Catch

Disclaimer: Not for profit fanfiction. Snatch is the Property of Guy Ritchie...I think. Certainly none of this is mine.

CATCH


It's not like I laid any of this on myself, is it? I was just trying to run a business and maybe do a good deed along the way.

My name's Turkish. I promote and manage unlicensed boxers. Mad Fist Willy is my best fighter , so it's worth my trouble to keep him happy, even if it doesn't always work out the same way for me.

It might have all started with his idea to open a slot machine arcade -- or maybe with the aliens, depending upon how you looked at things. This particular plan didn't sound to bad. I knew a bloke -- Codfish Pembrook -- who could get me a roomful of slots cheap, as long as I didn't ask too many questions. I could use a little stable income to keep sugar in the cabinet between fights; the more I thought about it, the better the plan seemed.


"It's not a half-bad idea."

I didn't realise I'd spoken out loud, but Mad Fist answered. "'Course not. The Martians told me about it." He took a swig from the milk bottle and passed it over to me.

I drained the rest of it. "Martians? Are they Arabs or Russians?" With all the countries splitting and falling in together these days -- Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Eritrea, who could keep track?

"Martian, like from Mars," he said. "They've seen our future; they say arcades will be will be all the rage."

"The Martians just...told you this?" Mad Fist had had more than a few particularly nasty blows to the head lately, but I hadn't realised it was this bad.

"No. I had it out of them. I can read their thoughts." Mad Fist tapped his temple and looked around shiftily. In a whisper, he explained the whole thing. The Martians had put a radio transmitter in his brain to send his thoughts to Mars, but -- unbeknownst to them -- the plan had backfired and now their thoughts were being broadcast the other way instead: to him.

I resolved to get him to doctor the next day.

Mad Fist agreed to go, although he doubted that a doctor could help. The ruddy aliens had shot the implant too deeply into his brain. He said they had also injected a device that gave him superhuman sexual abilities, which was more than I really wanted to hear. He offered to show me -- as if the one would prove the other -- but I begged out. I wasn't sure what he had in mind, and I sure as hell didn't want to find out the hard way.

He climbed into the truck all right, and I thought I had it all sorted, but then I looked over and saw him gnawing at a patch of skin on his wrist.

"Is there a problem?" I asked.

Mad Fist looked up blankly. "No. Why?"

"No reason. Just checking." I gave a little welly to the accelerator.

"Hold tight! Pull over!" Mad Fist jerked alert out of the blue. He threw his right arm across my face as he pointed out the window, leaving me no choice but to pull off or risk running up the tail pipe of the car in front of me.

"What?" I asked. I'm a fairly patient man -- I thought I'd handled the Martian situation better than most -- but my patience was definitely wearing thin.

"Look. That's our new arcade." He pointed to the "To Let" sign in the window of an empty shop. He lurched out of the truck and tested the door. Locked. With a crack of splintering wood, the door pushed in. "'It's open," he called back, and wandered in.

Leaving Willy and the Martians to break and enter by themselves didn't seem like the wisest option, so I cut the engine and followed him in. I had to grant him that the place was the perfect size. There was even a little studio apartment in the back; I could have a place that couldn't be hitched up and towed away. Piled in a corner was some sad looking but likely serviceable furniture. I turned a desk over, pulled up a chair, propped my feet up and looked around.

Cor, but this could actually work!

The notice cited reasonable terms. There was no agent; one should enquire directly to Mrs. F. Kirkpatrick, Kensington, in person, preference given to small family businesses.

I looked over to Mad Fist. He'd gone back outside and was sitting on the bonnet of the truck talking to the bend of his right wrist.

I looked back at the sign calling for family businesses, and then over at Mad Fist.

Or then again, maybe not.

He kept up the conversation even as we took out seats. "So what do the aliens have to say now?"

"Three-Cheek Charlie will take out Prince Fahid in the sixth."

"Right." I put on a little more petrol. We had to be almost there.

"Have you got money for a flitter?" he asked.

"No." I lied.

"Ruddy shame. We'd make four to one. Coulda paid the first month's rent." He went back to chewing on his wrist.


The doctor didn't find anything wrong with Mad Fist other than some tendonitis in the wrist, some mild high blood pressure, and an incipient case of gastritis. He gave him a handful of tablets for the wrist and told him to back off the aspirin, milk, and Indian food. The topic of aliens never entered into the conversation.

