Am I On Pause?
"Here?"
Whitney just nods his head, it doesn't matter to him where they hell they end up. Nothing really matters when he's unable to have who he really wants.
Tonight the guy's blonde and insists on telling Whitney his name; not that he'll remember it anyway. Or that it would even make a difference. He'd just slid has hand under the waistband of the guy's jeans and tugged him along. He'd led him through the scattered edges of the crowd and into the darkened recesses of the hallway leading out back of the club.
Loud thrum of music fills his ears, so loud that Whitney can't think. Instead he just feels. That's the way Whitney likes it. Strong smell of alcohol and sweat, too many bodies cramped tightly into a too small space and Whitney's as horny as fuck. When he closes his eyes it's all he can smell and when he breathes in that scent his cock grows hard. Wants release.
It's inky black and Whitney can't bring himself to care that he can't really catch a glimpse of the guy that's pawing him. Indiscernible features and anonymity are what he's looking for anyway. Fingers spreading against the clammy warmth of his stomach as the guy fumbles at his belt.
Whitney rests his hand on a shoulder and pushes him down, propels him to his knees on the sticky and slightly damp floor. Strong smell of cigarette smoke imprinted on his fingers, on his clothes and it eats its way into his skin.
"Yeah, here. Now," and when he speaks his voice no longer cracks or breaks like it used to. One of the many things about Whitney that's changed.
The wall he's resting himself against is cooler and dewy against his shirt, which presses against his skin. Tight, black. It didn't take long for Whitney to realise how to dress to get what he wanted.
Anything. Anywhere.
His eyes flutter closed as he feels the warmth surround him; flicker of tongue against the head of his cock as he gets harder. Sticky heat envelops him and he thrusts forward, hand clasping tighter. It burns a trail of fire along the length of his cock.
It's a little quieter here; away from the dance floor, but the music still echoes and that sound travels through his body. Raises the hairs on his arms in more than just anticipation.
Whitney catches movement out of the corner of his eye and lets his eyes drift open as he thrusts forward. Somebody else stands a few feet away, short-cropped hair, dressed all in black. Hair almost short enough to not be noticed in the darkness.
Whitney knows all about being almost good enough.
Whitney smiles at him, slows his movement, slides his cock deeply into a mouth that's warm and inviting.
All the invitation that's needed and Whitney watches him move closer; palm of his own hand flat against the outline of his cock. The smile on Whitney's face grows larger.
A hand pulls at the tight material of the shirt Whitney's wearing, pushes the material up to expose golden hued skin, flat hard muscle of his stomach. Whitney doesn't still his pace and pushes his cock forward, fucks the mouth of the guy kneeling on the floor before him.
Slow thrust of his hips and warmth of mouth now kissing along his abdomen, each lick and bite exciting Whitney even more. Quickly exposing more skin in a rush, with one hand and Whitney feels a trail licked up to one nipple. Guy on his knees still working his cock, another mouth surrounds one of his nipples in a rich inferno of heat. Sucks hard and Whitney can feel the blood rush to the surface of his skin, half-light obscuring the deep coloured nipple that grows harder.
Rough feel of skin against the smoothness of his chest makes Whitney want this even more.
Whitney begins a rhythm, moves his hips, twist of his body and there's alternate warmth that he can feel build from his cock and chest and spread through his whole body.
Whitney threads his hand through the short-cropped hair and presses the warmth even closer, hard nip of teeth against his nipple and Whitney can hear himself moan. Deep throaty sound that echoes in the cramped space and can be heard over the harsh beat of the music. Pressure, wet and hot against his heat-flushed skin.
Matched rhythm and Whitney feels himself losing control. Feels the build through his body, his breath catching and his own voice sounding so much deeper than he recognises. Broken syllables that no longer resemble words.
Cock buried deep, sharp nip of teeth and flat of tongue against his nipple and Whitney gulps in air. Before he even registers the fact he feels himself coming, his cock greedily sucked, body convulsing as the guy on his knees holds him deep. Flicker of tongue on his now softening cock, one hand stroking the flat of his stomach as he gulps in air.
And for the first time Whitney actually manages to stay silent, manages not to call out a name that he doesn't want to hear. That he's pretty sure doesn't belong to either of the two guys that are still staring at him hungrily. The only way to get used to controlling the urge to scream out that name when he comes is through practice and Whitney's more than happy to put in the effort if he has to.
Whitney pushes both of them away, opens his eyes again and takes a few moments to focus his vision as he attempts to tidy himself up. To push his shirt down, skin damp, trails of saliva over the muscles of his stomach, both nipples hard points that brush tantalisingly against his shirt.
Neither of the guys move as Whitney turns away, does his belt up and starts walking back towards the heavy bass. Music once again grows louder.
And this time he doesn't look back.