Chapter Text
Monday, July 17th – An Erotic Awakening.
Her name is Lauren Long and after learning the art of sweet seduction from her fellow sexually bereft students at an all-girl Catholic school, she exists for a sole purpose: the pleasure of man. Years of enforced chastity and reckless moonlight ventures into the succulent folds of her classmates’ unshaven, tender flowers have driven her towards this moment. She’s a woman now, a woman of motive and means, and she desires one thing and one thing alone: Dick, and lots of it.
Her breasts, once fragile buds waiting to bloom, are ripe and aching to be plucked, fondled, squeezed by a man’s strong, unrelenting hands. Her lips, a pair of plump, silken pillows, part in eager anticipation of her next taste of throbbing, hard cock. Oh, how she could almost beg for it. To feel the rigid length of a man inside of her, making her whole, giving her purpose. But a woman such as herself would never need to resort to such debasement. No, all she need do is spread herself wide, like a rose aching for the nourishment of the morning dew, and let herself be filled.
And she does. Again and again and again, her hunger insatiable for the one thing that will never ruin her flawless figure. Lucky for her, she found the ultimate sexual god who can give her exactly what she needs, any time she needs it. And he complies, wearing her like a skin-suit, and together they journey, fulfilling the lusts of the flesh she’s been nurturing since her adolescence. Together they will bring their conquest to the highest peaks of ecstasy, and together they will break him.
****
Beer, weed, chocolate-covered pretzels and Alien vs. Predator. It’s such a shame Mac’s mom received that unsettling telephone call, resulting in Mac having to bail and miss this boys’ night in. Such a crying shame. No elderly lady deserves to be threatened in such a violent and horrific manner (and while Mrs. Mac hadn’t given a shit, Mrs. Kelly’s subsequent hysterical call to Charlie had resulted in Mac getting pumped to kick some mouth-breathing delinquent ass; thankfully Charlie had favoured narcotics and salted snacks), and now it’s just Dennis and Charlie, alone. Awful, awful shame.
While AVP doesn’t stand up to the magnificence of either of its predecessors, the evening chugs along seamlessly. Weed always makes Charlie pliant and tactile – like a hairy rag doll. Taking full advantage, Dennis has ‘missed’ the bag of pretzels and grazed Charlie’s inner thigh on more than one occasion, resulting in little more than a dopey grin and a garbled apology. The night is manufactured to perfection, as always; there’s just one minute loose thread that’s irritating Dennis – the worm in the apple; the rotten cavity in a set of gleaming white teeth.
The fact that Charlie hasn’t said a single goddamn word about the previous night’s magnificent display of sexual prowess is simply the height of uncouth insolence. He’s been given a gift – certainly one befitting a man far greater than himself – and the asshole can’t even acknowledge it! What kind of ingrate gets a gift and doesn’t feel any obligation to the giver? Would it kill him to gush just a tad? To thank Dennis profusely for orchestrating the whole affair? “Oh, Dennis, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had; that blow job was the greatest thing that’s happened in the entirety of my tiny, inconsequential life!” Is that so goddamn hard?
It can’t be that it was bad head; Dennis dismisses that idea outright. He was there; he was privy to the animalistic groans and grunts emanating from the other side of the stall. That was goddamn great head – the god of all head, if you will – and Charlie should be on his knees right now begging for a way to repay such benevolence.
Instead, he’s slouched on the sofa with a beer in one hand and a blunt in the other, chewing pretzels with his mouth open like a goddamn animal.
“So, Charlie,” Dennis ventures, leaning across for another beer and taking a deep inhale of Charlie’s scent as he does so. He reeks of marijuana and insignificance. “You never said how your glorious date with the Waitress went. Big night like that, I figured it would be all you wanted to talk about.”
Charlie polishes off the last third of his Coors in one gulp and reaches for another. “Oh yeah, man, I’ve been dying to talk about that all day, but with Mac around,” he rolls his eyes, “you know how he gets. He’d just wanna talk about my dick and shit, and ugh. It’s massively uncomfortable, dude.”
Goddamn Mac. “Right, yeah. Well, he’s gone for the foreseeable, so consider this a ‘safe space’, buddy.” Dennis claps him on the shoulder and subtly leans in close, a move perfected on countless disposable women. “I wanna hear all about it.”
For a moment, Charlie does nothing but stare off into the distance, as though he’s watching the filthy memory replay in the lazy swirl of pot smoke, before his face contorts in an overlarge grin. “It was incredible!” he exclaims, becoming more animated (and less coherent) with each passing second. He shifts to face Dennis, too drunk or stoned or just plain Charlie to realise how small the space between them has become. “Her mouth felt like, like sunshine and that comforting wall of sewer water – and fireworks! And she was so into it – I mean, I know she thought it was you, but that don’t matter. This was... ugh. Dude. Words. Don’t even have, man,” Charlie giggles. Gotta love what weed does to the man. This is far, far too easy.
