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Malcolm calls John in the evening, in that long timeless moment when John is choosing what kind of man he’ll be tonight. There’s the man who opens a fresh bottle of whisky and tosses away the cap, that’s always a favorite. Or he could be the man who calls up Deborah and asks her to waste some time with him, which requires a little more effort but feels much more satisfying in the end. Or there’s the man who falls asleep while watching ITV, which is looking increasingly likely. There's nothing that says John can't mix and match, but he has to be careful. Deborah doesn't mind a nightcap, but she hates it when he splits his attention between her and the telly.
Anyway, Malcolm’s call preempts the ongoing indecision.
“I’m retired,” says John. “You can’t leave me alone, can you?” To be honest he welcomes the call. The man John would really like to be is a working one.
"I'd like your advice on something," says Malcolm.
"Do you want me to come into the station tomorrow?"
"It's not about work." Malcolm hesitates long enough that John thinks the connection's dropped. "It's a personal situation."
"Christ," says John. "You must be desperate if you're coming to me for personal advice."
"I can't talk about it over the phone," says Malcolm.
"You're frantic, then." The twinge of disappointment John felt when Malcolm said personal is completely overwhelmed by his curiosity now. "All right, it's still early. Come on over."
Malcolm hesitates again, but John can hear him breathing. "I'll be there in fifteen."
John uses the time to make himself presentable. He puts on trousers and a belt, picks up his shirt from where he’d tossed it over the sofa and buttons it on. He doesn’t bother tucking the shirt in, but he does move his used plate into the kitchen and brushes the crumbs off his table. After much consideration, he pours a glass of whisky and a glass of mineral water, strategically placed so Malcolm will have to choose between them. It amuses him to prod at Malcolm like a loose tooth, though it probably shouldn't. Someday Malcolm will fall out, and with John’s luck it’ll be him dealing with the blood and the infection.
When Malcolm knocks on the door, John thinks maybe it's already happened. Malcolm’s hands are shaky, and his face is drawn. His shoes are caked with snow, like he’s been taking long walks in the cold, and he fumbles with the laces for too long when he bends to take his shoes off.
"All right?" asks John. "Someone die?"
"No." Malcolm sits down and takes the mineral water with only half a glance at the whisky. "It's nothing like that."
"What's up?" John takes the whisky—it's a fair consolation prize.
"You're not allowed to laugh," says Malcolm.
John gestures with one hand and raises his glass to his lips with the other. He pointedly makes no promises.
"Has Siobhan told you we're seeing each other?"
It's only through decades of training that John doesn't choke on his drink. "You know Siobhan, she never tells me anything." Especially not this.
John hasn’t the best track record with Siobhan’s men. Nor does Siobhan—a few dates, long enough for things to edge into serious and the rumors to start crawling through the station. Then the heave ho, usually but not always with enough grace to preempt the ugliness. He wishes she’d stop dating cops, though he sympathizes with the impulse. When your life is the job, it’s hard to meet people.
He’d actually begun to like Malcolm. So much for that.
Malcolm winces at the look on John’s face. "It's really good. For both of us, I’m serious. It's really, really good."
John takes another sip, not bothering to conceal his disbelief. "Then what’s wrong?"
Malcolm leans back and runs his thumb around the rim of his glass, staring fixedly at the drops of moisture gathering on his skin. "Did you know that fifty percent of relationships fail because of sexual incompatibility?"
"Sounds made up," says John.
"Well, how many relationships have you been in?"
"What is this, twenty questions?"
Malcolm looks up, having managed to assemble some version of his bland interrogator's face. "And how many of them were ruined by sex?"
John rolls his eyes and makes a show of counting. He doesn’t need to; it’s damn near all of them, if you count infidelity as incompatibility. It probably is. An incompatibility between what John had promised and what he’d taken instead. "Where exactly is this going?"
Malcolm stares at the ceiling this time. It would be so much easier if Malcolm drank, if he could unbend for even half of a second. If John wasn’t so curious he’d kick Malcolm out of his flat, let him sit out in the dark until he gathered the courage to tell John what’s wrong. Instead John spends ten minutes prying the truth out of Malcolm with a crowbar, and he does laugh when Malcolm finally mumbles and stutters his way through it.
"Well," says John. "How many times have you been told to get fucked, and someone finally offers to do the job?"
"Thanks." Malcolm glares. "I didn't come here for sympathy."
"Smart."
"I came for advice," says Malcolm, which makes John laugh again.
"Me? Don't you have any mates your own age?"
Malcolm doesn't answer, but John already knows what he'd say. Malcolm’s life was Complaints, and now he’s uncomfortably embedded in the CID. He hasn’t got any mates outside of Siobhan, just a collection of supposed colleagues who would cry for joy at any chance to embarrass him. Malcolm Fox, not only bracing himself to be done up the arse by his girlfriend, but asking for help so he can be properly emasculated? Malcolm must be counting on John's respect for Siobhan to trump John's natural inclination to share the joke.
"Have you tried the internet? There's plenty of instructive videos, I imagine."
"I don't know how much of that stuff to believe," says Malcolm. "Half of it seems anatomically implausible.
"I didn't say porn." John spares a thought for straight-laced Malcolm, hunched over his laptop and trying to keep his hands off his prick as he watched Locker Room Gangbang. "I said—"
"I know what you said." Malcolm sets the glass down, a little too hard. "Listen, you're a man of the world, you've been married a half-dozen times—”
John almost corrects him, but of course Malcolm knows. He used to read John’s file every night before going to bed. John smiles instead, forcing Malcolm to continue.
“I thought maybe you could…" Malcolm trails off, too embarrassed to say what he wants.
