Archive of Our Own

It is actually adorable to see the boy—clearly it’s his first time, with his friend laughing in the background, a mouth slicked in red, red lipstick and full of wide, bright teeth—as he shuffles in his seat closer and closer to the stage.  Bond’s not sure he even knows he’s doing it, but those downy cheeks will be touching the edges of the dais soon if no one pulls him back.  The stage lights are hot; the boy’s skin is sunburn pink with their ambient glow, eyes wide and virginal and huge as if he’s never seen a man get his kit off before.  Bond’s been watching him for a few sets now, mostly because the men who come in on ladies’ night tend to be homophobic arseholes, not scrawny little twinks who look like all their Christmases and birthdays have come at once.  He imagines if he could pull the little thing from where he’s almost humping the stage, curled like a prawn and expression nearly fucked-out, he’d find him hard, perhaps a damp spot on his trousers.  

The boy’s not touching himself—not like the bolder ladies in the back who think eye contact makes them more desirable, not like the disgusting men he sees on the nights he’s bartending and the girls are on the stage, those men open and leering and miniscule pink worms in their fists until Bond has the pleasure of kicking them out.  M doesn’t have a no-wanking policy, neither of them do—Mallory on the floor when it’s just the gents on the stage and Mansfield when her girls are up—but they’re practical people, and as long as the customer’s paid their cover charge, bought a drink, and enjoyed at least one show, there’s no scolding if Bond wants to chuck someone out for forcing others to look at his cock.  No one’s here for a show in the audience, after all, though Bond looks at the boy and wonders if they would be if they had the same show he’s getting.

“Can I fetch you something to drink?” Bond asks, pitching his voice low so as not to disturb Jack on the stage.  The boy startles, flustered, and Bond gets a good, long look at the frustrated erection the boy’s sporting before he remembers himself, tugs his jumper—a jumper!  The youngest one in the room, and he’s dressed like someone’s granddad—over his lap, blushing miserably.  Bond’s got a set coming up soon, but there’s time for this; he lets a sigh of suggestion slip into his smile and leans closer.  “You look a bit peaky, love.”

“Water!” the boy squeaks, and from the corner of Bond’s eye he can see the boy’s friend watching them from the corner of her eye, a laugh tucked in at the edges of her mouth.  If the boy weren’t here, she’d be the one he’d be focusing on—he’d probably gather that lush mouth into kisses, draw her thighs up around his ears in the back-back rooms because, after all, there’s no sex in the champagne room, and he’d want to hear her scream—but.  But the boy is here, hot and hungry, eyes glazed and lips parted and Bond could kiss him now, knows he could, and the boy would push away, mortified, would go home full of self-doubt and recrimination and never come back, so Bond stands back, smiles.

“Water it is, then.”

The look Tanner gives him when he sidles up to the bar couldn’t quite turn his bollocks inside out—perhaps it could merely manage a titty-twister, something painful and silly to go with the wry, dirty smile on his face as he polishes a martini glass.  It’s that time of night when the crowd has fallen into the magic on the stage; only the most desperate of drunks and the wildest cackling hens are still ordering from the bar, so Tanner’s free to watch as Jack shakes it to the synthetic beat, boxers vanishing to reveal the tiniest, slenderest g-string Bond’s ever seen to the whoops and hollers of the crowd.  Tanner’s smile twitches when a very drunk girl—and she has to be very drunk, because she looks like some office somewhere is looking for its photocopy girl, all mousy and small and forgettably sweet—starts to shove a tenner—Bond can see it from here—into Jack’s elaborate-string-contraption-masquerading-as-pants.  At the last minute, her courage fails her; she places it gingerly into his hand and gawps when he returns with a kiss on her cheek, easing the bill into the cup of fabric around his package until it crinkles, the shape of it obscuring the line of his cock until his cut head looks uncircumcised, then bland, featureless, and smooth.

“A water for my boy,” Bond tells Tanner, grinning.

“Bit young.”

“‘S why I’m not sending him a whisky,” Bond agrees.

