by Jules Jones
He wasn’t so stupid as to fall for the stereotype that computer geeks needed to be whacked across the head with a blunt instrument before noticing that someone was interested in them. John was controlled, but hardly emotionless. Best to take things slowly, to give John a chance to back away gracefully should he not be interested, without making him feel foolish or resentful.
A private dinner, just for the two of them, might be good. Even if nothing came of it sexually, it would be a pleasant way to spend an evening, and a chance to get to know each other a little better. A dinner, with some simple but nice personal gift.
A selection of chocolates chosen to match the recipient’s taste was one of the traditional means of displaying an interest that might or might not be more than friendship, but he was starting to debate whether it was too traditional. Too obviously chickening out of saying, “Fancy a fuck, then?”
Not the chocolates. Not wine, either ‑‑ John liked good wine even if he rarely drank alcohol, but since he rarely drank alcohol, Charles didn’t have much idea what he particularly liked. It was amazing how little you could know about someone’s personal tastes even when you shared a house with them. He wandered along the shopping mall, looking for inspiration in shop windows.
And then he saw the perfect item, and he realised what it was he’d been looking for.
* * * * *
John examined the small rectangle of cardboard once more. A formal dinner invitation was utterly ludicrous in this house, and that in itself had piqued his curiosity. So he’d dressed up nicely; not full formal wear, but smart shirt and trousers, with a tunic rather than a dinner jacket over the black silk shirt. It was close enough to his normal clothing that he didn’t feel uncomfortable, at least from unfamiliar clothes. In fact, it was what he wore when he had to dress smartly for a business meeting, but could get out of wearing an actual suit.
And now he was standing outside Charles’s room, wondering which of them was about to make the bigger fool of themselves.
His first guess was that Charles had some foolish idea of becoming friends with him, in the misguided belief that this would result in his acquiescence in Charles’s crazier schemes for saving the world. Charles should know better ‑‑ John had been sharing a house with the idiot for three months before said idiot had put him on contract as IT manager for the latest campaign, and he had been quite free with his opinions on Charles’s politics both before and since accepting employment. His second guess was that Charles had an even more foolish idea of seducing him, purpose same.
His third guess, which was the second guess without the ulterior motive attached, seemed too unlikely to even bother listing. Yes, there’d been that hint of attraction between them; but Charles was cheerfully bi and open to all prospects, and the collection of misfits and oddballs who afforded London housing by sharing a rambling Victorian monstrosity included much more enticing prospects than his misanthropic self.
And perhaps Charles was just bored and looking for company when everyone else was out of the house this weekend. After all, boredom as much as anything else had ensured that he wouldn’t miss this dinner date. He knocked at the door and heard Charles say, “Come in,” in that wonderfully rich voice of his. He envied that voice, that ability to make the most ridiculous notions sound sensible. He walked in, and there was Charles, all dressed up nicely, too, also smart casual rather than formal. John stopped and admired the effect, his first move in determining whether guess one or guess two was correct. Charles looked good, but then Charles always looked good; physical good looks, with the height and build and gorgeous voice, but also an easy self-confidence without any off-putting arrogance. And brains to go with the rest of it. An appealing package whether in tails or faded jeans and tee-shirt.
Charles appraised him in turn. “You scrub up very nicely. If it wasn’t for the geek head-to-toe black, I might think you a normal human being.”
The cheerful insult put John at ease, putting them back on a normal footing. “I’m obviously not trying hard enough.”
Charles grinned at him. “Worried about your supernerd image? I shouldn’t, if I were you. Your guilty little secret is safe with me.”
Startled, John barely managed to control his reaction. “What guilty little secret?”
“That you’re capable of normal social behaviour when you put your mind to it.”
Oh. Just another everyday, comfortable insult. “And rapidly exhausting my limited stock of good manners, so if we could move along to this dinner you promised…”
“Of course, of course. This way.” Charles gestured gracefully, as if showing him through to a formal dining room, rather than a small table set in the middle of the room. He pulled a chair out for John, all manners.
John sat down, busied himself getting comfortable, and then glanced across the table at Charles. Only then did he check his place setting to see what might be on the menu. It took several seconds to register what was draped gracefully across his plate. The fact that it was entirely black didn’t help. By tradition it should have been red.
A single long-stemmed rose, pure black. Not just the flower, but leaves and stem too. Not real, then. He touched a finger to it, expecting to feel plastic, and found a velvety softness instead. He picked it up in wonder, stroked it, smelt it. The flower was delicate suede shaped into soft petals; the leaves some stiff, heavy fabric. An artificial rose, but an exquisitely beautiful one for all that, made with loving artistry and finished with a delicate bow of satin ribbon, just as a real rose from a florist’s would have been. It was the perfect romantic gift, and how the hell had Charles guessed?
“Do you like it?” Charles asked softly.
“Yes. It’s beautiful. Thank you,” he said, before his internal censor had a chance to realise what he was going to say, and then cursed himself.
“Good.” Charles paused, then went on, “A box of chocolates didn’t seem you, somehow, and then I saw that, and I knew what I wanted to get for you.”
“How did you know that I like leather?”
