Alley Cat
*Story contains M/M relations, potential violence, and sexual scenes.*
Autumn rain, though
once again hulking away in threatening clouds and not actually falling, had
left the streets damp, cold and slimy. What should have washed the concrete and
left behind fresh, clean scent had, in fact, left a heavy, almost oppressive weight
in the air. It trapped the scent of garbage bins piled too high, of rodents
passed on and well into the nastier stages of decomposition. The air seemed too
thick to breathe, too cloying to want to, yet so lacking in oxygen that the
chest pulled that much harder to swallow more of it. The chill was a stark
contrast to the heat in the club and Peyton shivered despite the front of
confidence he was trying to project. "Just act like you know what you're
doing," he told himself silently. "A million times, a million places;
been there, done that. It's easy."
The man that walked beside him made no show of affecting the same pretence. His head twisted constantly from side to side as they walked the stretch of alley. He had his fists shoved in the pockets of his jacket, his shoulders tight and his jaw set like stone. Yet even with the shifty attitude Peyton had to force his eyes away so that he didn't get caught staring like a besotted school boy. The man was sexy as all fuck. Peyton had watched him like a starving dog eyeing an abandoned sandwich as he'd danced in the club: all perfect shoulders and hard body, hips that moved like they were on swivels, and a cocky expression that had caught Peyton's gaze too many times not to have been obvious. "Isha," Peyton had overheard another dancer shout over the music, gaining the man's response, and in reaction Peyton had found himself mouthing the name, tasting it on his tongue before he'd noticed that Isha was watching him and turned his head away in embarrassment.
Peyton paused at a darkened alcove, an entranceway with a footprint no bigger than four feet by four feet, but it would offer overhead cover and led to a heavy metal door that looked like it hadn't been opened in decades.
"No," Isha said gruffly. "Farther down. Away from the lights."
Peyton tried not to think about the sounds underneath his feet. He'd paid too much for the Converse he wore on his feet, almost half of his spending cash for the entire month but they'd looked so damn good when he tried them on. At this point he'd just have to hope for the best though. There was no way he was backing out now.
"Here," Isha said finally, stopping beside a less than appealing bin. "In behind."
A hotel would have been good, but unfortunately impossible. Convincing Isha to go back to one of their apartments would have been better, assuming Isha had his own place. But this was unfamiliar territory to Peyton and he didn't want to come across like an idiot.
Only the moon offered visual assistance, and it barely managed that considering the cloud cover was doing its best to keep the crescent well-cloaked. "Where do you want me?" Peyton asked, clearing his throat to hide the tremor. When Isha didn't reply, Peyton slipped past him and stepped close to the exterior of the building, fitting his body into the 'L' created by the wall and the garbage bin. "Is this all right?"
The lack of conversation was unnerving and Peyton couldn't stop his tongue from flicking out to swipe constantly dry lips, or his palms from searching stability off the brick behind him. What was Isha waiting for? Was there something he was supposed to be doing? Did you just—
Peyton's eyes flew wide and he almost smacked a hand to his forehead in frustration at his lack of common sense. Of course ... He reached for his wallet and chuckled nervously. "Fifty you said, right?"
"I buy my own drinks," Isha had said to him in the club when Peyton had made the standard offer. "But if you're looking for a date I'm sure we can work something out."
Fifty bucks had been an outrageous consideration for Peyton. Tuition was due for next semester in another three weeks, he'd already bought the shoes, and his brother's birthday was coming up. That wasn't even taking into consideration the eight bucks he'd spent on the cab ride to the club or the two drinks he'd bought while he was there. But he could live off Kraft Dinner and Ramen noodles for a week or two if he had to for this – for something other than his hand or a lubed latex sleeve. Not that there weren't any other bodies at his college that might be interested if Peyton could find the nerve to go hunting for them. It was just so hard to approach someone. That's what had been cool about Isha. Isha had noticed him looking. Isha had come over to him. Isha had said hello first and forced bits of conversation from Peyton's fumbling lips. No one else did that. No one took the time to try and get past Peyton's unreasonable shyness and lack of confidence. So what if had ended up being someone that was trying to cash in on it? At least it was a real person.
