New fic, next part
May. 14th, 2002 12:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lobelia321And here is the concluding part of that fic.
Title: Olives in Brine and Artichoke Hearts
Part: 1b/1
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321@aol.com
Other info: See Part 1a/1
"This is no good, is it?" said Bernard. "I have a better suggestion. Karl, why don't you do the directing? And John and I can have a go at this screen-kissing business. That way, stage and screen can have it out. Directly."
"Yeah, direct is best." John grinned. "Karl, don't look so disappointed."
Karl shrugged. Whatever. He edged towards the dinner table and quickly snatched a couple of mints before Bernard came to steer him towards the sofa.
"Stand here," Bernard told him. "Don't move. You're the camera."
"I'm the camera."
"Well, and the director. So: direct!"
"Er, action."
And by God, could those old guys kiss. For several seconds in a row, Karl even forgot to chew on his after-dinner mints. Bernard was moving his head around and moaning, and John's hands were bloody everywhere, and now they were grinding their hips together, and then Bernard bent his head back while John bit his neck.
"Karl?" said Bernard, his voice sounding strangled in that bent position.
"Y... yeah?"
"End of kiss, end of shot."
"Sorry, yes. Cut."
Bernard and John straightened up. Bernard's hair was mussed up and John looked decidedly flushed. Karl glanced down at their trousers, and what he saw there had a disconcerting and instant effect on him. He shifted his legs.
"Karl?"
"Yeah. Sorry. That was good. Er, take two."
And they were at it again. Karl gaped. His mouth literally fell open and a bit of nut dropped to the carpet. Not only were Bernard and John now deep-kissing but they were being quite open-mouthed about it and showing Karl their pink, wet tongues. In addition, Bernard was making those dirty moaning sounds. Karl decided that he needed to sit down on the sofa. With his legs crossed.
He also had the vague impression that this wasn't the first time that Bernard and John had done this.
"Cut," he croaked.
"Right. Ah, what take are we on?"
"I need a drink. Want one, Bern?"
"Oh, yes, thanks, John. How about you, Karl?"
So they each had several swallows of Port, and the thought of all that Port in all those mouths was making Karl's throat ache. He coughed.
"As director," he said, feeling bold, "maybe I should... maybe I need to show you what exactly you're supposed to be doing."
"Yes, that's always a good idea. Very good, Karl. Showing initiative."
"On stage, too, Bern. That's a good idea on stage as well."
"Oh, I'm sure it is, John. Come on then, Karl. Show us."
Karl looked from one to the other, trying to gauge their expressions. His knees felt a bit weak but mostly, he was just very keen to get a taste of that Port mingled with salmon and olive and artichoke heart.
"Okay," he said and stood up. "Maybe like this." He hesitated for just one second, but then leaned forward and determinedly kissed Bernard because he hadn't yet fully tasted Bernard's mouth, and did it ever taste divine. "Or maybe like this," he said, turned around and kissed John because he wanted to mingle his mint and chocolate with John's salmon and Port once again.
"Or maybe like this," he heard Bernard mutter behind him, and while he was still involved with kissing John, he felt another tongue on his neck, and that must be Bernard's tongue, licking its way down his nape and into the top of his shirt, and God, the thought of artichoke and Port mixed with his own sweat was enough to make his knees buckle. Karl had just enough presence of mind left to stammer, "Cut." Everyone drew apart.
"I... I think I need a drink. Of water."
"Do you, Karl? Feeling a bit hot under the, ah, collar, Karl?"
"Go on, Karl. There's water in the kitchen. We'll, ahem, we'll wait for you out here. Won't we, Bern?"
Karl wove his way past the table and chairs through the sliding door into the kitchen. He had to hold on to the counter top for a minute to steady himself, both his body and his thoughts. Water, water, right. He opened the fridge door and there was a large filter jug, half-full. He poured himself a glass and listened for voices from the living room. Strange, there weren't any. What had happened to all that arguing? The water was ice cold and flowed down his throat in almost painful gulps. It also refreshed the flavours in his mouth.
Karl set down the glass and looked about him. There, against the wall, hung a wooden spice rack. He picked up a few jars at random, unscrewed the lids, sniffed, shook coin-sized portions of powder into his palm, licked them off. Ground cumin, coriander, turmeric, all-spice. It was quite a heady mix. Like absorbing a concentrated dose of curry.
