach. Your hands are lightly on my forearms and your eyes are fixed on the mirror of the wall.
"Your hair smells good," you say. I know it should smell like dye and sweat.
"Pervert!"
"You take a shower?" Your skinny chest under the tee shirt feels solid, hard.
"Yeah. You mind?"
You shrug.
"I dunno. I just don't like it is all." Your arms fall to the side and then snake back between us, moving palm down over the front of my dark blue trousers.
"It's big" you say, still looking at the mirror.
"No it's not." But it is, actually. Not hard, but just...large. Still hanging down but yet at that any-minute-now angle of repose. Heavy. Sensitive. Wary.
"Don't do that" I flinch away from your probing fingers.
"Why not? Doncha like it?" But you stop and bring your hands to the front and put them back on my forearms.
"Just want to get outta my band clothes is all. I'm whacked!"
"Oh, yeah?" You tilt your head back and do a comic leer and flutter your eyes like a silent movie vamp.
"Pervert!" I turn and start into the bedroom to change into the more comfortable clothes I brought over. You bounce over to the bed and flop down, turning your back at me as you do.
"Yeah, but you love me, doncha Nicky?"
"Nah!" I say and disappear around the corner into the hall just ahead of a dirty shoe your mum has been ages telling you to get.
"Slob!" you say, and then "I take it back! I take it back! I take it back!" as I run and find you and my fingers dig in for ribs and tummy and you roll into a squirming ball on the bed. I take advantage of your contortions to toss you further down the mattress and flop down in the comfy spot you have vacated.
“Look, your mum put nice clean sheets on your bed…too bad these will be ruined” I laugh.
"No fair!" you kneel on the bed, hands on my shins, your face a mask of mock fury and total derangement.
"Losers weepers!" I say.
"I'll make ya weep!" you yell as you throw yourself on me and began a tickle assault on my chest and ribs. And then suddenly your hands are much lower and the laughing stops. I feel your gentle fingers on my cock inside my boxers, still in its somnolent state, for a second or two anyway. You are watching my face and I am watching yours. The mask of fury is gone now. Your mouth is slightly open, as if you are about to say something, your gray-green eyes steady and unblinkingly on my face. I sigh, more a release of breath than anything else.
"Good?" you ask. You're are smiling that smile now. The feel of your gentle fingers through the cotton of my underwear is soothing, almost hypnotic.
"Ummmmm!" I groan.
"You VILL answer me ven I osk you a qvest-yun, Mr. Bond!" and I don’t get it, why you have to play accents, after all we are just British as Bond.
"I don't gotta ansa you nuttin'" I sneer, but I don't do anything to stop
what you are doing.
"That's not how James Bond talks," you point out.
"I'm not James Bond," I reply. “I’m Nicolas Bates!”
"Oh, yes you are! You're just trying to escape detection! You can't fool us, Mr. Bond!" The last two words resumed the attempts at a sinister accent. You've stopped now and kneel on the bed against my raised shin, your hands gently resting on my knees as they rested on my forearms a few minutes before. Then, as if you just remembered or thought of something you jump up and run over to your clothes where they are loosely piled on an mess. You come back with a thin, white belt.
"Turn over and lie on your stomach, Mr. Bond!" you order.
"What for?" I ask. You lean in close to my face, your hands braced on my chest. You do this sort of thing a lot: you squeeze whatever part of me you've latched onto very hard, you screw up your face into that mask of
crazy fury, you clench your teeth together like the Hulk, and you speak very slowly and huskily through your teeth.
"Just! Do! It!" you hiss.
I said you do this a lot, and you do. But when you do I read it that what you are really saying is 'Pretty please, please, please! I really want you to do this for me, but it's so much more fun if it looks like you're doing it because I'm making you do it!' If there's anything I am totally guilty of, it's giving in to you too easily on almost everything, particularly when you get a chance to do some creative wheedling. I hesitate for a second, and then roll over onto my stomach on the bed. Immediately, you hop up and straddle my butt. I can feel your bare calves against my bare thighs.
"Verrrrrrrrrrry good, Mr. Bond! It will go much easier on you if you obey my orders!" you say, in another of your accents.
"That's not the same guy," I point out. "That one sounds oriental." You have taken my arms, one at a time, and very gently pulled them to the small of my back where you have crossed them at the wrist.
"Right, Mr. Bond! Verrrrrrry perceptive of you! I am Chang Shu and I am a specialist!"
"Oh? And what are you a specialist in, Mr. Shu? Bad accents?" I feel your belt being wrapped around my wrists and snugged up with knot after knot. You're finished then, and lean down over my back, your belly presses into my bound hands. I resist the temptation to tickle you with my fingers. Your mouth is so close to my ear I can feel the warm moisture of your breath on it.
"Interrogation, Mr Bond!" You lean even closer so that your lips are now actually brushing against my ear. "I specialize in interrogation ... by torture!"
The whole thing, the play-acting, the tying-up, the weight of you on me, the feel of your lips on my ear, and your hard belly against my bound hands--the whole set up has done nothing at all to curtail the hardening of my cock.
"And now, Mr. Bond, if you vill please to turn over, vee will get to vurk!"
"Hey, that was the German guy!" I complain, as you help me to roll over onto my bound arms.
"So what?" you say, grunting from the exertion of helping me turn over on the bed. "Maybe he just checks in once in a while to see how things are going!" You seem angry at my implied critique of your acents, but not too angry.
"You're amazing!" I say, and mean it, but have to laugh nevertheless. Then the oriental gentleman is back again.
"You will soon see, Mr. Bond, just how amazing I can be when prisoners are uncooperative!"
"Good night yourself, Peter whatever the fuck your dumb name is!" you say.
"Hey! Watch your language, guy!"
"Well, I can't help it! I hate that f... guy!"
"Why don't you just turn off the damn TV? We...uh...haven't exactly been watching it, you know!"
"Pervert!"
"Pervert? Me? That's FUNNY! Why you little... How about untying me, anyway?" I start to roll over and almost tumble you onto the floor from your nest between my legs. But you hang on and push down hard on my chest, shoving me back flat onto my bound arms. I can feel wetness soaking through my tee shirt from your hands.
"No! Not 'til you tell me..."
"Tell you what, Mr. Shu? I thought you were finished interrogating me."
"Not him. Me. Tell me."
"Ok, what? Tell you what?"
"Was it... you know, fun? Did you like it? You sure seemed to like it? Wow! Did you ever!"
"You know I did. It was... well, it was very...special. I don't know what else to say right now. I haven't even really got my breath back yet. It was... great!" You beam with pride and I feel warm inside when I see that familiar big smile of genuine, unfeigned happiness grow across your sweet face.
"I was good then?"
"You were better than good! You were unbelievably, tremendously, magnificently fantastic!" I meant every word of it.
"Well, OK, then! Turnover and I'll untie you."
And then you add, with a giggle, "Mr. Rhodes Bond!"