John tries to look offended, but his smile is broadening and he can't manage any expression except gleeful astonishment. "You want me to teach you how to take a cock?"
Malcolm flushes dark, ugly red.
John leans forward, unable to resist the way Malcolm flinches back. "We’d have to take the stick out of your arse first, but I think we can manage that."
"Maybe this was a bad idea." Malcom phrases it carefully, but it's still the understatement of the year. "Could you just recommend a book or something and we'll never speak of this again?"
John’s grinning now. Come on Malcolm, you think you can get off that easily? "You can't learn this from books. Did you learn to kiss from an instructional manual?"
Malcolm’s silent. John waits a moment, hoping that this is an admission of guilt, but apparently Malcolm’s just done playing. John sits back in his chair and drains his glass. "You'll just have to tell Siobhan you've never done it before."
Malcolm continues his silence, this time enlivened by a sip of water.
"I'm sure she'd love to teach you. Isn’t that a common fantasy, teaching a middle-aged man the ways of the prostate?"
Malcolm shakes his head. “I already told her I’d done it before. I told her I liked it.”
"What did you do that for?"
"I didn't like to say no.” Malcolm hesitates, and John wonders if he’ll have to bring out the crowbar again. “I could tell she really wanted it.”
“You could have just told her you were waiting for the right lady with the perfect silicone prick,” says John. “But I suppose it's too late now. You'll have to find someone else to take you through your first time.”
“Find someone? Siobhan would kill me.”
“It doesn’t have to be someone serious.” John holds himself back a moment, caught between the common decency and the desire to wind Malcolm up until he curls. No surprise which wins out. “Fifty pounds will take you a long way in the right neighborhood."
Malcolm looks incredulous. "If I hire a prostitute, I'll have Darryl Christie's collar around my neck for the rest of my life."
Fair enough. That's exactly the kind of secret Christie would like to know. "For that matter, Darryl might volunteer to show you the ropes. It's the kind of thing that'd appeal to him. Though I suppose his price would be steeper than fifty pounds."
Malcolm's expression shifts to disgust. “Siobhan would definitely kill me.”
“You just need to find someone who likes you enough not to tell anyone,” says John. “Or who respects the importance of discretely fucking you for a good cause. It's not my fault you don't have any friends."
Malcolm thinks about that for a long time. Finally he takes another sip of water, then clears his throat. "Did you mean what you said earlier?"
"What's that?"
"You said you could teach me."
“I asked you if that’s what you wanted.” John’s stalling for time. He feels the whisky blooming in his belly, but he can’t blame drink for how much the idea appeals to him. Teaching Malcolm to take Siobhan’s cock. There’s something wrong there, something about the way he’s always wanted to get at Siobhan’s men and force them to be good to her. Something else, too, something about the way Malcolm’s always pushed at him, and how dearly John’s wanted to show him his place. Something about the way life keeps leading John into temptation, and the way John keeps giving in.
Malcolm’s fidgeting in his chair, not saying anything.
“I’ll help you,” says John. “If it’s what you need.”
Malcolm doesn’t reply. But he finally meets John’s eyes, and he doesn’t look away.
"All right." John suspects that if he lets Malcolm alone, Malcolm will convince himself that this is a bad idea. John knows it’s a bad idea, and twenty years ago he wouldn’t have cared. He’s still not going to let it stop him, but he’ll give Malcolm a chance to run if he really wants to. He stands up, and Malcolm startles, half out of his chair already.
"You think on it," says John. "Drink your fizzy water, have a moment to collect yourself. I need to make a phone call."
"You wouldn't call Siobhan," says Malcolm.
"About this?” John makes a show of thinking about it, but then Malcolm really would run. “No, don’t worry. It’s not your girlfriend I need to talk to.”
---
The walls of John's bedroom are thin, and the privacy of the phone call is an illusion. Malcolm can hear every word, if he likes, and so much the better. John's never done something like this, and a witness makes him feel virtuous. He’s making a proper go at faithfulness this time around.
He's always taken opportunities when offered, and lied like hell in the aftermath. They all deserve better than that.
"You should have called me an hour ago," says Deborah. "It's too late to go out."
"Malcolm Fox came over to ask me something," says John.
"Oh?" Deborah sounds like she's multi-tasking, half-absent from the conversation.
"You won't believe it."
"I'm sure I will."
"He wants me to teach him how to get proper fucked."
There's silence over the line. That’s got her attention.
"I mean that literally," John assures Deborah. "He wants a good demonstration so that he won't embarrass himself when his girlfriend pegs him."
Further silence. John can't think of anything else that needs saying, so he waits Deborah out.
"Why did you call me?" she says at last.
"Well, I thought it would be rude to do it without asking," says John.
"Good." Deborah sounds a little vicious. "There’ll be consequences if you ever fuck around behind my back, John Rebus."
"All right." John counts himself lucky that it’s still if and not when. "But what about when I'm asking?"
Another long pause. John has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from saying anything. What the hell is he going to do if she says no?
"He seriously wants you to teach him how to get pegged? Have you got a lot of experience with that?"
"A fair amount," allows John. It had been one of the few things Rhona would do with him when she was angry, which was often enough. John had gotten good at taking it from either end, blamed the sore throat on cigarettes and the limp on bar fights. It’s been decades since the divorce, but you never lose the knack.
"And you're going to fuck him with your actual cock?"
"I was thinking about it," says John. He’s good at giving it too, though none of the men he’s been with would be inclined to give a public testimonial. Deborah might, although it’s always different with a woman. John sticks to the objective facts instead. "I haven't got a fake one handy. And you want to get the proper hip motion in there."
Another pause, but this one isn't silent. "Are you touching yourself?" asks John.