Wedged against the end of the spice rack was a small green tube. Karl examined it. He couldn't decipher the Japanese characters on it. He took the top off and squeezed a dollop of an avocado-coloured paste onto his forefinger. He sucked it off. Almost at once, his eyes began to sting dreadfully and a pungent pain blazed through his nostrils. He opened his mouth and panted to cool his burning tongue. Then he crammed the tube back into its place and lurched into the living room.
He didn't see Bernard and John at first, and only became aware of them when they sprang apart as if caught unawares at something. But Karl was still too busy dealing with his tongue and nostrils and eyes to notice what they had been up to.
"Ah, Karl," said Bernard, sounding out of breath. "What's the matter with you? Your eyes are watering."
"Oh, nothing," said Karl, still panting.
Bernard looked at John, John looked at Karl.
"Still feeling quite hot then, Karl?" asked John.
"Yes, I'm afraid I..." began Karl but didn't get much further than that because, Jesus Christ, there was John's mouth on his again. What was it with these guys and the constant kissing? Nevertheless, kissing John was quite interesting because he no longer tasted simply of salmon and olives; he now tasted of something else as well, yes it was quite distinctive, it was artichoke hearts and cigar smoke. Now that was...
But before Karl could really sample the new flavours, John jumped away and yelled, "Fuck, Karl! What have you been eating out there? Shit." He poked his tongue out and blew through his mouth.
"What? What is it? Let me taste." And without preamble, Bernard pressed his own mouth to Karl's and ran his tongue around the insides of Karl's lips. "Mmm," he said, sucking his teeth. "Wabasi paste. No wonder your eyes are watering."
"Wabasi fucking what?" said John who was now at the table, pouring Port down his throat. "Christ, Karl, are you trying to kill me or something?"
"Er," said Karl, resisting the urge to point out that, as far as he could recall, he hadn't actually invited anybody to kiss him. The heat of the paste was abating, and Karl could again savour the blend of spices in his mouth. There was also the lingering sensation of salmon, artichoke, cigars and olives. Karl was watering at the mouth.
Those two were looking at him again, smiling their strange little smiles.
"Are we, er," said Karl, "still doing takes and screen kissing? And all that?"
"Screen kissing," said John, stretching the syllables and smacking his lips thoughtfully. "Yes... Actually, Karl, ahem, Bern and I have been doing a bit of rehearsing while you were in the kitchen."
"Not rehearsing, John. Takes. In cinema, that's what it is: takes."
"Takes, right. But we were thinking, weren't we, Bern, that a kiss does have its limits on the screen."
"Does it?" stammered Karl.
"Yeah. As Bern was saying, you don't really get much chance to go into any special facial expressions, do you? There's not really all that much required in the way of acting."
Karl was uncertain as to where this conversation was heading. Come to think of it, he had been uncertain about the point of their conversation for some time now. Luckily, he had also spied a fruit bowl sitting on top of the TV set, and he inched towards it.
"So, Karl, we thought it would be a good idea," said Bernard, "if we tried another kind of scene. Just to convince John. A scene where facial expression is all-important."
Karl nodded, pretending to be attentive while at the same time plucking a grape off its vine and sliding it into his mouth. He closed his lips over it, curled his tongue around the round smooth shape, then balanced it between his front teeth and bit into it softly. His incisors sawed through the fragile membrane, and a burst of fresh, sharp juice exploded into his cheeks. He gave a little grunt of pleasure.
Wrong thing to do.
The grunt appeared to activate some primordial urges still slumbering within John and Bernard. They both went quiet as Karl grunted, straightened their backs, looked at each other, looked at Karl with those intent eyes. Indeed, their whole bodies were intent on Karl. Karl stopped moving his mouth, let the grape juice trickle down his gullet, allowed the grape skin to curl up on his tongue.
"What?" he said.
John licked his lips slowly. His long pink tongue crawled all along his chiselled upper lip, as if in slow motion, wormed its way into the corner of his mouth, and then slid all the way back along his lower lip. Tiny droplets of spit trailed along the smooth skin of his lips, mingling with equally tiny droplets of perspiration in the dip between the two curves of his upper lip.