“On your tab then, is it?  That’ll be forty-five pounds,” Tanner says smoothly, sliding over the chilled glass.  Condensation is already forming on it in the steamy room.  “You’ve a set soon.  Shouldn’t you be getting ready instead of chatting up the kids?”

“I am getting ready,” Bond says with a laugh and a rude fondle.  “He’s hot.”

“Don’t come on stage, James,” Tanner warns, leaning to the side so Bond can steal a lime from behind the bar.  Bond sucks at the lime thoughtfully for a moment, the juice of it sharp and sour, before dropping it into the water.  Tanner makes a face.  “Not again.  We’re not that kind of show.”

“Can’t help it if he gets me off.”  He knows Tanner is making a face at his back when he strolls back to the table, easing the glass onto the boy’s paper coaster before dropping to kneel beside him.

“You’re a pretty, shy one, aren’t you?” he asks, unable to fight back a grin as the boy’s clever fingers fish out the lime and he wraps his red mouth around it, sucking.

“We can’t all take our clothes off for dosh,” the boy replies tartly, and oh, Bond knows he’s picked a winner.

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” Bond says, adding just enough of a purr into his voice to let the boy know he’s not talking about his words.

“Most people do.”

“Most people don’t have one that looks like it’s built for wrapping around a cock.”

The boy pins him with a baleful stare; he’s squirming, aroused, and Bond could laugh at the indignant twist of his lips when he frowns.  “Are you here to bother me all night?  I paid to see—” he fumbles, obviously trying to remember.

“—Jack,” Bond offers, tipping his head at the stage where Jack’s bending over slowly, the stretch of his pants not more than a suggestion over his hole.  The boy blanches, lips moving vaguely, and Bond has to actually bite his lip to keep from laughing at the poleaxed look of lust that steals over the boy’s face.  “He looks nearly edible, doesn’t he?” he murmurs, and the boy’s concentration snaps back to him.  It’s strangely satisfying.

“I paid to see Jack’s cock, not to be hit on by the waitstaff,” the boy snaps, but the force of it is lost as he gazes at Bond’s mouth, perhaps imagining it between Jack’s spread legs or between his own.

“I need a name to put on your tab,” Bond tells him, even though he knows this boy won’t pay for a damned thing he wants tonight if Bond has his way; if he could sneak his cover fee back into his pocket without M—the both of them—murdering him when they found out, he’d do it just to see him again.

“Q,” the boy says.

“Short for—?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“That would be why I asked.”

“There must be other thirsty people in this bar, Mr.—?”

Ah.  He’s subtle, Bond will give him that.  He is careful, leans in until he knows for a fact that his breath is hot on Q’s ear, that the wind of it is tickling at those lovely curls and that Q is imagining all the things Bond could do to that delicate shell of pink skin with his lips and teeth.  “Bond,” he tells him softly, voice pitched so no one but Q can hear him, “James Bond.”

“Mr. Bond,” Q repeats, voice breathy, and Bond’s about to make his move when he notices Jack’s wrapping it up, sliding easily into the pole routine that usually finishes his set.  Jack has great gams, and this set takes full advantage of that; it also means Bond’s got perhaps two, three minutes to get into his gear.

“Hold that thought,” Bond says, letting his lip twitch at Q’s indignant huff.  “I have something to do, but I’ll be right back.”

“Bring more limes,” Q orders, and Bond grins.

“As you wish.  After.”

As he’s rushing into his outfit, Bond regrets for the first time that he’s ever said anything against the tearaway clothes the other gents prefer.  Normally he’s all for slow, easy reveals, shimmering erotic for their realness, but as he jumps and wriggles into the bespoke trousers with his cock hard and heavy for his new friend, he finds himself wishing he were a sequins-and-velcro kind of guy.  He gets his socks up and toes on his shoes just as Jack pushes past the curtain clutching his clothes to his chest.  Jack gives him a saucy grin.

“He’s cute.”

“Hands off.  Don’t think I won’t get down off the stage in the middle of a show,” Bond threatens.

“Oh, you’d come at me with your cock out and swinging if I made a move, I know,” Jack agrees.  “He’s still cute.”

“He’s still mine,” Bond says.  “I saw him first.”

