by Неизвестный
But there are others here so he settles for Wesley's frown. The kid is easy to antagonize. Jason thinks if they ever got a moment alone, Wesley would rip into him, anger and hate and jealousy finally released in thick, white jets of cum. Just breathing is enough for him to get the kid started. His companion, though ... Jason wonders if Mr. Fordham even really knows he's here. If he'd only look at him for a moment, see the lust curled in his tight body, hear the pleading of young flesh ...
He crosses the room, heading for the reception desk and leaving those thoughts behind. Is he usually this bad? Or is it just a by-product of the damn tingling that's been itching his dick for the past few days? He usually makes it through the week without jonesing too much for a spot of sex. He has all weekend for that. And he already knows he's going to scout out the parties this time for older boys, older than that grad student. Maybe as old as Mr. Fordham. He wants a taste of that, definitely.
At the desk, he hands the nurse his forms and asks, "Will it be much longer?" His appointment was ten minutes ago.
Without acknowledging him, the nurse takes the clipboard and begins to flip through the forms to make sure he's signed them all. Finally, when he's just about to ask again, she sets the clipboard aside and turns to her computer. "Have a seat and the doctor will be with you shortly."
You said that already. He lingers a moment, trying to think of another way to phrase the question so that maybe this time she'll give him a straight answer, but how many different ways can he ask when it'll be his turn? So he starts back the way he came, and he isn't the least bit surprised to see Wesley scramble out of his seat, finished as well. Jason feels tension between them like two opposite magnets, drawing closer together until they reach that elusive point where they start to push away. He thinks Wesley will knock into him as he passes but the kid's sleeve barely touches Jason's own. From that brief contact, sparks tingle along Jason's spine and his flesh flushes a deep, hot red, but Wesley doesn't look at him and then he's at the desk. Jason glances at the kid's back, willing him to turn around, to see him, but he won't.
With a sigh, Jason sinks into his chair and stares at Mr. Fordham. He can watch the man openly because he's watching Wesley and doesn't notice Jason. Look at me, he commands, the way he used to when he was little and thought he might be telepathic like the guys in the comic books he read. If he just practiced hard enough, it would come -- at eight years old, he honestly believed that. In church or at the grocery store with his mom, he would stare at strangers, stare through them, will them to do something to prove he could communicate with his mind. Look at me, or pick up a can of Chef Boyardee, something silly like that. Once or twice, out of coincidence, the person he focused on would actually do what he wanted them to do, and his heart would soar at the proof that he might have influenced them. Now he pours every ounce of concentration he has into his gaze, bearing down on Mr. Fordham, silently begging the man to look his way. See me, he thinks. Me.
Nothing. For the first time in his life he's invisible, and he doesn't like it.
Jason is dimly aware of Wesley arguing with the nurse. "We have an appointment," he's saying, as if he's the only one here who does. Get over it already, Jason thinks, watching the man across from him watch the boy he loves. Just sit your scrawny ass down and wait your turn. No one is interested in your performance.
Maybe he is telepathic, because Wesley glares at him like he heard that. Jason doesn't meet his gaze -- he's watching Mr. Fordham. Without moving he traces the faint lines that crease the man's face. He fingers the graying hair at his temples, smoothes out the wrinkled brow. Beneath his touch, those leathery eyes soften, terse lips curve into a smile. "Grey," he whispers, his breath warming cool skin. His groin throbs with frustrated fury -- in his thoughts they're alone and nothing stops him from crossing the aisle to sit on that broad lap. Like a scene in a movie, he watches himself undress, that would get him noticed, his jeans pushed to the floor and kicked away, his sweatshirt pulled over his head to expose his hairless chest, the flat of his belly, his thick cock and shaved balls and narrow thighs. How could Mr. Fordham ignore that? How could he not reach out, not want it, not want him once he saw what Jason had to offer?
He imagines climbing into that willing lap, one leg on either side of Mr. Fordham's, "Grey." Those gentle fingers encircling his hardness, cupping him like pliant suede. Gnarled, weathered hands feeling their way over his hips to cradle his ass. Older skin dark on his young flesh. A hungry mouth on his, drinking from him, tasting. "Grey."