Karl stared at John's tongue, stared at John's lips. He suddenly felt the need to cross his legs again. He reached behind him for some support; his hand landed in the fruit bowl and closed around a large, round orange.
"Ah, yes," said Bernard and cleared his throat. "The, ah, scene we had in mind, well, I don't know quite how to put this. Perhaps it would be best if we just demonstrated it. Would that be all right?"
"Er," said Karl.
"And mind, we want to demonstrate the subtleties needed for close-up filming. All right, Karl?"
Karl blinked. That is, he started to blink. He lowered his eye lids, but before he could lift them again, he felt something on his groin. Fucking hell. A hand, someone's hand, he wasn't even sure whose, he didn't dare open his eyes. It certainly wasn't his own fucking hand, because one of those was clutching the orange and the other one clawing blindly at the TV aerial.
Right, right. What had Bernard been saying? Something about subtle facial expressions? Close-ups? Right, shit. If he just focussed on that... If he could only manage to focus... He was a professional actor, after all. He should be up to this. It was only acting, after all; it wasn't as if they were really... Sweet fucking Jesus. Now someone, he couldn't see as white spots were swirling before his tightly-shut eye lids, but someone was unbuttoning his fly, reaching into his boxers, curling adept fingers around his cock... And as Karl's mouth involuntarily opened into a gasp, someone else's mouth descended on it. He wasn't sure whose it was at first, it tasted of salmon, artichoke hearts, cigars, olives, the whole fucking lot. The alien tongue scooped the grape skin from Karl's mouth, then there was a spitting sound and John's voice, "Christ, Karl, why are you always eating some weird fucking thing?"
"That's not very subtle, is it now, John?" came Bernard's voice, from somewhere below, somewhere around Karl's navel. Jesus, what was he doing down there? But Karl had no time to ponder this question because John's mouth was closing on his again, John's hand coiled around his neck, John's thumb against Karl's Adam's apple, and fuck, the man could kiss.
Karl didn't quite comprehend how this display of wanton abandon could possibly be used to demonstrate facial expressions or the subtleties of the screen. He had stopped feeling subtle aeons ago. He could barely manage to remain on his feet, let alone be subtle. There were hands at his jeans, sliding down between his thighs, fingers insinuating themselves underneath the seams of his boxers, rubbing his perineum, and now, sweet fuck, a mouth was pressed against his hard-on. A tongue flicked into the slit of his boxers' fly, touched skin, Jesus, Karl nearly screamed. And then the tongue and the lips and the mouth pulled and worked away at the boxers, tugged Karl's cock out through the slit, licked Karl's glans, sucked his dick, holy Christ, how was this all happening so fast?
Karl's balls were being chafed by the cotton of his boxers, his cock was drowning in saliva, his anus was being rubbed by a probing finger, his mouth was being so thoroughly kissed that he forgot about cheese and lemon and Port, just held onto the fruit bowl and the TV antenna, held on because there seemed to be some sort of earthquake making the room shudder and judder. But no, it was only his orgasm, it was making his knees quake, and my God, fuck, had he just come into Bernard's mouth?
Karl shivered with orgasmic aftershocks, seismic aftershocks, still keeping his eyes shut, his mind in a useless whirl. He had dug his finger nails into the orange with such ferocity that deep gashes had been gouged into its dimpled skin.
Karl's mouth hung open; John moved his tongue around in it at will, cleaning it out, drinking Karl's saliva, massaging his taste buds, slowing down, moving off.
Karl opened his eyes and took in the scene.
There was John, standing only a foot away, lips red, cheeks flushed, eyes quite wild.
There was Bernard, kneeling on the carpet, lips parted, showing Karl the thread of come coating the tip of his tongue. Jesus.
Karl could barely focus his gaze but he stared at Bernard's mouth, stared at the sight of his own come on Bernard's tongue. He started to imagine what it would taste like. The very idea made Karl feel slightly delirious. Without thinking, he bent down, opened his lips and sucked the come from Bernard's tongue. He moved it around his mouth before swallowing, an intoxicating blend of Port, artichoke, olives, and the hot salt and pewter flavour of his semen.