“Well, I’m glad you had a good time. You know, that’s what friends are for and shit. We build each other up. We give and take,” Dennis says, punctuating the last word with a knowing smirk.
“She even left her lipstick all over my junk,” Charlie enthuses, one dreamy sigh from going full-on teenage girl. “I might never wash it again!”
Dennis knows he shouldn’t, and the very idea of coming clean regarding yesterday’s antics would fill a lesser being with dread, but goddammit, what’s the point in being a master of your craft if nobody knows you’re responsible? Besides, even the most basic of predators knows that toying with your catch makes the meat so much sweeter.
“About that,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the tube of Harlot with mischief-tinged reverence.
The amount of time it takes for Charlie to register is comedic. His brow furrows as he inspects the item in Dennis’ hand, his lips pursed in thought before he leaps from the sofa as though his ass were on fire.
“What the shit, what the f- what the fuck, dude?” he shrieks, his eyes darting about the place like a manic metronome. It’s almost as if they’re keeping time to his internal breakdown; a symphony of panic and repressed desire. We’re close now, little man; can you feel it coming? You know you want it.
“Easy there, buddy,” Dennis chuckles, rising to his feet and taking Charlie by the shoulders. He’s not afraid of Charlie, not by a long shot. A crow can peck and flap its wings, sure, but all you need to do is apply some force and it’ll snap like a twig. Dennis tightens his grip. “You had fun, no? You enjoyed it. You-”
“That’s not the fucking point, dude!” Charlie interjects, his voice at an octave that potentially only dogs can make sense of, and thin flecks of spittle flying from his lips. He’s trembling. It’s utterly intoxicating.
“I think you’ll find it’s exactly the point, my guy,” Dennis says calmly. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with being open to a little-” His sentence is cut short as Charlie struggles, roars, and manages to headbutt him square in the nose. This little birdy has balls.
There’s no time for Dennis to acknowledge the metallic flavour of blood filling his mouth, before Charlie breaks free and slugs him in the abdomen. Winded, Dennis staggers backward, his arms outstretched in truce. “Come on, Charlie,” he manages, but he may as well be talking to thin air. Charlie doesn’t relent, raining blow after blow upon Dennis until they’re backed up against the wall. Now’s the time. Never corner a wolf.
“We have something, you and I,” Dennis sputters, as Charlie’s hand tightens around his windpipe. His ribs are aching to fuck but the delectable heat of his growing erection is by far the outright winner here. “Don’t you wanna explore that?” he continues, daring to press himself against Charlie’s leg. “You can’t tell me you’re not a tiny bit curious.”
Charlie loosens his hold for a split second. That’s all Dennis requires. With an almighty display of his preserved strength, Dennis lunges at Charlie, forcing them midway through the room until they hit the arm of the sofa and fall onto it with a thud and an angry squeal of springs.
Face to face, eye to eye and their ragged breath in unison, Charlie breaks the silence. “Yes, okay?” he pants, his voice rough and uncharacteristically low. “I fucking enjoyed it. Are you happy?”
“Extremely,” Dennis grins.
That’s really all the encouragement needed, and Dennis pounces on the opportunity before Charlie gets any ideas about protesting anew. It’s all about spying an open window – even if it’s just a crack – and pushing right on through. It’s the very thing that separates the milquetoast mouse from the mighty hawk; the mere mortal from the resplendent god. Dennis presses his tongue into Charlie’s mouth, the bittersweet mingling of blood and booze its own delicious intoxicant, and any flimsy notions Charlie may have had about resisting will soon collapse like a cardboard tent in a rainstorm.
He sucks at Charlie’s lower lip, teeth grazing the flushed skin, as the viscous warmth permeating Charlie’s surprisingly soft facial hair leaves Dennis unbearably hard. For an uncultured and inexperienced little dirtgrub, Charlie is better with his tongue than Dennis ever would have guessed, and on any other night, the temptation to test those skills in far more unsavoury ways might win out. But not this time. A drunken blow isn’t gonna satisfy him now any more than a salad would satisfy a lion. Only the best will do on this occasion.