"It's your fault I'm wet." Deborah must put him on speaker, because her voice goes tinny and John can hear fabric shifting as she either opens her trousers or rubs herself through them. "I'm buying a harness tomorrow, I think. Would you like that?"
John hums, imagining it. Tomorrow’s not soon enough. "Do you want to come over after Malcolm’s done? It'd be a late night."
"I'll take the morning off," says Deborah. "And you're retired, you don't have anywhere to go in the morning."
"Harsh but fair."
"Wear a condom," says Deborah. "And call me as soon as you can, I'll be staying up for you."
God, John is lucky.
He opens the door and looks out into the kitchen. Malcolm's poking through the refrigerator, looking for more mineral water. He doesn’t look up. “Was that Deborah?"
"We have her blessing," says John. "As long as you've decided to stay."
Malcolm doesn’t acknowledge that this was ever in doubt, but his shoes aren’t in the same place by the door. Like he’d started to put them back on, then changed his mind. He closes the refrigerator door, doesn’t look John in the eye. "Where do you want me?”
In business. John pours himself another finger of whisky and knocks it back. "First things first. Toilet’s through there, get yourself properly evacuated."
---
John takes his time getting ready. Fortunately he has all the supplies at hand; lube and condom from his bedside drawers, latex gloves from his little crime scene kit. He takes a piss once the toilet’s free, uses the opportunity to stroke himself a few times before tucking his prick away again. Washes his hands and catches his eyes in the mirror.
He still looks like himself. Heavy, hard, and mean. Does Malcolm find this appealing, or just better than nothing? John’s got a good jawline, at least, he’s always thought so.
John hesitates over the record player for a good while before picking the perfect album and putting it on. Then he strolls into the bedroom.
Malcolm’s lying there in the nude. John only asked him to take his trousers off, half-expecting him to shove trousers and pants down to his ankles and glare at John for the demand. Instead, Malcolm’s clothes are hanging over the bedroom door, his socks rolled together in a ball by the closet, and his naked arse on John’s duvet.
The view's not bad, anyway. Malcolm's arm is over his eyes, leaving John free to look as much as he’d like. Malcolm's belly is furry and soft, and his prick is generous, thickening even with nothing to touch it.
“Do we really need a soundtrack?” asks Malcolm.
“Music helps you relax.” John sets his supplies on the bed. “Believe me, you’ll need a lot of relaxation.”
“Isn’t this—is this Hawkwind?”
“I might need some help getting in the mood,” allows John. “Always thought this would be a good album to fuck to. The drums, you know.”
No reaction. To business then.
"All right." John claps his hands. "There are two basic ways to start, on your front or on your back. On your front's a little easier, anatomically speaking, but I always think it's nicer on your back the first time."
"You've taught a lot of people?" Malcolm's still covering his face.
"You're not the only virgin in the world."
Malcolm grimaces, and John corrects himself. "Arse-virgin, sorry. It's just better when I can see your expression, so I can know when you need a break.”
“I can tell you if I need a break,” says Malcolm.
“And I’ll listen, no fear. But I don’t want you to try and tough it out and get hurt. Come on, let me see those beautiful eyes.”
Malcolm pries his arm away, scowling. He looks vulnerable; he looks ready to tear John’s throat out with his teeth. John’s prick is hard already, and he thinks Malcolm can see the respectable bulge in his trousers. John likes this too much.
"That's it." John pats Malcolm's knee. A muscle spasms in Malcolm’s neck, but he lets John guide him into position. John's joints don't like crawling over beds anymore, but his bed's high enough that he can perch Malcolm on the edge of the mattress and have a good angle to come at him standing. He spreads Malcolm's legs, pushing them out and back, then makes Malcolm hold them in place.
"You should stretch more," says John. Malcolm's legs are trembling. He slaps the gloves against Malcolm's inner thigh, just to watch him jump.
"These aren’t strictly necessary, but a good thing to have." He waves the gloves in Malcolm's face. "This way I don't have to worry about what I find up there, right?"
Malcolm nods. His eyes flick up and down John’s body, shying away from that bulge in John’s trousers.
"Lube." John presents the tube. "Don't think of doing anything without lube."
"I wasn't," says Malcolm, teeth gritted.
"Condom." The little packet makes a satisfying crinkling noise. "You'll want this even for a toy, it makes the cleanup easier."
"Can we get on with it?" One of Malcolm's thighs slips out of his hand, and he bends awkwardly to get back into position.
"I'm trying to teach you something," says John. "I'm a sex guru, I'm not just taking advantage of you."
"I know what a condom is," says Malcolm. "I think we can move on to something more advanced."
John warms the lube in his hands before rubbing his slick thumb over Malcolm's hole, making small circles until the muscle starts to flex. Malcolm's tense at first, but John continues the massage until Malcolm relaxes, hole opening a little on its own.
"Pay attention," says John. "You might need to do this for yourself if Siobhan is in a hurry."
Malcolm shudders and his eyes slip closed, which isn’t paying attention. John would pinch his balls to wake him up, but the goal is relaxation. God, but he wants to, now that he’s thought of it. Maybe he can give it a try once he’s inside Malcolm and a little tightness is more welcome.
"Did she say what the plan is?" asks John, half to distract himself. "Dinner and a movie? You can open yourself up in the toilets, be wet and ready for her when you go home after."
"I thought you were teaching, not fantasizing," says Malcolm, but his body is reacting. John presses his thumb against Malcolm's hole, and it practically pulls him in.
"That's it," John murmurs. "Deep breaths. We'll go nice and slow."
