“There you go, gorgeous,” Francis praised. Then he took more of the lube and slipped his fingers—between Mark’s thighs?
“W-what?”
“It’s called intercrural sex, Mark. It’s been done forever, historically speaking. Keep your legs together, it’ll be better for me.” Mark obeyed automatically, and as soon as he felt Francis’s cock right under his balls, he flexed his thighs. “Shit, that’s good, baby. Just hang on, okay.”
Then Francis’s hand was around his dick that had found the proceedings very interesting thus far. It took no time at all for Mark to get fully hard in Francis’s grip. He moaned when Francis jabbed his perineum with his cock. How could that feel so good?
And then he began to fuck Mark between the thighs, jerking him off at the same time. He kept the flowing words of praise going and Mark started to float again. He was being taken, used, and that was the best thing he’d felt in… well, ever.
“I’m so close, baby. I’m really,reallyclose. Can you come with me?” Francis whispered into his ear, his hot breath like an extra caress.
Mark whimpered, nodded, and came with a muffled shout. Muffled, because Francis’s free hand clamped across his mouth.
Francis hissed and Mark barely registered that his hips jerked against Mark’s ass a few times, before he stilled.
“So, so good for me, gorgeous,” Francis murmured, petting Mark’s thigh with a hand wet with Mark’s cum.
His heat against Mark’s back was… it felt comforting. As if he had company in this momentous situation, as if Francis was taking care of him, keeping him safe.
Then Francis pulled away and went to toss the condom. He came back with some paper towels and cleaned Mark up a bit. He didn’t try to lift his pants which made Mark feel less awkward. Because it was creeping in now, what he’d done. What he’d let Francis do.
“Uh….” Mark didn’t know what to say.
“It’s okay.” Francis’s tone was dry as he straightened his own clothing and looked at Mark. “Blew your mind a bit. Like I said, I know closeted guys.” Mark bristled. He wanted to say something, just… anything. “Come on. I bet you have some badly channeled self-hatred to throw my way.” Francis sneered.
He wasn’t wrong. Mark made sure his own clothing was on the right way, grabbed his coat from the hook, and went to the door. He was opening the lock to get out of the suddenly too-cramped space, when he heard Francis speak again.
“It’s okay. I’m being unfair. You do you, Mark. Just… try to find how to be happy with what you have.”
Mark wrenched the door open and all but ran out of the restroom, the corridor, and the bar. He continued in the direction of his motel, and didn’t stop until he got there twenty minutes later.
* * * *
He couldn’t sleep. There were too many things swirling in his brain and too many of those things were Francis-shaped.
Mark tossed and turned in the motel bed, feeling shaky and off in his skin, right until the sky began to lighten outside. Then he took a second shower—he’d taken one, scrubbed himself raw when he’d come in, and still refused to think about why he’d done that—and got dressed. He’d get coffee from a drive through and breakfast somewhere on the way once his stomach had settled, woozy as it felt now.
The roads were emptier than he’d thought they’d be, so he made it back to Acker much faster. He went directly to Tripod for lunch, and sat in the back corner.
The only other people in the diner were Evy Peterson and one of the ladies who liked to play poker for actual money—it was a secret everyone knew—upstairs in the restaurant/bar twice a week.
Evy looked at him, flipped her dreads over her shoulder, gathered her book and ever-present tea, and marched to him. She sat without asking for permission, which would’ve ordinarily made Mark bristle. He just didn’t have the energy right then.
Leah came by to refill Mark’s mug and bring him his breakfast plate but left them alone without a word.
“Why are you here?” Mark asked Evy after a couple of minutes of silence.
“I know a person in a crisis when I see one,” she stated quietly. “And anyone in crisis should not be alone.”
Mark opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. He didn’t like lying to people he liked. He’d done that enough already, by omission. Instead, he dug into his scrambled eggs and bacon, and ignored her.
Evy opened her book and started to read. It was some sort of crime thing, based on what Mark had seen of the cover.
He almost poured his coffee down his front when she let out a honking laugh out of the blue.
“Holyshit,” he exclaimed, balancing the mug carefully, and glared at her.
She laughed for a bit, then managed to get herself under control and explained, “Sorry, sorry, it’s just… this book gets the psychology of a serial killer so fucking wrong it’s ridiculous….” She dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “Oh hell that was hilarious….”
