Erotic short. A watercolour artist who lives in a country village is faced with the young man who tried and failed at seducing him a decade back.
Just under 3k, cis M/M, rated E. Age difference, anal, orgasm denial, D/s, some pinning and manhandling, a lot of dirty talk, some begging. References made throughout to past fantasies as a teenager.
Auggie had been Frances Lineker’s little boy, back when she’d lived in the house across the lane.
At that time, of course, James had still been living and working down in London, and he’d only rarely been up at the house. When he was, it would be for weekends here and there, where he’d stay inside with Anya as much as possible, and he spent very little time outside because Anya kept planting and then digging up the garden again, always displeased with the way it was arranged, always wanting to make new adjustments.
When he’d taken early retirement from the office and come out to the house full time, Auggie Lineker had been about sixteen.
He knew this because on the afternoons where James slipped a note into his hand and asked him to cut the lawn or do their guttering or attend to some other task in the yard, Auggie would grin at him and tell him so as he slid the note into his pocket.
“I’m sixteen, you know,” he said one summer with a lolly sticking out of his mouth, lips wet and shining, and then the next with sultry eyes wearing a plunging v-neck, “I’m seventeen, Mr Freeman. You know that, right?”
As if he ever asked. As if he would ask.
He never asked his age, just like he never asked him to work in just his vest or take his shirt off, certainly never asked the little shit to bend over while he was working, or fucking dance half-naked with music playing on his phone.
Frances had died of cervical cancer about ten years back, a few years after her boy had gone off to school, and he hadn’t seen him since, had assumed he’d sold the house, but apparently the hippie couple who’d been in it the past few years had only been renting, because James walked out of the front door and saw a familiar arse in tight shorts.
He had the bonnet of his car open, and James watched him lean back from it, wiping his hands clean.
“Need a hand?” he asked, and Auggie looked back at him.
He’d changed a lot in ten years — he’d filled out, put on weight places other than his thighs and his arse. His face was fuller, his lips plumper, and because there was more fat in his cheeks he no longer had quite the same sleepless quality he always had, the slight shadows appearing under his eyes just that, shadows, without being full bags. He was still wearing a tank top, of course, that typical summer fare, and now instead of a few freckles and sunspots, his back and shoulders were decorated in tattoos, bright swathes of audacious colour, greens and blues and pinks, in swirling floral and forest patterns.
“Cheers, Mr Freeman but no,” he said, smirking at him. “I know my car.”
“Moving back home, Auggie?”
“August,” he corrected cleanly. “No one calls me Auggie anymore, Mr Freeman. I’ll be here a few months while I restore the paintwork at the chapel.”
“All that money you squirreled away on your degree, and now you’re a painter and decorator?” asked James, arching his eyebrows, and Auggie laughed, turning away to pull down the bonnet again.
“You’d know all about bad investments, Mr Freeman,” he said over his shoulder as he went back up his path. “How’s that marriage treating you?”
James took in a sharp intake of breath, but Auggie had already gone inside, kicked his door shut behind him, and he set his jaw as he walked down the hill into the village, dropping into the post office to send off some paperwork.
Anya had left last year. She was in Spain, according to Bev and Mina, although they didn’t talk too much about where there mother was or what she was up to. They didn’t want to rub it in, he’d like to think — more realistically, they didn’t much like to talk to him at all.
“D’you know Augustine Lineker?” asked Maggie in the post office as he passed over the cash.
“He was Frances’ Lineker’s son,” said James, and when Maggie looked at him blankly, he went on, “he owns the house across from us. From me. Must have been renting it out the past few years.”
“What’s he do?” she asked. “I’ve got all these packages for him, seems like he’s had half a catalogue of something or other sent up.”
“He’s painting at the chapel, he says,” said James, and didn’t linger to speak further on it.
He’d never actually touched him. Auggie was in the garden all the time, doing jobs here and there, because he was always saving up money to go away to university — Anya had him put together some furniture, help her up and down with the decorations in the attic.
James had paid him once to wash the car, and he’d sat outside with a bottle of beer and watched him, watched the sudsy water wet on his body, watched his muscles ripple, watched his arse — that year he’d been eighteen, so when he’d asked for beer himself, James almost hadn’t hesitated in reaching for another bottle.
Auggie hadn’t taken it, had pulled the bottle right out of James’ own hand, and James had watched, dry-mouthed and silently spellbound, as he’d put his lips to it and took a swig, throat moving as he swallowed. James had been able to taste his fucking chap stick when he’d taken the bottle back.
No, he’d never touched him.
He’d touched a lot of other lads, of course, rent boys, dancers, interns, young men — never that young, not fucking teenagers, and even if Auggie had been older at the time, he knew not to shit where he ate.