This is certainly the nicest and slowest he's ever fucked a man, and it's close on the record for a woman too. There's something hypnotizing about it, letting Malcolm get used to just the tip of John's thumb, watching him breathe in and out until it’s up to the first knuckle. Once Malcolm seems comfortable, John pulls his thumb away and gives him the index finger instead, easing it in and stroking Malcolm's thigh to calm him.
"Do you want more?" asks John.
Malcolm looks conflicted. Christ, he's hot inside. John presses his middle finger against Malcolm's rim, not trying to push in yet, just reminding Malcolm that it's there.
"I know, it's not about what you want, it's about Siobhan. Let me put it this way—are you ready for the fun part?"
Malcolm manages to nod.
John guides his second finger in, gives Malcolm half a moment to get used to it, and then curls both fingers with intent. Malcolm makes a strangled noise, almost too high pitched for John to hear. His arse squeezes John's fingers, and John grins and presses into Malcolm's prostate again.
"That's the fun button," says John. "Make sure Siobhan knows where it is and you'll both be a lot happier."
"Christ!" Malcolm’s a natural, hips working instinctively for a better angle. John lets him have it, fingers moving in gentle thrusts, mimicking the future movement of his prick.
"What do you think?" John asks. "Enjoying yourself?"
There's that conflicted look again. John glances down at Malcolm's prick, gone soft and flopping against his stomach.
"Do you want me to stop?" asks John. "Can't take it?"
Malcolm shakes his head, and hisses when John takes that as a cue to pull his fingers almost entirely out, the pads of his fingers catching on Malcolm's rim.
"Don't stop," Malcolm manages, and John pushes in deep again.
"You ought to do this longer than you think you need to," he says. "Two fingers might be alright for a small cock, but Siobhan's pretty ambitious. I can’t imagine her with a little two-inch dildo, can you?"
Malcolm's eyes are closed and his head back. He's dropped one thigh in favor of bracing himself against the bed, and John has to push his leg out of the way as Malcolm shifts on John's fingers, trying to fuck himself but unable to get much leverage. John pulls his fingers out, and Malcolm gasps and tries to sit up. John uses his hold on Malcolm's leg to tip him back down.
"More lube," he says. "You always need more lube." When he presses back in with three fingers, Malcolm chokes off a groan.
"How many fingers do you—" begins Malcolm, and then has to stop and catch his breath as John spreads his fingers. "How big is—"
"Hm?" John stops moving his hand, which gives Malcolm a little more breathing room but doesn't make him happy at all.
"Are you implying you've got a large cock?" asks Malcolm.
"More than two inches, anyway. Do you want a look?" John eases the three fingers in and out, feeling Malcom's arse try to crush his knuckles.
"In a minute." Malcolm's thin hair is sticking in strands to his forehead. "How am I supposed to relax when you're putting your whole arm up my arse?"
John chuckles. "It'll be easier next time. It's like any muscle, it just needs exercise. That's your homework, buy a dildo and teach yourself to take it."
Malcolm's hips shift again, trying to take John’s fingers in and put them where they’ll be the most use.
"And if you're not enjoying yourself yet, we can do something about that." John lets go of Malcolm's leg and brushes the back of his hand against Malcolm's prick. "A handjob or a blowjob always eases the way." He rubs his thumb across the head, and Malcolm's fingers dig into his own thigh.
"Not that you really need the encouragement," says John. "You're a bit of a slut for it already."
John thinks it's a mistake as soon as he's said it. This is usually the moment he gets kicked out of bed, if it's going to happen at all. But Malcolm just drags in a shuddering breath, and his body pulls John's fingers in to the last knuckle. That’s interesting.
John feels like he’s on a surveillance mission, or a particularly hands-on interrogation. He wonders if there’s a good way to share his intelligence with Siobhan. Probably not. Shame, he can’t imagine Malcolm will be able to ask for anything he likes when he can’t even bear to tell Siobhan he’s an arse-virgin.
"Ready for the real thing?" asks John.
Malcolm nods.
"Tell me." John finally gives into temptation and pinches Malcolm's balls. Malcolm yelps and his eyes snap open. "I want to hear how much you want it."
Malcolm makes a face. "It's for Siobhan."
"But she wants you to want it, doesn't she?" John crooks his fingers again and Malcolm's whole body flexes like a taut string. "You can practice begging, too."
Malcolm doesn’t say anything. If John were a professional, he could get on with the job without pushing. If John were a professional, he wouldn’t be in this position. He presses his fingers hard against Malcolm’s prostate and leaves them there, holding Malcolm’s hip with his free hand to keep him still.
Malcolm trembles violently. “Something to say?” asks John.
"I want it," mutters Malcolm.
"What's that?"
"I want it," says Malcolm, louder.
"Want what?" Now that John's been allowed to push a little, he wants to push a lot, see exactly how far Malcolm will let him go.
"Give me your cock before I knock you down and take it," says Malcolm.
John laughs, startled and sharp, and opens his belt and flies. It takes some maneuvering to shove his pants out of the way, but John’s not in a mood to undress. "Condom." He opens the packet with his teeth, drawing out the little ring of rubber like a conjuring trick. He needs both hands to put the condom on, and Malcolm's jaw clamps down on any noise he might make when John takes his fingers out.
Glove goes in the bin, condom goes on the prick. John finds the bottle of lube under a fold of the duvet. "Get everything as slippery as possible, right? You should be dripping with it."
"Just get on with it," says Malcolm. "Do you want me to keep begging?"
"Oh, go on then." John's adjusting the condom, taking his time. He unbuttons his shirt too, wanting the freedom of movement.
Malcolm props himself up on his elbows, letting his legs fall onto the bed, still spread to display his prick and open hole. He glares. John catches his thigh with one hand, tipping him back again, and guides his prick in with the other.
