FIC: All Tomorrow's Birthdays 2/4

[lobelia321]

Title: All Tomorrow's Birthdays
Part: 2/4
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321@aol.com
Other information: See Part 1/4.

-----

Dom's own hand stopped. It hovered in the air, somewhere between heaven and hell.

Bernard cupped his balls, through the velvet of his breeches. There was a rustle from stage left: Karl, digging around in his trailermix pack. Suddenly, Dom found himself wishing that Karl would go off to lunch or something. His role, in this scene, was minor, surely? Karl was not absolutely needed in this... was he?

Transmuting into a mindreader, Karl said, "I'm all out of scroggin. Let me just go to catering. Be right back."

"No, Karl," said Bernard, not taking his eyes off Dom. "Do stay. Watch this."

"Oh," said Karl. "Er."

Dom looked at Karl. He looked at Bernard. Dom shuffled forwards on his knees. He put his hand on Bernard's thigh and he slid it up, up towards Bernard's hand. Then he had to close his eyes for a moment and find his breath. He kept moving his hand, though. He found Bernard's hand by touch. He bent his head forwards, and more, and more... until his hand was around Bernard's wrist and his lips on the back of Bernard's hand.

Drums, drums in the deep.

No, wrong. It was only Dom's heart, beating against his ribcage.

"Ah," said Bernard, not moving his hand from his groin. "Your lines."

"The... uh," Dom said against Bernard's skin, between Bernard's legs.

"Karl?" said Bernard.

There was a shuffling of pages and a helpful prompt from Karl: "May I lay the sword of Meriadoc of the Shire on your lap, Théoden King? Receive my service, if you will!"

"May I lay the sword," repeated Dom whose head was now quite buried in Bernard's lap, "of Sheriadoc the Mire..."

"Hang on," Karl was heard to say. "That's not right."

"Meriadoc the... the...on your lap, receive my service," Dom mumbled.

Bernard's other hand moved through Dom's wig. "Gladly will I take it," replied Théoden's voice. "Rise now, Meriadoc. Take your sword and bear it unto good fortune!"

"Go on," said Karl. "Rise."

"Yes," said Bernard. "Although in one sense, I think you already have. Haven't you, young Dominic?"

All that Dom could think of was the way Bernard's cock had quivered in his dream. And how he wanted to lay his own cock on Bernard's lap and receive all sorts of services.

Bernard moved his hand away from his crotch. Dom's lips fell onto Bernard's breeches.

Breath returned with a vengeance. It puffed into Dom with a gale-nine force so that he had to puff it out again. He puffed it all out in one moist gulp, emptying his lungs onto the hard bulge inside Bernard's breeches.

"Ah," said Bernard.

"Er," said Karl.

"Dominic," said Bernard. "Would you care to come to dinner tonight? My rooms are on the top floor, right at the end of the corridor. Eight-thirty suit you?"

-----

Flashback: Five years earlier.

On the set of *Hetty Wainthropp*, there was a running joke between Dom and Derek Benfield.

Every time there was a break between takes and the BBC crew busied themselves doing whatever they do -- polishing their camera lenses, delousing the mikes, setting mouse traps in dubious location-terraces --, Derek grabbed Dom's bony, eighteen-year-old wrists, wrapping his own warm liver-spotted hands around them, and said, "Oh, Geoffrey!" To which Dom replied, rolling his eyes and batting his lashes, "Oooh, Mr Wainthropp!"

It was fairly pathetic as far as jokes go. And pretty soon, after about two or three runs of this, it ceased being a joke. To Dom, at any rate. Because Dom had already had his thing then. And every time white-haired, slack-skinned, sixty-something Derek grabbed his wrist, Dom's thing was activated and started humming around in his body at top voltage.

"Oh, Geoffrey!" cried Derek.

And, "Oooh, Mr Wainthropp!" said Dom. Pretty soon he ceased saying it and sighed it instead, and he ceased rolling his eyes but continued to bat his lashes because he couldn't help it. The lashes were set humming by the volts coursing through his electrified veins.

And pretty soon, pretty all-too soon, one pretty winter morning, Derek grabbed Dom's wrists and instead of saying, "Oh, Geoffrey!", he said, "Oh, Dominic!"

"Oooh... uh," said Dom.

He thought that he should probably now say 'Oooh, Derek' but he had only just left school and was still not quite used to calling elderly grown-ups by their first names in such delicate situations.

It didn't seem to matter, though. Derek looked carefully at Dom. Derek who was always so helpful and so kind to rookie Dom, who took Dom under his wing and showed him the ropes. Kind helpful Derek looked at him, and looked at him some more, and looked at Dom until Dom's belly liquefied and Dom's nether regions caught flame. Kind helpful Derek, sexy sexagenarian extraordinaire.

"How about a ride in the country?" Derek said, out of the blue. Well, to Dom it seemed out of the blue, anyway.