"So, what should I do about it?" I asked.

The doctor put his stethoscope away. "There's a bookie round the corner. Four to one's not half bad odds."

I had to wonder if he'd been dipping into his own pharmaceuticals. "That's all you have to say?"

"Enjoy the sexual prowess while you can get it. You'd think my wife was guarding the crown jewels in her fanny, for all she lets me in it. I'd say you're a right lucky bastard. Why risk mucking up a good thing?"

"He's taking orders from aliens," I protested. "And by the by, I'm his manager."

The doctor shrugged. "Is that what they're calling it these days? Sorry, I don't keep up. And what have you got against aliens?"

"You can't possibly call that healthy."

"Free country, isn't it? It's not like it's hurting anyone."

At my insistence, he finally passed me a packet of suppositories saying they were prescribed for sensitive nerves. Sensitive nerves? Mad Fist regularly pummelled men up to twenty stone for fun, for revenge, or for money, which ever was most readily available at the time.

"One up the bum at bedtime," the doctor said.

I stared at the package. "And just how do you propose I manage that?"

"Not really my problem, is it? You're the bloke who wanted the treatment. Speaking of health -- " He reached into a cabinet and pulled down a jar of more tablets like the first. "You'd best take some of these for yourself, too. It looks like he has a little..." He skewed his face. "...private drip. Remember: play safe. Keep those condoms on." He offered me a handful in a sac.

Bugger all! I slammed the tablets on the counter, and left him holding the condoms. As an afterthought, I turned back and took the sac. You never know who you'll meet, do you?

We stopped round a pub for supper, where Willy insisted on pulling apart his meat pie and eating each chunk one at a time. He mumbled something about hidden transmitters as he pushed all the carrots to the one edge of his plate and all the onions to the other. By the time we'd done eating, the fight was over.

Three-cheek Charlie had knocked out Prince Fahid in the sixth.

I ran back by the building, and took down the house number of Mrs F. Kirkpatrick, Kensington.

By the next morning I had the better part of it sorted. There was still the matter of what to do with Mad Fist, who was determined not to be left behind. Unless Mrs. F. Kirkpatrick, Kensington, had a soft spot for unlicensed boxers who have a special relationship with aliens and enormous sexual prowess, this was going to throw a spanner into the works.

"You'll have to wait in the car," I told him.

"Why?"

I thought quickly. "The old bird might be working with the aliens." I tapped my temple.

Apparently this satisfied him, which didn't seem any odder to me than anything else these past couple of days. We dashed through the drizzle from the caravan to the truck. Mad Fist took the back seat -- it was better to keep the electronics away from his receiver, he said -- and we were off on part two of the master plan: to find me a son.

"There he is!" Mad Fist pointed. I much preferred this system with his arm further away in the back seat.

"That's a drowned rat," I said.

"T'isn't. The rats 'round here are bigger. Pick him up."

Three Cheek Charlie took out the Prince in the sixth. I pulled up beside the rat.

The kid was wrapped up in a hood and so many layers of cheap clothing that it was tough to guess how old he was. Maybe twenty-two? Twenty five? Likely a little older than I wanted, but he had that look of a lost and muddy puppy that usually goes over right well with the birds. Besides, I doubted that Mrs F. Kirkpatrick, Kensington, would be scrutinising birth certificates.

Or maybe I could pass him off as my kid brother. I regarded his soggy clothing, his muddy shoes, and his shambles of his hairdo. Maybe my younger and much, much slower brother.

He startled me. "Twenty for a hummer or fifty for the proper job." The kid peered in the back seat. "And one at a time. I don't do that kinky muck."

I startled. "Tommy?" It was the voice I recognised; the face had changed a lot.

"Do I know you?" Tommy said. "I don't usually forget a face. Maybe if I saw your John Thomas, I'd remember. Or Sir Edward Elgar here." He tapped my wallet through my jacket. "I remember him right well too."

Maybe if pigs flew. I'd known this kid back since he was, well, a kid. I did some work for his dad -- Charlie Two-Twenty -- about fifteen years ago, until I realised what a well sodding prat he was, then I got as far away from him and his crooked operations as I could. I'd always liked the kid though. You can't help who you're born to. I'd heard his Mum had died a while back. They were close as toast and jam. Tommy'd said she named him for the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen: an old photograph of a ballet dancer stretched out and holding a ballerina high above his head. Looking at that photograph made her happy, she'd told him. It was the next happiest thing to the day that he'd been born.