John has virtuous thoughts of going slowly again, thoughts that are almost immediately overtaken by the reality of being inside Malcolm bloody Fox. Nobody has any business being quite this tight and hot inside. John's played at being a good boyfriend for months now, and even setting that aside, it's been a while since he's had any luck with men. And this isn't just any man, this is a special occasion.
Right, that’s right. He’s here to teach Malcolm, not to wreck him. John eases himself in until he's leaning against Malcolm's spread thighs, his own weight holding Malcolm open. Malcolm's shaking, his breath coming in shallow gulps.
"Good?" asks John.
"I'm thinking about it," says Malcolm.
John tries to keep himself still, but his hips jerk as Malcolm flexes around him. The thrumming guitar coming from the other room makes him want to drive Malcolm in the headboard.
He’s not sixteen anymore. Definitely not sixteen. Get it together, John…
"I think it's fine," says dear, blessed Malcom. "You can move."
John moves. He manages to start slow, but Malcolm seems alright and John's all out of patience. Soon John's rocking Malcolm half up the bed, one of Malcolm's arms clutching at the duvet and the other wrapped around John's shoulders, pulling him in.
"Oh," murmurs Malcolm. "Oh, fuck." His eyes are closed, and his face is screwed up with something that isn't quite pain. John forces himself to slow down a little, pulling away to see Malcolm's prick still soft.
"Are you not enjoying yourself?"
"It's different," says Malcolm. "Don't stop."
"It takes some men that way." John follows orders, pressing deeper and deeper into Malcolm's body. "I'd give you a hand, but I need them both to keep myself upright. Unless you'd like me to slow down?"
"No," says Malcolm.
"I didn't quite hear that."
"Don't stop, you bastard." Malcolm's arm drags John tight against him, chest to chest, the sweat on Malcolm's skin staining John's shirt. John laughs breathlessly and gives it to him harder.
"Siobhan's going to love you."
"She already loves me," says Malcolm.
"Has she told you so already?" John laughs again at Malcolm's expression. "She'll love you like this especially."
John feels something wet against his belly, and manages to pry himself far enough away to see Malcolm's soft prick leaking come against his undershirt. "You're ruining my outfit."
Malcolm glares at John. Well, it is John's fault for doing this in his clothes. He keeps fucking the come out of Malcolm, every thrust winding John tighter and tighter.
After several minutes, Malcolm's expression shifts from grudging pleasure to something more resembling bewilderment. It takes him a few attempts to gather his breath, but he finally asks "how long do you expect this to last?"
"I took a viagra when you said you were on your way," lies John. "I could go all night." In fact, he doesn't think he can last two more minutes, but it's worth it to see the mix of hunger and dismay on Malcolm's face. "Tell you what," says John. "I'll pull out if you let me come on you."
"What's the educative value of that?" asks Malcolm.
"I think we're past that," says John. "You've already got come all over me, fair's fair."
Malcolm tries to look him in the eye, but John won't let up. The thrusts jolt through Malcolm's body and send his gaze first to John's throat, then his mouth, then the ceiling.
"If you like," says Malcolm at last.
John gives him a few more hard ones, just to prove he can. Then he pulls out and strips off the condom. It's only two or three more strokes before he's spilling on Malcolm's stomach, semen mixing with Malcolm's sweat and come, catching in the hair that runs down his chest to his groin.
John lets himself topple over onto the bed, landing on his back and not quite touching Malcolm. Malcolm's quiet long enough that John starts to lose the laziness of orgasm, anticipating the awkward conversation.
“That’s it, is it?” asks Malcolm.
“Usually you cuddle after,” says John. “I’ll give you a kiss, shall I?”
Malcolm wrinkles his nose. “You smell like a liquor cabinet.”
“I’m not brushing my teeth for you.” John sighs. “I’ll leave it to Siobhan, then.”
If Malcolm were his, John would run a hand through the sticky mess on Malcolm’s belly. He’d feed it to Malcolm from his fingers and smear it along Malcolm’s jaw. If Malcolm were his, John would kiss him, and Malcolm would lick the whisky taste out of his mouth.
But he’s not, and John doesn’t really want him to keep. He lets Malcolm have the first shower instead.
John calls Deborah once he hears the water turn on. She's already in the car by the time it shuts off again. John finds himself ushering Malcolm out the door.
"Have fun with Siobhan," John instructs.
Malcolm blinks. He doesn’t seem all there. It was a short enough shower, but John wonders if Malcolm had taken the opportunity to finger himself in the name of cleanliness, feel the stretched tightness and warmth of his own arse. John wishes he’d come inside Malcolm, so Malcolm could feel it. Common sense isn’t as much fun as the more primal urge to claim Siobhan’s territory.
Malcolm’s hair is still dripping, beads of water falling down his nape. John can't help himself—he brings his hand up and rubs them away, shakes Malcolm gently by the scruff of his neck, and pats his arse as Malcolm goes out the door.
"Remember to scream her name when she fucks you. I don't think John would go over well."
That seems to snap Malcolm awake. "Only in your dreams." He walks down the steps carefully, as if surprised to find that his legs still work. He just misses Deborah coming the other way from where she's parked her car, and John doesn't bother to close the door, just watches her traverse the sidewalk and the steps.
"How was your evening?" he asks.
Deborah has a look in her eye that gave John flashbacks to past arguments with past women, but she follows it by catching his collar and drawing him into a kiss on the doorstep. "I've been sitting at home thinking of you."
"Oh, aye?"
She leans in to whisper in his ear. "I've already got off twice. I want the third with you inside me."
They stumble inside, but don't make it any further than John's recliner. Twice in one night is somewhat beyond John, but he hikes up Deborah's skirt, shoves her panties out of the way, and gets three fingers into her in one go. She wasn't joking. Her cunt is slick and hungry, clamping down on his fingers and drawing him in.