Mr. Fordham's eyes focus on him and Jason snaps out of the daydream. His entire midsection roils in lust and pain, the stabs in his belly driving deep into his body, his cock threatening to explode in his jeans. He's staring, he knows he is, and he can't help it. His cheeks are flushed and he can't quite seem to think past the echo of his heart in his ears. Now he's in the spotlight, now he's seen -- Mr. Fordham's full eyebrows knit together above the straight slope of his nose, did Jason call him? Please, he thinks. Those brown eyes are more compassionate than he imagined, and the full force of Mr. Fordham's gaze is deep and comfortable and right. So damn right ...
Suddenly Wesley is there, pushing between them, and the moment shatters like a wine glass dropped to the floor. The kid plops into the chair beside Mr. Fordham and frowns at his companion. "Grey? Is it still hurting bad?"
Mr. Fordham rouses as if from a dream ... mine, Jason thinks. His dream ensnaring the two of them like a cobweb, catching their hair, their hands, feathering over their skin. "Grey?" Wesley asks again. Sharp concern laces his voice.
"Fine," Mr. Fordham replies, distant. Then, remembering his lover, he shakes free from Jason's gaze and flashes the kid a bright smile as he pats his knee. "Not too much longer now, you'll see."
Wesley scowls. Jason likes to think he's pissed now, because Mr. Fordham was distracted by him, and for a moment it was Wesley who didn't exist. For a moment, maybe Grey was living out fantasies of his own that didn't include his young lover. To cover his anger, Wesley growls, "Where's it hurt?" He ignores Jason completely.
"Here." The older man places a hand low on his stomach, just above where his leg bends. Wesley touches the back of his hand then moves it aside to rub over the area himself. Mr. Fordham's eyes slip close in pleasure or pain, or some mix of the two, Jason can't tell. With a wince, he hisses, "Right there."
"This hurts?" Wesley asks. When Mr. Fordham nods, his frown deepens. "When I touch you? Or just in general?"
"In general, hon." Mr. Fordham keeps his eyes shut, probably so he won't have to look at Jason again. He doesn't want Wesley to see him looking, doesn't want to give the kid any ideas about what might be going on in his mind. Wesley seems like he might have a quick temper that's hard to soothe, though Jason is sure Mr. Fordham knows what to say, where to stroke, to make things right between them. Low in his throat, he purrs as Wesley's hand works into his abdomen. "Mmm, there."
Jason watches the hand move beneath the bulk of Mr. Fordham's jacket to cup the crotch of his jeans. Another moan, this one almost guttural, but still soft enough that the mother doesn't look up from where she sits with her children to see this kid fist it. Jason feels that hand on his own cock, those fingers tickling below his balls, working out the pain coiled in his groin. With a sly grin, Wesley whispers, "You like that?" Jason can almost believe he's talking to him. See? he thinks, triumphant. I knew he could be discreet.
Wesley lays back, resting his head on Grey's shoulder, and the man's arm comes up around his shoulders to hold him close. The hand under his jacket works in lazy circles, kneading, playful. Every now and then it slips free to trail down Mr. Fordham's inner thigh, but it's drawn back to the V between his legs like a magnet. With an embarrassed air, Jason glances around the room as if he's the one getting groped and he just knows the whole world is watching, but no one's paying them any attention. The elderly couple squabbles over prescriptions, the mother focuses on her kids, and the reception desk is empty, the nurse gone. Wetting his upper l
ip, Jason turns back in time to see Mr. Fordham clench his hand into Wesley's shoulder and gasp. Softly, so softly that Jason wouldn't even hear it if he wasn't watching the man's mouth, Grey murmurs, "Yes." One word, bloated with meaning. Yes.
Jason wants in on the action. His body aches to be touched. Leaning forward, he's going to ask if they want to get a room -- the bathroom, he's thinking, so he can follow behind them and listen if they won't let him join in, jerk off in the stall next to theirs, his pleasure mingled with their own, tiny sounds that'll echo off the tiles. The words are on the tip of his tongue (follow me) when a door opens and someone calls his name. "Mr. Harraway?"