The thought brought a fresh rush of heat into Peyton's face. It made his breath pick up and his heart jump. Real hands were going to touch him. Finally, God and heaven and cupids and unicorns be thanked, an actual wet, warm set of lips was going to part and let Peyton slide inside them. Hell, Peyton considered, maybe Isha would even let him fuck. Maybe Isha would fuck him? Peyton hadn't really asked for specifics when the suggestion of monetary exchange for sex had been brought up. He'd just said yes. Fuck yes, to be exact. It may have fallen off his tongue with a stutter. It may have been so quiet that Peyton had barely heard it in his own ears. But he'd managed it.
He pulled his wallet from his pocket and flicked a glance up at Isha. He stood a good head taller than Peyton and everything about him screamed its masculinity, from the buzzed haircut to the scuffed bike boots and all the sexy bits in between. If pheromones were visual, Peyton had no doubts that Isha would be a mass of radiant, reaching, probing colour. "Here," he choked, passing Isha the red polymer bill, dragging his own eyes away from The Right Honourable William King's sombre face, telling himself that he was being ridiculous to imagine that the man on the bill was somehow glaring at him.
Isha snagged the bill quickly, casting a look over each shoulder before stepping closer. "Thanks, but if you don't mind too terribly much ... " A thumb and finger secured the corner of Peyton's wallet with a vice-like grip and Isha's voice turned cold. "I'll take that too."
Instinct told Peyton to keep his hold, even when Isha's eyes seemed to ice over at the feel of Peyton's counter tug. "Wait ... what?"
"Don't make me hurt you," Isha said quietly. "Just give me the fucking wallet and walk away."
Understanding dawned slowly. "Oh, no," Peyton lowered his eyes and stared at their shared grip on the small leather case. "Please, no."
Peyton's brain jumped into full self-berating mode. He was only getting what he deserved – walking into an alley with a stranger; trying to buy sex; letting perversion lead him away from trying to find something at least potentially meaningful – had his mother taught him nothing? His church? Every poster and every lecture about protecting one's self and avoiding trouble? What had he been thinking?
"Just let go—"
"Please don't do this to me," Peyton whispered. "I can't ... you don't understand—"
"Right," Isha snarled "I'm the one who doesn't understand. Not you. God, no, it couldn't be you. You and your college-boy friends who have everything. Who think it's okay to just walk into these places and take whatever they want. And if they can't get it with their lecherous, cocky smiles then they'll just buy it. Because that's what you do, right? Just buy anything you want. I'm so sick of you guys walking around like you own the fucking place, with your fancy new clothes and your perfectly-styled hair. Your fucking shoes cost more than my groceries for a month, for fuck's sake!"
Peyton laughed – a shrill, high sound of both fear and incredulity. "They cost more than my groceries for a month! And they're only on my feet because I found them in a discount store and had a smidge of extra cash! I swear to God—"
"Bullshit."
One heavy palm shoved Peyton back against the brickwork and the sharp yelp that Peyton bleated came unchecked when his shoulder blade scraped across the unyielding surface.
"Fine!" He shoved the wallet at Isha with more force than he would have assumed he was capable of. "Here. Take it then. There was only sixty damn dollars in it anyway and you have fifty of it already. Check if you don't believe me. And before you go digging, there's only one credit card and it's just a student card hooked up to my mom's with a five hundred dollar limit. And trust me, there's like maybe six dollars worth of available credit on it."
The tears in Peyton's eyes made him feel like a total idiot. He couldn't help it though. Besides, his conscience poked, he deserved to feel like a fool.
Peyton tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "Go ahead and take the money. But don't be a dick. Don't make me replace all my I.D." He caught Isha's stare with a pleading look. "Please."
"Oh no you don't," Isha shook his head and pursed his lips. "Don't you fucking look at me like that. You have no idea what it's like to be me. Or why I need this. Or anything about any of this." He tucked the fifty into his front pants pocket and thumbed the wallet open impatiently.
"See?" Peyton asked when Isha looked back up and locked their eyes together yet again. "Was I lying?"