Otherwise, he’d have been divorced twenty years earlier.
“Go on,” he’d murmured that night with the beers, leaning over him with his arm wrapped around the post on the porch, putting that chap stick over his lips again. “Mrs Freeman won’t be home ’til tomorrow afternoon, she told you that — she told me too. Why don’t you invite me in, Mr Freeman? See what else I can do for you around the house?”
“If you’re that desperate for cash, lad, you don’t have to go selling anything like that.”
“I’m not selling anything,” he’d murmured. “I’ll toss you this one for free, Mr Freeman. I’ll pretend to be a virgin for a fifty, though.”
* * *
That evening, when he heard the knock on the door, he knew it had to be Auggie. It wouldn’t be Anya or one of the girls, and there was no one in the village who’d be knocking on his door at this time of night.
“Come in,” he called.
The lad didn’t say anything: James heard the door open, close, heard the sound of him slipping off his shoes. James was working in the front room, an easel with watercolours in front of him.
“I saw your show in Manchester,” said Auggie.
“What did you think?” asked James.
“I thought my career would be well-served by having gone to school with a museum curator, too,” said Auggie, and James laughed, turning to look at him.
No vest, no shorts — he was wearing paint-stained dungarees over a t-shirt, but he’d already let the straps fall down, and now he was shimmying out of the dungarees. James’ mouth was dry, but he didn’t say a word as he watched Auggie pull the shirt over his head, shove down his boxers and step out of them.
He had a beautiful cock, naturally, perfectly suited to the rest of his body with a gentle curve and a delicate taper to the head, uncircumcised. He had more tattoos around his thighs and up his belly, and it made his cock look strangely bare and naked.
“I never said yes before,” said James, resisting the urge to lick his lips as Auggie wrapped a hand around his cock and gave it a stroke, coaxing it to hardness in his palm. The head was pink, as dark and pink as Auggie’s lips, and James had the stupidest thought for a moment, that perhaps it would taste, too, of lemon chap stick. “Why ever would I say yes now?”
“Your wife’s already left you,” said Auggie. “I’m not a teenager anymore. You don’t go out in the city anymore, where pretty idiots like me line up to hop on the cock of some sensitive daddy artist.”
“Is that what you think I think of you?” asked James. “That you’re an idiot?”
He was almost frightened to breathe in as Auggie picked up the easel and gently set it aside, putting aside his table too and taking the brush out of his hand, putting it in the water to rinse. His hands were strong as they shoved James back into his armchair, dexterous as they untied the front of his dressing gown and unbuttoned the front of his pyjama bottoms.
“Wanked over you since I was fourteen,” said Auggie. “Some guy drove you home from a gallery show and before you came into town, he pulled over at one of the side entrances to Garden Woods, and you fucked him over the bonnet of your car. I was sneaking home from Adelaide Bryant’s and I saw you, saw the way you shoved his head into the metal, pinned his hands behind his back, heard him fucking beg you to let him come and you said no, not until he’d earned it, that he had to be a good boy.”
“Fuck,” hissed James as Auggie pressed their cocks together and wrapped his hand clumsily around both of them, feeling the pressure of his fingers and the slide and push of Auggie’s cock against his at the same time. His fingers were gripping tightly at the arms of the chair, his head tipping back.
He remembered the night, remembered the man who’d drove him home, remembered how tight and wet he’d been, some beautiful cuntboy with hair long enough to pull on who’d cried the first time James had wrenched his head back and told him to ask permission to come. He didn’t remember his name, but he remembered he’d been a wonderful model, and an even better shag.
“This what you dreamed of, is it?” asked James, and moaned quietly at the way gripped and squeezed at the base of his cock as he leaned back again, sliding the condom down — where the fuck had that come from? Did he have that fucker already open and ready, or had he somehow opened it one-handed? — over the head of his cock. “Waltzing into my house as if you own the place, stripping off your clothes, sitting on my cock with the same sort of entitlement?”
“If I seem too entitled to you, old man, feel free to put me in my place,” said Auggie, straddling his waist, and James hissed through his teeth as he sat himself down. He wasn’t the tightest James had ever had, but he felt good as he sank himself down, took James to the root in one slow movement, his head tipping back, his eyes fluttering closed.
“You little fucking bitch,” said James, and when Auggie tried to reach between them for his cock he grabbed hold of both of his wrists, pulling them against his chest. Auggie’s confidence faltered, his lips parting and a breathless noise eking out of his throat. “Ah ah. If you’ve been dreaming of this cock for the better part of a decade, lad, you can come on it, or you can choose not to come at all.”
