O P E N P O S T .

[solosection]

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[nowheretowns]

[ He licks his lips again when Elio pulls his fingers out, catching the remnants of the other man's taste by the tip of his tongue. Eyes fluttering open again, he watches as Elio reaches down and takes him in hand. He's got long, slender fingers and pale skin, paler than Jean Louis', and the contrast is interesting enough to hold his attention for longer than he'd really imagine, seeing as he's got a cock in his hand and a fist around his own. He exhales roughly, shifting a little in his seat, pushing himself into Elio's grip just once, twice. That's fucking good, isn't it. He sighs and leans back slightly against the seat with his left shoulder, muscles relaxing further all the way down his back and into his buttocks and thighs.

Immediately, the sense of pleasure registers more clearly and he gasps, breath catching between his teeth. Elio's gone bright red, blushing all over, pushing into his grip as he works Jean Louis' cock, trying to match their paces and that's such a good idea, makes it easier to focus on - yes, ah, the build-up.

Almost gently, he runs his fingers through Elio's hair again, then down, over the nape of his neck. He takes hold, then, a light grip without force. ]

There, yes, that's good.

[ His voice has definitely gone throaty, too. Slowly, he leans sideways enough to press his forehead against Elio's, keeping them both like that, their breaths mingling and Elio's proximity going into his blood in a way that even his hand can't challenge. He works his hips into Elio's grip, driving himself towards orgasm and Elio, too, stroking his cock wetly, releasing him for a handful of seconds to spit in his palm again before resuming.

The slick sounds of the two of them, jerking off in the backseat of his official car are loud and obscene; it's entirely sexy, that edge of absurdity, of Paris gliding by beyond the windows with the two of them hidden from view whilst they fuck, sharing breaths and spit and something less easily defined. It's got to do with that look in Elio's eyes, though, he's quite certain. With the way he blushes, begs, with desperation.

A personal moment, shared in secret. ]

[solosection]

Don’t stop...

[ But even when Jean Louis draws his hand away, it’s only for a second, only for a moment, to spit in his palm once more, slicking Elio’s cock up all over again and Elio makes little, desperate noises, angling his hips up into the other man’s grip, fucking into his fist, the sounds loud and absurd in the quiet. The car’s moving, making regular car noises, outside Paris is alive and they’re fucking each other’s hands, they’re taking all the pleasure they can from it.

He doesn’t envy the driver. Neither does he care much about him right now.

The driver doesn’t belong in this world they’re inhabiting. With their cocks out and breaths heavy and everything smelling like sex. Jean Louis sounding like it, too.

Elio whimpers as he feels his climax building up, balls drawing up and his shaft growing harder, his whole body screaming for it, his mind... Jean Louis has leaned his forehead against Elio’s forehead and they’re breathing each other in, both of them running, the edge, the fall, come, come. Keeping his hand steady on the other man’s cock, he strokes him faster now, evenly but with tempo. Urgency. Come, come. His fingers tighten around the shaft of Jean Louis’ cock, right beneath the head, then he runs his whole, slick palm over the head, ending the motion with a slight rubbing of his thumb over the slit, feeling the way precum is leaving his fingers dripping. Oh.

Come, come. (Don’t go, don’t go). He moans, then, feels his whole lower body tightening up as it breaks on him, wave-like. Oh. There. There. ]

Please, please, don’t stop...

[ Whimpering some more, his hips push into Jean Louis’ fist hard, fast, taking, taking while he gasps and groans and breaks a little. Comes. He doesn’t think. Not about anything. Not about Oliver either. ]

[nowheretowns]

[ Even if Elio hadn't spoken, pleading into the tiny sliver of space between their faces, the urgency of his movements give him away along with the heaviness of his breath. Jean Louis is right behind him, the pressure in his groin and balls increasing as Elio works his cock, deft hands, very deft (musician, a pianist, that's a great coincidence). He keeps his hold against the back of Elio's neck light, still, keeps his strokes even and his hand moving and then, yes, he's coming, spilling cum all over Jean Louis' fingers and he strokes him through it, too, because he'll take what he can and so should Elio, so he should.