Isha closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "No. You weren't lying." A long pause settled over the alley. The sound of dripping water and the barely-there bass that somehow managed to make itself known all the way down the alley rolled in to fill the quiet.
"I needed this," Isha said finally, shaking the wallet as if he were punishing the leather for its non-compliance to his wishes. "It's not your business why or what but I just want you to know that. You were supposed to be just another little fuck with a wallet full of cash and a head full of unproved self-importance."
Peyton lowered his eyes to hide the increasing flow of water. "Just take it."
Isha leaned forward, pinched Peyton's chin and forced him to look up. "Why are you even out here? If you're not one of those no-minds then why would you be so stupid?"
Self-control failed and a tear slipped out of the corner of Peyton's eye. He prayed that the dark would hide it, winced when that prayer went denied, and did his best not to flinch away when Isha released the grip on his chin to touch the trail of water with a fingertip. "I just wanted to know ... " Peyton whispered.
"What?" Isha asked. "How easy it is to dehumanize someone?"
Peyton shook his head no. "What it felt like to get touched. To be with someone."
Isha's words were snarled and unimpressed. "Find a boyfriend."
Peyton's strangled laugh sounded too much like a sob even to his own ears.
Once again Isha loosed another sigh. With exaggerated effort he flicked the final ten dollar bill out of Peyton's wallet and handed it back. "Lean against the wall."
"I ... " Peyton gripped his wallet with both hands as if, at any moment, Isha was going to demand it back. "I don't understand what you're saying."
"I'm taking the ten as well," Isha growled. "But I'll give you what I promised you in the club. Lean back against the damn wall."
Peyton shook his head no. "I don't ... no. I don't want it. Just take the—"
Isha didn't wait for the rest of the sentence. He pushed Peyton against the wall and lifted a single finger in warning. "Stay there."
He was back with a square of cardboard before Peyton's mind had the chance to reason that he could have ran while Isha's attention had been diverted. After all, he might not have the build that Isha had, but Peyton did run track all the way through high school. It hadn't been that long; he could probably still put it off—
His thoughts stuttered to a halt when Isha dropped the cardboard in front of his feet and began to kneel. Then the only thought his brain could sort was the name of deities intertwined with every shocked and blatant curse word he'd ever known: God, fuck, Jesus, damn ... none of which were able to make it from brain to tongue.
Isha slipped two fingers into the front of Peyton's jeans and hooked the button with his thumb. "Don't overthink," he directed. "I have no intentions of kneeling here all night waiting for you to finish."
Denim snapped open, the seductive purr of a zipper being lowered sounded, and as fabric was worked over Peyton's hips he struggled to find the words to say he was more than sure waiting for him to finish wasn't going to be a problem. He didn't have to speak them.
"Atta boy," Isha said, amusement obvious in tone, as he confirmed visual with tangible, stroking flesh that had no qualms whatsoever with Peyton's and Isha's previous 'misunderstandings'.
"Okay, this is crazy," Peyton thought, closing his eyes and trying to regulate breath. "So what if a minute ago you were scared he was going to slit your throat? So what if you're not entirely sure he's not still going to?" And then the questions simply dissolved as spit-wet lips first nudged, then opened to creep over Peyton's body in one of the most erotic feelings that he'd ever experienced. His knees buckled, be it sensory overload or his body's desire to sink deeper into the sensation, and his palms rasped against the brick to keep himself upright. The wave of first pleasure was nothing however, to the mind-blowing titillation of movement: the suction, the swipe of wet muscle, the vibrations that created an almost insane tickling in the very core of him. It made Peyton want to grab Isha by the head and ram himself in and out at his own pace instead of waiting for Isha to move. Not that he would – not that he dared, but even the thought of doing it made Peyton's body jump and strive forward.