"Uh?" said Dom. He wasn't the most articulate of boys at age eighteen.

"At lunchtime," said Derek. "How about we go on a little ride? I know a nice pub, out by the River Darwen..."

"Okay, take seventeen! Places, everyone!" yelled the infuriating BBC person.

Cameras were wheeled on, cables dragged, microphones dangled. Derek winked at Dom through a tangle of camera lianas. Dom tried to wink back but his eyes were set on big'n'round and refused to shutter close. His heartbeat sped up to 100-meter Olympian. His palms turned into sweat manufactories.

At one p.m., Dom stood out on the pavement, shivering in Geoffrey's faded denim jacket. Derek appeared from round the corner, wheeling the scooter.

"Are we allowed to take that?" Dom burst out.

"No," Derek said cheerfully, "so hop on quickly and get going. I'll sit in back and give directions."

They put their helmets on and climbed on to the scooter. It felt strange riding the scooter for any length of road. Of course, they rode the scooter frequently in the course of filming but only ever to the corner and back, shifting locations in between takes. This time, they rode on and on, down East Park Avenue, across a major thoroughfare, along a principal traffic artery, round a roundabout, over some speed bumps, hanging a left into a country road.

Derek held onto Dom from behind. First he had his hands on Dom's denim jacket; by the time, they reached the roundabout, he'd moved them to Dom's bulky top, and by the time they got to the open road, Derek's palms were against the bare skin of Dom's belly and what with those palms and the rumbling engine between his thighs, Dom had to think of England an awful lot in order to avoid spurting his jism there and then onto the faux-leather seat of the scooter.

But Dom's innocence was such that he still didn't make anything of it. He still thought, or convinced himself, that Derek's hands were there for reasons of anchorage or thermal advantage, and without any other worry beyond keeping his dick in check, Dom rode the scooter on and on, past stubble, past dilapidated bus shelters, past parkin bakeries, call centres, disused mills, Anglo-Saxon ruins, hot pot dispensaries, monuments to Mahatma Ghandi, schoolgirls turning counter-clockwise, four thousand holes to fill the Albert Hall, more stubble, until Derek said,

"Here. Turn right here."

The right turn led them down a muddy country track into the depths of some bit of Northern forest.

"I don't see any pub, Derek," Dom said, trying out the familiar form of address.

"Turn off the engine," said Derek.

The engine died. Birds tweeped. Squirrels rustled. Badgers peeped from the undergrowth. Nothing seemed to be hibernating that winter.

"I still can't see the pub, Derek," Dom said.

"That's because, my dear boy," said Derek -- and that was the first time he had ever called him 'my dear boy' --, "there isn't one."

"So why..." said Dom.

The scooter shook. Derek dismounted. The squirrels cracked open some nuts, and the birds billed and cooed. This was the countryside. The sky was blank between bony branches.

Dom turned round.

Crash! The scooter fell. Dom fell with it. His jeans wallowed in the mud. The handle bar left a painful welt along his hip. By the time Dom had disentangled himself from his metallic steed, he had almost recovered his breath and his balance.

Almost.

For there stood Derek, his face compressed inside the bulb of his motorcycle helmet, his jacket loose on his shoulders and his genitals quite white, quite naked, quite quivering and shivering and raring to go.

Dom nearly fell over again. Slivers of heat ran up and down his trachea, followed by shudders of cold. Down below, he was hard as a hound dog.

Derek said nothing, just looked at him. Just liquefying Dom with his eyes.

"Uh," said Dom.

He said "uh" because he had absolutely no idea what to do next. Not a fucking clue. He had liquid amber in his arteries and enough metal in his dick to fill a scrapyard but he had never been in a forest alone with a senior citizen and colleague who was exposing himself in the manner of a raincoat man and making Dom rattle with need.

So he just stood there, in his Geoffrey jacket and bulky chequered top and jeans that bunched up above his shoes. The wind soughed softly. Two squirrels started to hump each other on a branch in Dom's line of vision. The tips of his fingers burned with cold.

Without transition, Dom remembered other moments and other men. He remembered his grizzled driving instructor from the year before. He remembered the bingo master at the local working men's club, calling out "snakes alive, it's a five" and smoothing back his yellowing, bryl-creemed mane of white. He remembered the man who had, two years before, come to redecorate his parents' house in an insidious shade of magnolia and whom Dom had once spied on and caught wanking into a five-litre tub of paint. With schoolboy Dom crouching under the stairs and trying to keep time.

Then Dom stopped remembering because Derek walked up to him and grabbed hold of his wrist.

Dom almost said, 'Oooh, Mr Wainthropp' in automatic response but Derek took Dom's hand in his own, and he'd never done that before.

"That's a very cold hand you've got there, Dominic lad," Derek said. His voice sounded different, deeper and darker and altogether more dangerous. "Would you care to warm it?"

