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make you so sorry."
Valentine laughs again. Lindsay can't tell if it's because of what
he said or something Valentine's mum said, but either way his breathing is
going crazy. Lindsay pinches him again to get him up on his hands and
knees, quickly pulling the button and zip free and pushing him to make
him lie back down. His jeans are too tight to pull down easily. Nothing
new there, but it never stops being frustrating. He yanks hard, peeling the
denim inside-out and taking Valentine's neon orange pants with it, just
enough to expose his pale backside. There are two red marks from the
pinches, like fading speech marks.
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"...it's his own fault if he gets sunburnt, he knows he burns easy,
if he thinks it's too faggy wearing suncream he fucking deserves it, don't
he? Don't fuss over him, he's old enough to look after himself, if he wants
to turn himself into a bacon Frazzle on day one that ain't your problem..."
He's behaving himself, he's not moving at all, even though
Lindsay can feel his stomach muscles thrumming with the effort. He starts
the stroking again, much gentler than before, just the ghost of a touch on
the soft skin of his balls, repeating it ceaselessly until Valentine whines
against his hand, turning it into a cough to disguise it, and rams his
hardening cock hard against Lindsay's thigh. "Didn't I tell you not to
move?" Lindsay says, barely audible. The contrast in sounds makes the
slap seem even louder, a harsh crack so loud it almost seems to echo.
Valentine drops the handset and scrambles to pick it back up, moving
straight back to where he was told to stay when he's retrieved it.
"Sorry. Nothing, Lindsay just dropped something, he made me
jump. You sadsack, you're clearing that up," he says, raising his voice like
he's calling across the room. He twists back to look at Lindsay again,
laughing with his eyes and biting down hard on his red bottom lip. "Okay,
listen, I should go and help him. Send us a postcard, alright? Yeah. Okay,
bye." Then: "Lindsay, you wanker, I never thought you'd actually do it!"
"If you're going to keep on moving after I told you not to then
you've got to put up with the consequences." It's too difficult to play this
game when Valentine's so bright-eyed and exhilarated, laughing helplessly
and hard as a rock. Lindsay can't keep a straight face, he tucks his chin
down against his chest to try and hide how he's smiling but it's so obvious.
"You don't have to stop."
"Why don't you have any shame?"
"Wasted it all on being a Hanson fan."
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"I see." He lands another thunderous slap with no more
warning, and Valentine muffles a wonderful hungry noise behind his
closed lips. "I thought you wanted to watch your Shakespeare."
"With an alternative like this? Don't think so."
It's disturbingly thrilling doing this again. They're more used to
each other now, they're getting comfortable again, and it's easier to fall
back into the old ways but a version of them that doesn't genuinely
involve Valentine doing what he's told. Everything's changed. Before,
Lindsay always had issues doing it and meaning it and doing it for fun, the
exact same action but different moods and reasons for it. Something of that
is gone now. It's easier. Valentine is alight with want and happiness,
shivering and desperate and loving it.
"I'll never understand you," Lindsay mutters, and slaps him hard
again.
"You don't have to understand it, just accept it. Like I don't
understand why a handsome man like you wants to ruin it wearing brown
cords but I never say nothing."
Slap. "What the hell are you talking about? You bring it up
seventeen times a day at least."
"For your own good."
Slap, slap, slap. "I'm not taking fashion tips from a man who
wears neon orange underpants."
"I love it when you talk down to me."
"Good." Another savage slap. His hand is tingling hot now. He
rubs his palm slowly over Valentine's warm skin to soothe the itch, and
Valentine lets his breath out in a long shuddering sigh.
"I'll come."
"Isn't that the idea?"
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"I bet you could make me come just spanking me and nothing
else."
"Don't say spank, it's horrible."
"Not so horrible you won't do it, though."
"That's true. Shush, now." He doesn't stop this time, hard slow
smacks with long pauses in between, stroking the flat of his hand over
Valentine's flushing skin. Valentine's curling his fingers tight around
handfuls of the throw cushion he's resting on, breathing in whimpers and
starting to sweat lightly.
"Can we go upstairs?"
"No, I'm having a nice time."
"Yeah, I noticed," Valentine says breathlessly, shifting his hips
to better press against Lindsay's cock. "Please, I wanna go to bed."
"No. Here."
Valentine struggles over onto his back, grinning like a madman.
"If it's cos you wanna leer at me being sixteen I already died ages ago." It's
awkward with his legs trapped together by his jeans, but he slips down
onto his knees on the thick carpet and manages to get Lindsay's trousers
open in two seconds flat; it barely takes any longer than that to bring him
off, which is so sad and embarrassing that Lindsay wrenches Valentine
away and comes in his hair instead, streaking white into the black and
smearing it in deeper with his fingers. He feels better then, more in control.
Valentine goes very still and closes his eyes, but he doesn't seem bothered.
"You're so gross. You're like an animal marking your territory."
"Be quiet. Stand up." Lindsay's still catching his breath, he can't
find any strength. He hauls himself up to sit on the edge of the cushion and
slips his mouth down around Valentine's cock, swallowing him deep and
holding him at the hips, guiding him to move and do all the work.
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Valentine laughs, like he knows. He tangles his fingers through Lindsay's
hair, whining and swearing under his breath until he goes very still and
comes in a hot surge down his throat.
"You wanker, I need to wash my hair again now."
"Go on, then."
"Why, you ready for round two?"
"Might be. Just take your time, I'm an old man."
Valentine disappears upstairs, waddling like a penguin because
he's not bothered pulling his jeans back up. Lindsay goes to wash his hands
and have a cigarette out the back door, stepping quietly so he doesn't
disturb the dreaming dog asleep in the kitchen. He's just settled back in his
seat, exhausted and flicking mindlessly through the Sky channels, when
Dory starts crying upstairs. Not even crying, but screaming and sobbing
like she's been set on fire. Lindsay jumps to his feet automatically,
suddenly remembers he's not playing dad to his dead best friend's children
any more, and sits back down. The instinct took him by surprise, and now
he feels kind of sick.
Half a minute passes. He stares at his hands and wills her to shut
up, but she doesn't. He can hear the shower still running upstairs,
obviously beating down too noisily for Valentine to have heard or he'd
have been in there with her the second she made a sound. Alice could howl
like this for hours on end if she was left to it, he found that out the hard
way.
Another half a minute and she's wailing so loud he can't stand it.
He's dug his fingernail so hard into the side of his thumbnail he's made it
bleed. Wishing death by freak shower drowning accident on Valentine
with all the force he can muster, Lindsay takes the stairs two at a time and
heads for Dory's room. The door's open just a crack and the noise she's
making is unbelievable. Tiny people shouldn't be able to make noise like
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that; it seems to go against all the laws of nature that miniature lungs can
have enough power in them to split your eardrums, but that's not too far off
what she's doing.
She's sitting up in bed when Lindsay goes in, curled up with her
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