FIC: The Other Trailer 3/3

[lobelia321]

Title: The Other Trailer
Part: 3/3
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321@aol.com
Other details: See Part 1/3.
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This mattress is not only musty but also very saggy and loose as a moose's balls. There's a V-shape to this bed, with me clinging to one shank of the V, and Orlando no doubt clinging to the other shank, and a sharp, perilous trough in the middle.

I sneeze again. I roll into the trough.

"Do you need a hankie?" asks Orlando.

"No," I say. He's in the trough, too. Who can think of hankies at a time like this?

Luckily, I've still got my back to him. I claw my way up the V again. Stupid idea, inviting him into my bed. Definitely a stupid idea. I should learn to resist these philanthropic urges. But the bed is getting nice and warm now, the blanket's getting heavy, gravity is pulling me down...

And now we're floating. We're floating on some sort of raft thing. Half bed, half raft. It's raining; it's drumming loudly on the roof, except there is no roof. Only the heavens above. Someone else is here, too, a warm presence, could be Orlando, could be Richard...

"Viggo?"

"What? What?" I lurch to the surface of the dream and gasp for air.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Okay? Yes, of course I am. What?"

"Do you want a decongestant or a nurofen or something? You were sort of huffing and wheezing."

*Haaa-choo!* "No, I wasn't." Shit.

"You were. You are. You just put spray all over my face."

"Oh, shut up, Orli, that's gross."

"It's not me who did the spraying!"

"Look, just leave me to suffer in peace. And I don't take painkillers. I'll have some echinacea in the morning." If I remembered to pack any. And those herbal lozenges I got in Wellington. And yes, I guess I am wheezing. In fact, I feel like shit, come to think of it. There's fire in my throat. There's porridge in my eyeballs. My sinuses are wobbling about like udders. My ears are popping and my head's stuffed full of snot.

Why, oh why, did I not bundle up better when I went exploring? At least he hasn't said "I told you so." Well, that would be because he *hasn't* told me so. Because nobody told me so. Because I didn't let anybody know that I was going into the forest. Because I just pissed off, and now I'm piss-sick

"Really?" says Orlando. "You don't take any painkillers? You don't even take lemsip?"

"Lemsip? What's lemsip?"

"Don't you have it in the States? A sort of lemon drink with vitamin C and paracetamol. Good against colds."

"I do acupressure," I say.

"Acu-what?"

"You know." I try to sigh but have to wheeze instead. "Pressure points on the body. Ancient Chinese technique." Or was that Japanese?

"Oh, right. How does that work then?"

"Well." I half-sit up and turn around. "For example, if I rub my cheekbones here, that's good for my sinuses."

"Here? Just here?"

I show him how to use the thumb and the middle finger, and how to rotate them just so and just where. I don't know why I'm doing this. His face is very close to mine. He's copying my movements, he's pressing, he's rotating, and all of a sudden he's pushed my hands away and he's pressing and rotating on *me*. The pads of his fingers dig into my cheeks, and yes, he's rather good at this. He's got big strong hands, and wide strong fingers. He doesn't stab, he presses firmly, and he rotates firmly, and I can feel the snot crackling inside my sinuses.

"Is that right like this?" he says.

"Yeah. That's the... Hm." Somehow my eyes seem to have fallen shut. "That's the... the zygomatic bone, yes, and that's for the... hm, maxillary sinus..."

He's pressing, he's rotating. The snot in my head is crackling and popping. Small explosions vibrate through my cranial cavities.

The only problem is that in order to show Orlando how to do the acupressure, I've had to turn round. And turning round reminds me that I've got nothing on underneath my T-shirt. And my sinuses crackling and popping reminds me, with no apparent link or connection, of my dick, and when my dick gets remembered, it gets hard. And that's too bad. Or not. Well, it doesn't really bother me. Or shouldn't. It's all part of nature, right? And Scandinavians love to be natural. We Danes, we feel very free and easy about being natural. Well, maybe not *that* free and easy. Maybe just free and easy enough to turn round but not quite free and easy enough to relax and roll into the trough. Instead, I'm tensing my lower body backwards in a desperate concave arch.