“He looks like he’s about to pop off like a cork,” Jack tells him wistfully, and Bond’s grin goes dark, filthy with promise.

“That’s what I’m looking for.”

The thing about Bond’s set that’s striking is its realism—it feels like a lover undressing for his audience.  The music’s purring, almost the sound of a party in the other room, as he strolls onto the stage; his shoes go first as he literally walks straight out of them, leaving them where they lie.  He pauses, makes a show of slipping off the magnetic cufflinks to drop them into the heel of one as he passes, and then.

Bond wears the most layers of any of the dancers; he also wears them the least amount of time.  He lets himself tip his head, finding and feeling the faint thread of the music as it begins to swell, a grinding bass that he can feel slipping beneath his clothes with clever fingers—and he can imagine clever fingers.  First to go is the jacket, the satin shawl collar catching the light as he drops it to the stage almost distastefully.  There’s a dancer for any type a woman could want, and he knows he’s got them eating out of his elegant, tuxedoed hand.

They always love the waistcoat.  He’s had people request private dances, nothing but the waistcoat and a smile, and he knows how the shape of it nips in his waist and highlights the fit of his trousers, pressed against his arse.  He hasn’t turned yet, hasn’t shown them the payoff as he continues undressing as if alone, but when the waistcoat drops over his elbows and he spins—

Delighted gasping.  It’s obscene and he knows it, can hardly resist the temptation to reach down to the straining placket of his trousers and give it a little squeeze.  The waistcoat hits the floor at the same time he hits his knees, and he knows what a picture he makes, the smooth line of him broken by the jutting heft of his cock between his thighs, fierce and assertive.  There’s nothing coy about the way his hands slide down his body, the way he rocks into the pressure; he doubts there’s any question—not his religion or his disdain for wearing pants or the fact that he dresses to the right—left anywhere in the room.  Even the cheap seats can see him leaking, soaking dribs of interest through his lovely dark trousers.  There’s something appealing about ruining a nice pair of trousers—even if he knows this pair is actually machine washable, he knows it doesn’t ruin the illusion that he’s so hot for them he’d mess his beautiful clothes.

When he rolls to his feet, fully moving now, fingers light and easy over his buttons, he spares a glance for the boy in the front row.  He shouldn’t have.  His fingers stumble, right themselves, and he drags his eyes from the sight of Q with his hand in his lap, arm still but lip between his teeth, expression pained.  He lets his eyes drift closed as he traces his own chest through his vest and the Q behind his lids moans, cherry lips falling open wide and eager; Bond has to pry his eyes open again, dropping the shirt to the ground though the bowtie still hangs from his neck, limp and wrinkled.  The vest comes off in one smooth pull and Bond groans, ready to dig into his trousers even though it’s not time.

Bond’s not one for the theatrics of presenting, showing off his arse for the crowd to ogle, but even he knows the things these trousers do for him.  He bends, removing one sock and then the other.  The foot fetishists always like this part, when he stretches his toes and flexes the arch of his foot as if to test the strength of it, but it causes the fabric to mould around his arse, too, cupping it and gently, reverently defining it; the howls behind him are reaching a fevered pitch and he’s only halfway through the show.  He makes a point of groaning as he stands back up, his hands busy—arms exaggerated so no one can wonder what he’s doing—and when he turns back to the crowd with the first button of his flies open, golden curls of pubic hair in the frame of dark cotton, they lose their minds.  