There was silence. Then Charles said, very quietly, “I didn’t.”
Mortified, he replayed what he’d said and knew there was no way out; his intonation had put a very specific meaning on what he’d said. And he’d said it assuming Charles already knew or had guessed, and wasn’t disturbed by it. He dropped the rose like the poison it assuredly was to the hope of any relationship, and said as calmly as he could manage, “Well, now you do. Congratulations.” Then he pushed the chair back, managed to stand up without knocking anything over, and walked towards the door. Walking, not running, he could hang on to at least some shreds of his dignity.
He never got to the door. Charles had taken him in a bear hug from behind, was holding him. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“You’ve found out what you wanted to know. You’ve confirmed my guilty little secret. I see no need for me to stay any longer.”
Charles didn’t let go, held him tighter if anything. “What the hell are you talking about? All I wanted for tonight was a nice romantic dinner, followed by a nice romantic fuck. My notion of a good fuck might not match yours, but you might at least give me a chance to find out if there’s any overlap!”
“Then why the leather rose?” John asked, wanting to believe, not daring to believe.
“Because it was exotic and beautiful, soft petals and sharp thorns, all done up in black,” Charles whispered in his ear. “And it reminded me of you.” Brush of lips against his ear. “And when I saw it, I realised that it wasn’t just a quick fuck I wanted with you.” Pressure on his earlobe, the gentlest of nips from Charles’s teeth, then, “Although I’d make do with that, if necessary.”
He relaxed a fraction, and Charles said, “That’s better. Now come and sit down before our dinner gets cold.”
Still not certain of Charles, he resorted to a direct question. “Charles, what is this all about?”
“I told you. A nice romantic dinner, followed by a
fuck.” Charles slid one hand down his body, cupped it over his cock. “Not that I’ve anything against just a fuck, mind you; it’s just that I thought that, as we live together anyway, it would be nice if we still respected each other in the morning. At least as much we ever do.” Then Charles nuzzled his ear again. “And then I saw that rose, and I thought about why it seemed appropriate for you, and I knew that with you I wanted more than just a fuck.”
It was the wistful tone in Charles’s voice that settled his doubts, at least about Charles’s original motives. He settled into Charles’s embrace, leaning back against him slightly. “And what about my… tastes…”
“We’ll worry about that after dinner.”
Well, he might as well stay for dinner; then the evening wouldn’t have been a complete waste. He allowed himself to be steered back to the table and sat down again. The black rose lay drooping across his plate, one bent leaf a reproach. Charles whisked it away and disappeared somewhere behind him. Disposing of the rose and getting dinner, presumably. John regretted the rose. It had been so perfect for him, until a chance word had spoiled it.
Charles returned with a tray. Two bowls of soup, one for each place setting, and a crystal bud vase holding the rose. “That should stop it getting in the way,” Charles said, as if nothing untoward had happened. “Don’t want gravy spilled on it.”
As it happened, gravy wasn’t spilled anywhere. It was a most decorous, and delicious, dinner, and by the main course John had begun to enjoy himself. By dessert he’d relaxed enough not to be defensive when Charles started very gently flirting with him, and by coffee he was flirting back. By the time they’d had a brandy he was using the rose to flirt with Charles, drawing the black petals down Charles’s cheek. Charles leaned across the table and caught his hand.
“And what else do you like to do with leather?”
Nothing but gentle curiosity in Charles’s words, or so he thought. Hoped, perhaps. Could believe in just enough to answer, “I like to go on top.”
“Now what I like,” Charles said, “is undoing mystery parcels. Don’t much care what the wrapping paper is, so long as there’s plenty of it.” Charles slid his hand down John’s wrist, played with the intricate cuff buttons on the tunic. “Do you think we could find common ground?”
“Maybe not ‑‑ but I’d like to try.”
“Good.” Charles let go of his hand, stood up, and walked around the table. John pushed his chair around to face Charles, and Charles dropped to one knee in front of him. Then Charles said, quite seriously and with no hint of levity, “May I have the honour of disrobing you?”
Well, why not? “You may.”
“Thank you.” Charles took hold of his hand again and kissed the palm, then the narrow strip of wrist exposed beyond his cuff, and then he nuzzled at the cuff itself. “You smell good.”
Deft fingers working at his cuff, undoing the buttons with a dexterity he could never quite manage himself. Charles pushed the cuff back and traced a finger over the shirt beneath. “Mmm, silk,” he said. “Nice.”
“I do like to be comfortable,” John said coolly.
Charles looked up at him, smiling. “And that’s all there is to it?”
He found himself smiling back. “Now you come to mention it, no.”
“Always thought there was a hedonist under there somewhere.”
“Thought or hoped?”
“Bit of both.” Charles traced up the inside of his arm with one finger, pressing the silk against his skin. “Thought there was, hoped to find out.” The finger traced along his shoulder, and then Charles shifted position slightly, both hands going to the collar of John’s tunic. “Knew it would be a lot of fun finding out just how many layers I’d have to get through to find the hedonist beneath.” Charles found the trick of the collar fastening. “Ah! Well, that’s one!”