Orlando's still massaging my zygomatic bones. The rain's still dripping outside. The rain is weaving a cocoon of water round the trailer. Orlando's face glimmers orange. His fingers are warm and firm and strong. Snot continues to crickle and crackle behind my nostrils. I give a long, wet sniff.

"Is it working?" says Orlando.

"Yes," I say. "See? I don't need paracetamol."

"No," says Orlando. "You don't. Because you've got me."

I'm getting quite relaxed now. I relax into his firm and hard fingers, and that's a mistake, because Orlando relaxes at the same time. We roll into each other. We roll into the trough, and my groin rolls into his thigh.

"Hullo," says Orlando. He gives a little chuckle. Doesn't take his fingers off my face, though. Continues to press and rotate.

"Hello what?" I croak.

"Hullo-hullo," murmurs Orlando. It's not at all clear what he's going on about. I'm lying still as a stick, dick hard against his sweatpants, and he's moving slightly, rubbing against me. It can't possibly be on purpose; it's because his arms are moving, and his arms are moving because his fingers are moving, and his fingers are moving because he's rubbing my maxillary sinuses. And now I let out a little gasp, and that's because my maxillary sinuses are clearing, my airways are unblocking so that breath goes in and breath goes out, and that, as everybody knows, causes gasping. Gasping in short spurts. Spurting short gasps.

I move a little, just to adjust. Just to get more comfortable. No, just to get away from Orlando's sweatpants. But of course, there's the trough and the V and the rain and the orange light glinting in Orlando's eyes and the silver light glinting on Orlando's chest, and all of that combined means that I, well, move *into* him instead of *away* from him.

It's only a small miscalculation. Anybody could make it. Into instead of away. Into and onto. Onto Orlando, onto Orlando's thigh, and he says, "Mmm", and he moves his hands to my head -- are there any pressure points on my head? -- and he's kissing my lips.

How the fuck did his lips get onto my lips?

One minute I'm lying there, having my cheeks massaged, and the next minute I can feel his breath on my skin, and maybe, just maybe, I happen to purse my lips a little, and maybe his lips just happen to be in the way of my lips, and whatever and however, the upshot is: we're touching lips.

Okay, I should stop this.

He's *not* Sean, after all, and he's *not* Harry. And he most certainly isn't Richard. But *he's* not stopping. He's stopped pressing and rotating but he hasn't stopped touching lips. He's pressing and rotating his lips against mine. Pressing, rotating and yes, licking. Definitely licking.

Ridiculous. This is Orlando, after all. This wasn't meant to happen. This... Well, it's difficult to think in this position, in this sort of on-top-of-Orlando position, with my tongue trapped and strangled by Orlando's tongue, and my lips being eaten by Orlando's lips, and with him going "mmm" in that abandoned way, and with me going "hm", and yes, well, thoughts have... gone somewhere else. Gone off into the forest. Stalked off into the night, shinned down a thread of rain, gurgled into a drain.

And what's he doing now? Surely not... Surely not cupping my ass? No, can't be. I'm hallucinating. It's the sinuses; it's the stuffed nose, playing with my sense perception. There's nothing on my ass, nothing at all. Except where are his hands? No longer on my head. Oh... I see. That's where they are. Oh. Well. Oh. God. Fuck. This is... fast. This is... How did this start to happen so fast? In way over my head here. Should pull... away. A bit later. Pull away in a minute. Just another minute. Another minute won't do any harm.

God. He's taken off his sweatpants. Because that is flesh. That is definitely, most definitely, a naked human dick. A very naked, very human and very hard, a hard-as-a-fucking-plank dick. Against my hip. Against my own dick. He's rubbing it up against me, and his hands are moving to my balls. And...

"Sorry, what?" I gasp. Did he just speak?

"Let me just get something," he whispers in my ear. "Don't go away."

He's gone. The mattress bounces back up. The room bounces back into focus. Rain bounces off the window and the wedged towel. My thoughts bounce off the walls, they collide with the kitchenette cupboards, they tangle in the puke-coloured drapes, they ricochet from all corners of this trailer like fucking billiard balls, and...

He's back.

Fuck. He's back in the bed. He's got them. He's brought the fucking condoms from the ledge above the bathroom washbasin.

"Orli," I say. "Orli."

