This...really wasn’t what Jamie had meant when he said dancing.
He’d started to suspect once they were in the cab, once he’d caught a glimpse of what his new friend Mel was wearing to this ‘dance club’ she’d invited him to, that there’d been a miscommunication. He’d known it for sure when she told him to duck his head as they entered the place.
He wasn't, strictly speaking, of legal drinking age.
Seedy wasn’t exactly the word, but it was something very close. Dim lights, yards and yards of multicoloured tube-lighting framing every surface, and...yeah, men walking around in dickie bows and very little else, carrying trays of sweet-smelling cocktails.
“Melanie-” he says, reaching for her elbow just as she reaches out for the elbow of one of the nearly naked waiters nearby.
“Can you find my friend a seat?” she asks sweetly, tilting her head. “Near the front.”
Jamie huffs, adding an eyeroll for good measure when she slips the guy a handful of crumpled dollar notes. The next thing he knows he’s being guided in a zig-zag through circular tables surrounded by chairs, all the way to a row of white seats that line the biggest stage.
“Oh,” he murmurs, shaking his head politely. “I can’t sit here. I can’t sit at the front. Isn’t there a table?”
The guy is staring at him so blankly that Jamie is certain he must think he’s stupid, but the fact remains: he can’t be seen here. Not that he expects paparazzi to be inside a strip club, or that he really thinks any of the clientele will recognise him, but there’s always that chance.
Hey. Aren’t you that Billy Elliot kid?
He’d been bemoaning his lack of luck to Melanie when they’d met, him having stepped outside for air between auditions and her just outside for a cigarette break.
“The thing is, nobody appreciates good dancing anymore, you know? I used to think I could rely on my dancing to get me roles but…”
And so she’d brought him here. He has no idea what she was thinking, except that she has a luxury Jamie doesn’t have - being unknown. He can just imagine the headlines if this got out.
Dancing Child Star Spotted In All-Male Strip Club - Underage Jamie Bell enjoyed a gay romp in an LA bar last week when…
It’s the last thing he needs.
Problem is that he can’t spot Melanie anywhere and the waiter is still staring at him expectantly, as if Jamie has been offered the best seat in the house and better not even dare refuse it.
And so, against his better judgement, Jamie sits.
The first act is pretty tame, to say the least. Four guys in white shirts with vests underneath sway around upright to a sappy boy band song that Jamie doesn’t recognise, occasionally lifting said vests to tease at the abs underneath. They get plenty of whoops and cheers, and no small amount of money either, but before long they’re wandering off the stage having stripped no more than their shirts off.
The following act is the typical ‘fireman with a big hose’ routine, and while this guy does strip down to a red thong it’s still relatively softcore compared to what Jamie had expected. It tricks him into feeling safe, letting his guard down and relaxing a little, deciding that maybe this place isn’t as sordid as it seemed. Except then the MC wanders out with leather straps across his chest and a cowboy hat on, and everything starts to get a little noisier.
“Ladies,” he drawls in a probably-fake Southern accent. His eyes snag on Jamie seated at the front. “...and gentleman.”
He winks, and Jamie wants to sink down into his seat and die.
“Are you ready?” A cheer, but not one big enough to appease the MC. “Nah, nah, nah. I said ARE YOU READY?”
This time the crowd are going wild, women and - few- men alike, as if they know what’s coming. The atmosphere is incredible, overwhelming even, and Jamie finds himself buying into it, gripping the edge of his seat as the announcer yells, “GIVE IT UP FOR...CHAAAAAAAN!”
He’s off the stage within seconds and the nozzle of a fog machine appears out of the curtains at the back, spraying out clouds of misty air as the crowd thrills and the music starts.
The music is gritty, filthy, all rumbling bass and tsking snare drum, and Jamie imagines that the curtain is about to part and reveal a man in a builder’s hat waving around a sledgehammer, or perhaps a bad cop with aviator specs and a holster.
Instead, the guy that slides through the curtains is dressed...bizarrely, to say the least.
Neither the baggy jumper or wide-legged trousers are the sort of attire Jamie would expect a stripper to be wearing, and yet the audience goes wild. The unexpected addition of a backwards baseball cap would have Jamie frowning if not for the defined, masculine jaw and pretty pretty lips that stand out in the spotlight. ‘Chan’ hasn’t moved a muscle except for his slick slide onto the glossy stage and already there are dollar bills floating to land around his spread knees.
He’s grinning like the chesire cat, scanning the crowd, and just like the announcer before him he seems to do a slight double-take when he gets to Jamie. His eyes seem to glow in the blue lights aimed down at him, and as the verse of the song kicks in he begins to move his body to the rhythm.
He uses his position on his knees to his advantage, leaning back to roll his hips up and down, twice slow and then three times fast to the pulsing beat. The crotch of his baggy trousers rocks up and down as he moves his hips, a tease of what’s underneath. The woman next to Jamie squeals so loud it hurts his ears and still he can’t even force himself to blink, let alone look away.
Crawling forwards, the dancer, Chan, drops into a push-up, showing off his biceps with a couple of reps before locking his elbows and rocking his hips down instead, long thrusts that simulate fucking, lip caught between teeth as he does.
Within three thumps of the heavy bass drum he’s on his feet, hands up around his head and pelvis popping towards the crowd so vigorously that several of the women who’d been clawing out at him drop back into their seats.
One teasing lift of the jumper reveals flat, defined abs, and to Jamie’s relief the dancer doesn’t tease for long before whipping the material up and over his head to the music.
There’s a collective, deafening shriek, but Jamie’s too caught for breath to make even the smallest sound, his heartbeat raising enough to challenge the vibrations of the large speakers pumping out the music, and each pulse sounds distinctly like ‘oh.fuck’.
Feeling attracted to a male body isn’t anything new - Jamie’s first ever crush was his very male tap dancing teacher - but the reaction has never been quite like this. Quite so physical. Sweat prickles at the back of his neck and palms of his hands as the body before him continues its slick movements sans-jumper, all tanned and toned.
The dancer is totally in control of his body every moment, and he catches Jamie’s eye just seconds before flipping down off the stage to land right in front of his chair. He’s got his toned back the crowd, to Jamie, trousers hanging so low on his hips that the band of his thong and a very distinct tan-line are visible.
Jamie nearly chokes when the dancer bends to touch his feet, ass on display right there in front of his face.
No no no, he imagines saying as all of the women in the front row look at him with envy, but he’d be lying to himself if he pretended to have the willpower to stop this now. He can do literally nothing as the dancer backs himself up, shaking his ass this way and that in a mesmerising rhythm.
The next thing Jamie knows is the weight on his lap as Chan settles there, back still to Jamie’s front, and lets his hips roll slowly back until he's flush with Jamie’s crotch. Gasping, Jamie grips the chair with his hands to stop himself from impulsively reaching out, feeling his face heat up as his body reacts to the stimulation it’s receiving.
