After work special.

I hate my job. All morning I have been sitting through a pointless briefing on the importants of constituency and punctuality in the work place. It’s accountancy not fucking brain surgery. I want to say this, I want to knock my bosses lights out and run; but somehow I think that would be me out of a Christmas bonus. So instead I sit, sipping my coffee and fidgeting with my ballpoint pen. Every so often I will be asked a question to which I nod or simply ‘hmmm’. This only receives scowls and grunts of disapproval from my boss but, really, who gives a shit . Back in my office I polish the name plate on my desk; I speak with several clients, do paperwork and sip more coffee. Six o’clock rolls in. I take my briefcase, my blazer, lock my office and leave. Enter Pratt Street.  Of course it wouldn’t be London without the congestion, the tourists and the rain; fucking rain.  A brisk walk takes me to my red Volkswagen polo. A few more moments of searching through my pockets find me the keys and I jump into the front seat just as the shower starts to get worse. I bum a cigarette, always good for the lungs, start the engine and check my radio station; Capital FM. It’s only until I pull out of the car park into swarm of traffic that I realise the extent of the blockage. Fuck sake. As usual I am not prepared for these sorts of situations, although I keep reminding Martin to remind me to buy ‘Jam Supplies’, and instead sit listening to some Reggie shit on the radio. The traffic moves slowly, my mobile shrills and with a sigh I check the caller ID. Speak of the devil. “Yes?” I say into the receiver. “Where are you?” Martin asks (his nose must have been bleeding again because his voice was all stuffy) “On my way home from work but I’m stuck in traffic.” “Okay. Could you bring home more tissues?” “I just bought new tissues!” I snap, “Use some kitchen rolls.” “But they are too rough.” “Go get your own tissues!” “You know I can’t.” I growl. “Fuck sake. Well you’ll have to wait until I do the shopping tomorrow.”  I pound the ‘end call’ button on the mobile screen and throw the phone onto the passenger seat. Martin. Pain-in-the-ass-unemployed-room mate. Despite what he thinks, he can go out in sun light; he’s a demon not a vampire. How I came to have a minion of the devil as a roommate is one long story; and frankly I would rather not remember. But the basic jist is he stumbled out of the attic when I bought the place, I tried to get him to leave, blah blah blah and he ended up staying. He doesn’t so much as pay one penny  towards the place but he does keep the living area pretty tidy; pity he wouldn’t do the same for his attic. The swarm begins to move and slowly, but eventually, I am able to get to my small home in the suburbs. Car goes off, case is picked up, doors are locked, I make a dash to the front door and bound into the house. Martin saunters, as calm as you like, into the hallway. Dried blood is caked below and around his nose and he is carrying a roll of toilet paper. Christ. He had to use the toilet paper. Despite being one of hell’s bitches Martin looks like any other human. His skin is porcelain, his eyes a deep shade of emerald, his hair is cropped and auburn and he sports a small goatee.  Nothing out the ordinary at all, well apart from being thin as a rake and 6 foot 4, but he could easy shrug it off and say he was a super model.  So, logically, hecould go to the corner shop and buy himself a box of scented tissues, the kind that he enjoys.   He’s either too lazy or more of a wimp than I first thought. “You are going to have to leave the house at some stage.” I shrug off my jacket half heartedly.To be honest, I’m a little sick of trying. I felt his chin rest on my shoulder, the smell of his blood is strong and enticing. I can feel myself blush and I’m ashamed to say that my shoulders aren’t the only thing that stiffened when he pushed himself up against my back. “Stop it Martin.” I snap, “I’m not in the mood.” “But I’ve been bored in here all day.” He whispers into my ear. “Get a job.” “I do have a job.” This is indeed true. He does. But I don’t pay him to pleasure me or clean the house, so it doesn’t count. I, gently, slip out of his grasp and stroll into the kitchen. As usual the modern furnishings are polished, the dishes are done, the food is rearranged in the cupboards and the floor has been washed. I switch on the kettle and lift an apple from the fruit bowl. Martin is sitting on the small sofa when I turn to lean against the worktop. “You look smug.” I say through a mouth full of apple. “Do I?” His voice is a sing song. “What have you done?” Besides clean, use up the damned tissues and seduce me. “I did the shopping.” He smiles when I almost choke on my mouth full of food. “What?!” “I discovered the joys of internet shopping. You were complaining about me not doing anything so I went onto Tesco.co.uk and ordered our groceries.” I cock an eyebrow, “Well. Where is it?” “It will be here tomorrow.” I don’t like this. Not at all. I would prefer to have done him out a list of what we needed because, to be fair, he isn’t that accustomed to modern life. But then again he has been living here for long enough; he has eaten my food and rearranged the house daily. So, maybe he knows better than me what we need. Maybe.  