Sex toys could go fuck themselves. Lubes that promised to heat or cool or over-sensitize be damned. This ... this was everything. He heard the sound of a belt releasing and chose to ignore it. He heard a zipper lower and didn't seek out its source either. As long as the sucking continued, as long as Isha didn't stop, Peyton could probably overlook just about anything. His hips took direction from instinct, his words had the unintelligible slur of a drunkard, and Peyton didn't merely stumble into orgasm, he tripped like a colt first learning to stand, smashed into the jagged edge of every pleasure pinnacle along the tunnel of his fall and landed spread-eagled and spent, face-first and beaten. He didn't know if he should be thrilled or lie down and die.
His legs were shaking, his muscles were weak and the concept of continuing to draw oxygen effectively was questionable. Isha leaned to one side, spit a stream of fluid onto the concrete and Peyton had no idea what he was doing when Isha stood and pulled the hem of Peyton's shirt up and out of the way. Not until he heard the sound of a fist shuffling hastily over skin and the first splash of warm fluid hit him.
Peyton groaned, caught Isha's jacket with one hand and lowered the other to the dripping spots on his torso. "He came," Peyton told himself, shocked silent. "He came on me. Another man came on my skin." The mantra repeated through his brain as he lifted soaked fingers to his lips and touched them to his tongue.
"Holy," Peyton mumbled. "Holy fuck!"
He was still too stunned to be insulted when Isha chuckled into his hair, "You're fun, you know that?"
Peyton could only cling to Isha's jacket. "And you're amazing."
"Nah," Isha laughed. "You're just still easy to please."
Isha pulled back, forcing Peyton to release him, and tucked himself back into his pants. "Thank you," he said, tapping his front pocket and it took a second for Peyton to remember the cash that Isha had slipped in there.
"No problem," Peyton shrugged.
Potential awkward moments were vanquished when Isha turned and began to walk away. He made it all of five steps before he stopped. "Oh and Peyton?" Isha looked over his shoulder. "Don't follow strange men into dark alleys anymore."
Peyton didn't bother to insist his hands wake up and fasten his clothing. Still panting he looked up and held Isha's gaze. He nodded.
"For your own sake, of course," Isha said, lifting an eyebrow. "And either get back in the club or get your ass home. You don't belong out here standing in the trash."
Peyton had to force his throat to comply with speech, swallowing several times to bring moisture back first. By the time the words came, Isha was already up the alley and haloed by streetlight. "Isha," he called, waiting for the body language to show that Isha was listening. "Neither do you."
There was a long pause and Peyton was sure, positive in fact, that Isha was struggling for words. They didn't come. With a spin of sole and a click of heel, Isha turned back to the street and walked away.
The man that walked beside him made no show of affecting the same pretence. His head twisted constantly from side to side as they walked the stretch of alley. He had his fists shoved in the pockets of his jacket, his shoulders tight and his jaw set like stone. Yet even with the shifty attitude Peyton had to force his eyes away so that he didn't get caught staring like a besotted school boy. The man was sexy as all fuck. Peyton had watched him like a starving dog eyeing an abandoned sandwich as he'd danced in the club: all perfect shoulders and hard body, hips that moved like they were on swivels, and a cocky expression that had caught Peyton's gaze too many times not to have been obvious. "Isha," Peyton had overheard another dancer shout over the music, gaining the man's response, and in reaction Peyton had found himself mouthing the name, tasting it on his tongue before he'd noticed that Isha was watching him and turned his head away in embarrassment.
Peyton paused at a darkened alcove, an entranceway with a footprint no bigger than four feet by four feet, but it would offer overhead cover and led to a heavy metal door that looked like it hadn't been opened in decades.
"No," Isha said gruffly. "Farther down. Away from the lights."
Peyton tried not to think about the sounds underneath his feet. He'd paid too much for the Converse he wore on his feet, almost half of his spending cash for the entire month but they'd looked so damn good when he tried them on. At this point he'd just have to hope for the best though. There was no way he was backing out now.
"Here," Isha said finally, stopping beside a less than appealing bin. "In behind."
A hotel would have been good, but unfortunately impossible. Convincing Isha to go back to one of their apartments would have been better, assuming Isha had his own place. But this was unfamiliar territory to Peyton and he didn't want to come across like an idiot.