With a few more syrupy hip-rolls the guy is off his lap, but only to flip around and drop to his knees. Jamie knows what’s about to happen even before the forceful hands spread his knees open, making room for the dancer’s thick shoulders between.
They eye contact is back, that lip sucked in between teeth again, and Jamie tries valiantly to look away. It only lasts for a second, and once Chan has his attention again he grins.
Sliding up his body, a fluid body roll that sends a rush of blood to Jamie’s groin, brings them face-to-face, and even as the guy continues to pump his hips to the staccato beat his pouting lips slowly form a smile.
“You’re not old enough to be in here,” he murmurs, breath a warm brush against Jamie’s lips.
He smells like cologne and sweat and chewing gum. Jamie’s hard as a rock.
He tips his chin up defiantly. “I’m eighteen.”
The guy has such control of his body that he makes body-popping to his feet and planting himself in Jamie’s lap again seem effortless. He rolls his hips in a tight circle, glistening abs moving as he does, and there’s no way he doesn’t know now that Jamie’s aroused. There isn’t even the illusion of space between their bodies.
“Legal drinking age is twenty-one,” he counters with, grabbing each of Jamie’s hands to a beat and placing them unceremoniously on his own ass.
“I-” Voice catching as he feels buttocks clench beneath his palms, Jamie swallows before trying again. “I don’t have a drink.”
No response other than a raised brow, but Jamie’s pretty sure it’s an unspoken ‘touche’. He watches, mesmerised, as a pink tongue sneaks out to wet that lush bottom lip, and then the stripper is sliding one hand around Jamie’s neck for leverage as he leans backwards and begins to writhe.
Worried for his balance, Jamie tightens his grip on the toned ass he's cupping; he’s sure there’s a pause, just a moment, before the writhing begins again. Chan is making no attempt whatsoever to avoid rubbing against the growing hardness between Jamie’s legs.
He’s pretty sure the dancer is hard too, pretty sure he can see the bulge of it shifting around in his pants. He sucks in a breath.
“Do you take these off, too?”
When Chan grins again his tongue pokes out between his teeth, his eyes bright and playful, and when he sits up he spins his hat around so that the peak is over his forehead, masking his face in shadow.
He shifts close, still with the beat, and rubs a hand down his own chest. It lands, though, at Jamie’s crotch, and he quirks a neat brow. “You want me to take them off, baby?”
And when Jamie only offers a tight nod in response, Chan is up and off him in a flash, hopping back up onto the stage amidst further cheers from the crowd. He grabs the waist of his pants and turns back to Jamie, wiggling his brows as he tugs lightly, not enough to pull them off.
“Do it!” a woman yells, waving her arms. Chan spins so that he’s facing away from them and thrusts his hips, pops his shoulders left and right with the music, all with that grip on his waistband, but he makes no further move to pull. “Tell him!”
Jamie realises the woman is talking to him.
“Do it!” he parrots her, looking up into Chan’s bright eyes, and as if at his command the material rips beneath Chan’s hands, and the pale white spheres of his ass are revealed, covered minutely by a ridiculously shiny thong.
He looks over his shoulder on the final beat, catching Jamie’s eye, and right before the lights drop low he winks.
“How could you leave me?” Jamie hisses at Mel when she finally appears in the empty seat behind him.
She's got herself a bright blue cocktail but when she hands Jamie his drink it's clearly just water. At his disappointed mumble of ‘thanks’ she grins.
“You looked thirsty,” she says, followed by a cackle. “I didn't leave you, I was coming back with the drinks and I saw you practically having sex with that stripper, I wasn't about to interrupt.”
“I wasn't-” Jamie snaps, turning fully to face her with his best annoyed look. “I wasn't practically having sex with him. He was just...dancing.”
She's still smirking. “Uh-huh,” she nods, sipping her cocktail and letting out a satisfied sigh at the taste.
Jamie turns away from her and hunkers down in his seat, reluctantly giving in to his thirst and drinking the water. He pretends not to hear her snicker.
There are several more dancers, all bulky and tanned and impressive in their own right, but they're all far less coordinated than Chan had been. The women go as wild for them as they'd gone for Chan, whooping and divvying out their dollars between them, but Jamie finds himself comparatively unmoved.
It seems as if the others aren't into dancing for men anyway, since they all elect to ignore his presence, and Jamie finds his eyes wandering during their numbers, glancing this way and that in case Chan has appeared from backstage, perhaps as a nearly-naked waiter.
“I’m getting a drink,” he leans back to tell Melanie, finding her engrossed in the apparently-hypnotic pelvis of the dancer currently on stage. She doesn't even acknowledge him.
He has to fight his way through the crowd to get to the bar, and once he's there the bartender scoffs at his request for a beer. That's all, no demand for an ID or a question about his age, just a scoff.
“Fine,” he grunts, turning away. There's no way he's getting a Coke or another glass of water.
Back at the stage, though, Melanie has stolen his seat. He doesn't mind at first, slipping into the seat behind that she’d previously occupied, more comfortable there anyway, but then the MC announces the final performance of the night and the volume of the crowd lifts again by what seems like at least a decibel.
There’s a minute or so where the MC rambles on, clearly buying time for the set-up of the last dance, and Jamie just knows that Chan is going to appear back on-stage.
“Hey,” he prods Mel’s shoulder. “Give me back my seat.”
He scowls when she laughs, dismissing him with a toss of her hair, but he can argue no more because the MC has finished his spiel and sound effects begin fill the room. The lights dip as more fog hisses out onto the stage, swallowing up five hooded figures as they march out.
There’s little Jamie can do other than sit back and watch, but he’s able to pick Chan out right away. He’s at the right side of the stage, right in front of Melanie’s seat, while the tallest dancer is front and centre. They move in unison, the five hooded figures, a knee-jerk left followed by a knee-jerk right that forces their hooded robes to part and reveal the glistening naked chests beneath.
A pounding rhythm kicks in then, driving each of them one-by-one into rapid hip-thrusts that send the crowd wailing appreciatively.
Chan is the best, Jamie’s confident that he’s not biased; tap dancing is all about timing and there’s no mistaking that Chan doesn’t miss even a single beat. As soon as it’s his turn to whip the hooded robe off and throw it behind him he does, running a hand down his smooth chest in sync with his fellow dancers.
Melanie lets her head drop back for a second as if she’s overwhelmed to be so close, and suddenly Jamie hates her; a feeling only made worse by Chan and co suddenly dropping down from the stage to the seats in front of them. With his head dipped, concentrating on the dance, Chan moves to the chair formerly occupied by Jamie and takes hold of it by the sides of the seat.
He looks up then, suddenly noting who it is that’s seated there, and lips that were twisted in something like a self-satisfied smirk suddenly flatten.
For a second he seems confused, glancing around as if he’s got the wrong chair, but then his eyes land on Jamie, a row behind. It’s dark down here off the stage, but Jamie sees his frown.
His stomach flips with excitement and regret - that Chan had come directly back for him, and that he’d carelessly given up his seat - but he can offer nothing other than a shrug.