Over the years, Dennis Reynolds has made the act of turning “no” into “yes” an art form at its zenith, an accomplishment nearly as gratifying as the exquisite release itself. In every sexual conquest notched, there’s a tipping of the scales that happens – a moment when the dam bursts; when the darkness snuffs out the last glimmer of light; when the unwilling becomes the all-too eager. With his thigh nestled firmly against Charlie’s crotch, Dennis can feel it. Charlie’s impressive girth feels as if it’s been carved from marble, his hips squirming ever-so-slightly to gain a bit of friction. A guttural moan delivers the final betrayal to Charlie’s unmistakable want, and Dennis knows he’s got him. It’s fuck time.
Their clothes are rapidly discarded in a haphazard flurry of zippers and belt buckles; Charlie’s junk does indeed still bear the brazen maroon hallmark of their previous encounter. Savage. Dennis moves past it.
With their bodies pressed together and writhing in harmony, Dennis touches two fingers to Charlie’s bloodstained lower lip, coaxing his way inside with an almost tender touch. Charlie complies, sucking at the digits with the vigour he normally reserves for chugging down a Coors or seven, and when Dennis removes them, he gasps at the sudden loss of contact, then groans fit to make a whore blush when Dennis applies those moistened fingers to the tight pucker of his asshole. The Golden God taketh away, but he giveth back threefold. And we’re just getting started.
Charlie whimpers softly as Dennis works his way inside; a little pressure with the knuckle followed by one finger, some gentle assplay (he learned something useful from those mobsters’ wives, after all), then two. With his free hand he grips at Charlie’s shoulder and applies the slightest downward force as their lips meet once more, and Charlie’s feral moans of pleasure reverberate deep into Dennis’ mouth and set his every nerve ending alight with the desire to reduce this man to an incoherent quivering wreck.
We’re close. We’re so fucking close. Sexual conquests come and go, and in reality, very few could legitimately be described as conquests. Women give themselves up so easily; all it takes is a few compliments, a smattering of empathy (no matter how disingenuous – “Oh, you had a rough childhood too? Tough break”), before they part their dimpled knees and allow Dennis to take them any fucking way he pleases. He’s providing a service, if you will, giving these basic bitches a much-needed pick-me-up and an illustrious memory for their masturbatory repertoire. But Charlie? Charlie is so much more than a simple airhead who’s had one-too-many rum and cokes to boost her waning confidence because her ass truly does look fat in that dress. Charlie is the jewel in the crown; the icing on the strictly forbidden fruitcake.
With a muted whine of protest from Charlie, Dennis withdraws his fingers and spits into his palm. The glutinous amalgamation of blood and saliva provides an adequate lubricant (Dennis has been known to use far more unorthodox methods), and Dennis caresses his length and runs the tip against the delicate underside of Charlie’s balls, before reaching the sumptuous pucker of his asshole and pausing. We’re close, oh, we’re close. But there’s one more thing Dennis needs.
He wants Charlie to beg for it. Merely giving in to wanton lust isn’t enough; of course Charlie wants him – who the fuck doesn’t? It’s the natural conclusion to any significant amount of time spent in the presence of a deity. (Mac’s pathetic and unwavering devotion is Exhibit-fucking-A of that.) No, some passionate night of (let’s be honest, mind-blowing) sex that Charlie can pass off as too much beer and too little self control won’t break him. It might encourage him to lie in bed with his hand thrust down his pants, but it won’t leave him wide awake and hating himself as he wrestles with the memory of just how much he needed to be fucked by his best friend. How he compromised his entire heterosexual worldview for it. How he still fucking craves it like a junkie twitching for his next fix. And that’s exactly what Dennis needs above all else. I want to mark your fucking soul, little man.
“Tell me what you want, Charlie,” Dennis murmurs, pressing his dick against the inviting warmth of his ass. “Tell me,” he repeats, harder this time, sharper. Charlie’s tight little hole will feel fucking amazing, there’s no doubt, but not until Dennis gets his tribute. Not a second before.
It’s a risk, this game he’s playing at. Charlie could refuse to participate; he could back out entirely. But the biggest payouts always come with the possibility of losing it all. The willingness to give it all up – to act as though you need it less than the other guy – is what separates the winners from the losers. And if it all goes south, well – he makes note of Charlie’s dingy underwear balled up on the floor. If need be, they’d look spectacular stuffed in his mouth.
He applies pressure to Charlie’s asshole, careful to hold himself back but more than enough to steer him right where he wants. “Fuck, Charlie, you’re gonna have to say it.”
“God, Dennis-”
“That’s certainly a good start,” he says. Fuck, this is gonna be great. “Say it again.”
“Dennis,” Charlie groans, closing his eyes and letting his head roll back against the cushions.
“No, not that. Who’s your god, Charlie? You wanna come, I gotta hear it.” Oh, shit, the anticipation. He’s so hard it fucking hurts, and the pain feels so goddamn good Dennis could explode. Just a little more. Give the Golden God your offering. Please me, you fucking worm. He palms at Charlie’s cock, drawing his thumb over and around the flushed pink tip – a small taste to seal the deal.