There was a stubbornness in his face, but when Auggie tried to pull back his hands James gripped them harder, and he was getting on in years but he was still strong enough, strong enough that Auggie let out a breathless, eager noise as he started to grind his hips down. He moved fast, too fast, and James took one hand and slapped him on the arse, laughing when he let out a moan.
“Slower,” he said. “Take your time, you greedy thing.”
“Me, greedy? I’ve been — I’ve been patient — ”
“Be more patient. Slower now, slower — that’s it. Savour it.”
“I can’t come like this, I can’t — ”
“It’s not a fucking race. Lean back a bit, change your angle.” He pushed slightly on Auggie’s hip, and Auggie scowled down at him until he sank down at just the right angle and suddenly let out a sharp, guttural sound from low in his throat. He tried to speed up again, but James gripped tight at his hip with his free hand and kept him slow, made him move at just the right rhythm.
This, this was luxury, sitting back in one’s chair with a lad like this in one’s lap, feeling him clench and squeeze, hearing his moans. James didn’t get into the city much anymore, and he did miss it, missed this — and Auggie could be made tighter with the right attention, if James bent him over and spanked this hole of his until it was red and tight, until it gripped at him like a vice. Failing that, there was the ginger: James had never allowed himself to imagine that before, carving a piece and letting Auggie feel it, but he had no doubt now that the lad would be a squirmer, that maybe he’d cry, perhaps even beg for a break, sob out his forgiveness.
He’d never thought about Auggie with tears on his cheeks before, and the thought made his cock give a lurch.
His expression was a mask of focus, his eyes squeezed shut, his lips twisted.
“Good as you imagined?” asked James, and Auggie swallowed. “Need to talk to you, do I? What do you want to hear, that I wanted to fuck you when you were a spotty teenager throwing yourself at the neighbour, so much of a whore even at that age you wanted the neighbour older than your dad instead of boys your own age?”
“I fucked boys my own age,” Auggie managed to say, but his cheeks had gone dark, and he was sweating, his hole clenching, his thighs quivering.
“So you did,” said James. “Didn’t show off for them like you did for me, though, did you? Didn’t parade yourself in front of them, remind them you were legal every other minute, didn’t keep note of their wives’ schedules so you could make your passes at them when she wouldn’t be around to notice.”
Auggie whimpered.
“What did you dream of, that I’d make you my whore? Make you into a model for me? Drop cash in your university fund and paint you and fuck you in between, tie you up under my desk and keep my cock warm in your throat as I painted?”
He liked that — his cock sputtered between them, suddenly jerked, and he let out a sharp noise.
“Faster now,” James rumbled, wanting to see it, wanting to feel it as Auggie came, and the lad needed no further encouragement, started bouncing himself in his place, slamming himself down onto James and burying James to the root in him, so he could feel the astonishing heat, the wet grip of him, the squeeze of his muscles and the shudder of his body, hear his moans, hear his gasps, watch his face twist and his lips quiver. “Going to come for me? Going to show me what I’ve been missing?”
“I can’t, not without — not without touching it, please, please, just let me — ”
“Nah,” said James. “I decide what you can’t do. Lean forward if you want it so badly.”
Auggie lunged forward and then sobbed, his cock trapped between their bellies and sliding messily against James’ as he continued to rock himself down, leaving a wet smear on the skin there. He was breathing heavily, was surprisingly eager, surprisingly desperate, for a man his age, and when he came it was sublime, a wonderful tight squeeze, a shudder, a drawn-out moan that James wished he could paint and frame up on the wall.
He was breathing heavily as he came to a stop, his hands loosely gripping at the hand of his that was holding his wrists, his knees squeezing against James’ hips.
“You didn’t,” he said. “You didn’t come. You’re still hard as a rock.”
Since he’d started taking those fucking statins for his cholesterol it took him hours to come, but in this case, that would be a pro.
“Guess you have to work harder to please me then, don’t you?” asked James, and Auggie’s intake of breath was shuddered.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
“Too close to the fantasy?”
Auggie shook his head. “It’s good,” he said. “It’s — It’s good.”
“Good,” said James, and patted his arse. “Go bend over the kitchen table, legs apart, hands flat on the surface.”
Auggie swallowed, eyes shining, and climbed off him, getting to his feet.
James tied the condom off and threw it aside, wiping the lad’s come off of his pyjama shirt, and began to put away his paints.
“Can’t you do that later?” demanded Auggie.
“You just earned yourself an extra ten strikes,” said James.
The silence was preceded by an eager little intake of breath, and James chuckled to himself as he dried off his brush and set it in its place. Tonight would be a good, good night indeed.
Leave a Reply