"Turkish?" He scrutinised my face, then his smile lit up the same as that of the kid I used to know. "I remember you. You used to buy me ices and lollies."

"Right."

"It still won't get you a discount. Especially not with the size of him. " He gave a nod to Willy. "If he's that big all over, there'll be a surcharge."

"It's not about that." I didn't mean to sound so stroppy. It's not like he was my kid or that it was any of my business what he did these days. Still, I couldn't help but remember the afternoons of street football and trips to the parks. It didn't seem right, if you know what I mean.

"What's your dad into now?" Not that I gave a rat's ass about the duff piece of shite, but since the topics of conversation had been my pecker, or what goes into Tommy's mouth these days, anything else would be a step up.

Tommy face clouded. "Bollocks if I know. You could check with Belmarsh. He's been a guest of Her Majesty for on two years."

"I'm sorry." I wasn't.

"I'm not."

"That it wasn't sooner."

"Might have changed some things." Tommy looked down at his shoes.

I didn't want to think about that too much. I'd seen what Charlie had done to some of the people who didn't cause him any trouble, and trouble had been one thing Tommy had excelled at.

"Get in the car," I said.

His face grew wary. "Why?"

"Because it's better than standing in the rain."

He did.

"I've got a job for you. We're going to see a lady."

"No discounts, no three-ways," he repeated.

I rolled my eyes. "We're going to see a lady about a building. I'm going to lease it, and you're going to go with me to be my brother."

"Why's that?"

"Because she's looking for the Larkin family, and all I've got is Mad Fist here, who talks to Martians."

Tommy shrugged. "I get paid?"

"Twenty quid. Fifty if we pull it off."

"What do I have to do?"

"Nothing," I said. "Or at least as little as possible. Just don't mention your current line of work...or aliens either." I added the afterthought.

"Is she one of those up-tight birds?"

"She's working with the aliens." Willy leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

Tommy nodded and buckled his seat belt. It disturbed me that he considered that an answer.

I put the car in gear. "Tommy, meet Mad Fist Willy. Willy, Tommy."

Willy quit chewing his own skin long enough to shake hands, then went back to it.

"Is he potty?" Tommy asked as we pulled away from the kerb.

"No, he's just got that Yorkshire sense of humour: always joking. Why would you think that?"

"The name 'Mad Fist.' I thought he might be..." Tommy made little loop-the-loops with his finger around his ear.

"He's a boxer. The name sells more tickets," I said. It had nothing to do with that. Actually his Christian name was Arthur, but in secondary school he'd been caught in the bathroom, fisting his own willy like there was no tomorrow. That incident was likely instrumental by necessity in making him the fighter he'd became, so there was a certain...symmetry in pinching it as his boxing handle as well.

"Right," said Tommy. "That makes perfect sense. Good to meet you, Willy."

"Likewise." Mad Fist checked his wrist. "And the Martians like you too."

Isn't it nice when people can all be friends?


Mrs. F. for Fitzroy Kirkpatrick showed us into her parlour. She sat erect, folded her hands atop her lap and crossed her ankles correctly. A bulldog in a ridiculous powder-blue bow trotted over and wheezed its way up and onto her lap.

"What is it you -- and your father, is it? -- are planning to do with my building?" she asked. If her stringy accent couldn't be anymore posh if she were taking tea and in the Palace Garden.

"Older brother," I said. "And we're starting up an import company."

"Lovely! My late husband, Fitzroy, ran a grocery from that building for many happy years with our two sons." She nodded to an oversized oil portrait of three of the prissiest looking duffers I'd seen outside of Whitehall.

I nodded. "Very nice."

"What is it you plan to import?" Her tongue tip-toed over every vowel.

"Coffee," I said. "The market is prime for it."

"That's so... American, isn't it?" Mrs F. for Fitzroy Kirkpatick petted her dog, giving care to one set of perfectly manicured nails.

"I was thinking more of tea," said Tommy.

Her face brightened. "Now tea is a proper English drink."

Last I heard, there wasn't single tea plant in all of England -- nor coffee in America, for that matter -- but I held my tongue.

"You seem like a nice young man," she said to Tommy. "When would you like to take occupancy?"

"Today, if that's not inconvenient. I have the deposit here." I pulled my wallet from my jacket.