Karl straightened up and relaxed his arms. He still held the orange in his fist. He looked at it, then he slowly started to peel the fruit, tearing off chunks of the rind until he had exposed the flesh beneath. He bit into the pulp, let the sharp, tangy juice, mixed with pips and sticky strings, flow into his cheeks and down his chin, down his throat, let it seep underneath his shirt collar. Port, cheese, orange, mint, cumin, salt, it all filled Karl's mouth, filled his head, filled his brain.
"Ah," said Bernard and stood up.
"Ahem," said John.
"That was a good touch," said Bernard.
"Yeah, " said John. "Quite inspired. That was almost worthy of the stage, Karl."
"Allow me," said Bernard and leant in to lick the juices off Karl's throat.
"No, permit me," said John and licked Karl's cheek.
Seeing that they were almost bumping heads in their eagerness to clean up Karl, it seemed only natural that now John and Bernard should be kissing again, wrapping their tongues around each other only inches in front of Karl's face, dripping orange juice over each other's lips and chins.
"Right," said Bernard after a while. "Let me get us some more Port. Karl, you're looking a bit, ah, weak in the knees. Why don't you button yourself up, lad, and have a seat over there? On the sofa. In the middle."
Karl obediently sank into the sofa. John sat down on his left, placing a familiar hand on his thigh, using the other hand to remove the orange from Karl's fingers. He took a suggestively slow bite of it himself, grinning at Karl under arched eyebrows. Bernard reappeared with three glasses and sat down on Karl's right.
Karl looked from one to the other, imagining Port mixed with olives mixed with the residue of his own sperm. And perhaps even with sperm not his own...
"Er," he said. "You have some really good food in this house, Bernard."
"Yeah," said John, "doesn't he just? He's a fantastic cook, aren't you, Bern?"
"Why don't you come round to dinner again, Karl?" suggested Bernard. "Next Saturday. Eight o'clock sharp. Perhaps we can, ah, demonstrate the superiority of the screen once more. I'm not sure we have completely convinced John yet. What do you say, Karl?"
"Will there be any vanilla custard?" asked Karl.
"Karl, my lad," said Bernard, smiling broadly. "I've got a whole tub of home-made, organic vanilla custard out in the larder right now. Did you just want to eat it? Or do you have something else in mind?"
----------------
The End.
Title: Olives in Brine and Artichoke Hearts
Part: 1b/1
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321@aol.com
Other info: See Part 1a/1
"This is no good, is it?" said Bernard. "I have a better suggestion. Karl, why don't you do the directing? And John and I can have a go at this screen-kissing business. That way, stage and screen can have it out. Directly."
"Yeah, direct is best." John grinned. "Karl, don't look so disappointed."
Karl shrugged. Whatever. He edged towards the dinner table and quickly snatched a couple of mints before Bernard came to steer him towards the sofa.
"Stand here," Bernard told him. "Don't move. You're the camera."
"I'm the camera."
"Well, and the director. So: direct!"
"Er, action."
And by God, could those old guys kiss. For several seconds in a row, Karl even forgot to chew on his after-dinner mints. Bernard was moving his head around and moaning, and John's hands were bloody everywhere, and now they were grinding their hips together, and then Bernard bent his head back while John bit his neck.
"Karl?" said Bernard, his voice sounding strangled in that bent position.
"Y... yeah?"
"End of kiss, end of shot."
"Sorry, yes. Cut."
Bernard and John straightened up. Bernard's hair was mussed up and John looked decidedly flushed. Karl glanced down at their trousers, and what he saw there had a disconcerting and instant effect on him. He shifted his legs.
"Karl?"
"Yeah. Sorry. That was good. Er, take two."
And they were at it again. Karl gaped. His mouth literally fell open and a bit of nut dropped to the carpet. Not only were Bernard and John now deep-kissing but they were being quite open-mouthed about it and showing Karl their pink, wet tongues. In addition, Bernard was making those dirty moaning sounds. Karl decided that he needed to sit down on the sofa. With his legs crossed.
He also had the vague impression that this wasn't the first time that Bernard and John had done this.
"Cut," he croaked.
"Right. Ah, what take are we on?"
"I need a drink. Want one, Bern?"
"Oh, yes, thanks, John. How about you, Karl?"
So they each had several swallows of Port, and the thought of all that Port in all those mouths was making Karl's throat ache. He coughed.