"Yes?" He's whispering. He's lying on top of me, whispering against my face. His forehead feels damp. I can feel his heart through my T-shirt.

"Orli, have you done this before?"

There's no answer. Aeons tick by, and there's still no answer.

No answer means 'no'. No answer means 'no go'.

"Why? Have you?" he says.

What sort of a question... Oh. Right. That sort of a question. The sort of a question one guy asks another guy when they're lying on top of each other at night in bed, rubbing their hard dicks into each other's bellies. The sort of question one guy who's holding a condom in a foil wrapper asks another guy who's holding his breath.

"Yes," I say.

God. This is *not* something I planned to divulge to Orlando. This is not something he's even supposed to know about. Shit.

"Now you," I say. "Have you?"

Silence again. Finally, "It depends."

"It depends?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'this'. When you ask, 'have you done this', -- do you mean, as in lying around naked with another bloke? Because in that case, yes, I have done that." He's kissing my face now; ridiculous. "Or do you mean, as in, have I ever buggered another bloke, or been buggered, and in that case I have to say 'no', I haven't. And..." He's whispering again. Whispering into my ear again, blowing his hot moist breath right up my auditory canal, setting my ossicles and my cochlea jingling. "And if you mean by 'have I done this before', do I *want* to do it, do I want to do it now, then maybe... Maybe you'd better ask another question."

Shit. What's made him so articulate all of a sudden? I'm certainly not articulate. I can barely understand his question, let alone formulate a response. All I can do is stare at him, stare at his face in the half-light, and move my hips. Damn hips. Auto-reflex. They tend to do that when they get ground against. When they get run aground. When the ground gets pulled from underneath me and the air gets kissed out of my lungs and intelligence gets blown out through my ears.

"What?" I say, intelligently.

"Viggo," he whispers. Jingle-jangle. "Do you want to do this now? Do you want to fuck?"

"God, Orli," I gasp. "What's got into you?"

"Mmm." He's got his mouth against my neck. He's fumbling with the packet. Foil rips. I can smell that familiar... Actually, I don't want to think about exactly *how* familiar that latex smell is to me. He's holding the condom in his hand. It's still rolled up. The hard little circle of rolled-up rubber is pressing against my belly.

"Hang on," I say, gasp, pant, whatever. "Listen, you better do me."

"How do you mean?"

Shit. Do I need to spell it out? Well, fuck, here goes. I've come this far. No harm in confessing more. In fact, no point in not. "You, Orli, you do me. Because... well, because I'm more used to it." There, I've said it. I've as good as told him that this is not a one-off thing for me. "And if you haven't, it's easier..."

"Okay," he says. He doesn't seem bothered by any of my confessions. He's eating my mouth again. He's rotating and pressing his lips against mine. He's rotating his tongue against my tongue, he's rotating his hips against my hips, he's going "mmmm".

There's some fumbling, and some mumbling. He's got the condom on. I lift my knees -- god, this feels so familiar; it's been a while but it still feels very familiar -- and he pushes against me. I have to stop him. I have to put my hand on his chest, against the silver necklace, and I have to say, "No, no, we need something, you know, we need something creamy, some kind of lubricant."

"Oh, right." He pauses. "Hang on a bit." He's off me again. The trailer shakes as he hops across the floor, the bathroom light flickers on, something falls into the basin, the light goes off again. He's back. He's back in the bed. He's back on me. He's hard and firm and warm, and all of his hardness and firmness is on me and pressed against me.

He's got some sort of cream, one of his many bottles of lotion or potion or pimple application or what-do-I-know. What do I care? As long as it's something. Some creamy thing. He's pumping the handle of the bottle, and he's dolloping the stuff all over himself, and all over me, all over the bedclothes too, I shouldn't doubt, shit, we'll be swimming in it. It smells of... well, of something unorganic, anyway, but what the hell, let's get on with it.

And he's not messing about, that's for sure. That is, he *is* messing about, and who'd have thought that of Orlando? Who'd have... Holy fuck. Is that him? Oh, god.

Oh, my... god. He's... He is big.

