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Putting The Ho in Hotel

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Fergus holds his phone between his ear and his shoulder and sticks his key card into the panel on the hotel room door.

“Why the fuck did you get us rooms here, it’s fucking awful.”

“I know, but the Radisson was fully booked and the other option was commuting for nearly three hours at 6am, so I went for the lesser of two evils, I’m very sorry,” Adam says irritably, crackling through a staticky line. “If I’d known about this thing earlier, I could have maybe got us in at the Rad, but by the time I was making reservations all the rooms had been taken by either Tory-party wankers pretending to care about the environment or lentil-fucking hippies that make all their clothes out of hemp.”

Fergus pushes open the door and wrestles his carry case through it, before switching the light on and scanning the room. It’s alright, he supposes. Bit basic, but it’ll do for one night. At least it’s better than that B&B Adam had booked for them in Bury, with the shared bathroom and bedding from the 70s that looked like someone may have died in it. Possibly on more than one occasion.

“Please don’t say ‘the Rad’ ever again.” He drops his key card onto the desk next to a dusty TV no bigger than a computer monitor. “Have you seen the bar by reception? It’s like the green room for an episode of Jeremy Kyle.” He plops down dejectedly onto the bed and slips off his shoes.

“Of course I have, I had to check-in didn’t I? Never seen so many screaming kids in my life, and I’ve been to Euro Disney.”

“Disneyland Paris,” Fergus corrects, thumbing the TV on with the remote.


“It’s called Disneyland Paris now,” he answers distractedly, attention momentarily caught by Newsnight and what looks like Paxman giving some hapless Tory fuckwit a grilling.

“Jesus, I just can’t get anything right,” Adam fires back snippily.

Fergus checks his watch. “Shouldn’t anyone under the age of 18 be in bed by now?”

“They’re all on their way to Magaluf or whatever, aren’t they. This place is about five minutes from Heathrow, so it’s always full of families, and stag dos waiting to jet off to the Costa Del Syphilis. Time goes right out the window. You can go down there at 4 in the morning and there’ll still be a gang of bald bastards in Ben Sherman shirts sat drinking Fosters with their nail-technician wives while their offspring run around like it’s a fucking Wacky Warehouse." He pauses, takes a breath. "Why are you so late checking in, anyway?”

“Tube cancellations. Boris is a useless cunt, make no mistake. Luckily he’s making such a balls-up of being Mayor I think his career will effectively be over at the next election.”

“Good fucking riddance,” Adam says distantly.

“Mm.” Fergus flicks through a few more channels. Some shite sketch show, a documentary on trains, ITV2 are showing Independence Day again. “Do you want to go for a drink?”

“What, down in the Killing Fields?” Adam snorts incredulously. “No fucking chance. Just go to bed, you’ve got an early start with those granola people from Friends of the Earth, and you know how you get with ‘Save the Whales’ types if you’re in a bad mood.”

Fergus huffs out a sigh. “Yeah, I guess. Fucking hell. Tories and crusties combining for a shit pile of a conference, and I have to be there. What did I do to deserve this bollocks? I must have been a prolific paedophile in a previous life, I reckon.”

“I think that’s unlikely, mate. What are the chances a massive paedo would be reincarnated as another massive paedo?” Fergus can hear the smile in Adam’s voice. “Go to bed, yeah? To sleep.”

Fergus frowns at the second instruction. What else would he be going to bed to do? He decides not to question it.

“Yeah alright, meet you at half 7 for breakfast?”

“I’ll be down there with the cast of Benidorm, don’t you worry.”

Fergus laughs. “’Night Adam.”

“’Night Ferg.”

Fergus disconnects the call and sighs again. He’s completely wired after his trek from Muswell Hill, and sleep feels a long way away. He considers going to the hotel bar by himself, but it had looked so chaotic on his way in, he knows it’ll only make him feel worse. What he could really do with is a shag, but how likely is that?

He presses the mute button on the remote and sound blares from the tinny speakers.

“Sometimes I worry my nipples are too small-”

Fergus grimaces at the TV.

(Oh fuck, it’s BBC Three.)

Some young Northern bloke – (Rick is it? Rick Grunshaw or something) - is discussing nipple size.

“They’re like a 5p.”

A pretty Irish girl responds: “Which part of the nipple? Like the tiddy bit that sticks out or – “

Fergus turns the TV off and throws the remote behind him onto the bed, before collapsing back on it himself, legs dangling off the edge.

(Fuck it.)

