“Spread your legs,” the voice sounds like Brian’s and the touch feels so real. Pretty good dream, he imagines he is smirking through his deep sleep.
He wakes up because the tear of a condom wrapper and the distinct smell of prophylactics mixing with lube are decidedly un-dream-like. (In his dreams they do it raw and for days at a time and in front of really inappropriate people and myriad other things that make Justin blush now, at a tender twenty three, but that in later years will rise to the surface and escape in fits of ecstasy and turn Brian on in hundreds of new ways and become part of the quilt of their sexual experience together - woven and varied and warm as it is).
A slick finger nudges inside of him, meeting only mild resistance at first because Justin had been in the deepest stages of sleep moments before, but then is suddenly nearly expelled as his body follows his brain and as he wakes he heads straight into panic mode.
“Settle down, it’s just me.” Brian’s inside him then and Justin’s lungs feel as small and collapsed as balls of silly putty out of the pink egg in the grocery store machine that trades you an afternoon of fun for a quarter. Justin still stops and gets bouncing balls and fake tattoos and handfuls of candy that Brian pretends make him sick (but he licks the banana-flavored sugar from the inside of Justin’s mouth in the car on the way home at every stoplight and can’t help but smile).
Justin wants to be angry that he’s being fucked without permission (in most cases this is considered rape his inner drama queen chants), but it feels really good and Brian’s going fast and furious and turning Justin on, a lot. And if he’s honest he sort of likes how his heart hammers through his chest and he can’t get enough air to catch up.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Brian huffs into Justin’s left ear just before he bites his neck and possibly draws blood.
“Jesus, Brian,” Justin tries to push himself up on all fours to gain a little purchase but a strong hand finds his neck (another the small of his back) and he’s pressed firmly to the mattress and held in place like a squirming child being punished. Though he’s no child, well not most days.
“Let me finish,” Brian grunts. Oddly, there is love in that statement (seriously, you just don’t hear it, but Justin does), so he let’s Brian finish.
And then a moment before Brian gets a slap in the face and idle threats regarding a variety of abuse hotlines, Justin is flipped over and his dick is engulfed and there are fingers in his ass and his mind goes fuzzy like the Poltergeist television screen and his eyes roll back in his brain.
Some people have lovers that apologize with roses, chocolate, words, gems, cars, home made cards, Hallmark poems. Justin has a lover that apologies with heavily practiced and perfected strokes to his prostate and the most intense and enjoyable blow job in recorded history (and Justin would venture to guess in non-recorded history as well).
So Justin comes, perfectly and obscenely and for a long time (Brian spent twenty minutes gagging and prodding and orchestrating and God damn if the finished product isn’t going to be just perfect). It’s 3 o’clock in the morning and Justin’s eyes are bloodshot proof when he finally opens them after uncurling his toes.
Brian’s cufflinks hit the dresser’s surface and make a noise that sounds good to Justin (sounds like bed time and sex time and naked time and he likes all those things). Then Justin realizes Brian is taking off cufflinks at 3am. He hadn’t even realized Brian fucked him with a suit on, he feels sort of bad about that (but not enough to dismiss the fact he’s the one who was violated this evening…or morning…or whatever this hour should be called).
Justin thinks about sitting up, but his spine is still down for the count. “Did you just get home from work?”
“Yes,” Brian is brushing his teeth, Justin can smell the mint across the room. Most weekdays they sleep at the loft, Justin likes it better than the manor (but he’d never say).
Justin rolls over so he can see Brian standing naked in front of the sink, mouth all white and foaming and fresh. He looks so tense it makes a little pain in Justin’s stomach.
“Bad day?” Justin yawns so big the earth could fit inside his mouth. Brian quirks an eyebrow and washes his face wordlessly.
Justin is awake enough now to know Brian had a colossally bad day. He’d guess by the time of night and the state of the rape that Brian lost a huge piece of business today. Something that mattered to him.
Justin’s noticed since he’s been back from New York that Brian has a tendency to dump bad days inside of him (literally) and Justin vacillates between feeling good about being able to help Brian in that way and really pissed that Brian rather molest him than talk to him. But, Brian Kinney loves to talk about as much as he likes to fuck women (which is to say occasionally provided he’s had enough weed and wine) and Justin gets that, has for a long time.
Brian gets in bed and puts an arm over Justin’s chest. Justin rolls toward him and whispers, “You’ve been dumping your shit on me a lot lately. You didn’t really used to do that.”
“I don’t shit on you.” Brian’s eyes remain closed.
“Yes, you do, you just did it.”
His eyes open, “I don’t see any shit, and if you want to go there we should have a chat…I’m not into the excrement as part of sex play thing.”
“Brian,” Justin tries to raise an eyebrow, fails miserably.
“Yes, dear,” Brian closes his eyes again.
“Seriously, if you can wake me up with a mean fuck, you can stay up for five more minutes and talk to me about why you feel this is an appropriate form of anger management.”
Brian opens his mouth and then shuts it and then opens it again, “You can handle it.”
“Not the point.”
Brian opens his eyes again and looks serious finally, “The only thing in the world I want to do when I have a day like I had today is crawl inside of you and forget it happened.”
Justin’s a little melted by this confession and the manner in which it is delivered. Brian Kinney does have his moments.
Justin thinks about this, “You could at least wake me up and ask me.”
Brian thinks a moment, “I could.”
Justin shrugs, “Or you could not.”
Brian’s eyes twinkle, “Or I could not.”
Justin smiles, “I can handle it.”
Brian nods, “Yes you can.”
Justin nods, “You’re right, I can hold your shit.”
“Something like that,” Brian yawns.
“But I’m giving it back to you in the morning,” Justin’s face goes devious and crinkles in just the right way.
Brian laughs as his eyes close for the last time, “Just not before 7.”
Justin’s laughter is the last thing either of them hear before their dreams take them away from the world.
End
Feedback to throughthelens78@yahoo.com