The other dancers have already taken hold of their chosen chairs, hefting them - and the women occupying them - to be carried back up onto the stage. Chan isn’t in sync with them anymore, thrown by finding Melanie in the chair instead of who he clearly expected, but the others aren’t waiting. As the song really kicks off they lower the seats backwards until the ladies in them are lying horizontal with their legs in the air.
Chan hangs where he is for a second longer, no doubt well-aware of how far behind he’s fallen, and then stares Jamie right in the face as he follows suit and picks up Melanie’s chair.
What follows is somewhere between public fornication and sexual assault, all five dancers flipping to land with their feet either side of the ladies’ faces before dropping to their knees to undulate their hips within inches of the women's faces.
Melanie’s recognisable laugh stands out to Jamie’s ears as all five men hop back up to whip off their trousers before dropping back down to hump and grind, this time whilst forcing their faces between the knees of the women in the chairs.
Jamie should be embarrassed by the whole thing, he thinks, but instead he’s profoundly disappointed that it’s not him up there being used like a cheap prop to titillate the larger crowd.
He can’t look away, can’t drag his eyes from the display Chan is so expertly presenting; the bulge of his muscles as he holds himself at such a precise distance from Mel’s body, the approximation of filthy sex, are like promises of strength and sexual prowess that Jamie hasn’t ever seen outside of porn. It’s easy to forget that it’s his new friend being subjected to the treatment and each mesmerising roll of Chan’s hips has Jamie impossibly harder, more uncomfortable in his seat, and it only rises and rises as the dance builds to its conclusion.
One by one they take hold of their ladies’ feet, parting them so that there are five V-shaped sets of legs sticking up into the air, and as the final beat of the song booms out the dancers dive in unison between them, each tucking into a roll and coming to a skidded stop on their knees at the very edge of the stage.
Only then is Jamie able to let go of the breath he’d been holding.
Once it’s done, the music coming to an abrupt halt, Chan helps Melanie up by the hand and helps her off the stage before going back to deposit her seat where he found it. Mel stands beside him while he puts it back, not missing the opportunity to grope his impressive bicep with one hand while slipping a small roll of notes into his thong with the other.
As she does so, Chan’s eyes meet Jamie’s once again. He doesn’t look away even as he leans over to lay a chaste kiss on her cheek, patting in a distinctly friendly manner at her hand on his bicep. Melanie gets the hint and let's go with a pout, and then Channing turns away to lift himself back onto the stage before disappearing behind the curtain with the rest of the troupe.
In his wake, Jamie feels utterly disappointed, and shamefully hard.
The night doesn't end with the final dance; the DJ starts to spin a set of more accessible music as the chairs are cleared out of the way and the mostly-naked waiters take to the newly formed dance floor to grind up against people for better tips.
Jamie swiftly slips out of the way, relieved when Mel does the same thing.
"Come on then," she says, still fanning herself after having been the focus of such a stimulating performance. "I'll buy you a drink for real this time, then we'll go."
She drinks her blue cocktail while he is forced to swallow down a sour pink one she bought without asking him, and then they shoulder their way out through the dancing crowd.
The air outside is cool compared to the body heat indoors, though still balmy and thicker than the English air Jamie grew up with. He shrugs his jacket on anyway, following Mel as she takes a left out the doors.
He finds himself with a face-full of her ponytail when she stops in her tracks without warning.
Three figures stand just outside the open side door, two of them puffing on the ends of amber-lit cigarettes and the other - clearly Chan - standing within conversation distance but outside of the cloud of smoke they're creating.
He's wearing an outfit similar to his initial dance, baggy sweater and low-hanging jeans, and he's dancing casually from foot to foot as they talk, almost as if he doesn't know he's doing it.
Jamie realises his hands are shaking.
"C'mon," Mel whispers, pulling him up alongside her and linking arms with him. He's grateful when she quietly begins to guide him past the three men, heading home.
He and Chan shared something during that dance, he's sure of it, but he's not sure he could form the words to speak to Chan now or that he'd know what to do with him if he somehow managed to charm him at all. It's better to let their moment remain just that - a moment.
Except that just as they're about to pass Chan, Jamie is shoved hard in his direction.
It’s the last thing Jamie expects, and Mel is much stronger than she looks, so he’s unable to do anything to slow the trajectory of his fall except throw his hands out in front of him to stop himself going face-first into Chan’s shoulder. It’s still a solid slam of bodies, one that sends the air whooshing out of Jamie’s chest with a low ‘oof’.
Where he’s slight and wiry Chan is sturdy and broad, like a brick wall, and once the shock of the impact fades he feels Chan grip him by the shoulders and lift him more fully upright. He’s not sure if the ease with which he’s manhandled is embarrassing or arousing.
The height difference between them is stark now, and Jamie is close enough that he can smell the musk of post-dance sweat clinging to Chan beneath the cleaner scent of his grey hoodie.
“Sorry,” he breathes out, shifting his gaze away from the intense green eyes that are boring into him. Glancing to his left he sees Mel twenty feet away wildly gesturing a thumbs-up as if she’s done him some sort of favour. He hates her, he does, but he’s pretty sure he can catch up with her if he leaves now so he sucks in a breath and says in a rush, “Okay, well, bye.”
He sidesteps awkwardly, determined not to look Chan in the eye as he makes his escape, but then Chan matches his movement, large body shifting in front of him again. Out of sheer surprise Jamie meets his gaze again. Two small steps forward are all it takes for Chan to be right in his space.
"Why'd you come here tonight? Hm?" he murmurs, closing in with his forehead tilted down so that their faces are close. The strong minty scent of gum that had been present during the dance is now muted by the sharpness of alcohol, but still Jamie wants to lean up and taste.
Chan doesn't get any closer though; he's not flirting now like he was during his performance, there's something darker in it, like he's suspicious, annoyed even. His jaw clenches.
"Came here to get fucked by a stripper, yeah?"
The low-rumbled words send a jolt of heat to Jamie's stomach but he frowns at the accusation. "No?"
"No?" Chan huffs out a disbelieving laugh. He doesn't back up even an inch, staring down at Jamie with heat in his eyes. "What're you here for then?"
Jamie knows he should be outraged, livid at the nerve of this guy, but the air between them is thickly charged with sexual tension and the heat that began to pool in his stomach when Chan stepped into his space is turning molten.
Chan's friends are nearby watching with unsubtle interest, so he keeps his voice low as he musters up his reply.
"I asked my friend to take me to a dance club. I'm-" his mouth is dry. "I dance too."
Slowly, Chan leans back just enough to look at him, and there's no mistaking the full up-and-down study. Jamie's pathetically proud that he doesn't sound completely unconvinced when he says, "You dance?"
"Tap," Jamie nods, rocking one foot out behind him and tapping his toe to the ground for good measure.
After a long moment of absolute silence Chan laughs, though it's friendlier than his mood of just moments ago, and as he rocks back on his heels he sighs up at the sky.