He taps open his phone again and goes to the Apple Store, starts typing in “g-r-i”. It autocompletes: Grindr – Gay Chat. His phone knows this isn’t his first time downloading Grindr. His phone knows a lot about him that it shouldn’t, to be honest, and by extension probably Apple Corp as well. He tries not to think about it too much. Just use the app, delete the app, it’s like it never happened. At least hotels like this are usually pretty good for hook-ups, in his experience. There’s always some closet case looking for a few hours away from the brats or a horny European with lax morals just around the corner.

He opens the app to find a grid of the usual blank profiles. If an alien came down to earth and used Grindr to get an idea of what human men that enjoy fucking other human men look like, it would come away with the notion that they all have featureless grey heads and names like “Big Dick 69” and “Horny BB Pig”.

He dismisses the first profile which, contrary to convention, does have a picture. Unfortunately, the picture is of a guy from the neck down, and what can be seen screams “BNP member” – body by Wetherspoons, shorts emblazoned with a Union Jack. Not really Fergus’ type, although he does briefly consider the benefits of the guy undoubtedly having no idea who he is. Anonymity is key for these things, especially for someone in his position. He can already imagine the field day The Mail would have if he got caught meeting men for casual sex, and in a hotel room paid for on expenses of all things. Middle England would shit itself.

He opens the second profile, which is one of the shadowy ghost figures with no photo, and a name that reads “Dark Room, Discrete, RN”. The distance shown is close enough that he must either be at the hotel or in a bush outside, and there’s a little green dot indicating he’s online. The bio is brief: “Looking for hook-up now, discretion non-negotiable”. Fergus scrolls down:

Age: 43

Position: Vers

Body type: Slim

Height: 6’ 1”

Fergus sits up and catches sight of himself in the mirror opposite the bed. He looks knackered, hair plastered onto his forehead, skin tight from the heat and dust of the Underground.

“You free now?” he types out, and hits send. Bit of a shit opening, but he’s meeting someone to fuck, not starting the romance of the century. He waits, and three little dots appear briefly to show the other person is typing. He’d be lying if he said there wasn’t a thrill in not knowing who was on the other end of the conversation. It could be someone even worse than profile number one. Fuck, it could be Nick Griffin for all he knows.

“Yeah, you got pics?”

(Fucking hell.)

He hates this bit. They always want a photo of your dick, or worse, your arsehole. It’s so demeaning. Rolling his eyes, he taps open his camera with one hand and undoes his trousers with the other. He pulls them down a little and stands up in front of the mirror. He’s not even hard. He spits into his hand and strokes himself a few times, imagines what he might be doing an hour from now, what potentially awaits him in one of the other rooms, or what might end up happening on the bed behind him. It works well enough and soon he’s adequately erect to get a decent-ish photo, or as decent as an iPhone camera and the washed-out lighting of a Premier Inn room allows, anyway. He looks at the image – it shows enough of him to prove he’s not hideously deformed, but no distinguishing characteristics at all. He’s pleased to see the fuzz of hair around his cock looks more blonde than red, which is nice. People seem to be very anti-ginger, for some reason.

He sends the photo and waits again, having pulled his trousers back up. He thinks sitting alone in his hotel room with his dick out, waiting for a message back from what could be a serial killer is too pathetic even for him.

“Are you actually vers, or are you a total bottom who just hasn’t come to terms with it yet?”

Fergus frowns. A second message pops up.

“If you can’t fuck me I have no use for you.”

He raises his eyebrows and taps out –

“I can fuck you, yes.”

(Smooth Fergus, you sound like a fucking robot.)

He adds:

“I can fuck you really well actually.”

He presses send and realises how much the addition has not helped. He is trying to think of something to say which won’t make it even worse, when a reply pops up.


Then -

“I have some rules though. If you don’t like them then this isn’t happening.”

“Hang on, do I not get to see you?” Fergus replies.

He waits, for what seems like ages, until a photo appears in the chat, of a blurred bit of what appears to be thigh. It looks alright, what he can see, but how much can you really tell from a thigh? What if the rest of him is covered in scales, or Manchester United tattoos? His phone vibrates again.

“The rules are:

You come to my room.

The lights stay off and your mouth stays shut.

You fuck me till I come.

You leave.

You say nothing.

You don’t see me, we don’t cuddle, we don’t exchange numbers, it’s just sex.”

Fergus reads the message. He reads it again. His dick twitches inside his pants.

Another message: “Can you manage that?”

Fuck it, he thinks. Scales or not, I’ll take the risk, this is too good an opportunity to pass up.

He types a reply, fingers shaking slightly. “Yeah, I think so. Which room you in? Give me twenty minutes?”

“You think so, or you can? I am not interested if you’re going to come in and be a dickhead.”