Deborah squirms in his lap, legs bent uncomfortably over the arms of the chair. They'll both be feeling this in the morning, in their backs, their thighs, and John's wrist. He curls his fingers and strokes his free hand over Deborah's shoulder blades. She clutches at his shirt, gasping.
"Is this his?" she asks, fingers brushing over the damp stains turning to crust on his undershirt.
John nods and thrusts his fingers deep, his thumb pressed against her clit. "It's the damnedest thing. Malcolm just leaks the whole time you're in him. Never came properly, unless he was coming for twenty minutes straight."
Deborah clenches around him, making John feel clever for the exaggeration. "Siobhan's going to enjoy that."
"I've probably ruined him for anyone else," says John, pushing his luck as usual. "He'll be dreaming of my prick up his arse tonight, probably wake up with come all over his sheets."
Deborah squeezes again, and her eyes are wild. "He can't have you. I gave you permission for once, not forever."
That's not news to John, and he only feels the faintest twinge of disappointment. It's hard to feel too rocked about it when Deborah is here and leaking all over his hand. "That's right." His thumb is rubbing circles over her clit. "He wants what he can't have. He wants what you've got."
Deborah swears as she comes, slick soaking his trousers. John looks down at the wreck of his clothes and hopes that Malcolm left some hot water for him.
---
John's at the shops the next afternoon when Siobhan calls him. He's briefly disinclined to answer, but it's probably better to face up to it. He's always been pretty good at lying his way out of trouble. And anyway, he did it for her. More or less.
"Are you somewhere you can talk?" asks Siobhan.
"Aye, I have a signal," says John. "Something wrong?"
Siobhan doesn't sound like she's about to commit grievous bodily harm on him for fucking her boyfriend. In fact, she sounds a little nervous.
"Not wrong, not really," says Siobhan.
"Is it a case? Do you want me to meet you somewhere?"
"I'm on a stakeout. Malcolm's just gone to get sandwiches."
John suppresses an impulse to ask how Malcolm's walking today. It's important to avoid sabotaging himself.
"Can I ask you an awkward question?" asks Siobhan.
"What's that, then?"
"Have you ever been pegged?"
Oh my god, thinks John with an almost hysterical premonition. "I suppose I have," he allows.
"Can you—" Siobhan catches her breath. "Can you give me any tips?"
John counts to ten to avoid saying anything unwise, such as well, I just had this conversation with your boyfriend, and he took a lot more than the tip. Maybe he should have counted to twenty, because he finds himself saying "It's really more of a show than a tell situation, Siobhan."
---
Deborah can’t believe it. "Is this an obscene version of Gift of the Magi?"
"Am I supposed to recognize that?"
"Classic American literature," says Deborah. "You've probably seen it fifty times in children's programs."
"Do you think I watch much of that stuff?"
"Not recently," allows Deborah. "But twenty years ago..."
"More like thirty." John feels like they’re drifting away from the point. "What do you figure?"
"I think you have to let her fuck you," says Deborah. "It's only fair. You wouldn't want to leave Malcolm in clumsy hands."
"Do you want to come over after?"
"I bought the harness this morning," says Deborah. "And you're to call me as soon as Siobhan leaves. Don’t bother cleaning up."
---
They start off a little faster than John had with Malcolm. There’s no need to tease Siobhan with mineral water or pry her secrets out of her. They clink glasses instead, making a solemn promise never to speak of this again before downing the whisky. John gathers his supplies, puts a record on, and gets settled in the bed.
“Is this what we’re listening to?” Siobhan tries to sound curious, but John can hear the dismay in her voice.
“I thought you liked Jethro Tull,” says John, stripping his shirt off.
“In the car, yes. In bed, I’m not sure.”
“It helps me relax. When you fuck Malcolm you can listen to whatever you like.”
John doesn’t need to help Siobhan put the harness on. It slips over her naked thighs with practiced ease, and John thinks she's probably spent some time with her hand and a mirror, admiring the way it looks on her. Her hair is up in a short, sensible ponytail. She’s still wearing her white button-down work shirt, a sports bra underneath holding her chest flat.
"I didn't want to be distracted," says Siobhan when John asks about it.
"You didn't want me to be distracted," suggests John.
"This isn't proper sex," says Siobhan, as if she'd spent time convincing herself of this in the car on her way here. "I'm just learning."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night." John’s naked, himself. He doesn’t think about what he looks like, whether Siobhan finds him appealing. They’ve never really seen each other as people. They’re more than that, or less.
“How do we start?” asks Siobhan.
John spares another glance for the electric blue dildo framed by the black harness and Siobhan's white skin. "That thing's a little ambitious."
Siobhan scowls. "You think you can't handle it?"
"I'm not the one to worry about." John shrugs. "Most men like to start small."
"I'm not going to be fucking most men. It sounds like Malcolm's done this before."
John smiles. "Always better to be prepared."
It would be easier to stretch himself, but it’s not as if Malcolm really knows how. Unless he's been experimenting since last night, a nice thought. Siobhan already has short fingernails, too used to working with her hands to make any attempt at fashion. John cleaned himself earlier, just to make things easier and prevent asperations on his hygiene. He makes Siobhan put on gloves anyway, both to prevent accidents and to protect his insides from any flakes of her nail polish.
Siobhan uses too much lube and too much caution, but it’s better than the alternative. She claims to know what a prostate is, but she still looks surprised when her fingers press against it and John almost bites through his tongue.
"That's good." John tries to prod at his tongue with itself to make sure it’s all in one piece. "I think you can put it in me now."
