Moving Day
The van pulled away at ten past six, and Simon stood on the front step of the new house with his hand still half raised, waving at two men who had already stopped looking back. It was the hottest day of August, somebody three doors down had a barbecue going, and his T-shirt was stuck to the small of his back. He went in past the boxes in the hall to the front room.
“Leon?”
“In here,” came the answer, from somewhere behind a tower marked BOOKS (HEAVY) (SORRY).
Leon was sitting on the floor with his back against the sofa, which the movers had put facing the wall. He had his T-shirt hauled up to wipe his face, and Simon got a long look at the thick grey-furred belly and the sweat running down the middle of his soft heavy chest. At forty-six Leon was built like the removal men, only more so, and he’d carried the washing machine in with one of them because the other had done his back.
“You’re staring,” Leon said, from under the T-shirt.
“You’re showing.”
Leon let the shirt drop. His grey beard was damp at the edges, and he looked up with the expression he’d had for nine years whenever Simon came into a room, a slow pleased crease round the eyes like he’d just remembered something good. “Sit down before you fall down.”
Simon sat on the warm bare boards with his head on Leon’s shoulder, and Leon’s arm came round him, heavy and hot and smelling of sweat and cardboard.
“We live here,” Simon said.
“We do. With a damp patch in the back bedroom the survey swore was nothing.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s our something,” Leon said, and Simon laughed into his shoulder and felt Leon’s belly shake under his hand when he laughed too.
Leon found the kettle in the third box he opened. The kitchen ran across the back of the house, with the back door propped open on a paint tin and a window over the sink looking onto yellowed lawn and a fence smothered in white flowers. He filled the kettle and watched Simon come in behind him in the reflection in the glass, plucking his damp T-shirt off his soft middle and flapping it for air. Years of cycling to work had given him those thick thighs, and his pale Irish skin went pink at the first mention of sun; the back of his neck was already pink, and so were his calves. Leon was about to say something about suncream when Simon leaned his hip on the counter and, because he was Simon, put his hand flat on Leon’s belly as if he was checking it was still there. His palm was cool from the glass he’d been holding. It felt so good that Leon shut his eyes.
“Do that again. Your hand. Cold.”
Simon dipped his fingers in the inch of tap water left in the glass and put them back on Leon’s belly, under the T-shirt this time, flat on the skin just above his belt. Leon made a noise he wasn’t proud of.
“Oh, you like that,” Simon said. His fingers moved up, slow, over the curve of the belly and into the fur on Leon’s chest, and found a nipple and pinched it. Leon’s cock thickened in his jeans, heavy and interested, and he groaned through his nose.
“The kettle’s boiling.”
“Let it.”
He switched it off anyway and turned round and took Simon’s face in both hands and kissed him. Simon’s mouth was salty and his stubble scraped Leon’s palms. He made a small surprised sound and then pressed forward belly to belly, already hard, a stiff line against Leon’s thigh through his shorts.
“We’ve got no curtains,” Simon said against his mouth.
“It’s the back. Who’s going to see? The fence?”
“The man next door has a shed.”
“Then he’ll learn something.” Leon slid his hands down to Simon’s arse and squeezed hard, and Simon laughed and groaned at once and shoved him back against the sink. The edge of the counter bit into Leon’s arse and he didn’t care. He dragged the damp T-shirt off over Simon’s head and there he was, pink across the shoulders and milk white everywhere else, his chest soft and freckled and his nipples small and tight. Leon bent and sucked one into his mouth, then bit it, and Simon’s hand went straight into his hair.
“Fuck. Leon. The whole house smells of cardboard and I’m so fucking hard.”
“I noticed.” Leon got a hand on the front of Simon’s shorts and rubbed him through the cotton until Simon was rocking into his palm and swearing. “Upstairs.”
“The bed’s not built. There’s not even a sheet on the mattress.”
“Does it matter?”
Simon thought about it for a second, which Leon loved him for, then said, “No,” and took him by the wrist and pulled.
The stairs were narrow and steep. Simon went up the first few backwards because Leon kept kissing him, then turned round and felt Leon’s hands on his hips the whole way, and then Leon’s mouth on the small of his back just above his waistband, and his legs nearly gave out.
“Don’t. I’ll fall and die on our first night and you’ll have to explain it.”
The back bedroom was full of the day’s heat, the mattress in the middle of the floor with a box of bedding on it and the bed frame in pieces against the wall. Simon shoved the window up as far as it would go and let the barbecue smoke drift in. When he turned round Leon was heaving the box off the mattress onto the floor with a thump, breathing hard, his T-shirt dark down the front. He pulled it off in one go and stood there big and grey-furred, flushed from his chest to his forehead, and unbuckled his belt.