"Okay, fuck," he sighs, shrugging one shoulder. "Guess I'm an asshole."
Jamie lets out a breath, a sort of laugh, eyeing the curious pair who’re still in the doorway despite their cigarettes burning to stubs.
“Hey,” one of them says with a nod. Jamie recalls him being dressed as a fireman during his dance. The guy’s eyes are bright blue and shining in the streetlight when he looks back to his friend. “Channing, are you coming back in or are you done for tonight?”
It’s not a subtle question at all. Jamie hangs on the answer.
“I think I’m done,” he says, hands in pockets. Then he shifts his eyes to Jamie again, and presses his lips together like a pout as if he’s trying to stop himself from laughing. “Yeah?”
With a very clear understanding of what he’s agreeing to, Jamie nods.
It's dark out and their quiet conversation is only broken by the occasional whoosh of a passing car. Channing still has his hands in the pockets of his baggy trousers, all casual as if he’s not guiding the way back to his place so they can fuck.
Jamie’s nervous, though he’s not about to admit it. He’s had sex with plenty of boys, desperate teenaged fumbling with other actors from the London-based drama program he was half-arsing in the wake of Billy Elliot, all of them rich with posh, tidy voices that matched their posh, tidy lives, all of them more than happy to let the rough Northern boy fuck them in the arse whether he was smaller than them or not.
He’s never had sex with a man before, and there’s no doubting that Channing is that.
“Can I ask-“ Jamie starts, to distract himself from his line of thinking. There’s no point making himself more nervous. “…you seemed angry earlier, outside. At one point I thought you were going to deck me.”
A little frown creases Channing’s forehead. “Deck you? What- you thought I might hit you?”
He seems surprised but not overly offended. His gaze swings from Jamie down to the ground and back again.
He’s quiet when he answers, "Naw, I wouldn’t have hit you. It’s just-. We get gay kids at the club all the time, chasing the gay stripper they heard about from their friend. I don't like that. I don't do that."
It’s clear in his tone that he neither enjoys or appreciates being used. Jamie would like to reassure him, but he can hardly judge any of the gay kids in question when he’s on his way back to Channing’s place for sex.
"Like I said," he shrugs, reaching into his pocket for his cigs and beginning to pat one out of the box, "I didn't know what kind of club I was heading to."
Channing reaches over and taps the back of his hand. He seems like he wants to say something but isn’t sure how, and then Jamie catches him looking at the cigarette. He recalls, then, the way he was hovering away from his smoking friends as they talked.
He knows it’s a bad habit, one he shouldn’t subject others to if he can help it, so with a soft sigh he deposits it back in the box.
“Thanks,” Channing says with an oddly endearing tilt of his head.
Jamie nods, and shoves the box back into his pocket, saying, “I keep meaning to give up anyway.”
“Hey, I don’t judge, the guys at the club are into way worse stuff than cigarettes.” The lights of a passing car throw shadows on Channing’s face as he glances over. “I just…I don’t like how it tastes. You know. When you’re making out with someone.”
He’s so earnest, a little shy about it even, and the term making out is still so foreign to Jamie that he can’t help but let out a little laugh. Channing looks over at him like ‘what?’ and he laughs even more.
“You realise an hour ago you were grinding in my lap and now you’re practically blushing because you mentioned making out?”
Channing tips his head back when he laughs, surprisingly high in pitch and a little infectious. “Fuck you, strippers can be shy.”
He shoves Jamie a little, huffs, and keeps on walking as if he’s offended.
When Jamie catches up, though, he’s smiling secretively, shaking his head. He’s different than Jamie thought he would be, more boyish than he’d seemed in the club, and the idea of going home with this Channing is even more pleasing than the thought of going home with the confident stripper version.
Carefully, Jamie moves closer until with every stride they take he can feel knuckles brushing the back of his hand. It’s the smallest of touches, especially compared to how they were touching earlier at the club, but it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
“I’m just on this block,” Channing tells him then, turning right up a dark road lined by tall buildings. It’s not the nicest part of town but Jamie has stayed in worse places.
Channing’s building is run-down, with peeling paint on the door and plastic guttering pipes hanging unattached from mid-way down. He has to wiggle the key in a specific way to get it to unlatch, but once it's open he waves Jamie in.
The elevator is small and has an oddly musty smell, the mirror on the opposite wall so dotted with copper-coloured rust that it’s impossible to catch a reflection. Jamie tries not to look surprised when Channing presses the top button which – hilariously, in such a shithole of a building – reads ‘penthouse’.
The thing groans and shudders as it climbs the floors and Channing’s small smile seems self-conscious when he says, “I usually take the stairs.”
Jamie believes him, having seen his thighs.
When they reach the eighth floor, a short, dimly-lit corridor with a single door at the end, Channing steps out and Jamie remains where he is, taking a moment to admire the width of his shoulders from behind and how the breadth of him narrows to tight hips.
“You coming in?” Channing says once the door is open, looking back at Jamie where he still stands in the elevator.
He’s gorgeous, every bit of him, and there’s that tension between them again, that spark. Jamie doesn’t have to be asked twice.
“Beer?” Channing calls as he walks in, already rattling bottles in the fridge before Jamie’s even got the door closed behind himself.
The apartment is more a loft than a penthouse, all open-plan except for the bathroom and with big wooden beams dissecting the ceilings and walls at a 45-degree angle. Compared to the rest of the building it’s beautiful, the floor polished to a shine and mix-and-match furniture thrown haphazardly in the middle of the large room facing the long windows.
A huge chunk of the city is visible, and while Jamie guesses it’s not so pretty in the daytime it makes for a great view of the city lights shining out of the dark, the orange glow of streetlamps and the moving reds and whites of cars.
“Wow,” he says, stepping further inside. Channing’s in the kitchen, separated only by an island, but if he hears it he doesn’t say anything.
He offers Jamie a beer despite having received no answer, and waves him towards the seats.
“Make yourself comfortable. I’m just gonna take a shower. I’ll be quick.”
Jamie thinks back to the scent of him outside the club, how his body had glistened onstage with either sweat or oil. He knows that he should probably want Channing to shower, yet the thought of breathing him in is exciting and he finds himself saying, “I don’t mind.”
He gets an odd smile at that, and Channing starts to advance on him.
“I mind,” he says seriously, but there’s mischief in his eyes as he moves closer still until once again he’s in Jamie’s space. “I promise it’ll be worth the wait.”
The smell of sweat is a little stronger now, a little more stale, and though Jamie wasn’t lying about not minding, he’s not going to argue again.
He tilts his head up for it when Channing kisses him though, pleased to discover that his lips are as soft as they look. There’s nothing chaste about it, no lingering of closed mouths; Channing licks Jamie’s mouth open and lets himself in, using one strong hand around the back of his neck to ensure he’s not going anywhere.
