No more than two days later was the suite once again clear of its usual occupants. Nearly everyone was off helping on some kind of reconnaissance at the Fort, and Boone, who could not be trusted to play politics with the Legion, was out drinking.
It was his night.
He started, this time, by locking the door. Then, he took off his coat and rolled it into a line of cloth. This he pushed against the crack under the stop. He drew the curtains and, because it was available to him, he uncorked a bottle of wine.
It wasn’t the most popular drink available in the Mojave, but Arcade retained a fondness for it.
After letting himself unwind with a couple glasses, he moved to the bed, shedding his shirt on the way and draping it over the headboard. Stretching out and reclining back on his elbows, he undid his belt with a dark sort of satisfaction. Privacy really was golden. He pulled it through the loops, savoring the slight friction that created, and cast it to the floor.
Thumbing his nipples with one hand and palming himself with the other, he thought briefly about what Boone must be doing right now. It was uncharitable to think that after drinking he might go out whoring, but the possibility was there.
Maybe.
To distract himself from the notion, he unbuttoned his pants and wiggled out of them partially, watching the play of contracting muscle with a tipsy sort of concentration.
Had he gotten a bit softer in his time here? Arcade doubted the likelihood of that; he was regularly called upon to walk miles across the open desert and to hike up impossibly steep cliff faces for the sake of personal discovery. But, smoothing a hand over his stomach, it was easier to believe that he might be better fed.
Unnoticed, his hand had sped its tempo, stroking his member to complete attention through the loose fabric. He shivered and lifted his hips off the bed, sliding both underwear and trousers down to pool at his ankles.
Arcade gripped around the base of his cock and pulled upwards slowly, marveling as the clear bead at the top welled up and over. He gathered it up and bit his lip as he spread the moisture over his head and down the length of the shaft. Now with a bit of lubrication, and already producing more at a comfortable rate, he began to beat off in earnest. Each down stroke was punctuated with a low groan, too pent up sexually to deny the small gift of being able to vocalize his pleasure.
He bet that his party of one was better than whatever Boone might be getting up to, anyway. Sure, he thought, another hand trumps your own on any occasion, but at least I know what I like.
And Arcade was certain that he could figure out what the sniper went for in the bedroom better than a Gomorrah prostitute, without a doubt, but there he was again. Dreaming of impossibilities.
His hips began to move of their own accord. It wouldn’t be too long now. He let go of his cock and it flexed in the air briefly, searching for that lost contact. He spat into his palm; no use in chaffing. They probably chaffed quite a bit at Gomorrah.
As he took himself in hand again and formed a tight seal with his fist, Arcade heard a noise like the moaning of a deeply rusted hinge. While it might have been him, and he doubted it, the sound of his own steadily pumping hand was enough to drown most of everything out, and he wrote it off.
Lying back fully and dragging a hand through the covers repeatedly, he gasped as he suddenly hit a plateau, arching off the mattress. Arcade rasped wetly and locked on to some point in the distance. Wrist working double-time, a flash of magnesium hit behind his eyes, and pearly white ropes of release splashed over his knuckles and on to his stomach. He stroked himself through it, breathing harshly, and finally collapsed against the bed.
After allowing himself to simply pant for a minute, he sat up- with effort -and went still as a corpse. Standing in the doorway, mouth open and cheeks glowing with drink, was Boone.
His coat lay trapped under the door, and at last the odd noise made sense. It had forced the top of the frame to rub unpleasantly against the edge of the door, and the hinges had whined in warning.
Can't Find No Sweet Release 2a/2
No more than two days later was the suite once again clear of its usual occupants. Nearly everyone was off helping on some kind of reconnaissance at the Fort, and Boone, who could not be trusted to play politics with the Legion, was out drinking.
It was his night.
He started, this time, by locking the door. Then, he took off his coat and rolled it into a line of cloth. This he pushed against the crack under the stop. He drew the curtains and, because it was available to him, he uncorked a bottle of wine.
It wasn’t the most popular drink available in the Mojave, but Arcade retained a fondness for it.
After letting himself unwind with a couple glasses, he moved to the bed, shedding his shirt on the way and draping it over the headboard. Stretching out and reclining back on his elbows, he undid his belt with a dark sort of satisfaction. Privacy really was golden. He pulled it through the loops, savoring the slight friction that created, and cast it to the floor.
Thumbing his nipples with one hand and palming himself with the other, he thought briefly about what Boone must be doing right now. It was uncharitable to think that after drinking he might go out whoring, but the possibility was there.
Maybe.
To distract himself from the notion, he unbuttoned his pants and wiggled out of them partially, watching the play of contracting muscle with a tipsy sort of concentration.
Had he gotten a bit softer in his time here? Arcade doubted the likelihood of that; he was regularly called upon to walk miles across the open desert and to hike up impossibly steep cliff faces for the sake of personal discovery. But, smoothing a hand over his stomach, it was easier to believe that he might be better fed.
Unnoticed, his hand had sped its tempo, stroking his member to complete attention through the loose fabric. He shivered and lifted his hips off the bed, sliding both underwear and trousers down to pool at his ankles.
Arcade gripped around the base of his cock and pulled upwards slowly, marveling as the clear bead at the top welled up and over. He gathered it up and bit his lip as he spread the moisture over his head and down the length of the shaft. Now with a bit of lubrication, and already producing more at a comfortable rate, he began to beat off in earnest. Each down stroke was punctuated with a low groan, too pent up sexually to deny the small gift of being able to vocalize his pleasure.
He bet that his party of one was better than whatever Boone might be getting up to, anyway. Sure, he thought, another hand trumps your own on any occasion, but at least I know what I like.
And Arcade was certain that he could figure out what the sniper went for in the bedroom better than a Gomorrah prostitute, without a doubt, but there he was again. Dreaming of impossibilities.
His hips began to move of their own accord. It wouldn’t be too long now. He let go of his cock and it flexed in the air briefly, searching for that lost contact. He spat into his palm; no use in chaffing. They probably chaffed quite a bit at Gomorrah.
As he took himself in hand again and formed a tight seal with his fist, Arcade heard a noise like the moaning of a deeply rusted hinge. While it might have been him, and he doubted it, the sound of his own steadily pumping hand was enough to drown most of everything out, and he wrote it off.
Lying back fully and dragging a hand through the covers repeatedly, he gasped as he suddenly hit a plateau, arching off the mattress. Arcade rasped wetly and locked on to some point in the distance. Wrist working double-time, a flash of magnesium hit behind his eyes, and pearly white ropes of release splashed over his knuckles and on to his stomach. He stroked himself through it, breathing harshly, and finally collapsed against the bed.
After allowing himself to simply pant for a minute, he sat up- with effort -and went still as a corpse. Standing in the doorway, mouth open and cheeks glowing with drink, was Boone.
His coat lay trapped under the door, and at last the odd noise made sense. It had forced the top of the frame to rub unpleasantly against the edge of the door, and the hinges had whined in warning.
Which of course he had paid no mind to.