"Lovely!" She still spoke to Tommy. "All the sooner to start bringing in lovely tea. Since that's settled, would you and your father like a cuppa?"

Brother. "No thank you," said I.

"Yes please." Tommy piped up at the same time. I elbowed him in the ribs. We had better things to do.

"My late husband always had a cuppa right around this time of day." The bulldog stared me down.

"Yes, please. That would be lovely," I said. My afternoon was withering away before my eyes.

"Can I pet your dog?" Tommy asked. "Nice doggie. I love dogs."

"This is splendid!" She beamed at Tommy. "Perhaps we can work out something even a bit better on the rent."


"So where am I staying?" Tommy looked around.

"You're not; that was just an act, remember?" I chose small words and spoke them slowly. If this is what state schooling has left us with, we need all put another penny on the governor. "You're taking your fifty quid, and clearing out. I'll drop you home. Where's that?"

Tommy shrugged. "That corner where you found me is as good as any."

You try getting a good night's sleep with that on your conscience. I'd babysat this kid while his father nicked cars and electronics for better criminals too smart to do it for themselves. And it wasn't like I'd be using the place for a few days.

"You can sleep here if you clean it up and keep an eye on it. Security like."

Mad Fist laughed. Tommy was likely not quite the size of one of his legs.

"I can do it." It was the same little petulant sound I remembered from fifteen years ago.

Tommy looked to me. I looked over at Willy. Willy looked to his wrist. "Alright."

I guess that made it unanimous.

Two days later the place was spotless; there were even curtains on the windows. Codfish moved the slot machines in, and the whole thing went off without a hitch. Mad Fist said he liked Tommy (we hadn't heard much from the aliens since he'd been on those suppositories) and that I should let him run the place.

I did, and blow me if it didn't take off with a bang. In three months we broke even. In six, we were sitting cosy, even splitting it fifty-fifty with Tommy, who -- to be fair -- was doing most of the work. I'd picked up two new fighters and life was looking hunky-dory. I'd rather run out of air freshener before the World Bean Eating Championship than tell Mad Fist, but I had to thank his aliens for throwing Tommy into my lap.

Maybe it would have stayed just that way if I hadn't stepped in a puddle on my way out to tea one day. My trodders were wet and cold, so instead of staying in the pub like I'd told him I would, I stopped by a chippie for take-away instead and hurried back. That put me at the caravan just in time to catch Tommy buggering some nancy boy in my own ruddy bed.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" Stupid question really. I could see everything that they were doing; I'd seen much better before -- in this bed even -- but it wasn't exactly a situation designed to stimulate varied and educational multi-party discourse.

"Tommy, you can't do that here!"

"Why don't you pull that branding iron out of your arse?" Tommy rolled off lazily and sat up. He pulled the sheet part way over his lap, but not nearly far enough for my comfort. Not that I wanted my eyes roaming down there, but it was little hard to miss. I had to wonder if he'd had anything implanted by aliens.

I don't suppose I'd looked at him -- really looked at him -- since that first day bundled up in the rain. In my mind, Tommy had been the same eight-year old I knew back then, but other parts of me were rapidly reassessing the situation.

Tommy was fucking beautiful.

"I'm not working; I told you, I'm off the trade. Alan here's my mate."

"Hullo." An anaemic looking naked swish with one blue eye and one green held out his hand.

Actually, he looked more like his tart than his mate. He had to have more make-up than Mark's and Spencer's, but what's it to me who Tommy goes for?

Still, Tommy could do so much better.

"I don't care if he's your fairy godfather, you can't be doing this here. Pack it out!"

"Just because I'm having some fun when there's been less action in your trousers than in the House of Lords, doesn't mean you have to go get in a nark."

The tart giggled of all things.

"What I do's got nothing to do with you," Tommy added.

"Yes, Tommy, yes it does. I'm an unlicensed boxing promoter. Do you have any idea what the likes of Brick Top would do, if they were to get the slightest idea they're dealing with a couple of flowers? People will see you and your little cupcakes going in and out. Unless you like the idea of becoming tea-cakes for a pack of pigs, keep your little poofs away from here."

The caravan turned silent.

"You'd better go." Tommy tossed his head toward the door and wrapped the sheet around himself a little more fully.

The tart pulled on his clothes. "Give us a kiss."

Tommy didn't.

"Shall I ring you?"