Nine years, and it still did something to Simon to watch Leon’s belly settle round and low over his belt as he bent to it, the grey fur running all the way down into his jeans. When Leon pushed jeans and boxers down together and kicked them off, his cock sprang up hard and dark and heavy, curving a little to the left, the head already wet.
“Come here,” Leon said. “Take those off.”
Simon took them off with hands that weren’t steady and knelt on the bare mattress in front of him with his palms on those thick thighs.
“You want it?” Leon’s voice had gone low, the way it did.
“Yeah.”
“Say it.”
“I want your cock in my mouth,” Simon said, and felt his face go hot, which after nine years was ridiculous, and took it.
Leon groaned out loud. He tasted of salt and a whole day’s work, and he was thick enough that Simon’s jaw ached straight away. Simon sucked him slow and sloppy, one hand wrapped round the base and the other on the soft underside of Leon’s belly, feeling it heave. Leon’s hand came down on the back of his head and rested there, heavy and warm.
“That’s it. Fuck, that’s it. Christ, your mouth. Take it deeper, love. Take all of it.”
Simon took it deeper. The head bumped the back of his throat and he held it there, gagging, until his eyes watered, then pulled off gasping with a string of spit from his lip to Leon’s cock.
“My jaw,” he croaked. “Fuck, you’re so thick.”
“You love it.”
“I do.” He went back down, wet and noisy, until Leon swore and hauled him up by the arms and tipped him onto his back.
The mattress was hot under Simon’s back. Leon came down on top of him, all that weight, and Simon wrapped his legs round him and felt their bellies slide together slick with sweat, Leon’s chest hair rough on his nipples and their cocks trapped hard between them.
“Where’s the lube?” Leon said into his neck.
“Bathroom box.”
“Which one’s the bathroom box?”
“The one that says BATHROOM.”
Leon lifted his head. “Don’t be clever with me when I’m about to fuck you.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll make you wait,” Leon said, and got up, and Simon lay there with his cock leaking on his belly and listened to him tearing through boxes on the landing, swearing, and started laughing and couldn’t stop.
The lube was in a box that said KITCHEN MISC. When Leon came back in, Simon was still on his back with his cock flushed and dripping on his belly and his knees fallen open, and the low evening light caught the fine ginger hair on his thighs. Leon stood in the doorway a second longer than he needed to, just looking.
“Turn over.”
Simon turned over and got up on his knees and elbows with his face in his forearms and his arse in the air, and Leon felt his heart kick the way it had the first time, in the flat above the dry cleaner’s, nine years ago.
He knelt behind him with one hand on the small of Simon’s back, where the sweat had pooled, and poured lube over the fingers of the other. Simon hissed when it touched him.
“Cold?”
“It’s lovely. Don’t stop.”
Leon rubbed slow circles over his hole until Simon started pushing back, then slid one finger in. Simon was tight and hot and let out a long shaky breath. Leon opened him like a man with nowhere to be, one finger and then two, twisting and crooking them until he found the spot and Simon’s whole back arched and he cried out into his arms.
“There. Fuck, there. Leon, please.”
“Please what?”
“Please fuck me. I’ve been thinking about it since you picked up that fucking washing machine.”
Leon laughed, low. “The washing machine did it for you?”
“You and the washing machine, yes. Fuck me. Put it in me, I can’t wait any more.”
He slicked himself and set the head against Simon’s hole and pushed, steady, and felt him open round it. Simon made a long cracked noise into the mattress. Leon kept going until he was all the way in, his belly resting heavy on the curve of Simon’s arse, and stayed there and let him feel it.
“Christ, you’re big,” Simon panted. “It’s too much. I forget. Every time I forget.”
“You never forget.”
“I pretend to so I get to find out again. Oh God, move. Please move.”
Leon pulled back and drove in, and Simon groaned. He did it again, slower, and then set a rhythm, long and deep, holding Simon’s hips, and the mattress slid an inch across the bare boards with every thrust. The slap of skin was loud in the empty room, and so was Simon, moaning every time Leon bottomed out. Through the open window somebody’s radio was playing an old song Leon half knew.
“The neighbours,” Simon gasped.
“Let them hear. Let them know who moved in.”
“Oh fuck. Harder. Give it to me harder.”
Leon didn’t need telling twice. He got an arm round Simon’s chest and hauled him up onto his knees so Simon’s back was pressed slick and hot against his chest and belly, and fucked up into him like that, his mouth on the pink skin of Simon’s shoulder. Simon reached back, grabbed Leon’s thigh and hung on, shouting now.
“You feel that?” Leon growled in his ear. “That’s all of me. That’s your husband’s fat cock in you in your new house.”
“Yes. Fuck, yes. Keep going. Keep fucking going.”
“Touch yourself.”
Simon got a hand round his cock and stroked fast and messy, and Leon felt him clench round him and nearly lost it.
“Not yet,” Leon said. “Lie down. I want to see your face.”