Amused, oddly touched by Charles’s obvious delight, John pointed out, “You still haven’t done the other cuff.”
“But anticipation’s half the fun,” Charles protested. “You should know that.”
John leaned forward and stroked Charles’s hair with his free hand. “Perhaps we can find common ground after all.”
Charles pushed against his hand, curls tickling his palm. “Perhaps we can.” Then Charles drew down that hand and tackled the buttons there, although only the top layer, leaving those underneath untouched. He stood up and leaned forward to grasp the bottom of the tunic, and John felt not that he was being stripped, but that he was being served; some subtlety in Charles’s behaviour making it so, making him the master and Charles his manservant preparing him for bed. He liked that image and held on to it as Charles pulled the tunic away.
Charles went back to his knees and skimmed his fingers over John’s shirt, obviously savouring the texture of the silk. Then the same ritual, stylised almost ‑‑ one cuff, then collar, then the other cuff. No attempt to remove the shirt this time. Charles went to the shoes next, lifting one foot and resting it on his knee to undo the laces. “These need polishing,” Charles commented.
“In the morning. Just take them off for now.”
“Yes, sir.”
So it was deliberate, Charles attempting to adapt his own fetish to a better match with John’s. Well, he was willing to meet Charles part of the way, try to adapt in turn. It wasn’t as if he needed the blatant power games, and this was good, better than he would have thought. He’d willingly let Charles play his clothing games.
One shoe off, and Charles lifted the other up, grumbling about the knot being knottier than it need be. Then his socks, each followed by a kiss to his bare foot. He awaited further developments with interest, but Charles simply put his feet down gently and went back to his shirt, finally tackling the buttons down the front. It only took two before Charles said, “Oh, and another layer!” and tugged gently at the vest. “Black, too. What a surprise.”
“Well, now, I have a reputation to live up to.” Besides, a white vest would have shown through the shirt.
“That’s all right,” Charles said cheerfully. “I like you in black; it suits you. Makes you look all mysterious.” He finished undoing the shirt buttons.
“Does that mean you’ll lose interest once you’ve discovered what I keep under all those layers?” Not quite as lighthearted as it should have been.
Charles’s hands flattened on his chest. “Oh, no, John, I think there’s enough of an enigma in there to keep me happily exploring for a long time.” Not lighthearted at all. Then Charles shifted the mood again. “Let’s see what’s under this layer, then.”
John stood up and let Charles draw the shirt away and drape it over the chair. Charles pulled up the vest and pulled it over his head, leaving him naked to the waist and with his hair mussed. He put up a hand to smooth it, and Charles said, “No, please don’t.” After a pause, he added, “You don’t look quite as intimidating with your hair like that.”
Charles found him intimidating? That was news. Charles wasn’t intimidated by anything, or so it seemed. John left his hair as it was.
Charles kneeled in front of him and ran his hands over the front of John’s trousers. “I’m afraid those have got rather wrinkled.”
And no wonder. “Then I suppose they’d better come off.”
“Oh, quite.” Charles was already busy with the fasteners. One finger poked inside. “And what do we have in here? Oh, more silk.” Flies undone, spread so that Charles had a good view. “My god, they aren’t black!”
“You needn’t sound so surprised.”
“Well, maybe I wouldn’t if they’d been a nice dark blue. But, John ‑‑ scarlet?”
So he really had managed to surprise Charles. “I thought you liked surprise packages.”
“I do, I do,” Charles said happily and demonstrated how much he liked the surprise by kissing it thoroughly. He kept on kissing it as he eased the trousers down over John’s hips. He had to stop then, so John stepped out of the trousers hastily as Charles tried to help them off, and
Charles went back to showing his appreciation of the scarlet silk. Delicate touches mixed with good hard kisses, sliding wet silk over his cock.
It was good ‑‑ it was very good ‑‑ but it wasn’t what he liked best. What he wanted most from Charles. “Time for bed, I think.”
Charles rocked back on his heels, looked up at him for a moment. Then he obviously got some sort of idea. “Very well, sir. Just give me a moment to turn the bed down.”
He watched as Charles stood and did just that, the perfect servant. Charles opened a drawer, took a tube from it, and solemnly placed it on the pillow. “Would you like a hot water bottle, sir?”
“Yes, I believe I would.” He was trying not to laugh at this bizarre turn of affairs, and trying not to laugh at how very erotic he found it. Not his usual line at all, but somehow it worked. Then Charles stripped, very efficiently and impersonally, and that was even more erotic, and finally Charles climbed into bed and waited for him.
Another time, he might have stripped off the last of his clothing, showing off what he was about to use, but this time he left the mystery for Charles. He climbed into bed, calmly pulled the covers up around his shoulders, and told Charles to lie on his front. Charles obliged. Then he picked up the tube and said, “I feel that I must warn you that I am considered quite well-endowed.” One finger, just the one, so that Charles would be tight and feel it all the more. Then he put down the tube, pulled down the scarlet silk, lay on top of Charles, and gave Charles the lot.
Charles yelped quite satisfactorily. Shocked, but not hurt. “Still curious, Charles?”
“Just how bloody big are you?”