“I can” he types back, holding his breath. The reply seems to take forever, those little dots jumping up and down, taunting him.

“Room 237. I’ll prep myself so don’t worry about that. Bring condoms. Twenty minutes.”

Fergus looks at himself in the mirror again.



Nineteen minutes and a frantic shower later.

Fergus gets out of the elevator on the second floor of the hotel and follows the signs for room 237. He’s feeling slightly fresher since showering and changing into a new polo shirt, but his heart is racing as he winds his way down identical corridors. After he’d put his phone down, he’d started having second thoughts: what if the guy is disgusting? What if he tries to kill him? He’d very nearly logged back on and sent a message saying he’d changed his mind, before deciding he’d rather be attacked by a deranged homophobe than spend his night watching Channel 5’s idea of what passes for porn. He’s in a hotel surrounded by hundreds of other people. Surely if you were going to ambush someone, you wouldn’t do it here? He pushes thoughts about people like Jeffrey Dahmer from his mind and strides as purposefully as he can towards number 237, his fingers fiddling with the bottle of lube in his pocket.

233, 235… 237.

He comes to a door, the same as all the others, the only difference being that this one is ajar, very very slightly, and behind it waits what could either be the most erotic experience of Fergus Williams’ admittedly un-erotic life, or the most stupid decision he’s ever made. He pauses, hand hovering over the handle.

(Chances are, it’ll be some underwhelming but functional shag, and the world will keep turning.)

Suddenly, the realisation hits him that Adam is somewhere in this hotel: he could walk past at any moment, poke his head out of a room down the corridor, and then what would Fergus do? Go into the room and pretend it’s his? Engage in awkward small talk outside, knowing this guy’s in there waiting for him? Fergus isn’t a good liar. Adam would see through him in a moment.

Panicking, he hurriedly pushes the handle, slips inside, and closes the door behind him.

The room is pitch black.

Fergus pauses in the space by the entrance and waits for his eyes to adjust. He can just about make out the shape of the closet area, and the doorway to the bathroom on his right, a narrow chink of light leaking out from the bottom. He shuffles forward, scared of walking into something and stubbing his toe, or something equally embarrassing, and emerges into the room proper. The blackout curtains are drawn, a slight crack between them letting in a sliver of moonlight. He spots a shape on the bed, unmoving, prone. He waits, unsure of what to do. He wonders if maybe the guy’s asleep.

The shape clears its throat impatiently.

(OK, I guess this is happening.)

Fergus undoes his fly, steps out of his shoes, and starts to push his trousers down over his hips as he walks towards the bed. He feels like if he doesn’t do it quickly, he won’t do it at all, and by the time he's stood with the bed sheets touching his shins, he has ridded himself of all the clothes on his lower half. He yanks his shirt over his head and then, condom gripped in one hand, bottle of lube in the other, climbs onto the bed on his knees.

He can sort of see the outline of the man, ‘Dark Room’ or whatever the hell his name is, in the weak light coming from the window. He’s lying on his stomach, face turned slightly to the left and resting against one of those Premier Inn pillows that feels like it’s wrapped in cardboard, his arms underneath it, while one of his legs is bent almost at a right angle to his hip and the other stretched out straight. Fergus is right next to the extended one, so he touches it, wraps his fingers round an ankle, strokes the hair he finds there. The guy looks pretty fit, surprisingly. Fergus feels himself getting aroused by the situation, even though the weirdness of it is making his head spin.

(It’s now or never. Time to fuck or get off the bed.)

He shuffles forward, still kneeling, and positions himself between the man’s legs. He has to move the left, the one that’s bent, a little, to make space for him to get close to the guy’s arse, and once there he doesn’t know what else to do, so he grabs a handful of it. It’s a good arse, he has to admit.

Leaning forward on one arm, hand still clutching the condom like a life-preserver and lubricant stowed next to him for safe keeping, he grabs the guy again, and then runs his hand up, over narrow hips and a defined waist, over each rib, to broad shoulders. Fergus thinks that, if the guy could see him, this would be the point at which Fergus would start freaking out, begin doubting himself and his ability to fulfil Dark Room's very clearly defined requirements of being fucked until he comes. This man is pretty hot, it's obvious to Fergus even with his reduced vision, while meanwhile Fergus is… well, Fergus. Just ordinary Fergus: slightly out of shape, slightly receding hairline, slightly ginger. He doesn't think he could make this guy come if the guy could actually see him. He thanks a God he doesn’t believe in for creating weird men with weird kinks that make Penthouse Forum fantasies like this a reality.