"Free country," said Tommy. Funny how the mention of a few hypothetical pigs could spoil a romantic mood.

"Right, love. Later then." Alan sashayed through the curtain between the bed and the rest of the caravan. We followed him to the door, and I locked it closed behind him.

Tommy sat at the table, hands in his lap, looking down at his nails. "So, are you going to throw me out?"

"Of course not." I sat down at the table, a bit cheesed that he would even ask. Hadn't I been there for him all these months? "We're partners. You've just got to be more...discreet."

"Like you?"

This wasn't where I wanted the conversation to go, but he was my partner. I owed him the truth -- or at least the absence of a lie. "Yeah. Like me, say."

His eyes met mine in understanding: like minds, like thoughts. I let my eyes appreciate his body; he let the sheet drop -- on purpose, I think.

I was rapidly growing uncomfortable -- in more ways than just discussing my sodding feelings.

He turned his rear to me, and bugger me if he wasn't more gorgeous from the back than from the front. I readjusted my trousers -- fat lot of good it did me -- and set my mind to recite Gorgeous George's statistics for his last twenty fights.

He paced to the caravan window. "My father did, you know."

"Pardon?" Knocked out Ferris Wheel McCollagh in the eighth at Surry... George's stats rolled by mechanically, but all I could think of was how sweet it would be to run my tongue plum up Tommy's luscious ass and make him scream like a bleeding banshee.

"My father did," Tommy repeated softly. "Threw me out when I was sixteen. He said he didn't want a fairy bum plumber under his roof."

"I'm not your father," I said. Thank God, considering what I really wanted to do is throw him down to the ground and have him a dozen ways from Sunday, and that didn't seem to be a very parental state of mind.

"He said it was my mother's fault, naming me after a poof dancer. He blamed her as much as me. I think that's why he -- " Tommy shook his head.

I'd seen bits of what Two-Twenty had done to his mum. There aren't enough doors in Buckingham Palace to walk into as many as she claimed. Tommy'd seemed to fall off of his bicycle a fat lot more than most kids his age as well. I fancied there was more to the story. Maybe I'd ask him later; right now his wanker of a sperm donor was the last thing I wanted to discuss.

"Tommy, I hate to speak ill of the incarcerated, but your father was a piece of rat shit who was pissed whenever he wasn't too broke to afford it, and too stupid to even be a worthless arse without getting pinched. I wouldn't go putting my total trust and faith in any pearls of wisdom that might have fallen from his lips.

"You're a beautiful man; you've been aces as a partner. I'm sorry I got wound up. I don't care what you do in private... I mean I do care, but -- " It seemed wiser at this moment to let the sentence drop.

"You fancy me?" Tommy spun from the window and stared like a fish just flew out my ear and started singing God Save the Queen. "Are you saying you fancy me?"

Fuck me. I'm sitting here with Cleopatra's needle sticking so far up in my trousers that it's likely to poke me in my own eye, and he's asking if I fancy him.

"No, Tommy. I thought I'd just keep you around in case I need any rockets built."

"You do fancy me." He turned in wonder and came to stand beside me. It was a tight fit, him, my stonker, and me all gathered up there together in a little threesome. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Because it's not right," I said. "I knew you when you were -- "

I don't think I'd ever seen it before or after, but sod it if Tommy didn't explode right on the spot.

"Don't tell me it 'isn't right'! Turkish, you're the only good thing that has happened to me since my mum passed. You're the only reason I've got a decent life and some reason to get out of bed everyday. So tell me you don't care for me that way, or that I'm too dim, or too weak or that you just don't mix business and pleasure, but don't fucking tell me it isn't right what I feel for you. If this isn't right, what the fuck is?"

For a horrible moment, I thought he was going to cry, but he slapped the table with his palm so hard that my package of take-away bounced up and onto the floor; then he stormed off back to the bed. If it were physically possible to slam a curtain, the noise would have blown my bloody eardrums.

I picked up my lunch and unwrapped it: fish, chips and mushy peas -- problem being that the chips were now a damned sight mushier than the peas. I stuffed one in my mouth. They were as cold as they were limp.

I sighed, and carried the paper though the curtain. "Want some?" I held the package out as a peace offering.

Tommy looked. "The chips are mushier than the peas."

"Can't always have everything the way you want," I said. I sat down beside him on the bed.

He broke off a piece of fish. "It's cold."

"I know."

"I'm not hungry."

