assignment: specimen

The man stood with his back against the wall, a single knee bent and casually smoking a cigarette. There was no one else in the dimly-lit, and to be perfectly honest raunchy, hallway. The motel seemed to be ill-used, what with the rough carpeting and peeling paint-job. Of course, it might have had something to do with the clientele of this particular establishment, classy though they may be…

The man exhaled a long and smoke-filled lungful of air. The sounds from inside the room he stood guard against permeated the thin door and echoed off the walls around him. He didn’t like hearing them. He never liked hearing them. Not even in the beginning, before he figured out exactly how he felt. Of course, that’s not to say the feelings weren’t always there, just that he wasn’t always aware of them. Maybe that’s why he never liked hearing his best mate fucking some stranger in a seedy motel.

But facts were, he WAS the best mate, and that meant he had certain duties to see to. Certain duties which included going out to pubs and clubs, watching over his friend while he drank himself into a self-destructive state, following him to these fucking motels and seedy little apartment buildings, and then cleaning up the mess after.

It always went the same way. His mate would drink until he couldn’t see straight, possibly with the aid of some added chemical, spot some foxy young thing across the room and demand that if he didn’t have her that night, that instant, he’d positively shrivel up and die. He NEEDED her. And he would have to cross the room, avoiding all of those sweaty drunken bodies while he chatted her up, bringing her back to his friend to introduce them. They’d dance and drink, then he’d have to follow them to wherever would be that night’s fuck-pad.  He would wait patiently outside the door, or in the living room, while they had their fun. Then he would go in, avoiding the current conquest’s eyes, and clean his friend up, dragging him home, to a clean warm bed to sleep in

They’d been doing this for so long, it had gotten to the point where he could almost track his friends peaks and flows in his physical ecstasy. Given the particular pitch of groan resounding in the dank hallway, he knew they were almost done.

In the beginning, he’d chatted up girls alongside his friend. The first couple of times, they’d had adjoining rooms, the thin walls letting sounds through and inspiring a sort of contest between them. Who could do it louder, better, faster? It left him feeling hollow, however, and after a very short while, he’d begun to refuse his mate’s encouragement. Eventually his friend stopped encouraging altogether…

He’d waited the obligatory ten minutes, then knocked softly on the door, walking in without an invitation. He nodded politely to the women with her own stick in hand, circle of smoke surrounding them, all three of them. She nodded back, stretching and folding her arms behind her head, tits unabashedly on display. He did not stare. He moved directly for his friend, gently removing the covers and putting his clothes to rights. He leaned him against his shoulder as he pulled his pants up his legs and over his ass, pulling the zip up very carefully.

The slag raised an eyebrow and blew another stream of smoke out, “he always like this?”

His eyes flickered over to meet hers, but he said nothing. His mate’s shirt back on and shoes gathered in hand, he shouldered him deftly (loads of practice), and shuffled out of the room, kicking the door closed behind them.

The walk home was difficult, heavy with disapproving stairs from strangers, but it was blessedly short. Depositing his friend into his own bed, he set to pulling those pants off once more. He knew he’d be more comfortable upon waking if he didn’t have his legs all twisted up in his jeans. He decided to leave the shirt on, as it was only a t-shirt, as opposed to the fancy dress shirts he donned on occasion. He pulled the covers up to his chin, tucking him in gently. He hesitated, on the edge of turning and leaving the room. It made him sick to think he couldn’t resist, but it was part of his ritual. Every night that he had to sit outside a rundown room and listen to those sounds, and then drag the drunken ass home, he fought with himself. He should have this one thing. It was his payment, his mate’s atonement, whether he knew it or not.

He leaned down, gently lifting the fringe out of his mate’s eyes. A finger over those plump lips, and then he’d claim them as his own, if only for a moment. His world came down to these few seconds, stolen every so many days. If his friend were to ever wake during this stolen intimacy, he’d probably die. He didn’t think he could stand the questioning, or god forbid accusatory, stare.

As he steeled his nerves, he pulled away, regretting the loss of contact immediately, as always, and turned to leave the room without a backwards glance. He always missed the small smile that played on the just-kissed lips of the man he loved.