Once he’s completed his brief tour of the other man’s body, he kneels back on to his heels and, gripping a buttock with one hand, dips the index finger of the other between the man’s cheeks to find him already prepped and wet with lube. He slides his finger inside, crooks it a bit, watches the man push his face further into the pillow. He slips it back out and replaces it with two, fore and middle finger entering him with only a little resistance. The man makes a small noise, muffled by the bedding, his shoulders tensing. Fergus moves his fingers back and forth lazily, scissoring them occasionally, seeing what other sounds he can force from the man below him. Eventually, the man stops his quiet moaning, his body used to the intrusion and Fergus’ ministrations no longer enough.

Fergus removes his hand, and wraps it around his dick, runs it up and down his length only a couple of times: he doesn't want to overdo it and come before he's even got inside the guy. He lifts the condom to his mouth and rips it open, carefully, with his teeth. Rolling it on, he feels around next to him for the lube, eventually finding it by his foot. He flips open the lid and drizzles some onto his palm, before coating his now-sheathed erection in it.

(OK, Ferg. This is it. You can do it.)

Fergus’ fist presses into the starchy cotton bedspread, between the man’s head and his shoulder, so he is leaning over the figure. He takes his cock in his left hand and runs it, slowly, up the cleft of the other man’s rear, and back again. He looks down, hoping to glimpse his dick as it breaches what is probably the most attractive arse he's ever had the pleasure to be involved with, but all he can see is the vague silhouette of his legs, one straddling his partner’s hip, the other pressed up against his thigh.

He does it again, more forcefully this time, the tip of his cock pushing the guy’s cheeks apart and slipping between them, and moves his hips haltingly, thrusting ever so gently against the man’s hole, teasing him.

The man stays stock-still, and silent. Fergus decides taunting is clearly not doing it for him and so, biting his lip, uses his hand to line-up his cock, and presses into him, slowly but surely, until his hips are flush against the man’s arse.

It takes all of Fergus’ willpower not to make a noise, not to let out a “God”, or a “Shit”, or a “Cunting fuck, you are so fucking tight”. He internally congratulates himself on his mental fortitude, and, resting on both arms, one remaining by the other man’s head, the other just beneath his bicep, he allows the weight of his pelvis to press against the body below him, and for his dick to get used to the pressure and heat surrounding it. His head swims.

The man, meanwhile, is quiet. His hands are up by his head, fingers tangled in his dark hair, the pillow crushed in his arms and face fully pushed into it now. Fergus hopes that’s a good sign. He’s not really sure.

His arms are tired already, and at that very moment, he wishes he worked out more. Not to be fit, not for himself, but so he was able to fuck this guy like he deserves, reward him for being so fucking sexy, and open to having a stranger come to his room and bugger him, no questions asked. He swallows, a lump in his throat, and starts to move his hips, arms shaking.

It is difficult. He struggles with the angle, and the minute range of motion, and it feels good, but it could be so much better. He wishes he knew the etiquette of collapsing his weight onto a stranger. It probably isn't the done thing, and his elbows quiver from the exertion of holding himself up.

The other man doesn’t move at all.

(Oh God. What is he’s one of those guys who gets off on pretending they’re a corpse.)

He thrusts a couple more times, short halting movements, as much as he can manage from the position they’re in.

(Oh God. What if I find out I’m one of those guys that gets off on fucking people while pretending they're a corpse.)

His mind is wandering, and he finds himself losing it, the rhythm and flow of his movement erratic and desperate, and he decides that it’s time to take charge a little more. If the guy doesn’t like it, he’ll just have to let him know somehow.

Shifting his balance on to his knees, he grabs the man’s hips in both hands and pulls him backwards, the pillow dragged from his arms, until he’s compelled on to all fours, and Fergus can drive into him with more force. The man makes a tiny noise of surprise that transforms into a groan as Fergus buries his dick in him as deep as he can.

Still think I can’t top you? Fergus thinks, as he fucks into the anonymous body, digs his fingers into the pliable flesh of its hips, tries to make out the shape of his cock plunging unrelentingly into it.

(Not so bossy now, are you? I should fuck everyone in the pitch black, it’s fucking great. Fuck it, just no lights anywhere, ever. There’s no better confidence boost than being completely unseen.)

He snaps his hips forward, again and again, the man below him back to making muffled noises into the duvet.

(You like that don’t you, you little bitch.)

Fergus cringes at his sub-conscious’ idea of dirty talk. Perhaps silence has as many benefits as obscurity.

His stomach begins to tighten and get that familiar pre-orgasmic tingle, and he slows down, lets his motions become loose and fluid. He wants to make this last, if he can.