It’s a kiss far superior to any other Jamie’s had; not expert like Chan’s had a lot of practice but expert like he knows on instinct exactly how Jamie likes to be kissed. He controls the angle with a thumb beneath Jamie’s jaw but he doesn’t kiss like they’re fighting, there’s no attempt at dominance in it, and when Jamie pushes up onto his toes to deepen the kiss Channing receives the message loud and clear.
By the time they break apart Jamie’s half-hard again, and Channing’s grinning like he knows he could keep Jamie waiting hours and still find him sitting obediently on the sofa.
“I'll be right back,” he says, heading into the bathroom and already stripping his shirt over his head.
Jamie explores while the shower is running. The far corner opposite the windows is cleverly separated by a set of tall free-standing shelves, littered with an array of bright ornaments and day-to-day items to distract from the bed beyond. The duvet and pillows are black, as are the two tables that flank the wrought-iron-effect headboard.
There’s a family picture beside a stack of CDs but Jamie doesn’t look too closely at it, rounding the shelves instead to sit on the edge of the bed with a little bounce. There’s a big television on a stand five feet from the foot of the bed, and between that and the shelves the little ‘bedroom’ feels nicely boxed in, a false sense of privacy in the large open space.
The whole apartment is so carefully planned and neatly executed, absolutely at-odds with its surroundings, and Jamie can’t help but think about how much that seems to reflect Channing too; the shy, boyish stripper amongst older dancers with bad habits and big egos.
When the shower cuts off Jamie’s heart leaps in his chest but he stays where he is, waiting, letting his beer bottle dangle down between his slightly spread knees.
Channing rounds the shelves, like he’s found Jamie exactly where he was expecting him, and stops there, jaw ticking like he wants to smile, like maybe he likes the visual of Jamie waiting patiently for him at the foot of his bed.
His towel hangs low around his hips and his hair, shining wet, spills droplets down his cheeks to follow the line of his jaw.
“You’re gorgeous,” Jamie breathes out, almost by accident.
Channing shrugs one shoulder, but even from feet away Jamie can see the heat that flares up in his eyes. “I work out,” he says.
Shaking his head, Jamie leans down to deposit his near-empty bottle on the floor between his feet, and then he stands.
“No, it’s more than that,” he assures. He’s not sure why he’s feeling so soppy, so poetic. He wants to tell himself it’s the beer but he knows it’s not – it’s Channing. He’s drawn to him, pulled closer like an anchor reeling in, and almost without realising it he’s tucking his face beneath Channing’s jaw to kiss him there, to catch water droplets with his lips and tongue.
He feels Channing’s moan vibrate against his lips, and then there’s a hand at his hip drawing him closer. With a dip of his head Channing takes Jamie’s mouth again in a slow and measured kiss like before, noses bumping as lips brush and warm tongues slide together.
With a hum he pulls back for just a moment, their lips catching as he murmurs, “You taste like grapefruit.”
Jamie’s pretty sure he’s never eaten a grapefruit in his life, but he thinks back to that sour pink drink he’d reluctantly accepted from Mel at the club.
Breathing a moan into his mouth Channing tilts his head to deepen the kiss, pulling him closer with one forceful hand between his shoulder blades, the other sliding up the side of his neck to tilt his head exactly as he wants it. Jamie goes with it, needy and near-drunk on the sensation of Channing’s hot tongue against his, of strong hands on him.
When Channing’s touch slide down his back, large hands taking ownership of what little meat Jamie’s arse has to offer, Jamie can’t swallow down his excitement, letting out a sound that’s too high in pitch to be dignified. But then Channing dips at the knees as if he’s going to lift Jamie up, just like he lifted Mel at the club, like he probably lifts hundreds of women every month in the club, and Jamie’s quick to break away from his mouth and step back.
“Don’t,” he says, more harshly than he means to. He has to suck in a breath, having been too lost in the kiss to remember to breathe, but he’s serious and it’s clear that Channing has heard him, eyes wide in confusion. Jamie sighs. “Look…I’m five foot seven, alright? I already have enough of a complex without you picking me up like a little doll, okay?”
He swears he sees the corner of Channing’s mouth twitch, but if there’s any real amusement there he generously swallows it down, loosely lifting both hands in surrender. “Sorry,” he nods. “No lifting.”
Standing apart again gives Jamie another chance to look at him, to appreciate his body and how impressive his chest and arms look with his hands held up like that. Despite the little blip Jamie’s still half-hard, still needy for it, and so he breathes out, “Yeah,” as he takes hold of the knot of Channing’s towel and yanks him closer to the bed.
With eyes locked on Channing’s, Jamie backs them towards the bed, not stopping until he feels the mattress behind his knees. He sits, and just that action makes Channing gasp. There’s a distinctive tent at the front of the terrycloth, begging for attention. Jamie denies it. His fingers are shaking but he hopes Channing can’t tell, holding their eye contact as he reaches up to touch.
His hand is cold from holding the beer bottle for so long, and when he flattens it against lean ridges of toned abdomen Channing hisses. His skin is still damp from his shower and pebbles with goosebumps as Jamie slides his cold hand lower, just a couple of inches until his fingers rest over the knot of the towel.
Just a few tugs bring it loose, and when the material loosens from around Channing’s hips Jamie tries not to immediately break their gaze. He lasts only seconds; the pull to finally see what Channing’s working with is too strong. He’s not disappointed.
He could’ve guessed that Channing would be girthy and cut, but he’d never have anticipated quite how good-looking his cock would be, how tempting, already ruddy and shiny-tipped, fully hard like maybe Channing’s being teasing himself in the shower.
Jamie loosely circles it with a fist, testing it against all the uncut cocks he’s played with in the past, before lifting his other hand to run one finger along the nice, thick vein it boasts. It jumps in his hand, and Channing thrusts his hips forward with a deep grunt.
It’s hard not to grin. Jamie knows he could play for a while, knows Channing would let him, but he’s never handled an uncut cock and isn't sure what to do with his hand, how tight he can stroke without foreskin to ease the way. He just wants to get his mouth around it, suspecting he can't really get that wrong.
Without much preamble he leans forward and swirls his tongue around the head. The first lick tastes nondescript, clean, but when Jamie slides his tongue along the slit he finds the burst of flavour he’s expecting.
He leans back just as Channing’s hips jolt forwards again and gets nudged in the cheek for his trouble. Channing breathes out sorry but Jamie almost misses it as he spits into his hand and takes hold of him again. It's easier then, with his palm slicked, to jack Channing with a degree of confidence, and he slides his other hand up along muscled inner-thighs to cup his sac, squeezing softly in time with long strokes from root to tip.
“Oh, fuck,” Channing breathes, and then there are fingers in Jamie’s hair, not pulling but guiding without much patience, coaxing him to lean in and take him into his mouth again. Glancing up to meet Channing’s hooded gaze, Jamie opens his mouth, lets Channing nudge his hips just right until the fat cockhead slides against the tip of his waiting tongue.