At least he was practicing the computer skills I had taught him. “Fuck me.” I whisper, “Um. Well done, but are you sure you got everything we needed?” “I ransack this house daily; I think I know what we need.” I was right, of course, and I can’t help but trust him. But why let him know that? “Hmph. We’ll see.” The kettle comes to a boil behind me. I pour myself a cup of coffee, lift another two apples and head to the living room to watch the news.  Martin follows and sits in his usual armchair by the window. He slouches in the chair, his feet are placed wide apart and he drums his fingers against its arm. I understand that he is bored; I would be too if I sat at home all day, but all I want to do is relax and watch the damned news.   The more he drums, the more I want to bitch slap him across that annoyingly handsome face of his. Drum, Drum,Drum. “Christ! Would you stop that?” I snap. He stops and stares at me bewildered. God, the puppy eyes; they do things to me that no man wants to admit. I shift in my seat and glance back at the television. Moments later Martin leaves the room in one swift movement. The news goes on, reporting disease and death and outright unpleasant news. I watch, nod solemnly on cue and devour my apples. I hear Martin enter the room again. “Hey. Get me a beer from the fridge would you?” I ask without taking my eyes off the television. Without warning Martin slides himself on to my lap, his legs straddling mine and his face is inches from my own. God, he looks so hot. His eyes are hungry with lust, I can feel his erection through his tight jeans and the bare skin on his chest is so smooth and perfect. He brings his lips to mine and kisses me; hot and wet and messy in its intensity. I moan beneath him. My own erection is growing harder, throbbing, straining against my briefs.  He moves down my neck, his hands working to undo the buttons of my shirt. He rips open the material after growing increasingly frustrated with it and continues to nip and suck his way down my chest. He rubs himself up against me, his hands fisted in to my hair. I buck my hips upwards, place my hands on his firm buttocks and pull him closer. He lifts his head to stare at me; god, his eyes are so sexy and his grin is so cunning. As I gaze into his eyes, he gently feathers his fingers down my bare torso and grips the waist of my jeans. He pops open the button and shuffles backwards, pulling them, along with my briefs, with him. Soon both items of clothing are around my ankles. He pushes my legs further apart and stands between them; my face is almost eye level with his crotch.  “I’m not sucking you off.” I warn. Martin laughs and leans over to kiss my lips. His hand begins to guide my own to the strained erection beneath his boxers. My finger tips wrap tight around Martins swollen cock and begin to stroke firmly. I watch as he stands above me, moaning. He fists his hands into my hair and pulls me forward. He writhes beneath my touch and I can feel the strength of his arousal grow with every sweep and pass of my hand. My own erection throbs, begging to be touched in the same way, but it is forgotten while I pleasure Martin. I increase the pressure, pumping my fist faster over and across his erection, all the while enjoying the sound of Martin crying out above me. Slowly, he bends his knees until he is straddled across my lap. My own arousal grows stronger as I watch him. Martin cries out for me as he comes, covering my hand in hot, sticky release. His hips thrust against mine with the force of orgasm rocking his wiry body. A gentle silence falls between us before Martin takes to his feet, with all the grace of a new born foal, and strides from the room. I growl. Self centred git. “W-What about me!” I cry “What about you? I’m sure you can take care of yourself tonight!” Jesus Chris; I’m gagging here! I sigh, pull my trousers and briefs over my still straining erection and head to the shower room. If I have to get my rocks off I’m not giving him the pleasure of hearing my audio commentary.