In response, the man tries to up the pace, regain control of the situation, and he starts grinding back onto Fergus’ cock, provoke him into speeding up. Fergus continues regardless, and uses one hand, strong against his partner’s hip, to moderate his efforts, while the other slides round to the flesh of the man’s arse and grabs it again, squeezes it and spreads him open, as he carries on with his sluggish thrusting. It feels firm and solid, perfect, against the skin of his palm, and without thinking, he raises his hand before bringing it back down against the taut muscle, with a slap that echoes through the quiet room.

The man moans, low in his throat, loud even through the fibres of cheap hotel linen. Fergus does it again, harder, hips moving softly, sweet and lyrical and flowing.

“Jesus Christ,” says a voice from the direction of the mattress, and Fergus freezes, his cock halfway inside the person in front of him, his hand paused in mid-air, ready to strike for the third time.

The man shoves his hips back, forward, back again, taking a moment to register that Fergus has stopped.

“Adam?” Fergus croaks, his voice barely a whisper.

Fergus swears he feels the body tense around him.


Adam says nothing, face still buried in the mattress. Fergus wonders what he’s thinking.

“Adam, it’s me.”

Adam raises up onto his elbows, but makes no attempt to move away.

“No shit Fergus, I thought it was someone else with your voice who knows my fucking name.”

“Alright, don’t get all arsey.”

“Choice phrasing there, well done,” Adam says, through gritted teeth.

Fergus drops his hand back to Adam’s hip, but remains similarly frozen in place. He opens his mouth, and tries to make up for the last twenty minutes of silence, it seems, by vomiting out every question currently floating round his brain.

“Did you know it was me?” he starts. “Is that why you did it, so I’d come and fuck you?”

Adam mumbles a quiet “No” into the duvet, but Fergus continues without even waiting for an answer.

“Have you done this before? I mean, why do you do it? Is it just for convenience, or… is it because you get off on not knowing who’s fucking you?”

Adam sighs.

“Do you not get scared? Like, what if someone came and stabbed you, or tried to eat you like that bloke in Germany, it happens you know –“

“Fergus!” Adam says suddenly, “Could we possibly have this conversation when your dick isn’t inside me? Fuck!”

Fergus stops blathering, jaw slack.

“Sure, yeah, sorry.” He pulls back, withdrawing from the heat of Adam’s body, and moves onto the half of the bed Adam isn’t currently taking up.

“Thank you.”

One of the dim reading lights which telescope out from the headboard of the bed clicks on, and Fergus squints down at himself, his prick softening rapidly. I suppose accidentally fucking your best friend will do that, he thinks sadly, and pulls off the condom, taking a sharp inhale through his teeth as he does.

“Jesus Christ,” Adam says again, but this time he doesn’t sound turned on, he sounds lost. He turns onto his back, legs out-stretched and arms folded defensively over his chest, with his head resting against the pillow he had been clinging onto moments earlier. Fergus very decisively does not look at Adam’s cock. Instead, he watches Adam’s face stare straight ahead, his eyes unfocussed and glassy, and his cheeks a dark pink, with a flush that reaches down his neck and across the top of his freckled shoulders. His hair, normally so perfectly groomed, is a mess, strands highlighted silver pointing every which way.

So that’s what Adam looks like when he’s just been fucked, Fergus thinks, and then, I did that. I made him look like that.

Adam’s eyes flick over to Fergus, and then back to the same focus point in front of him.

“What, Fergus? Will you stop staring at me like I’m something in a fucking petri dish?”

Fergus frowns, and starts to move off the bed.

“Where are you going, just… Lie down or something, you don’t have to go, just stop looking at me, alright?”

Fergus does as he’s told, and lies down next to Adam, a safe gap of a good half metre between them. He drops the condom off the side of the bed onto the floor.

They lie there in silence for what feel like aeons, to Fergus at least. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of him.

“Do you do this a lot?”

“Not really,” Adam answers, still not looking anywhere but straight ahead, like he’s blinkered.

“Well, how often then?” Fergus asks, frustrated by Adam’s vagueness. “Is it a weekly thing? Monthly? Special occasions, like Christmas, and- and fucking Eid?”

“I don’t really see how it’s any of your business to be honest, Ferg,” Adam snaps, and crosses his arms tighter across his chest. Fergus thinks about how much he looks like a petulant child. A petulant, naked, 6ft tall child.

“It’s my business, Adam, because if you get caught doing this shit, then it’s my fucking career on the line! This could really fuck us!” He turns his head, to see if Adam is reacting, but he lies there motionless, face blank. “I know you think you’re being super clever, with your discretion bullshit, but what if you got attacked or something? How would you explain that? ‘Oh, Officer, well I just happened to be bent over naked in my hotel room when this random bloke broke in and knifed me in the shoulder blade! Why isn’t there any forced entry? Well, that’s a good question actually, let me think about why that might be-‘“

Adam makes a noise that verges on a growl, and shuts Fergus up immediately.