He wastes no time, suckling with a greedy kind of eagerness that has Channing rocking his hips again. Jamie hums contentedly as he bobs his head, trying to take a little more each time.
From this angle he can see Channing’s jaw clenching, and it’s that he’s focusing on when Channing pushes forwards again, far enough to tease the back of Jamie’s throat and make him gag. He pulls off with a half-hearted scowl but lets the resulting drool gather on his tongue, and before Channing can even begin to apologise he sucks him down again, determined that this time, on his own terms, he’ll take him to the root.
Channing’s fingers tighten in his hair, twisting, and when Jamie sucks in a breath through his nose and opens his throat he’s not sure if it’s his tingling scalp or his protesting throat muscles that make his eyes water.
He’s held there, loosely enough, by Channing’s palm at the back of his head, and concentrates on relaxing his throat as he swallows a few times. It’s worth it to hear the broken moan that tears its way out of Channing’s throat. The second he tightens the tips of his thumb and finger into a pinch at Channing’s hip the hand loosens completely, and Jamie pulls off to breathe.
Channing drops to his knees then, and pulls him in, sucking Jamie’s tongue into his mouth as if trying to taste himself there. There’s a rogue tear about to escape from Jamie’s eyelashes but Channing catches it with a swipe of his thumb, not even breaking the kiss.
It barely registers that the other hand is down around his waist until it’s moving up underneath Jamie’s shirt, knuckles brushing skin as Channing tugs the material up under his chin. They only break the kiss for long enough to whip the shirt loose and then Channing is shoving Jamie back and climbing over him, cock bobbing as he shuffles upwards until his knees are tucked right under Jamie’s armpits.
“Suck me,” he says, short for breath, and the angle is awkward but Jamie does as he’s asked, craning his neck to take the head into his mouth again as Channing reaches back to palm roughly at the bulge in Jamie’s jeans.
When Jamie moans, thrusting up into the touch, a fresh wave of taste hits his tongue. It’s stronger now and Jamie relishes it with swipes and swirls of his tongue, sucking on the silky head like a lollipop, staring up as Channing parts his lips and drops his chin, eyes closed while he fumbles for the buckle of Jamie’s belt.
One handed he gets it loose, and the button too, and then he’s forcing the zipper down with the back of his hand as he reaches inside. He pets the length of Jamie’s erection where it’s straining against his underwear, and somewhere at the back of his mind Jamie quickly ponders the quality of the underwear he put on tonight.
“Okay,” Channing breathes, palming Jamie’s cheek for a second before pulling his cock free and sliding down and off until he’s standing at the foot of the bed with his wet, hard cock straining up towards his stomach. He yanks Jamie’s jeans and underwear down as one, and they go a little easier on the second pull when Jamie engages his brain enough to lift his hips. He kicks his shoes off just as his jeans are pulled to mid thigh, and Channing rids him of his socks too, tossing them somewhere on the floor with the rest of his clothes.
Then he’s there, lying prone and bared completely to Channing’s hungry gaze.
The bed dips beneath Channing’s not-insignificant weight as he lifts one knee up onto the bed, looking his fill, and then he's reaching up slowly to rest his hand loosely around Jamie’s throat. It’s a caress that speaks of dominance, green irises barely visible around blown pupils, and Jamie shivers with it, careful to maintain eye contact to show that he's onboard. Whatever Channing wants to give him, he’ll take it.
A callused thumb brushes across his Adam's Apple before sloping downwards to dip into the hollow of his throat, and then his nipple is taken between thumb and forefinger, gently pinched until he arches up into it.
“You should strip,” Channing murmurs low, still playing, eyes stuck on the roll of Jamie’s torso as he settles back into the mattress.
Jamie knows what he means, and still he smiles, says, “I’m already naked.”
In reply he gets a harder pinch, and then the rough glide of a palm down his abdomen, nipples abandoned as a determined hand takes hold of his cock and begins to stroke.
He feels exposed as Channing watches him, focused gaze studying his face as his mouth drops open and his neck muscles strain against the instinct to throw his head back. It feels good, he wants more, but then-
Two hands, rough and purposeful, hook beneath his knees and lift, hefting Jamie’s calves up into the air until the soles of his feet are facing the ceiling and his knees are tucked somewhat uncomfortably against his chest.
“Hold,” Channing orders, one rough word like he's commanding a dog, and then he slaps lightly once at the sensitive skin until Jamie gets the hint and slots his own hands beneath his knees.
He's truly exposed then, held open and unprotected, and the sight of him makes Channing moan. A flush of heat spreads along Jamie’s chest as Channing slips down off the end of the bed to kneel between Jamie’s bobbing feet.
With both hands he spreads Jamie’s cheeks roughly, and without meaning to Jamie clenches down around nothing. He can imagine how it looks, and his throat clicks as he swallows nervously.
He jumps when Channing leans forward and spits lewdly just above his hole, thumbing immediately to slick his tight entrance.
"Anybody ever fuck your ass?"
His voice sounds hoarse, excited, like he already suspects the answer but wants Jamie to confirm it. He waits, nudging the pad of his thumb against the wrinkled furl of tight muscle.
Jamie shakes his head, tight, and grits his teeth against the pleasure and the fear. He remembers the pained moans of the boys at drama school, how he’d bullied in past their resistance with a thoroughly-teenaged lack of sympathy. He dearly hopes that he isn't about to reap what he sowed.
Channing's staring right into his eyes, giving him no option to shy away.
"I'm gonna fuck you," he murmurs, lifting his thumb to swipe at his own tongue before dropping it back down for another slick, circular tease. "You want that, right?"
His cock is thick, seems like it's going to hurt, but when Jamie answers he means it, already aching to be filled.
"Yeah,” he nods, fingernails digging in the tender underside of his thighs. “Fuck me.”
With a nod Channing pushes up off his knees and heads for the standing shelves, his walk a sort of shuffle hindered by his bobbing cock, and flips the lid on a decorative wooden box. From it he retrieves a bottle of lube and a string of condoms, breaking one off with his teeth before dropping the rest back in and letting the lid close with a snap.
Jamie’s breath shakes out of him as Channing comes back to the bed, tapping him on the hip with the butt of the lube bottle and murmuring, “Turn over. Get up on your knees.”
In somewhat of an undignified scramble Jamie does it, nervous and aroused, arching his back without needing to be directed. Channing hums his approval, climbing up onto the bed and kneeing his way between Jamie’s legs. His cock, hot and thick, nudges Jamie’s hole but it’s with one slicked finger that he enters him first, right to the knuckle with no warning. He seems to enjoy it when Jamie cries out in surprise and rears forwards to escape the intrusion.
“Shh,” he soothes, with an undisguised laugh in his voice. “Sorry. Relax okay? Relax. Come back here.”
With his hand at Jamie’s hip he pulls him back to where he wants him, and then leans down and lays a line of open mouthed kisses along Jamie’s upper back, almost like an apology. He scrapes with his teeth, chasing the sting with his tongue, and it’s enough of a distraction from the second finger he’s pressing in alongside the first.