Jack can wear his string confection, but it’s a matter of shyness—M’s is a full-frontal bar, tits and lips on the girls and everything out for the guys, and Bond’s never seen the point of fucking around with extra layers when—as Q’s said before—the audience is here to see cock.  He pops another button and slips his fingers into the vee to free himself, coaxing his cock up and out into the room.  This is always the part that’s the most daunting—whether or not he can stay hard with so many eyes on him, whether or not he can maintain the fantasy—but there’s no fear today as he hears Q make a high, desperate sound even over the din of the crowd.  Q’s friend is laughing he spares her a stern look—she has the good grace to look contrite, though Q buries his face in the hand that’s not currently clenched around his own bollocks—and Bond eases his trousers down to puddle in the floor.  And even though Tanner’s always reminding him that they’re not that kind of show—though Mansfield has threatened to take his cock off with a cigar nipper if she hears of it again—he gives himself a full, slow stroke that leaves his nerves singed and singing and the crowd screaming for blood.  He could dance, could move through the sensual floorshow that is the latter half of his set and end it with the prowling crawl into a lap that he usually finishes with, but he’s hard enough to cut glass and there’s a pretty boy in the front row who can’t even make eye contact anymore—when a humiliated, shaking hand reaches up to sneak a paper napkin back below the edge, it’s absolutely over.  He doesn’t have time to do more than cup the tip before he’s filling his palm, and fuck the rules; he plays it off somehow, leaves his clothes on the stage and disappears into the darkness behind the curtain to find a dressing gown, legs still jellied and weak with the results of just watching.

“Good show,” Raoul sneers as he passes, and Tanner’s on his way back; Bond shoves by to collapse onto the couch because if he’s going to be told off for being a slag, he may as well be comfortable for it.

“You should piss now,” Tanner tells him instead.

“Sorry?”

“After coming.  Clears out the ducts, prevents UTIs,” Tanner clarifies.  It takes Bond a moment to catch up, but when he does, he blinks at Tanner, incredulous.  “Must be pretty cute to justify spending fifty pounds on a glass of water,” Tanner says carefully.

“And limes,” Bond adds.  “I need to go—”

“—piss, yeah.”

It’s only a little bit dodgy to walk in on the boy standing in the middle of the toilets with his trousers off, scrubbing at the stain from the inside with a mottled red blush across his face.  “Come to make fun?” he asks, voice sharp.

“Because I have a right to make fun of you when watching you come off in your trousers untouched made me come on stage and end my set early,” Bond replies easily.  He turns his back to have his piss, and when he turns around, Q is watching him with shrewd eyes.  “Did you leave before the payoff?” Bond asks, rankled.

“I didn’t feel like sitting there in a pool of my own gyzym while Eve laughed at me.”

“Gyzym!  Are you a punk teen from the 1950s?” Bond laughs, but Q bites his lip, retreating.  Remorse hits Bond hard.  “Christ, I came just from watching you.  You’ve honestly no idea how hot you are, do you?”

“I know that I’m attractive,” Q tells him primly, but hot spots of pink are blooming on his cheeks.

“Do you know what I’d do to taste what you’re wiping out of your pants right now?”  Bond’s heat seems to surprise him; Q freezes, pulling his trousers close as if they can hide his bared legs when he’s not in them.

“I—”

“If I could get my mouth around you, that would be it.  You’d have to resign yourself to me sucking your cock for the rest of your life.”

“With breaks for brushing your teeth?” Q posits, his lips quirking into a playful smile.  

“With breaks for brushing my teeth,” Bond concedes.

“And fucking,” Q adds, eyes going dark.  “I couldn’t live without fucking.  Blowjobs are nice and all, but,” his eyes flick to the front of Bond’s dressing gown where Bond’s cock is growing interested in the conversation, “I do love a good dicking.”

“You’re not even real,” Bond groans, surging forward to capture Q’s mouth with his own.  Q is squirmy against him, already hard with the eagerness of youth and the refractory period to match.  He lets Q rub against him, dragging his whole body against Bond’s as if it’s not just cocks and mouths but somehow shoulders and elbows and thighs that will get him off, writhing and wriggling against Bond’s front until Bond stills him with a hand.  There are necessaries on the counter—although everything about this moment is going to get Bond fired, no one holds any illusion as to what the customers get up to in here—and he has Q bent over the sink in a trice, fingers slick on his inner thigh before Q knows just what has happened.  He’s making little gasping sounds like a landed fish, thrusting hard against the enamel as if trying to work his pants down with the thumbs that are caught between his body and the sink.  “God, you want it so bad, don’t you?”