He's big, he's hard, he's in. For some reason, we're kissing again, I don't know why. I thought that part was over but it seems not. It seems we're to kiss while we fuck. And there's no denying it, it is actually nice. It's nice to be kissed so nicely, and to move against him, knees up, chin up, tongue out, sinuses forgotten. Oh yes, sex is good for the health alright, it's good for the physical balance, very good. Not so sure about the mental balance. Not so sure at all. Well, I'll figure that one out tomorrow. It's only the one time, after all. No harm in that. No way am I staying in this trailer tomorrow night. Will escape into the forest. With my sleeping bag. But my god, he's...

He's slow, very slow. I like that. I've always liked slow. And he pays attention to rhythm. I like that, too. Last fuck I had, with a man that is, was all over the place, all over the fucking shop, grunting and groaning and sweating. It was fun, sure, yeah, but this... Whoa, this is something else.

Orlando is slow, he's careful, he's very exact, he fucks like a damn metronome. I could play the piano to the rhythm of his fucking. I could play Mussorgsky's *Pictures at an Exhibition*, even the difficult bits, and never miss a beat.

He's putting his hands on the sides of my head. No, that's no good, covering up my ears, making my blood rush into my head. I pull his hands away, I put them on my hips, I need to be grounded, need to grind. God, I could go forever, this is some fuck. But now we're speeding up a bit, we're making the mattress scream -- not me, I never scream --, we're making the whole trailer shake and the cupboards rattle. My bottle falls over, and the frigging alarm clock starts beeping again, but who cares, because now the trailer lifts off. Lifts off into the sky, like some oblong flying saucer.

We're looking down on the forest below, all the tops of all the trees, with all their strange and spicy smells, waving their strange serrated leaves in the rain. The encampment lies huddled together in the lone vastness. We rise above the rain clouds, above the rain, above the moon which is horned, serene, silvery white.

And with a gasp and a shake and a roll and a quake, we're back in the bed, clinging to each other like two sweaty marathon runners, with Orlando's necklace digging into my chest and my belly wet with cum.

I'm panting, and Orlando's panting. Our chests are slippery with perspiration. My heart's pounding but my head isn't. My head is quite clear. My throat is calm, my eyes are soft. Nothing's throbbing or itching. My nose doesn't feel stuffed up. In fact, I haven't felt this good in weeks. My muscles feel massaged, my skin is nice and smooth, my lungs are big and open, and my arse is sweet and raw and thoroughly well-fucked. I feel so good and so relaxed that I'm on that raft again, floating out to sea...

"Viggo?"

What? What? Oh, Orlando. He's rolled to the side but don't tell me he wants some sort of post-mortem. Post-sexem, whatever. So yes, he kissed nicely, and he fucked like a concert pianist, and all of that was unexpected and rather sudden -- but now I must sleep. Now I must...

"Your sinuses seem to have cleared." Is he laughing at me again?

"Hm," I manage.

"I'll be able to sleep now," he says into my ear, "without your huffing and puffing."

"Hm," I grunt again. There's cum trickling down my thigh. Where is that towel? Oh, keeping out the infernal rain. Seems to have stopped now, actually. Only intermittent drip-drops can be heard against the metal roof.

"You know," says Orlando, "tomorrow..."

"Tomorrow I'll be sleeping outside," I say quickly. "In my sleeping bag."

"Oh," he says.

There's silence for a while. I'm drifting off again but then the mattress bounces, the springs creak, and Orlando's face is above mine. I've got my eyes closed but I can feel his fingers on my forehead, running along my eyebrows, trailing down the side of my nose, pressing and rotating against my cheekbones, pressing and rotating into the corners of my mouth.

"You're always so serious," he says. "I like that but you should smile more. It's nice. It suits you."

"Why?" I mumble. What *is* he on about now?

"You smiled when you came," he whispers. "You looked really relaxed."

Did I? Well. I mean... Shit. I open my eyes. I look at Orlando's face in the murky gloom. Orange dots are reflected in his pupils. They glint at the back of his deep-forest eyes. Tiny dots dance in each bead of sweat on his forehead, tiny beads of sweat cling and shudder on the ends of his eyebrows. His cheeks curve downwards in two solemn hyperbolas.

Okay. I smile.

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The End.

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to lobelia321@aol.com

If you want to know what happens to Orlando after Fangorn, read When the Cat's Away and its sequels.

6 October 2003