Mister ... Wesley looks up at him, eyes hooded with desire, lips curled into a smirk. His name again, this time, "Jason Harraway? Is there a Jason --"
"Me," he says, pushing himself out of the chair. He stares down at Mr. Fordham but the man could be asleep, he doesn't see him. With a last look into Wesley's hard face, Jason clears his throat and heads for the nurse holding the door open for him.
The nurse is an older woman, his mother's age, Mr. Fordham's age, and Jason wonders what she'd have to say about Wesley's hand beneath the man's jacket out in the waiting room. With each step, Jason's underwear bites into his hard cock and she gives him a sympathetic look as she hands him a small container. "Aww, honey, is it that bad?" she asks. Worse than you can imagine, Jason wants to say, but she means the pain in his belly and not the erection shoved into his jeans. Pointing at the container she gave him, she says, "Fill it up to about here, if you please. Lid on tight, leave it on the side of the sink when you're through." She holds open another door that leads into a cramped, pink-tiled bathroom no larger than a small closet. When she flicks on the light, a vent roars to life, and she has to raise her voice so he can hear her over the sound. "I'll be right out here waiting."
That alone should be enough to cool the fires fanning in his groin, the thought of her on the other side of the door and listening, but no. He locks the door and unbuttons his jeans -- the zipper eases open on its own beneath his swollen dick, and with the pressure of his pants suddenly gone, he almost sighs in relief. In the mirror above the sink he sees himself, briefs bulging from between the teeth of his zipper, and in a few fast, tight strokes, it's over. Pain explodes from the tip of his dick in stringy bursts when he comes, and bright lights flash behind his closed eyes, the room sways, the whirr of the fan recedes and his heart pounds in his ears like drums. He's going to pass out, he knows it, and they'll bust up in here to find him on the floor in his own juices, cock softening in his hand.
No.
He takes a deep breath to steady himself, another. Leans against the wall, the tiles cold against his heated face, kneads his tender dick softly, slowly, as if trying to rub away the pain. Years pass, it seems, each second dragging by like an eternity wound into one brief moment. It wasn't this bad this morning. He had felt a little faint then, true, but he didn't feel like he was going to die.
Finally the lights behind his eyes fade. The floor beneath his feet grows solid and even once again. The pulse that threatens to break through his ears and leak out into the room dies and he can hear the fan again, a jagged, indignant roar that rushes to fill him up. Vaguely, Jason thinks he should see a doctor. Then he remembers where he is, and his laugh is a shaky chuckle that startles his eyes open. He catches a glimpse of his flushed face in the mirror and then deliberately looks away.
He stares at his hand, studying it, wondering if the white cum is tinted pink but he can't be sure. Just a trick of the light, he tells himself, but it's a cold comfort. He almost thinks he should save some of it, just to show the doctor, but how would that look? I jerked off in your bathroom -- do you see blood in that? Oh hell no. If he's bleeding, they'll see it in his urine. No need to advertise the fact that he's had a hard-on since Wesley and Grey walked in the waiting room.
He bites the fleshy part of his thumb to keep from crying out as he fills the container. The pain isn't as bad as before though, or he's grown used to it, one of the two. After he closes the lid over the cup, he holds it up to the light above the sink and stares into the dark golden liquid. Yes, that's definitely red. Or reddish. Not healthy, at any rate. Slowly he tucks himself back into his jeans, then washes his hands -- smells his own sex musk on them and washes them again. He leaves the container on the side of the sink like the nurse said and flicks off the light. The vent dies around him and in the darkness, he lets himself think of Wesley copping a feel out in the waiting room. He lets his hand brush across his crotch, he feels a fresh stirring in his groin at the thought of another's hand in place of his own. Then he remembers the nurse waiting for him.
She's in the hallway, just as she said she would be. Jason follows her to an examination room where she mutters to herself as she takes his blood pressure and temperature. "It'll be a few minutes," she says, scribbling numbers into his chart. "We're a tad busy today. Where's it hurt?"