She knows how to put on a condom, of course. This isn't remedial sexual education, it’s the advanced stuff. Siobhan presses the head of her cock against his arsehole, and then looks down at it with exactly the kind of frown John doesn’t like to see when someone’s about to put something in his arse.
"All right, maybe it is ambitious," she says. "Are you sure it'll fit?"
"You never know until you try," says John, and then swears as Siobhan does just that.
It takes a while for Siobhan to find her rhythm, but that’s all right. It gives John a few minutes to compose himself while she sorts out her hips. John remembers why being fucked is a rare pleasure for him, why he doesn’t put his fingers up his arse when he wanks. He feels tense and desperate, and when he clenches around the silicone of Siobhan's cock and feels the hard plastic core resisting, well. That’s something else entirely.
If Siobhan ever figures out how to make a proper thrust, John expects he'll embarrass himself.
After a few minutes the overwhelming feeling recedes, and John thinks he can bear it if Siobhan moved. Unfortunately she’s still experimenting, little thrusts that go nowhere.
"You need leverage." John guides Siobhan's hands onto his hips. "Thrust just with the pelvis, don't try to move your whole body."
The next attempt’s better, but it drags through John's whole body, pulling his arse along as Siobhan pulls back.
"And you need more lube," says John, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. Siobhan's hands are white-knuckled on his hips, so John flails a hand and manages to come up with the abandoned tube. Siobhan eases her hips back, leaving John shuddering and empty. He squeezes half the damn tube over her cock and his own hole, and drops it as soon as Siobhan presses back in.
Siobhan's hair is pulling free from its tie, framing her face in a messy curtain of dark fringe. Christ, John wants to get a hand on himself, but that would probably cross Siobhan's line between learning and sex. And John wouldn't last another two seconds, and he means this to last.
John can only see Siobhan's chin and the tip of her nose past her hair, but they’re bright red and her breath is coming shallow. "Bit of a workout?" says John, between his own pants.
Siobhan nods. "I think I've got the hang of it now." She makes as if to stop.
John fists a hand in her shirt and curls his legs around her back. "Do you want to learn how to fuck a man, or how to kill him? I'll have a heart attack. I'm an old man and blue balls can be fatal."
Siobhan laughs and grinds her hips against the backs of his thighs. They’re too much the same, him and Siobhan. Of course she’d want to hear him beg.
"All right, you’ve mastered the first position. Moving on." John pushes Siobhan away, the drag of her cock slick and heavy and good. He turns onto his his hands and knees, thinks about the state of his particular knees, and then puts his feet on the floor and bends over the edge of the bed instead. Siobhan gets the gist without him having to say anything, which shows what a quick learner she is. She presses into him again, cock cold with more lube, and bottoms out in one slow thrust. John muffles a groan into the sheets, his whole body lighting up with the new angle.
“Is that it?” asks Siobhan.
John thinks back to Malcolm, his gleaned intelligence. “Men like it when you insult them a bit, you could give that a try.”
“Really.” Siobhan laughs. “Sure you’re not getting personal?”
“It’s universal,” John assures her. “Get a woman’s cock up your arse, want her to tell you how pathetic you are for wanting it so desperately—it’s the human condition.”
“Masculine condition,” corrects Siobhan. She’s silent for a good while, just moving in and out, and then she actually slaps John’s arse. He jerks up, surprised and clenching around her cock, and Siobhan does it again. “That’s it, take it,” she mutters. John imagines she’s blushing near hard enough to spontaneously combust. “It’s all you’re good for.”
John moans theatrically, and Siobhan laughs again.
“All right,” she says. “I need some practice.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” says John. Siobhan tries a few more words on him, filthy and pervert and cock-sleeve. It’s not actually John’s thing, but he thinks it’ll suit Malcolm.
With his cock rubbing against the bed and Siobhan's cock deep inside, it doesn’t take John long to come all over the duvet anyway. Siobhan’s too caught up in her own orgasm to notice, pushing into John again and again as he melts into the bed, as open as he could ever be. A cock-sleeve for Siobhan. Maybe John does see the appeal; maybe anything sounds good after a nice orgasm. Siobhan’s breath comes shorter and sharper until she stops thrusting altogether, grinding her clit against the base of her cock until she half-collapses over John's back, shuddering.
"What do you think?" she asks, after a moment.
"You're a natural," John mumbles into the soiled duvet. "I can't imagine what it'll be like when you have real sex."
---
John waits until Siobhan’s well on her way before he calls Deborah. Just as well, because Deborah arrives with a look of intent, a double-ended dildo in her coat pocket, and a harness dangling from her hand.
"How far did you walk with that thing?" John jerks her inside, half fearful until he remembers that he doesn’t have a proper reputation to be ruined, not anymore. He keeps pulling Deborah into the bedroom, and she laughs at his eagerness.
“I told you not to clean up.” She nods at the duvet balled up in the corner as she puts condoms on both of the dildo’s ends.
“It only had my come on it,” says John. “Nothing exotic.”
He's wearing a bathrobe, a present from his daughter that he practically never uses. It’s an extremely useful piece of clothing now, as Deborah pushes him down on his front on the bed and flips the robe up so she can stroke her cock down his tailbone and over his hole.
She uses her hands to press it into him first, just an inch. John grunts, and Deborah coos as she presses the dildo in another millimeter, feeling the easy stretch of his hole around her cock. He hears the rustle of fabric, clothing falling to the floor. She takes the cock out so she can seat it properly into herself, and John only survives the envy because he knows he’ll get his in less than a minute.
He does. The cock is fat and solid inside of him. Deborah doesn’t have any problems with rhythm, finding a languid beat immediately that matches the bass from the record player.