Simon went down on his back and Leon was on him before he’d finished moving, pushing his knees back and sliding in again in one long stroke that knocked the air out of him. This was the way Simon liked it best, and Leon knew it. Leon let his weight come down until his belly lay heavy on Simon’s, and a drop of sweat fell from his beard onto Simon’s collarbone.
Leon’s face was red and focused and a little bit mad, his forearms planted either side of Simon’s head. He was fucking him slow and deep again, rolling his hips and grinding in at the end of each stroke so Simon felt it all the way up in his chest.
“Look at me,” Leon said.
Simon looked at him.
“Nine years,” Leon said, “and I still can’t get enough of this arse.”
“God, you’re soppy when you’re fucking me.”
“I’m soppy all the time. You just notice when I’ve got my cock in you.” Leon slammed in hard, once, and Simon cried out. “There. Notice that.”
“Fuck. Leon. I can’t take it, it’s so deep. Fuck me, fuck me, I’m going to come.”
“Go on then. Come on my cock.”
Simon got his hand between their bellies, where his cock was trapped hot and slick, and it only took a few pulls with Leon pounding into him and Leon’s eyes on his face. He came with a shout he’d think about later, when he met the neighbours, all over his own belly and Leon’s, and clamped down hard.
Leon swore, long and filthy, and his rhythm went ragged. “Oh, fuck, Si. I’m going to fill you up. You want it?”
“Yes. Give it to me. Come in me.”
Leon pushed in as deep as he could and held there and shook, groaning like he was being wrung out, and Simon felt him pulse inside and held on to his shoulders while the whole weight of him came down, sweaty and hot as an oven, the come smeared between their bellies.
For a while neither of them said anything, until Simon wheezed that he loved being crushed but also needed to breathe. Leon rolled off with a grunt, and Simon looked at the crack in the ceiling and decided it was his favourite thing about the house.
“We’ve christened the back bedroom,” he said. “There are six rooms.”
Leon turned his head, and the crease round his eyes came back. “Give me an hour. I’m forty-six.”
The bathroom had a green tiled floor the previous owners had apparently loved and a shower over the bath that coughed somewhere in the wall before it ran warm. Leon stood under it first, and Simon squeezed into the narrow bath behind him with the shower gel. Simon soaped his back slowly, down his spine and round his sides and over his belly, then pressed his front against Leon’s back and hooked his chin over Leon’s shoulder, and his hands went round and down and took hold of Leon’s cock, which to Leon’s mild surprise was starting to fill again.
“That wasn’t an hour,” Simon said.
“It’s the green tiles. They’re doing something to me.”
Simon laughed into his neck and stroked him, his soapy fist sliding the whole length, and Leon put both hands flat on the wall and let his head drop. The water ran down his chest and off the curve of his belly. Simon’s other hand was buried in the wet fur on his chest, tugging at his nipple.
“I love this,” Simon said in his ear. “You. Big and soft and all mine, with your thick cock in my hand.”
“Keep talking like that.”
“You want me to tell you how deep you were? I can still feel you. I’ve got your come in me, Leon, it’s running down my leg right now.”
Leon’s groan bounced off the tiles. He was fully hard in Simon’s fist, and Simon was stroking faster, twisting at the head the way Leon liked, until Leon’s thighs started to shake and he was grunting with every pull.
“Go on, then,” Simon said. “All over our horrible green tiles.”
Leon came with his forehead against the wall and Simon’s arm locked round his belly holding him up, shooting over the green tiles for longer than he expected, and afterwards he felt he could sleep standing up.
“Two rooms,” Simon said.
“I’m going to need a sandwich before the third.”
They ate on the step outside the kitchen door, because the garden chairs were still buried somewhere in the hall. It was nearly nine and the sky was going pink over the fences. Simon was in Leon’s old grey T-shirt and nothing else, and Leon was in his boxers with a towel round his shoulders and his hand resting warm on Simon’s belly.
“The man with the shed,” Simon said, nodding at the fence. “His light’s on.”
“Good for him.”
“Do you think he heard?”
Leon took a long drink of his beer. “I think the whole road heard. We’re going to be known as the two in number forty-one. We’ll bring him a bottle of wine.”
“And say what? Sorry about the screaming?”
“Say welcome to the neighbourhood.” Leon’s thumb moved in slow circles on Simon’s belly. “Nine years in that flat and nobody ever knew we were there. I like being noisy in our own house.”
Simon turned his face into Leon’s shoulder. Behind them, in the front room, the sofa was still facing the wall.
“We’ll build the bed tomorrow,” he said. “The mattress’ll do fine for tonight.” He lifted his head. “There’s still the front room, you know. And the kitchen table, once we find the legs.”
Leon laughed, the big soft laugh that shook his whole belly under Simon’s hand, kissed the top of his head, and didn’t say no.