Dom managed a nod. In fact, he started to nod frenetically, like one of those noddy felt pugs that sit in the rear windows of Ford Mondeos.

Before Dom's brain could compute quite what was happening, Derek had curled his own warm fingers around Dom's frozen digits and guided Dom to his cock quivering in the winter air. Derek's hand was warm around Dom's cold hand, and Derek's cock was hot inside Dom's chilly palm, so hot it nearly scalded Dom's skin, so hot it nearly blew him off his feet, and he had to grab hold of Derek's jacket sleeve to stop himself from slithering into the mud again.

"That's good, isn't it?" said Derek. "Nice and warm. Now if you just..."

But Dom found that he didn't need to be told what else to do. His brain had gone awol, true, but his hand seemed to know its way. It moved up and down Derek's cock in quick, twirly movements, the speed copied from Dom's own onanistic experiences, the twirl gleaned from under-the-stairs spy sessions. Derek said, "mmm", and Dom thought that he must be doing something right for Derek to be saying 'mmm', so he started to do more and other things. He tugged at Derek's Wainthroppian waistband, he unclipped the suspenders and pulled down the dacrylene trousers. He wormed his other hand underneath Derek's balls and rolled them in his palm -- and then he had to stop and gasp because the pendulous weight of Derek's testes combined with the hot hardness of Derek's cock was enough to send Dom to come-come land, and he didn't want to go there yet.

There was a clunk, and that was Derek's helmet hitting the side of Dom's helmet. For some absurd reason, they were still wearing their cosmonautish headgear. Derek lifted his hands and unfastened Dom's helmet, then undid his own, then took Dom's hand off his cock and without so much as a by-your-leave, he dropped on his knees in the mulch and pressed his mouth against Dom's crotch.

Dom was so surprised he nearly fainted.

He knew what this was, of course. He had seen this on the covers of porn videos he was too chicken to buy at Amsterdam airport. He had tried to get girls to do this to him but his first girlfriend had said it was icky, and his second girlfriend had gagged and thrown up in her parents' en-suite loo. Result of these sorry ventures: Dom had never, ever experienced fellatio.

So when Derek unzipped him and swallowed him whole, it was perhaps not so very strange that Dom should come within seconds and after a bare three or four swipes of Derek's wet mouth.

The trees did a fandango against the February sky. The squirrels squealed in mid-rut, and all the badgers had monkey faces. Dom reeled from his endorphin overdose and wondered vaguely where his jism had got to. Then he realised, and started reeling all over again.

"Mmm," said Derek and stood up. He licked his lips. "That was quick."

"Yes, uh..." said Dom, and because he still had no idea of how to behave in the situation he was suddenly finding himself in, he added, "Sorry."

"Sorry?" said Derek and chuckled. "For what? For being young and strapping?"

"I mean," faltered Dom. "Thanks." He was spurting politeness at random. Next, he'd be saying 'Excuse me' or 'Beg your pardon', but Derek grabbed his wrist and placed his hand around Derek's cock again, and then Dom stopped babbling.

Needless to say, they never made it to any pub. Later, Derek produced two apricot bars and let Dom eat both of them. "Tomorrow, I'll bring some sandwiches," he said.

"Uh, tomorrow?" said Dom.

"Yes, you're up for it, aren't you, Dominic lad?"

Dom did his nodding thing again. He had to put the helmet on to shut up his head.

The next day, Dom brought a padded parka and woolly gloves to work, plus a pocket pack of tissues.

-----

Back in New Zealand, Dom was five years older and not quite as innocent as he had been in the days of the Darwen. Nevertheless and yet and still-- when he got back to his hotel room and thought of the evening ahead, his pulmonaries started pumping so violently he thought he might pop his tricuspid valve.

Calm. Calm. Calm. That was the mantra of necessity. Dom had a shower and breathed calmly and evenly. Half-way through, he noticed that this hotel provided detachable hand-held nozzles. This was convenient because it meant he could spray his balls with water and, if he twisted the showerhead to 'thin and mean', blast his rectum to kingdom come.

Both the sensations and the anticipations endured in the shower got the ventricles contracting at double-speed again. Dom drenched himself in aftershave, rolled deodorant all over his armpits and around his scrotum, just for good measure, lay down naked on his bed and tried to be calm, calm, calm.

The best way that Dom knew to calm down was to give the old dick a good workout but that was precisely what he didn't want to do. He wasn't sure what this so-called dinner invitation portended but one thing he was certain of was that, just in case he was going to be called upon to perform, he did not, repeat not, wish to be found wanting.

Dom rolled over on his front and tried to think calming thoughts. Within minutes, he was asleep.

The dreams he had were wild and incoherent, of that mad flickering kind that haunts naps before bedtime.

-----

TBC