Only the moon offered visual assistance, and it barely managed that considering the cloud cover was doing its best to keep the crescent well-cloaked. "Where do you want me?" Peyton asked, clearing his throat to hide the tremor. When Isha didn't reply, Peyton slipped past him and stepped close to the exterior of the building, fitting his body into the 'L' created by the wall and the garbage bin. "Is this all right?"
The lack of conversation was unnerving and Peyton couldn't stop his tongue from flicking out to swipe constantly dry lips, or his palms from searching stability off the brick behind him. What was Isha waiting for? Was there something he was supposed to be doing? Did you just—
Peyton's eyes flew wide and he almost smacked a hand to his forehead in frustration at his lack of common sense. Of course ... He reached for his wallet and chuckled nervously. "Fifty you said, right?"
"I buy my own drinks," Isha had said to him in the club when Peyton had made the standard offer. "But if you're looking for a date I'm sure we can work something out."
Fifty bucks had been an outrageous consideration for Peyton. Tuition was due for next semester in another three weeks, he'd already bought the shoes, and his brother's birthday was coming up. That wasn't even taking into consideration the eight bucks he'd spent on the cab ride to the club or the two drinks he'd bought while he was there. But he could live off Kraft Dinner and Ramen noodles for a week or two if he had to for this – for something other than his hand or a lubed latex sleeve. Not that there weren't any other bodies at his college that might be interested if Peyton could find the nerve to go hunting for them. It was just so hard to approach someone. That's what had been cool about Isha. Isha had noticed him looking. Isha had come over to him. Isha had said hello first and forced bits of conversation from Peyton's fumbling lips. No one else did that. No one took the time to try and get past Peyton's unreasonable shyness and lack of confidence. So what if had ended up being someone that was trying to cash in on it? At least it was a real person.
The thought brought a fresh rush of heat into Peyton's face. It made his breath pick up and his heart jump. Real hands were going to touch him. Finally, God and heaven and cupids and unicorns be thanked, an actual wet, warm set of lips was going to part and let Peyton slide inside them. Hell, Peyton considered, maybe Isha would even let him fuck. Maybe Isha would fuck him? Peyton hadn't really asked for specifics when the suggestion of monetary exchange for sex had been brought up. He'd just said yes. Fuck yes, to be exact. It may have fallen off his tongue with a stutter. It may have been so quiet that Peyton had barely heard it in his own ears. But he'd managed it.
He pulled his wallet from his pocket and flicked a glance up at Isha. He stood a good head taller than Peyton and everything about him screamed its masculinity, from the buzzed haircut to the scuffed bike boots and all the sexy bits in between. If pheromones were visual, Peyton had no doubts that Isha would be a mass of radiant, reaching, probing colour. "Here," he choked, passing Isha the red polymer bill, dragging his own eyes away from The Right Honourable William King's sombre face, telling himself that he was being ridiculous to imagine that the man on the bill was somehow glaring at him.
Isha snagged the bill quickly, casting a look over each shoulder before stepping closer. "Thanks, but if you don't mind too terribly much ... " A thumb and finger secured the corner of Peyton's wallet with a vice-like grip and Isha's voice turned cold. "I'll take that too."
Instinct told Peyton to keep his hold, even when Isha's eyes seemed to ice over at the feel of Peyton's counter tug. "Wait ... what?"
"Don't make me hurt you," Isha said quietly. "Just give me the fucking wallet and walk away."
Understanding dawned slowly. "Oh, no," Peyton lowered his eyes and stared at their shared grip on the small leather case. "Please, no."
Peyton's brain jumped into full self-berating mode. He was only getting what he deserved – walking into an alley with a stranger; trying to buy sex; letting perversion lead him away from trying to find something at least potentially meaningful – had his mother taught him nothing? His church? Every poster and every lecture about protecting one's self and avoiding trouble? What had he been thinking?
"Just let go—"
"Please don't do this to me," Peyton whispered. "I can't ... you don't understand—"
"Right," Isha snarled "I'm the one who doesn't understand. Not you. God, no, it couldn't be you. You and your college-boy friends who have everything. Who think it's okay to just walk into these places and take whatever they want. And if they can't get it with their lecherous, cocky smiles then they'll just buy it. Because that's what you do, right? Just buy anything you want. I'm so sick of you guys walking around like you own the fucking place, with your fancy new clothes and your perfectly-styled hair. Your fucking shoes cost more than my groceries for a month, for fuck's sake!"