Q’s groan is deep as Bond tugs down his pants with one hand and sinks in with his thumb, the heat of him visceral and thick as he opens him up.  There’s a wet, squelching sound as Bond eases a twist of lubricating jelly over the tight furl of his arse and pushes it in, fascinated.  Q’s body is so welcoming, his hole clenching gentle kisses at the base of Bond’s thumb; he cries out when Bond rotates his wrist and curls his thumb to stroke the rim in sweet, teasing pulls, and each sound goes directly to Bond’s cock.

“Do you want me to finger you open?” Bond asks reluctantly.  As much as he’d love to take his time, now’s not that day, not when he’s still oversensitive from his performance and ready.  Q drops his head between his shoulders, shaking “no”, and in the mirror Bond watches his own smile go feral.  He tangles his fingers in Q’s hair, drags his head back until the fine line of his throat is arched and bobbing.  “Watch, then.  The mirror.”

Q’s eyes are reflected all pupil in the glass as Bond eases on the condom, slicks it perfunctorily.  It’s going to stick—there’s no way Q’s body is ready for this, not with an arse that tight and only a thumb and a sachet of lube to prepare him—and Q’s mouth falls open as Bond presses in slow and firm.  He’s making needy sounds, hitching his hips back for more than he can take just yet; it takes all of Bond’s willpower not to fuck into him hard, not to give him all the things his body wants that he can’t quite handle.  “Slow,” he murmurs into Q’s shoulder.  “Slow, darling, slow.”

Q whines, and Bond has to catch his hips to restrain him.  “I want it.”

“God.”  It’s clear Q means to have it, that he’ll take what he wants before he ought, and that kind of hunger is honestly the most flattering, most arousing— “Relax, then, for me, darling.  Relax, relax and let me in.”  He cups Q’s hips, guides him back and open from the eager little hunch he’s in until he’s resting his weight on his elbows; when Bond pulls back and pushes in again, Q is looser, and the addition of another sachet of lube from the bowl makes everything just a bit wetter, just a bit easier and messier and tawdrier.  He bumps into Q and gets a throaty moan for it, seats his cock inside to the hilt and feels Q shudder, hands coming back to grip at him with shaking fingers as he spreads himself further, opens, prepares himself for a ride.  “God,” Bond grunts again, and then he thrusts.

“I knew it was going to be like this,” Q says, and of course he’d be a talker; he’s barely audible under the echo of their shattered breaths, the meaty slaps of flesh as Bond does his level best to fuck Q through the sink, but his words are clear, precise and crisp in an accent so posh it has to be fake saying words so filthy he hopes that it’s real.  “The minute I saw that fat cock—that lovely beast—the minute I saw it—!”  The sound that squeaks out of him sounds like joy, high and tight in his throat as Bond fucks into him harder.

“Tell me,” Bond says into his ear.  Q is quiet for a moment, unable to speak for the squeaking cries of bliss that crowd out his words; Bond cups his throat and lowers his mouth until his lips are brushing at the top of Q’s ear and the change in position has Q’s pitch changing, too: dropping, going deep within his chest and guttural.  “Tell me, pretty boy.  Tell me what you knew the minute you saw my cock.”

“That I’d have it!” Q keens, jerking in his arms.  “Oh, fuck me.  I knew I was going to—I was going to follow you back behind the curtains to blow you if I had to—whatever I had to do to get my hands on it!”

“Oh.”  It’s nearly enough, just nearly— “Oh, tell me,” Bond moans desperately.  His thrusts are beginning to slip; he’s beginning to lose his care, and even though he can see the red line forming across Q’s thighs where they’re digging into the edge of the sink all he can bring himself to think of is fucking him harder, dragging more of those whining sounds from Q’s lips.

“I wanted—I want—!”  Q’s voice drops away as he shakes, the sound of come hitting the floor almost louder than the wordless sobbing pleasure that escapes him; Bond feels it in the moment he goes weak, limp as a ragdoll and buckling to rest on the sink while Bond ekes out the few thrusts more necessary to follow.  He eases Q down to the floor, both of them quivering with aftershocks, and lets out a breathless laugh.

“Good christ,” Bond manages once he’s got enough air to make sounds that are audible again.  “You’re a little incubus, aren’t you?”

“I have to apologize to Eve now,” Q says from where he’s slumped against Bond’s shoulder.  “She has all the best ideas.”