“P-please, dude,” Charlie sputters, before fixing his bloodshot eyes on Dennis and correcting himself. “God, please. Fuck.”
There it is: Charlie fucking Kelly transformed into a quaking and wholly unintelligible (well, more than usual) mess. No more time to waste. Dennis pushes inside with a protracted grunt, savouring the glorious heat caressing every inch of his dick like a velvet glove as he buries himself balls-deep into Charlie’s ass. God-fucking-damn.
Charlie wails the whole way, his screeching – like an ice pick to the frontal lobe on most days – a twisted yet undeniably sublime melody swelling in Dennis’ ears. As Dennis begins to thrust, stretching Charlie wide, they gradually subside as something more pleasurable takes over. It’s like breaking in a wild stallion; eventually they get used to the bit and saddle, and you can take them wherever you want to go. Truthfully, it’s more than a little impressive; not everyone can keep up with a sexual machine firing on all cylinders, but Dennis will be fucked if he’s going to ease up on account of some novice’s weakness. You come home with Dennis Reynolds, you graduate to the big leagues; no hand-holding and hair stroking here.
He illustrates the point by grabbing fistfuls of Charlie’s hair and leveraging himself harder and faster, the smack of sweat-slicked skin on skin as sharp as a whip.
Chancing a glance back at the door, Dennis cannot help but feel spurred on in his endeavours. There’s no doubt Mac will be away for the night – pacing his mom’s threadbare carpet and performing farcical martial arts while Bonnie flaps about the place like a live butterfly nailed to a plank, and his own dear mother smokes herself into oblivion. There’s no doubt. But the prospect of him walking in on this is more than just alluring. It’s motherfucking empowering.
Dennis grasps at Charlie’s legs and angles his hips to thrust harder and deeper; Charlie’s debauched response is enough to wake the dead. He could probably make the little fucker come completely untouched, but Dennis won’t allow that. You see, there’s a phenomenon that every guy experiences once or twice in their lives; sometimes more, depending on their proclivities. It’s a moment of pure self-loathing that usually comes about while a man is seated semi-comatose on the couch, his waning erection in one hand and a semen-soaked tissue in the other, while an open jar of Vaseline sits upon the table as a lousy porno, or beach volleyball, or fucking Victoria’s Secret commercial plays on the TV. “Did I really just get off to that?” the poor sap will question. “Fuck my life.”
Charlie is one streak of jizz away from reevaluating his entire belief system, and Dennis requires absolute control of the subsequent revelation. Perhaps one more game is in order to cement his position at the very top of the food chain.
Meeting Charlie’s blackened gaze, Dennis takes hold of his cock and teases the base with the faintest whisper of a squeeze. “You wanna come for me, Charlie?” he says, with a saccharine inflection he normally reserves for manipulating the shit out of Mac. It doesn’t matter; it’s all smoke and mirrors.
Apparently, this far gone, Charlie is ill-equipped to form a verbal response; he merely nods his head with gusto as his hands grope feverishly at Dennis’ buttocks. This simply won’t do.
“Beg me,” Dennis growls.
It takes a few seconds before Charlie complies, but when he does, the floodgates well and truly open. The ceremonious wails of “please” and “God” ring like church bells in Dennis’ ears – an offering wholly befitting of a deity such as himself. And, as a kind and altruistic ruler, Dennis keeps up his side of the bargain, working Charlie’s length until he comes apart beneath him, shuddering with the euphoria of his release. Dennis follows suit – his body alight with a high to rival cocaine – withdrawing his cock and adding his own sticky tribute to Charlie’s pale hairy stomach, marking his territory one final time. Nothing but bad blood and feelings between us now, little man. Welcome to paradise.
****
Heated flesh parts reluctantly from flesh, as Dennis rises from the sofa with the intent of taking a much-needed shower. He takes a moment to survey the divine chaos he’s created, and in truth, Charlie’s appearance would bring a lesser man to his knees. Every inch of his pale skin practically glows with an ethereal sheen of perspiration, while telltale red bruises bloom here and there underneath, marking the consummation of this evening of exploration. His hair is an utter delight – a fucked-out mop of sweat and ruin, and he’s fixing Dennis with a look of admiration that suggests Dennis himself hung the moon. He’s eyeing Dennis as though he’s head over heels in love – as if nothing from here on out will ever usurp this one moment of pure perfection. He’s gazing upon Dennis as if he were a motherfucking god.
“Get dressed,” Dennis says with a smirk, as he casually tosses Charlie his pants. “We’re done here.”