Peyton laughed – a shrill, high sound of both fear and incredulity. "They cost more than my groceries for a month! And they're only on my feet because I found them in a discount store and had a smidge of extra cash! I swear to God—"
"Bullshit."
One heavy palm shoved Peyton back against the brickwork and the sharp yelp that Peyton bleated came unchecked when his shoulder blade scraped across the unyielding surface.
"Fine!" He shoved the wallet at Isha with more force than he would have assumed he was capable of. "Here. Take it then. There was only sixty damn dollars in it anyway and you have fifty of it already. Check if you don't believe me. And before you go digging, there's only one credit card and it's just a student card hooked up to my mom's with a five hundred dollar limit. And trust me, there's like maybe six dollars worth of available credit on it."
The tears in Peyton's eyes made him feel like a total idiot. He couldn't help it though. Besides, his conscience poked, he deserved to feel like a fool.
Peyton tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "Go ahead and take the money. But don't be a dick. Don't make me replace all my I.D." He caught Isha's stare with a pleading look. "Please."
"Oh no you don't," Isha shook his head and pursed his lips. "Don't you fucking look at me like that. You have no idea what it's like to be me. Or why I need this. Or anything about any of this." He tucked the fifty into his front pants pocket and thumbed the wallet open impatiently.
"See?" Peyton asked when Isha looked back up and locked their eyes together yet again. "Was I lying?"
Isha closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "No. You weren't lying." A long pause settled over the alley. The sound of dripping water and the barely-there bass that somehow managed to make itself known all the way down the alley rolled in to fill the quiet.
"I needed this," Isha said finally, shaking the wallet as if he were punishing the leather for its non-compliance to his wishes. "It's not your business why or what but I just want you to know that. You were supposed to be just another little fuck with a wallet full of cash and a head full of unproved self-importance."
Peyton lowered his eyes to hide the increasing flow of water. "Just take it."
Isha leaned forward, pinched Peyton's chin and forced him to look up. "Why are you even out here? If you're not one of those no-minds then why would you be so stupid?"
Self-control failed and a tear slipped out of the corner of Peyton's eye. He prayed that the dark would hide it, winced when that prayer went denied, and did his best not to flinch away when Isha released the grip on his chin to touch the trail of water with a fingertip. "I just wanted to know ... " Peyton whispered.
"What?" Isha asked. "How easy it is to dehumanize someone?"
Peyton shook his head no. "What it felt like to get touched. To be with someone."
Isha's words were snarled and unimpressed. "Find a boyfriend."
Peyton's strangled laugh sounded too much like a sob even to his own ears.
Once again Isha loosed another sigh. With exaggerated effort he flicked the final ten dollar bill out of Peyton's wallet and handed it back. "Lean against the wall."
"I ... " Peyton gripped his wallet with both hands as if, at any moment, Isha was going to demand it back. "I don't understand what you're saying."
"I'm taking the ten as well," Isha growled. "But I'll give you what I promised you in the club. Lean back against the damn wall."
Peyton shook his head no. "I don't ... no. I don't want it. Just take the—"
Isha didn't wait for the rest of the sentence. He pushed Peyton against the wall and lifted a single finger in warning. "Stay there."
He was back with a square of cardboard before Peyton's mind had the chance to reason that he could have ran while Isha's attention had been diverted. After all, he might not have the build that Isha had, but Peyton did run track all the way through high school. It hadn't been that long; he could probably still put it off—
His thoughts stuttered to a halt when Isha dropped the cardboard in front of his feet and began to kneel. Then the only thought his brain could sort was the name of deities intertwined with every shocked and blatant curse word he'd ever known: God, fuck, Jesus, damn ... none of which were able to make it from brain to tongue.