"Me either." I put the paper aside.

A light rain drummed down on the caravan roof. I tried to let it distract me from the eight inches that barely separated me from Tommy's naked body and from the eight inches that barely fit in my pants. I was decidedly unsuccessful.

"So, what do you want to do now?" Tommy asked.

What do I want to do? What a fucking question. What I want to do is bend him over and stick my tongue up his arsehole so far that we can French kiss. I want to lie stark naked on my back and suck his Jacobs whilst he squats over me and pumps cream all over my face. I want him to stick it into me against the wall until I'm up against it tighter than wallpaper, with a thick layer of paste spreading in between. I want to suck every square inch of his body until my lips are raw, then grease them up with Vaseline and start all over again.

I want to tell him how much I want all these things, but that's not the way I am.

"I don't know, Tommy." I shook my head.

"Don't you?" he asked. He looked at the bulge in my trousers -- by now a blind man could see it with a cane -- and ran his hand over it.

I shivered.

"We're partners anyway," he said as he stroked me through my trousers. "It doesn't matter if they see us together, right? I mean, we're in here all the time anyway -- doing whatever it is partners do. Why should anyone think and different now?"

"I don't know, Tommy." Not my most brilliant rejoinder ever, but with what all his hand was doing to my stonker, I was proud of myself for being able to speak or even think.

"If you don't, then I do." Tommy leaned over and kissed me -- or at least he tried to. It's even odds that I beat him to it and kissed him first. Either way, we fell together on the bed.

His hands were all over me in a second. "Take these off," he said, tugging at my shirt. I started on my buttons, but left the job half done. When I saw his beautiful knob stuck up straight, aimed at me, and begging to be polished, I had to have it against me now.

I peeled my trousers and my pants off and pressed us together: todger to todger and balls to balls. I hadn't meant to let it go so far so fast, but feeling him against me -- his warmth, his scent, his skin -- I couldn't help but move against him, rough and quick.

"Turkish, I want you so much." He licked tongue fucked my ear around each word. "Touch me, please." He sucked my whole ear into his mouth.

A gentleman should not have to be asked twice. I grabbed his stonker and wanked it for all I was worth.

Tommy fell apart, twisting and squirming on the bed. I thought I had seen it at its limit, but his stonker swelled even more in my hand. One more minute and I swore the thing would burst apart at the seams. I couldn't let that happen, so I went down on it and wrapped it in my mouth.

"Oh, God, Turkish!" He grabbed at my head and I tasted a hint of spunk around the hole. Fuck no, I wasn't going to let him get off this easily. I pulled off and went to kissing him again. I took both of our sticks into my hand and stroked them firmly so as to feel wonderful, but slowly so as not to feel nearly wonderful enough.

It worked on Tommy; I had him right where I wanted him, but it worked on me as well. I'm not the kind to beg, never have been -- but I was on fire and it had been so bleeding long. "Fuck me." The words spilled out of me before my pride could argue. Hearing them come from my own mouth fired me up all the more. I broke away from him and rolled over on my belly, barely restraining myself from fucking the mattress like some rutting dog.

"What's wrong?" asked Tommy. He reached down to check his rod.

"What do you mean, 'what's wrong?'" I couldn't stand it. I grabbed my dick. I wanted him so badly.

"You said 'fuck me.'" He stopped and looked at me, puzzled.

Funny, it didn't sound nearly as hot the way he said it. I let go of my dick, which was also losing a little interest in this new turn of events. "I know what I said. You don't have to make a public service announcement."

"So what's wrong then? Something I did?" He seemed genuinely concerned.

Tommy. I sighed. Sometimes I don't think he'd collected all his belongings before disembarking the brain train. I tried for patience, which wasn't easy under the circumstances. "No, I mean, I want you to fuck me."

"Proper fuck? You mean it?"

"No Tommy, I'm lying here waving my sodding ass in the air in hopes of flagging down passing aircraft!"

"Well you don't have to get all knotted up about it."

"Knotted up? Tommy, I've got a wad the size of the Concorde up inside me travelling at Mach 2 and looking for a landing strip. Maybe you had your little rumpy-pumpy for the day and it's all well and good for you, but I'm in a bit of a jam here." I rolled over to display the evidence.

Tommy gaped. "That's all for me?" He couldn't take his eyes off my crotch.

