Sick's First Hit

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
His knee moves, pushing his dick against my sweating palm. I instinctually clench my fingers and instantly feel cold sweat creeping down my face when he cries out again, and says, with an incredibly sexual keening: “Reee-eennts.”
I look up at him. Oh, he’s sweating. He’s shaking and shining like a fucking lightbulb. His lips are slippery, and his eyes pleading, his mouth stuck open, his tongue… If it was even possible, my cock grew ten times harder. It –hurt-.
I try to swallow but my tongue feels dry and dead in my mouth. I realize I’ve still got my hand placed firmly on his groin and I’m numb at first, but then I pull it away. It doesn’t go as far as his belt-buckle before he snatches it up in his clammy hand, and puts it right back where it was, grinding it explicitly against that unmistakable hardness.
“Don’t stop.”
I loose control somewhere between his fingers clenching around my wrist and his prick pushing against my hand. I unzip him, salivating, and pull out that delectable long column of flesh. I go down on him quicker than a whore in a busy loo. He’s velvety, hot, his scent coiling up into my nostrils, making me crazy. Someone would have heard him moan even if they were on the second floor, but at this point I don’t bloody care.
I don’t care about anything but this.
His nails rip into the back of my neck and I could swear it’s making me bleed but I don’t mind one fucking bit. My hands are holding his hips down and I suck him like a pro, letting him fuck my throat, every down stroke his rough little hairs hitting my chin, the taste of him alluring and addicting and it’s no wonder the burds love him so much.
I lick him and bite him and fuck him with my mouth and he slams his hips into my face, and he comes so hard it makes me choke, but I swallow every bitter drop of it.
There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach when his hands slide off my head and he zips up his jeans, and I dare to look up at him, his spunk lingering in the back of my throat. Sick Boy’s spunk.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t do anything.
“S.. Simon.” My voice sounds tiny and ineffectual in the darkness. My keks are too tight, my penis sticking out in the cold air like an explanation point. Every time he breathes, it twitches.
“N..No talking.” He says, his voice horse. He has his eyes turned up the ceiling, tracing the bare metal beams, like I’ve done so many times before laying on my back amongst the needles and filth with the junk in my veins.
That was it. That was the climax.
I’m horrified. Definitely ready to punch the bugger. But I don’t. I just do the easiest thing that comes to my junk-influenced mind; I prop myself up against the nearest wall and do myself off.
I take myself in my hand and pump away mercilessly, almost angrily. I’m angry. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry in all my life. I pound my fist over my dick like I’m reloading an automatic weapon. I do it staring at Sick Boy, my throat sore from his bitter cum, making it slightly painful to breathe. I know that tomorrow, I’m going to feel that pain deep down in my stomach, and in every inch of my nervous system, every fiber of my skeleton. The sickness. But I try not to think about the sickness. I think about Simon.
I imagine he pulls his slender body off the floorboards, shaking the dust out of his hair, and crawls towards me, all feral-like, like the wild cat Spud calls him. Wild cat-boy. He licks his lips and he grins, all charming and Sean Connery and irresistible. A mouth you’d want to take it your hands and just fuck. Hair you just want to twist in your fingers and yank and pull; sex, personified.
Unexpectedly, it doesn’t quite happen like that.
He stands up. Wobbly, with his legs too straight to walk with, his heels digging into the ground, his arms outstretched, walking like he’s a newbabe bairn and it’s first fucking time putting his feet to the floor.
Then, he just falls. Right down. In front of me. Inches.
On his knees.
Any sober bloke would have at least winced at the cracking sound his shins made on the wood, but he just looked at me, with his eyes all wide and wet and dark, with this lazy sneer on his lips.
I dumbly realize I’m still wanking myself.
He puts his hands on mine and slows my pace. I feel a horrifyingly helpless sound escape from my throat, and lean against the wall, anchoring myself to reality. It comes out like “Nnnn… fuck” and he starts to nip and suck at my bottom lip and I just lose it.
We make out like teenagers. He forcefully yanks my jeans down my legs, and for a moment I feel vulnerable, and appropriately naked, as I’ve given up wearing underwear since I started the habit. His teeth scrape my gums and he groans into my ear:
“Want me to fuck you, Marky, is that what you want?”