"As director," he said, feeling bold, "maybe I should... maybe I need to show you what exactly you're supposed to be doing."
"Yes, that's always a good idea. Very good, Karl. Showing initiative."
"On stage, too, Bern. That's a good idea on stage as well."
"Oh, I'm sure it is, John. Come on then, Karl. Show us."
Karl looked from one to the other, trying to gauge their expressions. His knees felt a bit weak but mostly, he was just very keen to get a taste of that Port mingled with salmon and olive and artichoke heart.
"Okay," he said and stood up. "Maybe like this." He hesitated for just one second, but then leaned forward and determinedly kissed Bernard because he hadn't yet fully tasted Bernard's mouth, and did it ever taste divine. "Or maybe like this," he said, turned around and kissed John because he wanted to mingle his mint and chocolate with John's salmon and Port once again.
"Or maybe like this," he heard Bernard mutter behind him, and while he was still involved with kissing John, he felt another tongue on his neck, and that must be Bernard's tongue, licking its way down his nape and into the top of his shirt, and God, the thought of artichoke and Port mixed with his own sweat was enough to make his knees buckle. Karl had just enough presence of mind left to stammer, "Cut." Everyone drew apart.
"I... I think I need a drink. Of water."
"Do you, Karl? Feeling a bit hot under the, ah, collar, Karl?"
"Go on, Karl. There's water in the kitchen. We'll, ahem, we'll wait for you out here. Won't we, Bern?"
Karl wove his way past the table and chairs through the sliding door into the kitchen. He had to hold on to the counter top for a minute to steady himself, both his body and his thoughts. Water, water, right. He opened the fridge door and there was a large filter jug, half-full. He poured himself a glass and listened for voices from the living room. Strange, there weren't any. What had happened to all that arguing? The water was ice cold and flowed down his throat in almost painful gulps. It also refreshed the flavours in his mouth.
Karl set down the glass and looked about him. There, against the wall, hung a wooden spice rack. He picked up a few jars at random, unscrewed the lids, sniffed, shook coin-sized portions of powder into his palm, licked them off. Ground cumin, coriander, turmeric, all-spice. It was quite a heady mix. Like absorbing a concentrated dose of curry.
Wedged against the end of the spice rack was a small green tube. Karl examined it. He couldn't decipher the Japanese characters on it. He took the top off and squeezed a dollop of an avocado-coloured paste onto his forefinger. He sucked it off. Almost at once, his eyes began to sting dreadfully and a pungent pain blazed through his nostrils. He opened his mouth and panted to cool his burning tongue. Then he crammed the tube back into its place and lurched into the living room.
He didn't see Bernard and John at first, and only became aware of them when they sprang apart as if caught unawares at something. But Karl was still too busy dealing with his tongue and nostrils and eyes to notice what they had been up to.
"Ah, Karl," said Bernard, sounding out of breath. "What's the matter with you? Your eyes are watering."
"Oh, nothing," said Karl, still panting.
Bernard looked at John, John looked at Karl.
"Still feeling quite hot then, Karl?" asked John.
"Yes, I'm afraid I..." began Karl but didn't get much further than that because, Jesus Christ, there was John's mouth on his again. What was it with these guys and the constant kissing? Nevertheless, kissing John was quite interesting because he no longer tasted simply of salmon and olives; he now tasted of something else as well, yes it was quite distinctive, it was artichoke hearts and cigar smoke. Now that was...
But before Karl could really sample the new flavours, John jumped away and yelled, "Fuck, Karl! What have you been eating out there? Shit." He poked his tongue out and blew through his mouth.
"What? What is it? Let me taste." And without preamble, Bernard pressed his own mouth to Karl's and ran his tongue around the insides of Karl's lips. "Mmm," he said, sucking his teeth. "Wabasi paste. No wonder your eyes are watering."
"Wabasi fucking what?" said John who was now at the table, pouring Port down his throat. "Christ, Karl, are you trying to kill me or something?"
"Er," said Karl, resisting the urge to point out that, as far as he could recall, he hadn't actually invited anybody to kiss him. The heat of the paste was abating, and Karl could again savour the blend of spices in his mouth. There was also the lingering sensation of salmon, artichoke, cigars and olives. Karl was watering at the mouth.