I tried to produce some appropriately witty repartee, but nothing came to mind except how badly I needed to blow this load. And how bloody much I wanted it to be with him. "Yeah, Tommy, it's all for you."

He groaned and fell face first onto my prick.

He was so hot and tight and wet and good that I almost gave it up right there, but I held on. I wanted that beautiful knob of his to work it out of me from behind.

"Fuck, Tommy, put me out of me misery here. There's rubber Johnnys in a sac in there." I pointed to the drawer.

He pulled away and rummaged around "Got it." I heard the package rip and I throbbed harder than a sonic boom imagining what would come next.

I flipped over and stuffed the pillow under me; I laid my chest and face down to the bed and spread my hips a little wider apart.

I could barely breathe with my face down in the bedding -- which, when you think of it is probably half the fun. I grabbed my willy and stroked it slowly, promising it that was only an appetiser for things to come. "Tommy -- "

"Hold tight,' he said. "Almost there."

Something decidedly unnatural slid into my bum.

"What's that?" I asked, pushing into it.

"A suppository. It's supposed to relax you and make it feel better." Tommy leaned over and started to eat me out.

Relaxed wouldn't have been the word I chose to describe it. I had a nuclear reactor inside me, ready to blow at any moment. I guessed he had about thirty seconds to do me properly before I blew juice just from the tongue fucking alone.

I felt the suppository begin to melt. Not that it's the most hygienic act in the world to start with, but I had to wonder: that couldn't be healthy, could it?

"What's in it?" I gasped.

"Me tongue, Turkish."

My eyes rolled. "No, the suppository: what's in it?"

"I don't know, but it's not dodgy. It came from a proper doctor. I got it out of Mad Fist's supply there."

"Fuck me!" I pushed him off, rolled over, and stared. "Tommy, you can't put that inside me! Who knows what it'll do? It was prescribed for a man twice my size, who has heartfelt discourses with little green men. Take it back!"

"And just how am I supposed to do that? They're only meant to go one way."

"That's your sodding problem. Get it out of me! Now!"

Tommy plunged in with one hand and blow me if it didn't feel like the entire Bolshoi Ballet was rehearsing inside my bum. The suppository had melted, I guess, or Tommy had found some other slick, for his fingers slipped and slid willy-nilly inside my arse.

"God!" My knees gave way, and I fell face forward into the pillow. It filled my mouth and nose so that all I could breathe was cloth. I thrashed to the side and tried for air but his hand rammed up my arsehole had me nailed pretty much straight down into to the bed. I grew dizzy and my vision started to tunnel down. I tried to hold back long enough to find my todger and give it some yanks, but bollocks if he didn't mash his fingers into my gland just then and I blew harder than the Archangel Gabriel ever would.

"Did you get it?" I asked when the room finally stopped pitching about.

"Get what?" asked Tommy.

Fortunately for him, I was too knackered to murder him at the moment, so I just held him close against me. It felt good, really good, somewhere inside me in a way I had almost forgotten about. Then he twisted and started doing something to me with his lips and tongue, and that felt good in an entirely different way.

I don't know if it is physically possible to lick another human being clean, but Tommy was giving it an Olympic level try.

My stonker was just getting ready to make a comeback in the second round, when there was a sod awful ruckus from the alley. The caravan door was pulled open -- plum out of the frame, to be precise -- and clattered to the ground. Mad Fist rushed in. I jumped up and wrapped the sheet about myself, leaving Tommy starkers, oddly enough in well about the same position I had found him an hour or so ago.

It didn't much matter, as Mad Fist wasn't looking our way. He shot straight to the window and hunkered down behind the table, his eyes darting first one way then the next.

I didn't see a ruddy thing out of the ordinary -- unless you count an eighteen stone boxer off of his trolley and a caravan door off of its hinges. "Willy, what are you looking at?" Wait, I thought I knew this one. "Aliens?"

"Don't be stupid," Mad Fist hissed. His voice was low and tight. "There's no such bleeding thing as aliens. It's the Germans! They've taken the high ground on both sides. They have us pinned down. Stay low and keep quiet; it's our only chance."

Sighing, I rummaged through the medication drawer. I found the paracetamol for me which was a ripping start. "Tommy, those suppositories: give them back to Mad Fist. All of them. Now!"

I picked up my clothes, hopped back into my trousers and assessed the situation. One up the bum the doc had said? With a sigh, I flexed my fingers. A manager's work is never done.