“Oh, you can fucking talk! You sent me a photo of your dick for fuck’s sake!” he retorts. “I would love to see you talk your way out of that one! You can’t have a go at me when you’re doing the exact same thing.”

Fergus opens his mouth to argue, but shuts it again. He supposes Adam has a point, really. He stares at the ceiling.

“What would you have done if that guy in the Union Jack shorts had turned up?” he asks.

“Jesus, Mr. English Defence League?” Fergus lets his gaze return to Adam for a moment and is relieved to see a half-smile across his face.

“Yeah, Nick Griffin I reckon it was.”

“Probably would have told him I was a Muslim, that’d get shot of him,” Adam says, deadpan, forcing a laugh of surprise from Fergus which sounds borderline hysterical. “I’d let Tommy Robinson fuck me though,” he adds.

“Oh yeah, I bet you would,” Fergus answers, still grinning stupidly.

Moments pass in silence. Fergus’ smile fades as the moments turn to minutes.

“What do we do now?” he says, eventually. He’s not sure he wants to hear the answer.

“Well,” Adam answers, slowly. “You can go back to your room, and go to sleep, and we can pretend this never happened.”

Fergus waits. It sounds like there’s another option, and he’d really like to know what it is. Adam doesn’t say anything else.

“Or…?” he prompts. He tries to remember if Adam is usually this fucking difficult to communicate with.

“Or…” Adam looks pointedly at Fergus’ cock, his eyes travelling up the Junior Minister’s body until they meet Fergus'. “We finish what we started, go to sleep, wake up tomorrow and then we can pretend this never happened.”

Fergus stares at him.

“I mean -” he says carefully, “- we’re here now, aren’t we?”

Adam stares back, unblinking.

“It’s not like I can un-fuck you,” Fergus adds, helpfully.

Adam closes his eyes, and Fergus immediately regrets being so glib.

(Fucking hell, Ferg, you fucking idiot -)

“Come on, then,” Adam says, and Fergus’ eyes widen.


“Fucking hell, yes, just get on with it,” he says, and he sounds irate, but Fergus sees the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

“OK, erm, right, yeah, so… OK” Fergus stutters, lifting himself up to a sitting position. “Am I fucking you again, then, yeah?”

Adam rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, OK, so we’ll stick with that…”

Fergus, all of a sudden, feels like he has forgotten everything he knows about how sex works. Should he kiss him? Just climb on top? What’s the protocol?

(Breathe. Condom first.)

“Have you got any more condoms?”

Adam narrows his eyes. “Jesus, Ferg, you only brought one?”

Fergus throws his hands up with a shrug. “I was only planning on fucking you once, to be fair,” he says, not sure what the issue is. “Well. Not you, obviously. Although it was you, as we now know...”

Adam smacks his head back onto the pillow in frustration. “This is why I have the no talking rule. Bathroom toiletry bag.”

Fergus clambers off the bed and pads into the bathroom, finds a Ted Baker bag open next to the sink. He reaches in, takes out two bottles of moisturiser and some shampoo called ‘Shimmering Silver’ (‘Cleanses and enhances grey strands for youthful and radiant shine’, he reads from the tube. Christ, Adam’s a vain bastard), before his hand finally touches a small cardboard Durex box. He takes out two, it seems appropriate given Adam’s disdain at the solitary one he’d brought with him, and makes his way back to the bed.

When he returns, Adam is still lying, unmoved, on his half of the bed. Fergus stands with his hands in front of his crotch, a force of habit more than anything. He isn’t used to being this openly naked with people, especially people he actually likes.

“Bloody hell, do you actually want to do this? You look like you’re facing a firing squad.”

“No, I do,” he answers quickly. “I just, I want to do it properly.”

Adam frowns at him. “What are you on about?”

“I want to make it good for you.”

Adam lets out a small laugh. “Don’t worry about that. Just… Do what you were doing before.”

“Yeah?” Fergus says, hopefully. “Was it alright?”

“Yeah, it was alright,” Adam answers, and shifts himself so he’s sitting with his shoulders against the headboard.

Fergus climbs onto the bed again, kneels next to Adam. He’ll do what he was doing before, if that's what Adam wants, but it feels very different now.

“What position do you…” he starts, and trails off.

“On my back, ideally. Face down’s just easier when you don’t know if the person you’re fucking is going to be vile or not. Less chance of them trying to kiss you,” Adam answers matter-of-factly.