Elio's thrusts, as he comes, are forceful and it's that, on top of the building pleasure from Elio's fingers running over the naked head of his cock, that does him in - eyes falling shut and hips working upwards roughly, he comes only seconds after the other man, lips parted and breath loud, heavy, erratic. It doesn't even once occur to him that his driver might find this situation uncomfortable. He's not on the official payroll, this particular man, and his safety clearance is fabricated. If he's got a problem, he can fucking well swallow it down.

Groaning, he works his cock up into Elio's slick grip another couple of times before he stops, completely, his lower body sinking back into the seat. His fingers against Elio's neck have tightened a bit, just a little, though he can't quite remember when. He brushes the skin there with his fingertips as a way of apology and releases him, giving his cock another couple of light strokes before releasing that, too. ]

Sorry to disappoint.

[ To stop, he thinks, though they both know that everything's got starts and ends, it's clear to him that Elio's had some particular experience with that, even. With the nature of meetings and fucks, with relationships too, no matter how carefully you cultivate them. Jean Louis, in contrast, simply believes in the logic. He's never chosen to get burned by it. ]

Then again, if we don't stop, we'd never get to start afresh.

[ Said with a rare, genuine smile - which is quite small and thin, really, on his face, but it's there. He releases Elio then, to pack his cock away. It's slick and sticky but he's got a spare change or five so who really cares. ]

[solosection]

[ He’s half-dazed from his orgasm, but Jean Louis comes right after him, that he does sense, feels it, sticky against his hand.

Jean Louis’ hand, in turn, tightens against the nape of his neck, holds him still, close and Elio treasures it, the way he’s treasured being embraced closely before, only to be let go of, pushed away, left behind and forgotten. Jean Louis, too, lets go of him, brushing his fingers over his skin gently first. Like an apology and do politicians do those? Do they do them sincerely?

Then, he releases Elio’s cock, spent and mostly flaccid now. Elio does the same, once Jean Louis has gone still. His fingers are covered in semen and he doesn’t know what to do with them, no sheets to dry off in. Seeing Jean Louis just tuck himself away, uncaring, Elio does the same. A bit less uncaring, but he can change his pants once they get to his apartment. No harm done.

If we don’t stop, we’d never get to start afresh, the other man tells him. Is that some PR speak? Elio frowns. ]

Sometimes there’s no point to start from.

[ Oliver, again. Always Oliver.

Elio unceremoniously dries off his fingers in his trouser leg, then looks out the window, feeling weirdly unsettled. Maybe it’s the fact that no one is escaping, tiptoeing out back doors or climbing out windows. They’re just sitting here. Waiting to pull up, waiting to collect. Jean Louis’ watch. Paris is busy today. Always busy. They’re only a couple of streets from his place. Just in time, then, before time’s up. Gone. ]

I liked this, though. All goodbyes should be like this.

[nowheretowns]

[ He leans back, looking over his fingers briefly before simply drying them off in his trouser leg, mirroring Elio who's reached the same inescapable conclusion - your skin, you're forced to stay in, whether or not a shower gets it clean but clothes can be changed, again and again. Thrown out, discarded. All goodbyes should be like this says the pianist as he looks out of the window, his stance visibly closing up, something distant in his voice, very much unlike the man who stripped himself naked only minutes prior.

Jean Louis watches him curiously, head tilted slightly. There's something about the other man that wakes him up in a way he can't describe - he can't remember this sensation, either. With Marcel back in Amsterdam, slowly but surely pushing the King out of his none-too-designated seat, he gets a similar feeling but different, too, maybe because Elio and Marcel couldn't be more different themselves. Maybe he, too, differs in their company. Like some sort of twisted sea creature or insect - one empty shell, exchanged for another.

He blinks. Pushes the thought from his mind immediately before it drives off his post-orgasmic bliss for something a lot less satisfying.

Instead, he shakes his head and rights his hair with his hand, the one not previously covered in cum. He tears his eyes away from Elio's profile and looks out of the windscreen. Lips thinning, he notes their surroundings - they're close, now, to the ending destination. The silence between them has stretched for at least half a minute by now and he could easily bear to prolong it even further, to make it last until Elio leaves, returns with his watch, and leaves again.

He could but he won't. Tempering down his frustration with habitual ease, he answers, voice calm, seemingly undisturbed: ]

We'll remember for next time, Elio. And then, we'll see.