Jason wonders if she even read all of the forms he had to fill out. "Right here," he says, pressing the heel of his palm into his groin just like Mr. Fordham did out in the waiting room. But the nurse isn't Wesley -- she doesn't rush to comfort him. Instead, her lips curve down in an exaggerated frown, the look his mother wears when he's complaining about school or classes and she doesn't really want to hear it. "The doctor'll be with you in a few," she says without looking at him. Jason hates the sound her pen makes on the paper in his chart. Write down that my dick hurts, he wants to tell her but before he can, she snaps the folder shut. "Just relax, honey. It won't be long."
She closes the door behind her as she steps out into the hall, leaving him alone.
Jason waits. He's getting good at this. From where he sits on the examining table, he can read the posters hung up around the room -- a long list of vaccinations he'd need if he were traveling around the world, a reminder to wash his hands after drawing blood, a detailed map of the human cardiovascular system. Taped to one cabinet is a scale of pain that goes from none at all, depicted by a yellow smiley face, to severe, same face only black this time, with X-ed out eyes and a horrible grimace in place of the smile. On the trashcan is an orange biohazard symbol, and a very old, well-read copy of Reader's Digest sits on the counter amid the bottles of sterile needles and cotton swabs. Faintly he hears music, something his mother might listen to, Michael Bolton or Amy Grant, he doesn't recognize the song. It comes from an intercom by the door, and Jason considers turning the volume up but why bother? It's nothing he wants to hear anyway.
So he waits. Just a little while, isn't that what the nurse said? He isn't wearing a watch but each second trickles by until he's sure it's been hours since they stuck him away in this room and no one remembers he's here. Wesley and Grey have left by now, surely, his chance to catch up with them and ask for a few quick minutes in the bathroom gone. Will they even think of him later? Did he say or do anything to imprint himself in their minds? He doesn't think so. If anything, Wesley might growl a bit about him, jealous kid. What good is an exclusive relationship when all it does is lead to petty feelings like that? What if Grey had wanted to give Jason a try ... would Wesley have stood in the way? That kid needs to come with me, he thinks wryly, knowing full well that would be the day. I could show him some fun. A back room at a party, half-naked boys all around, he wouldn't look back at that old man. He'd leave that one to me.
Only ... would he? Would he really?
Jason isn't so sure. He waits another few minutes and then lies back on the table. Beneath him, the paper covering crinkles with each move he makes. The tiny pillow is as hard as the rest of the table and he shifts in vain to find a comfortable spot. This bothers him now, thinking of Wesley and Grey and would the kid like his parties, his boys? He's Jason's age, he should. All guys like to break out from time to time, don't they? Go out, get wasted, get laid ... the story of his life. And he likes it, he does. Wesley can't be that much older than he is himself. He just needs a taste of the nightlife, and Jason knows the k
id would come back begging for more.
But the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if that's true. Wesley didn't exactly strike him as the life of the party out there. What's he do for fun? Hang out with his old man ... have sex, of course, but doesn't it get boring after a while? The same man night after night, the same arms, the same hands, the same body lying against his own in the same, comfortable way. Wesley's still young. Doesn't he want anything more than that? Shouldn't he want more?
Like me, Jason thinks. He has his choice of boys at every party he goes to, and when he can't find someone he wants to hook up with, he has Matt and Chris to fall back on. Nothing like a few good fuck buddies to pal around with -- he never goes back to the dorm alone. There's always someone ...
I'm alone now.
Yeah, well, now doesn't count, he tells himself, and for a brief second he actually believes it. Then the pain flares in his groin again and he clasps his hands over his lower belly as if that's going to do any good. I'm alone now, he thinks again, and in pain, and where are my boys when I need them? Hell, look at what they got me into. Whatever's festering in me came from one of them, it had to, shit like that doesn't just crop up on its own. And here I am thinking that Wesley should give up his meal ticket for this? The way it felt in the bathroom, like pissing shattered glass, he wouldn't wish that on anyone. Closing his eyes, he remembers the worried look his roommate gave him last night when he mentioned that he might have to see a doctor. "What for?" Matt wanted to know. He stood in front of his dresser, folding away clean laundry that had been sitting in his hamper for days. Each shirt had to be shaken hard to get the wrinkles out, and the flap of the fabric was loud between them.