“Right,” Fergus says, and moves closer, positions himself back between Adam’s legs, facing him this time. Their eyes meet.

“Do you want the light off again?” Fergus whispers.

“No, it’s alright. I know it’s you, now. The mystique’s gone."

“Good, mystique only ruins stuff anyway,” Fergus says nervously, and grabs the pillow that he’d been lying on. “Here, put that under your hips.”

Adam does as instructed, manoeuvring awkwardly with Fergus so close to him.

“I just need to…” Fergus says, and looks down, between them, to his flaccid dick.

“Oh, OK.” Adam’s eyes are drawn to where Fergus is knelt, his thighs wedged up against Adam’s own, forcing them apart. “Do you want me to…” He motions with his hand, up and down, a juvenile gesture that nonetheless causes Fergus’ breath to stutter on its way from his lungs.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, hastily. “Please.”

Adam lifts himself away from the headboard, and places his fingers round Fergus’ cock. A noise emanates from him that makes him blush, but Adam seems to be focussing too hard on running his hand over Fergus’ length to notice. Fergus watches Adam’s face with hazy eyes, smiles when he licks his lips in concentration.

“You have to be quiet,” Adam whispers, as if they hadn’t just been halfway to yelling at each other moments before. “They’re shit hot on noise here, ‘cause of them having that money back guarantee thing if you don’t get a good night’s sleep.”

Fergus shakes his head a little at this completely random snippet of information. “Sure,” he replies, and looks down to see the head of his now-stiff cock slipping back and forth through Adam’s hand.

“Oh shit,” he groans, and presses his forehead to Adam’s chest.

“Is that enough?” Adam asks into Fergus’ hair. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Fergus answers. “But you probably should.”

Adam releases him, and Fergus turns round to locate one of the condoms. He finds one eventually, under a fold of bedding, and grabs the foil wrapper.

“Here.” Adam takes it from him, and tears it open, leaning forward again to grab Fergus in one hand and put the condom on him with the other. “All good?”

Fergus swallows. “Yep.”

Adam nods, and rolls his hips forward. “Go on, then.”

“OK… um.”

Fergus braces one hand on the headboard, just above Adam’s shoulder, and looks down as he lines himself up with Adam’s hole for the second time that evening. He presses forward on shaky knees, watches his cock as it sinks into that warmth once more, pushing gently against Adam’s natural resistance. Fergus bites his lip again, forgetting for a moment that he can speak now. He glances up to find Adam’s head tipped back against pine, eyes squeezed shut and mouth agape, his breathing ragged.

“Is that alright?” Fergus asks, nervously.

“Mmhmm,” Adam murmurs and grabs him, just above the point where his thighs grip Fergus’ waist, legs bent and feet suspended over the rumpled linen duvet.

They stay like that for a beat. Then two. Adam opens his eyes.

“Are you going to move, or what?”

“Yeah, just, takes me a minute…” Fergus positions his knees further apart, shuffles forward more, presses himself deeper into that maddening heat, scissors Adam’s legs wider. “You’re really tight, is all.”

Adam regards him with a smug, pitying smile, and Fergus feels an almost overwhelming urge to slap him, tell him to fuck off and stop being such a condescending cunt, until he realises that that would be an incredibly stupid thing to do at this particular moment in time. He instead decides to fuck the smirk off his face, and beds his knees down into the mattress, before pulling his hips back, and snapping them forward again, as forcefully as he can.

“Fuck, Ferg-“ Adam starts to say.

“Shut up,” Fergus growls, and does it again, one hand gripping the top of the headboard, the other fisted in the bedspread next to him.

“Fucking hell,” Adam whimpers, and Fergus watches with satisfaction as the smile disappears, to be replaced with a loose-jawed ‘O’ of what looks like ecstasy.

“Oh, good God,” Adam moans, and Fergus moves his hand from the duvet to cover Adam’s mouth.

“Shh,” he says again, teeth bared, as he drives into him, unremitting. “You don’t want to piss off the hotel staff.”

Adam’s eyes roll back in his head, and he mumbles nonsense against Fergus’ palm, fingertips digging into his waist, hard enough to bruise.

“This still just alright?” Fergus pants, and continues, shoving his hips forward and dragging them back, digging his feet into the bed and using it as leverage to force himself deeper still. He pulls his hand away from Adam’s open mouth, wipes the saliva on it off onto Adam’s thigh.

“Fuck, yes,” Adam grits out, and grinds down onto Fergus’ cock as it devastates him, penetrates him with ramrod precision, decisive and unceasing.