“Relax,” he murmurs again, hot breath against Jamie’s clammy skin.
It’s uncomfortable, the stretch of Channing’s fingers working slowly but insistently in and out of him, but there’s something in the friction of it that’s stoking the heat in Jamie’s belly, keeping his cock hard between his legs. He wants this, wants the pleasure and the pain of it, and he can feel Channing’s need for it too, hard and insistent against his thigh.
“Can you take more?” Channing asks, but even as he does he’s pressing a third finger inside, bullying past the resistance he meets, using his weight to open Jamie up all the way until his knuckles are flush with twitching muscle.
When Jamie’s elbows give out he lets himself drop to the cool sheet, cheek flushed against it. His back feels cold without Channing’s weight across it but the angle is better for those fingers to be worked in and out of him so he doesn’t complain, tilting his pelvis until it feels good, until there’s a shock of something hot and good in each inward thrust.
Vaguely, Jamie’s aware that he’s leaking precum onto Channing’s nice duvet cover.
There’s a rustling sound and then Channing’s fingers disappear, leaving Jamie feeling empty, bereft. He humps back without meaning to, and Channing says, “Yeah? What do you want?”
This again, Jamie thinks, but he says, “Fuck me.”
Channing gets the condom on with practised ease, a momentary reminder that Jamie probably isn't special, but his disappointment - jealousy? - isn't long-lived as Channing begins to tease his cockhead against Jamie’s waiting hole.
“Say it again,” Channing grunts, voice dark and heavy, lustful. “Say please.”
“Please-” Jamie chokes as Channing rubs the length of himself along his cleft, the head catching on his sensitive rim even through the slick smooth rubber of the condom. “Come on, fuck me. Please. Please.”
Evidently that's enough, because the next thing he feels is blunt pressure. He tightens up on instinct, fighting the intrusion, but Channing’s got his weight behind the push and Jamie can do nothing but open up for him, whining from between his clenched teeth as his body makes room for Channing’s girth.
“Fuck,” Channing breathes once the width of his cockhead is past the resisting muscle. He keeps one hand against Jamie’s hip, squeezing tightly with the effort to hold still. “Fuck you feel good. You good? You okay?”
Jamie’s not sure but he nods anyway, eyes closed. Channing doesn’t move though, slipping his hand up to rub at Jamie’s spine, giving him a minute. He traces ridges of obvious vertebrae with one finger, both of them moaning when the tickle makes Jamie arch his back.
Channing moves then, pulling out only to push right back in, weight behind it again so that he sinks deeper than before. Jamie feels like he’s being hollowed out and filled up all at once, the pressure and the stretch moulding into one deep ache that buzzes right to his groin.
Two more slow thrusts like that and Channing bottoms out, hips and thighs right up against Jamie’s body. Channing’s other hand, wet with lube, grips at Jamie’s hip as he grinds himself there, balls deep, forcing a moan from Jamie’s throat.
“Feel good?” he drawls, doing it again.
With his eyes closed Jamie can’t help but visualise the way Channing had danced, undulating his hips provocatively, in control of every single moment, and his groin throbs hotly as that image is matched by the smooth roll of Channing’s pelvis, the insistent nudge of his cock deep inside.
And it does feel good, despite the lingering discomfort, but just like the dance it’s little more than a tease. Jamie wants to feel it, wants to be laid out and fucked within an inch of his life - he wants what was promised up on stage. With purpose he presses himself back and huffs, “Fuck me already, you bastard.”
“Yeah?” Channing answers, more a growl than a word, and this time when he pulls back he doesn’t take it slow. His hips come forward in a rush, cock like a hot stab deep inside that forces a sharp cry to trip off Jamie’s tongue, then he draws out again just as quickly. “You want it like this?”
The force with which he shoves in again has Jamie slipping forwards on the cotton, but Channing only grips his hips tighter with both hands and holds him still for it, makes him take each long thrust like a punishment.
Twisting his fingers in the sheets to ground himself, Jamie arches his back and takes it, sucking in heavy breaths that follow the pace Channing is setting even as it quickens. It’s an onslaught of sharp pleasure and dull pain, that hot ache blooming down low in Jamie’s torso each time Channing bottoms out, and he hears himself keening and gasping but can do little to stop it.
The grip on his hips loosens and immediately Jamie does his best to push back and meet Channing’s efforts, pleased when he gets a groan in response.
“Yeah, come on.” One hand smoothes up his back to rest at his shoulder, and then Channing’s hips aren’t moving at all anymore. “Fuck yourself on my cock.”
Surprised, Jamie pauses too for a moment, just to make sure Channing’s being serious. Once it’s clear that he is, Jamie plants his hands under himself for leverage, pressing back once to test the movement. Channing grunts low, guiding with his hands but still not moving his hips, relinquishing physical control even as he remains in command. Jamie begins to rock forwards and back, feeling every inch of Channing’s cock as he slides himself back onto it. Though he can’t match the pace Channing had set, he does his best to find a rhythm, head dropping down between his shoulders with the effort.
“I know you can do better,” Channing encourages, palming at the cheeks of his arse, spreading him open. His voice is rough when he growls out, “Wanted to get fucked by a stripper, yeah? Slut. Fuck me then, come on.”
Jamie flushes hot at the words, but any objection stutters to a halt before it’s anything more than a thought as a shiver wracks his frame, an unexpected thrill. He redoubles his efforts, giving a little more speed and power to his movements, pleased when a low groan rumbles from Channing’s chest. His cheeks are still parted, no doubt so Channing can see, can watch as Jamie impales himself over and over again on his cock, breathing heavily with the effort it takes.
A sheen of sweat begins to form on Jamie’s forehead and neck as he works himself hard, surging forwards and rocking right back until Channing’s length is rooted in him, enjoying the pleased murmurs and moans it wrings from Channing’s mouth.
Less than a minute later, though, with thighs and hips aching, he pleads for pity, dropping down to his elbows and gasping out, “Please.”
A heavy hand smooths up and down his back, like he’s a pet being rewarded for good behaviour, and to his shame he leans into it.
Then suddenly the touch is gone and before he knows it he’s being fucked again, hard and good, steady and controlled thrusts that bury Channing inside to the hilt before drawing almost completely out. Any residual discomfort is bulldozed by the pleasure of it all, of being conquered and filled to the brim, and Jamie rests where he is and just takes it, arms and thighs aching from his own aborted efforts.
One of Channing’s hands slips back to his hips for leverage but the other is still on his arse, fingers spread wide and gripping hard, and Jamie knows he’ll have a collection of fingerprint bruises come morning.
He can barely breathe he’s so full, cock bobbing and slapping against his own abdomen as he rocks with Channing’s thrusts, and then what little air he has is forced out of him as Channing drops his weight onto him, hot chest across Jamie’s back until their skin sticks and drags with each thrust.