Isha slipped two fingers into the front of Peyton's jeans and hooked the button with his thumb. "Don't overthink," he directed. "I have no intentions of kneeling here all night waiting for you to finish."
Denim snapped open, the seductive purr of a zipper being lowered sounded, and as fabric was worked over Peyton's hips he struggled to find the words to say he was more than sure waiting for him to finish wasn't going to be a problem. He didn't have to speak them.
"Atta boy," Isha said, amusement obvious in tone, as he confirmed visual with tangible, stroking flesh that had no qualms whatsoever with Peyton's and Isha's previous 'misunderstandings'.
"Okay, this is crazy," Peyton thought, closing his eyes and trying to regulate breath. "So what if a minute ago you were scared he was going to slit your throat? So what if you're not entirely sure he's not still going to?" And then the questions simply dissolved as spit-wet lips first nudged, then opened to creep over Peyton's body in one of the most erotic feelings that he'd ever experienced. His knees buckled, be it sensory overload or his body's desire to sink deeper into the sensation, and his palms rasped against the brick to keep himself upright. The wave of first pleasure was nothing however, to the mind-blowing titillation of movement: the suction, the swipe of wet muscle, the vibrations that created an almost insane tickling in the very core of him. It made Peyton want to grab Isha by the head and ram himself in and out at his own pace instead of waiting for Isha to move. Not that he would – not that he dared, but even the thought of doing it made Peyton's body jump and strive forward.
Sex toys could go fuck themselves. Lubes that promised to heat or cool or over-sensitize be damned. This ... this was everything. He heard the sound of a belt releasing and chose to ignore it. He heard a zipper lower and didn't seek out its source either. As long as the sucking continued, as long as Isha didn't stop, Peyton could probably overlook just about anything. His hips took direction from instinct, his words had the unintelligible slur of a drunkard, and Peyton didn't merely stumble into orgasm, he tripped like a colt first learning to stand, smashed into the jagged edge of every pleasure pinnacle along the tunnel of his fall and landed spread-eagled and spent, face-first and beaten. He didn't know if he should be thrilled or lie down and die.
His legs were shaking, his muscles were weak and the concept of continuing to draw oxygen effectively was questionable. Isha leaned to one side, spit a stream of fluid onto the concrete and Peyton had no idea what he was doing when Isha stood and pulled the hem of Peyton's shirt up and out of the way. Not until he heard the sound of a fist shuffling hastily over skin and the first splash of warm fluid hit him.
Peyton groaned, caught Isha's jacket with one hand and lowered the other to the dripping spots on his torso. "He came," Peyton told himself, shocked silent. "He came on me. Another man came on my skin." The mantra repeated through his brain as he lifted soaked fingers to his lips and touched them to his tongue.
"Holy," Peyton mumbled. "Holy fuck!"
He was still too stunned to be insulted when Isha chuckled into his hair, "You're fun, you know that?"
Peyton could only cling to Isha's jacket. "And you're amazing."
"Nah," Isha laughed. "You're just still easy to please."
Isha pulled back, forcing Peyton to release him, and tucked himself back into his pants. "Thank you," he said, tapping his front pocket and it took a second for Peyton to remember the cash that Isha had slipped in there.
"No problem," Peyton shrugged.
Potential awkward moments were vanquished when Isha turned and began to walk away. He made it all of five steps before he stopped. "Oh and Peyton?" Isha looked over his shoulder. "Don't follow strange men into dark alleys anymore."
Peyton didn't bother to insist his hands wake up and fasten his clothing. Still panting he looked up and held Isha's gaze. He nodded.
"For your own sake, of course," Isha said, lifting an eyebrow. "And either get back in the club or get your ass home. You don't belong out here standing in the trash."
Peyton had to force his throat to comply with speech, swallowing several times to bring moisture back first. By the time the words came, Isha was already up the alley and haloed by streetlight. "Isha," he called, waiting for the body language to show that Isha was listening. "Neither do you."
There was a long pause and Peyton was sure, positive in fact, that Isha was struggling for words. They didn't come. With a spin of sole and a click of heel, Isha turned back to the street and walked away.
The End
Copyright © 2012 AF Henley
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