Those two were looking at him again, smiling their strange little smiles.
"Are we, er," said Karl, "still doing takes and screen kissing? And all that?"
"Screen kissing," said John, stretching the syllables and smacking his lips thoughtfully. "Yes... Actually, Karl, ahem, Bern and I have been doing a bit of rehearsing while you were in the kitchen."
"Not rehearsing, John. Takes. In cinema, that's what it is: takes."
"Takes, right. But we were thinking, weren't we, Bern, that a kiss does have its limits on the screen."
"Does it?" stammered Karl.
"Yeah. As Bern was saying, you don't really get much chance to go into any special facial expressions, do you? There's not really all that much required in the way of acting."
Karl was uncertain as to where this conversation was heading. Come to think of it, he had been uncertain about the point of their conversation for some time now. Luckily, he had also spied a fruit bowl sitting on top of the TV set, and he inched towards it.
"So, Karl, we thought it would be a good idea," said Bernard, "if we tried another kind of scene. Just to convince John. A scene where facial expression is all-important."
Karl nodded, pretending to be attentive while at the same time plucking a grape off its vine and sliding it into his mouth. He closed his lips over it, curled his tongue around the round smooth shape, then balanced it between his front teeth and bit into it softly. His incisors sawed through the fragile membrane, and a burst of fresh, sharp juice exploded into his cheeks. He gave a little grunt of pleasure.
Wrong thing to do.
The grunt appeared to activate some primordial urges still slumbering within John and Bernard. They both went quiet as Karl grunted, straightened their backs, looked at each other, looked at Karl with those intent eyes. Indeed, their whole bodies were intent on Karl. Karl stopped moving his mouth, let the grape juice trickle down his gullet, allowed the grape skin to curl up on his tongue.
"What?" he said.
John licked his lips slowly. His long pink tongue crawled all along his chiselled upper lip, as if in slow motion, wormed its way into the corner of his mouth, and then slid all the way back along his lower lip. Tiny droplets of spit trailed along the smooth skin of his lips, mingling with equally tiny droplets of perspiration in the dip between the two curves of his upper lip.
Karl stared at John's tongue, stared at John's lips. He suddenly felt the need to cross his legs again. He reached behind him for some support; his hand landed in the fruit bowl and closed around a large, round orange.
"Ah, yes," said Bernard and cleared his throat. "The, ah, scene we had in mind, well, I don't know quite how to put this. Perhaps it would be best if we just demonstrated it. Would that be all right?"
"Er," said Karl.
"And mind, we want to demonstrate the subtleties needed for close-up filming. All right, Karl?"
Karl blinked. That is, he started to blink. He lowered his eye lids, but before he could lift them again, he felt something on his groin. Fucking hell. A hand, someone's hand, he wasn't even sure whose, he didn't dare open his eyes. It certainly wasn't his own fucking hand, because one of those was clutching the orange and the other one clawing blindly at the TV aerial.
Right, right. What had Bernard been saying? Something about subtle facial expressions? Close-ups? Right, shit. If he just focussed on that... If he could only manage to focus... He was a professional actor, after all. He should be up to this. It was only acting, after all; it wasn't as if they were really... Sweet fucking Jesus. Now someone, he couldn't see as white spots were swirling before his tightly-shut eye lids, but someone was unbuttoning his fly, reaching into his boxers, curling adept fingers around his cock... And as Karl's mouth involuntarily opened into a gasp, someone else's mouth descended on it. He wasn't sure whose it was at first, it tasted of salmon, artichoke hearts, cigars, olives, the whole fucking lot. The alien tongue scooped the grape skin from Karl's mouth, then there was a spitting sound and John's voice, "Christ, Karl, why are you always eating some weird fucking thing?"
"That's not very subtle, is it now, John?" came Bernard's voice, from somewhere below, somewhere around Karl's navel. Jesus, what was he doing down there? But Karl had no time to ponder this question because John's mouth was closing on his again, John's hand coiled around his neck, John's thumb against Karl's Adam's apple, and fuck, the man could kiss.