It’s all hips now, Channing jackhammering in and out of him in short, hard jabs that keep him full but rub just-right deep inside. Teeth scrape along the shell of his ear and Jamie tries to turn away, conscious as always of the stark angle at which his ears stick out of his head. Channing grips his hair to turn him back, tongue curling around Jamie’s lobe.
“So fucking hot,” he sighs out between grunts, nipping and sucking at the skin. “Touch yourself, wanna feel you come on my cock.”
Jamie doesn’t feel close to coming when he gets the order, but the second he gets a hand on his neglected cock his pleasure shifts up a notch. Channing’s steady rhythm is easy to match, so he concentrates on that, each stroke timed so that his fist reaches the base just as Channing’s cock hits deep inside.
“What do you need?” Channing murmurs, not missing a beat with his hips. He sounds breathy and a little dazed, close to the edge himself, but it’s clear that he wants Jamie to come first. “Need me to talk to you? Hm? Tell you how good you’re being for me? Need me to call you a slut again?”
He couples that with a particularly rough jab of his hips and Jamie doesn’t know whether it’s that or the name that makes him cry out.
Channing hums, pleased. “There it is, knew you liked that. You have to own it. Eighteen years old and desperate for cock like this? It’s not normal, baby, you know that right? Coming home with some sleazy stripper you only just met? Can’t deny what you are.”
He’s rambling, words spat out between harsh breaths, but shame curls hot around Jamie’s spine as he feels his balls drawing up, his body responding to the degradation without the permission of his brain. It’s infuriating, and wrong, and so hot, and Jamie grits his teeth as Channing murmurs it again.
“F-” he bites his lip, shaking his head. “Fuck you.”
The last heavy breath behind Jamie’s ear sounds like a laugh as Channing pulls himself back up to his knees, leaning what seems like most of his weight onto the middle of Jamie’s back to force it into a deeper arch.
“Hold still,” he orders, no room for disagreement, and that’s all the warning Jamie gets before he’s being plowed into again, sharp hips hammering into him with a punishing pace and bringing back that good hurt from earlier. With each jab of his hips he forces a hard little ‘ah’ out of Jamie’s chest, and as the pace and the pleasure climbs Jamie finds himself unable to stop, grunting out ‘ah-ah-ah’ even through gritted teeth.
“Come on, slut, come for me.”
It’s too much, too overwhelming, and he’s not sure how close Channing is but he doesn’t have it in him to try and stave off his orgasm. Between the cock bullying deep inside him and the friction of his own fist - not to mention the lingering insinuation of that word - Jamie’s too close to stop himself from tipping over the edge.
It’s a whole-body experience, every inch of him tightening up as ecstasy floods outwards from his core to every nerve ending; toes curling, abs squeezing, throat constricting around a broken cry. His eyes water with it, his jaw aching from gritting his teeth, and it shudders through him in pulses as he empties himself onto the blanket beneath.
He’s clamped down like a vice on Channing’s cock, channel contracting and squeezing as he milks the last of his own come with his shaking hand, and it must feel good because Channing is muttering all sorts of filth that barely filters through the haze.
The moment Jamie’s body relaxes again there’s a weight on his back, hot chest glued to his back and fingers gripping his hair as Channing works his hips in tight little punches, deep inside like he can’t bear to leave the heat of Jamie’s body.
Gusts of hot, damp breath fan out across his cheek as Channing takes him, uses him, power and desperation driving the fast, short thrusts of his hips. It hurts, the tight drag in and out, but somehow it still feels good too when Channing hits him deep inside where nobody else has ever been. Jamie feels almost drunk.
"Fuck, I'm gonna come," Channing grits out, muffled against Jamie's flushed skin. He doesn't slow, though each snap of his hips seems to come with more force than the last, rocking Jamie forwards. "Wish I could fill this tight ass up, fuckin-"
He groans, pushes a heavy breath out through his nose, fist tightening in Jamie’s hair until his scalp tingles.
"You want my come?"
“Jesus,” Jamie breathes, but he does. Wants to feel Channing’s impressive body stiffen as his cock spurts thick come inside of him, wishes he could see the look of rapture on Channing’s face and know that he's the one that put it there. “Yeah, do it.”
Something akin to a roar lurches out of Channing’s chest, loud and right in Jamie’s ear, as he drives in deep one last time and stiffens up, shaking in bursts as he comes, drawling nonsense into Jamie’s ear like a benediction as his pleasure takes him.
It takes a long time for them to come apart. Even once his cock has gone soft and slipped free Channing doesn’t get off, staying where he is to pet at Jamie’s hair and mouth at the back of his neck, soft touches in complete contradiction to the force of the fucking he’d laid upon him.
“Did I get carried away?” he asks eventually, flopping down onto his side but dragging Jamie with him until they’re spooning. It occurs to Jamie then that all the petting and kissing is probably some sort of apology.
Jamie’s sore, knows he’ll feel this for days, and so he sets his voice in false-stoicism as he says, “I don’t know, did you?”
He hisses as he’s flipped onto his back, Channing leaning over him to study his face, brow scrunched in concern. “Are you joking?” he asks, looking Jamie over. “Did I hurt you?”
He looks like a puppy dog, guilty despite the very purposeful fucking he just delivered, and for all his acting classes and experience Jamie’s barely able to hold his serious expression for five seconds before cracking up.
Channing huffs. “That’s fucked up. I thought I’d hurt you.”
Weirdly touched by the worry, Jamie calms himself and points a finger. “Calling me a slut is fucked up.”
“You liked it, you little slut.” Tongue poking just behind his teeth, Channing flops back down to the bed.
When he rolls his head to the side Jamie does the same, staring into green eyes with an odd feeling of contentment.
“I don’t plan to be a stripper forever,” Channing tells him, all serious. He doesn’t seem ashamed of what he does, he certainly seemed to enjoy being the centre of attention.
Without really thinking about whether or not he’s giving himself away, Jamie asks, “Have you ever considered acting?”
“Oh man. I should’ve known you were an actor,” he says, shaking his head up at the ceiling.
He says it like it’s a dirtier word than slut, and Jamie tenses for a moment. He supposes, though, that Channing meets a lot of wannabe actors living out here in LA, heading to the strip club to celebrate booking one line in a TV show on SYFY or bagging a role as a check-out girl in a movie nobody will watch. He supposes being an actor isn’t very impressive in these parts.
Despite trying hard not to be pompous Jamie can’t help but hate being tarred with the same brush as the wannabes, but it’s not like he’s about to admit to his little bit of success to a guy he just got railed by.
“I’ve done a little work,” he says, humbly as possible.
A silence falls over them then, comfortable, and Jamie breathes out a relaxed breath as Channing rubs one thumb slowly down his outer thigh. There’s a chill to the air of the open apartment but neither make any move to cover themselves and after a moment Jamie is beginning to ponder whether or not he’s welcome to drift to sleep.
But then Channing sits up all of a sudden.
“Hey,” he says, face bright like he’s just realised something. “Aren’t you that Billy Elliot kid?”