“She used to be a girl of simple pleasures,” sings Deborah tunelessly. “I love this song.”
“You’re the only person with taste I’ve fucked all week,” gasps John. “I’m keeping you.”
Deborah laughs. Her long fingernails scratch over the nape of John's neck, and he wonders if they'll always have to do it this way, someone else opening him up so she can slide in deep without waiting. He can open himself up for her next time, if it comes to it, squirming on his own safely blunt fingers.
There’s no chance in hell of John coming again tonight, but it’s been long enough since Siobhan that he doesn’t feel overstimulated. The motion of Deborah's hips is soothing, and the sheet’s soft against his face.
"Don't fall asleep on me now." Deborah wraps a hand around John's prick, and that dances on the cutting edge of too much. John jerks his hips into her next thrust, pushing himself up on his elbows until he’s in more of a slump than a collapse.
"Such a good man." Deborah’s just cradling his prick in one hand and holding his hip steady with the other so she can fuck him properly. "Teaching all these bright young things how to have sex."
"They're not that young," mumbles John.
Deborah laughs and swats his arse. John jumps, his body feeling like a startled dog slipping its leash. Deborah's cock presses hard against his prostate, and John feels wet against Deborah's hand. Christ, his prick’s leaking. Malcolm's peculiarities are catching.
"It's a nice retirement plan." Deborah strokes him, spreading the slick over his cock. "John Rebus, sex instructor."
"It's a bit of a limited market."
"I don't know. You're a silver fox, aren't you? There's loads of people looking for a well-used man."
"Well-used?" asks John, and Deborah's hand tightens.
"Experienced," she says, but John doesn’t think that’s what she'd really meant.
There's a moment where John thinks Deborah will stop and just grind against her cock until she comes. It can't be deja vu when it's not yet an hour since the last time, but it twists in his gut and he could almost, almost get hard again. Instead, Deborah pulls back a little, reaches between their bodies, and flicks the vibrator on.
John's never come dry before, so he doesn't know what it feels like. Maybe it's like this, his body half-cramping, half-loosening as his hips squirm, unsure whether to push back against the motor or pull away.
Deborah is coming apart over him, her breasts pressing against his back as she shudders. John knows from experience that she can only go two or three times before it's too much. He just has to wait it out until she decides it's enough and lets him go. He can't decide if he wants her to be done quickly or last as long as she possibly can.
In the end, Deborah just unbuckles the harness and steps out of it. Her cock shifts in John's arse, but doesn't withdraw, still rumbling against his prostate. His hands clench in the sheet. Deborah would take it out if he asked. John doesn't say anything.
"Sure you can't get it up again?" asks Deborah.
John can't even form words. Deborah traces around the stretched rim of his hole, and finally, mercifully, turns the motor off. She rolls John over until he's staring at the ceiling as he gasps for air.
John tries to kiss back when Deborah kisses him, but it's honestly a bit beyond his capabilities. It doesn't seem to bother her. She just straddles his hips and frames his face with her hands, taking every breath out of his mouth.
"I really like this," says Deborah.
John manages to get enough of himself back to be properly sarcastic. "Really? I hadn't noticed."
"I wouldn't loan you out to just anyone," says Deborah. "Only for special occasions. But I'll be thinking on it a lot." She runs her hand over John's hip, and he wraps his hands around the back of her head to pull her down.
---
Siobhan pushes into Malcolm, watching his face carefully for any shift of discomfort. He rolls his hips up, legs spread wide to accommodate her.
"Tell me," says Siobhan, but then her brain stutters and she doesn't know what she wants him to say. She’s supposed to insult him, the masculine condition, but she can only think about how good it feels.
That's all right, Malcolm's already talking. "It's good. Amazing, the best I've ever had. I want you, more, harder. Please—"
Siobhan's hips jerk, and she has to slip one hand down between her clit and the base of the dildo, just to keep herself from falling too fast.
"Come on, please." Malcolm's hips are moving enough that he's half fucking himself. "Please, I need it."
Siobhan's eyes slide closed, and she loses herself to the rhythm. The slide of her cock into Malcolm's body, and the base pressing hard against her clit. She's panting open-mouthed, and words slip out. "Christ, so good. Fuck, take it, you slut, oh. Oh, John—"
Once she hears herself she slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes flying open, already formulating the apology. Malcolm hasn't noticed, feet flat against the bed so he can push his arse up. "Fuck, John," he repeats, and then he’s slapping a hand over his own mouth. “Oh, Christ, wait—"
"I’m going to kill him," says Siobhan.
Malcolm looks at the ceiling, the wall, anywhere but at Siobhan. “Just him?”
“Maybe all of us,” allows Siobhan.
Malcolm rubs a hand over his eyes and for a moment Siobhan thinks he might actually be crying. But then he snorts and moves his hand over his mouth, not quite able to contain the sniggers. He shifts on her cock too, sending sparks up into her stomach. “Do you think you could finish what you started, first?”
---
John’s mobile rings at three am on a Wednesday night. He fumbles for it, looking blearily at the screen.
“Don’t answer,” mumbles Deborah.
“Might be important,” says John. “I’ll be quiet—"
He thumbs the answer button, and whispers “hello?”
“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” screeches Siobhan.
John drops the mobile, then has to fumble for it on the floor, hanging half off the bed as he tries to hang up. He knocks it under the bed, instead, Siobhan’s remonstrations tinny yet penetrating.
“Told you so,” sighs Deborah.
John considers the phone, unreachable and still glowing with Siobhan’s rage. In the end, he just lies back down with a pillow over his head, waiting until she realizes he isn’t listening.
“No regrets,” he mutters.
Deborah yawns. “A first time for everything.”