Karl didn't quite comprehend how this display of wanton abandon could possibly be used to demonstrate facial expressions or the subtleties of the screen. He had stopped feeling subtle aeons ago. He could barely manage to remain on his feet, let alone be subtle. There were hands at his jeans, sliding down between his thighs, fingers insinuating themselves underneath the seams of his boxers, rubbing his perineum, and now, sweet fuck, a mouth was pressed against his hard-on. A tongue flicked into the slit of his boxers' fly, touched skin, Jesus, Karl nearly screamed. And then the tongue and the lips and the mouth pulled and worked away at the boxers, tugged Karl's cock out through the slit, licked Karl's glans, sucked his dick, holy Christ, how was this all happening so fast?
Karl's balls were being chafed by the cotton of his boxers, his cock was drowning in saliva, his anus was being rubbed by a probing finger, his mouth was being so thoroughly kissed that he forgot about cheese and lemon and Port, just held onto the fruit bowl and the TV antenna, held on because there seemed to be some sort of earthquake making the room shudder and judder. But no, it was only his orgasm, it was making his knees quake, and my God, fuck, had he just come into Bernard's mouth?
Karl shivered with orgasmic aftershocks, seismic aftershocks, still keeping his eyes shut, his mind in a useless whirl. He had dug his finger nails into the orange with such ferocity that deep gashes had been gouged into its dimpled skin.
Karl's mouth hung open; John moved his tongue around in it at will, cleaning it out, drinking Karl's saliva, massaging his taste buds, slowing down, moving off.
Karl opened his eyes and took in the scene.
There was John, standing only a foot away, lips red, cheeks flushed, eyes quite wild.
There was Bernard, kneeling on the carpet, lips parted, showing Karl the thread of come coating the tip of his tongue. Jesus.
Karl could barely focus his gaze but he stared at Bernard's mouth, stared at the sight of his own come on Bernard's tongue. He started to imagine what it would taste like. The very idea made Karl feel slightly delirious. Without thinking, he bent down, opened his lips and sucked the come from Bernard's tongue. He moved it around his mouth before swallowing, an intoxicating blend of Port, artichoke, olives, and the hot salt and pewter flavour of his semen.
Karl straightened up and relaxed his arms. He still held the orange in his fist. He looked at it, then he slowly started to peel the fruit, tearing off chunks of the rind until he had exposed the flesh beneath. He bit into the pulp, let the sharp, tangy juice, mixed with pips and sticky strings, flow into his cheeks and down his chin, down his throat, let it seep underneath his shirt collar. Port, cheese, orange, mint, cumin, salt, it all filled Karl's mouth, filled his head, filled his brain.
"Ah," said Bernard and stood up.
"Ahem," said John.
"That was a good touch," said Bernard.
"Yeah, " said John. "Quite inspired. That was almost worthy of the stage, Karl."
"Allow me," said Bernard and leant in to lick the juices off Karl's throat.
"No, permit me," said John and licked Karl's cheek.
Seeing that they were almost bumping heads in their eagerness to clean up Karl, it seemed only natural that now John and Bernard should be kissing again, wrapping their tongues around each other only inches in front of Karl's face, dripping orange juice over each other's lips and chins.
"Right," said Bernard after a while. "Let me get us some more Port. Karl, you're looking a bit, ah, weak in the knees. Why don't you button yourself up, lad, and have a seat over there? On the sofa. In the middle."
Karl obediently sank into the sofa. John sat down on his left, placing a familiar hand on his thigh, using the other hand to remove the orange from Karl's fingers. He took a suggestively slow bite of it himself, grinning at Karl under arched eyebrows. Bernard reappeared with three glasses and sat down on Karl's right.
Karl looked from one to the other, imagining Port mixed with olives mixed with the residue of his own sperm. And perhaps even with sperm not his own...
"Er," he said. "You have some really good food in this house, Bernard."
"Yeah," said John, "doesn't he just? He's a fantastic cook, aren't you, Bern?"
"Why don't you come round to dinner again, Karl?" suggested Bernard. "Next Saturday. Eight o'clock sharp. Perhaps we can, ah, demonstrate the superiority of the screen once more. I'm not sure we have completely convinced John yet. What do you say, Karl?"
"Will there be any vanilla custard?" asked Karl.
"Karl, my lad," said Bernard, smiling broadly. "I've got a whole tub of home-made, organic vanilla custard out in the larder right now. Did you just want to eat it? Or do you have something else in mind?"
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The End.