“Yes? It’s just alright?” Fergus rushes out and moves a second hand up to join the other, fingers curling around the top of the headboard where it attaches to the wall, as he fucks Adam with an energy he didn’t know he was capable of.

“God – no – I –“ Adam tries to say, but the air is crushed out of him which each thrust. “Fuck - it’s more than alright, Fergus - If I’d known…” he manages to say, before tailing off into a whine. He composes himself, as much as he can, and looks directly into Fergus’ eyes. “If I’d known, I would have asked you to fuck me years ago.”

Fergus grins, carries on with vigour, feels Adam wrap his legs around him, hook one foot round the ankle of the other and press his heels into Fergus’ back, pull him closer, harder, faster. He drops his head, finds Adam’s neck, presses his mouth to it, cheek scraping against the short stubble of his jawline, and allows himself to groan into the juncture of his shoulder. His lips alight upon Adam’s collarbone and, knowing it’ll be covered by the fabric of his shirt tomorrow, sucks a mark onto it, bites at it with sharp teeth and makes Adam moan above him, the sound vibrating through his chest.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Fergus, Ferg,” Adam babbles, incoherent, and Fergus feels the other man’s hand force its way between them to take up his own neglected dick, lying thick and heavy and solid against his stomach.

Fergus lets go of the headboard and leans back on to his heels, the motion of his hips slowing as he does, pushing back against Adam’s legs, wound so tightly around him, so he can watch Adam as he starts stroking himself, fucking up into the tight circle of his fist.

“Jesus,” he mutters, and shifts further, sees his cock withdraw until only the tip is violating the body below him before it sinks in again, over and over. He views it with a kind of odd detachment, as if he's not really there, doing these things to his best friend, his adviser, to Adam of all the fucking people in the world. He wonders dreamily if this is what a fugue state is like.

“Oh God… Oh God…”

Fergus is drawn out of his trance by Adam’s mumbled whining.

“Put your mouth on me?” Adam says, half-slurred. “Please?”

Fergus brow furrows dumbly. “What?”

“I want your mouth - Fucking - On me.”

“I-,” Fergus starts, but Adam cuts him off.

“Just kiss me, you fucking prick, I want your tongue in my mouth when I come.”

Jesus, why didn’t you just say that in the first fucking place? Fergus thinks, but bends forward without argument. He leans on one arm, and places the hand of the other on Adam’s face, index finger and thumb in front of his ear, the rest curling round to tangle in the hair behind it.

Fergus cranes his neck and tilts his head, slots his open mouth against Adam’s and licks into it, traces his tongue along his bottom lip. He nips at it with his teeth, hips still moving, and scrapes his fingernails into Adam’s scalp.

Adam moans again, into Fergus’ mouth this time, and strokes faster, his rhythm matching that of Fergus’ cock as it teases the nerve endings deep inside him, drilling him repeatedly.

“Fuck, Ferg, you’re gonna make me come, I’m gonna come- Fuck-” he says, and Fergus slides his tongue back into his mouth to stifle his rambling.

The feeling is almost too much, overwhelming and frightening, as close to rapture as either of them will probably ever get, and Fergus is aware of a hand against the back of his neck, pulling him closer as Adam kisses him desperately. Heels dig painfully into Fergus' tailbone, holding him in place, his dick buried inside Adam as a warm stickiness hits his stomach, and Adam makes a noise that borders on a sob, shuddering beneath him as he rides out his orgasm.

The hand drops from his neck and Adam’s legs fall open, no longer pulling demandingly at Fergus’ body, but Adam continues to move his mouth against Fergus’ as he descends from his climax, whimpering quietly. Fergus completes a couple more thrusts, eyes screwed shut, before he comes too, Adam still tightening spasmodically around him. He spills into the condom, the only thing separating them both, and fucks jerkily through the aftershocks, groaning with each weak movement until his muscles finally unclench and the intensity ebbs.

Eventually, he pulls away again, another repeated action, but the events leading up to it very much not the same, this time. He collapses back onto the bed, drained.


“Yeah,” Adam says wearily, and when Fergus glances at him, he has his eyes closed and a small smile on his face.

“What are you looking so happy about?” Fergus asks, thinking he probably already knows the answer.

Adam’s smile broadens, but he doesn’t respond.

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘Because you just made me come my fucking brains out, Fergus,'” Fergus supplies. “Perhaps, ‘Because you fucked me like I’ve never been fucked before, Fergus’. That’s also an acceptable answer.”

Adam laughs. “Oh, no. I mean, yeah, that was great. Seriously. But we've got to be up in five hours, and I’m just imagining how fucking pissy you’re going to be with all those hippies tomorrow.”