Midas Ears – part 6

“I don’t fucking care how much! In fact! I’m going right over there and demand they call police, because I will not tolerate you Nazi treating me like a slave!”

That was it. No matter how much trouble it would bring, he didn’t care – the man was sociopath and as far as he knew there was only one place suitable to such asshole – the morgue.

Rosh turned and Furqan saw his chance. Step, fist…

He felt Anton’s scent first, then his elbow crushing down his collar bones and he fell back, crashing into the coats behind him. Rosh had turned and glared at him in playful shock.

“I will kill him!” he declared, figuring he could push up on his elbows and get enough room to push the older man away. Anton wouldn’t have it and forced him back.

“Have you gone mad?” he demanded, fear obvious in his hissing voice. “Have you completely lost it?”

Furqan decided to ignore his outburst, the odd sensation that underlined his outburst. He caught his eyes, but turned his attention back on Rosh, who had circled too close again, pointing between Anton’s shoulders.

“Now you see what he is?” he squealed, “You do, right? I’m calling the police!”

“He called me Nazi! He must die for the insult!” he pleaded with Anton, trying to get free, but his hand didn’t move.

“He calls everybody racists!” he said, pushing every word with his elbow into his flesh.

“Nazi!” he corrected, but that made the Anton give so strong impulse it felt like crashing his bones.

“That too!”

Anton turned to tell Rosh off, hearing his sick mouth vomiting yet another set of vulgarities, but that was opportunity for Furqan and he immediately used it.

“A monster! Like they all are!” That was wrong thing to say. Furqan grabbed after the bastard and missed him only by nudge and that only thanks to Anton, who blocked his move.

“Furqan!” he roared, grabbing him from behind and forcing him back against the coats hanging there. “Pull yourself together!”

“I will kill him!” he didn’t even want to hear anything smoothing.

“Lock him up!” Rosh said, his fat dirty face disappearing behind his bedroom door, Rosh’ bedroom door went flying and then came long wished silence with only his mumbling echoing through. But the 2 inch thick wood played little role to take down his voice: “Or I will call rabies control!”

He would’ve gone after him, but Anton’s hand crossing his chest wasn’t moving, lying as it had landed there. The position it was under meant too much effort to free himself, so Furqan didn’t bother.

“You need to understand this…” he started, but couldn’t finish the sentence without a breath. Furqan examined his face, confused. Understand what? Anton had odd look in his eyes, troubled, like he needed to come to a decision.

Anton must be searching ways to move, he thought, and that’s what he wanted to tell him now. That he can’t cope with their arguing any longer and he has to leave. God, he hated Rosh so much!

Finally Anton’s eyes rose, sliding over his neck, his chin and up to his crooked nose. They stayed there for a while, shot up suddenly and stared his for some time not really locking on one place. Anton’s hand fell, slowly, but never leaving his body until it reached his buckle and rested on it.

Furqan waited, trying to read out whatever he could be thinking, but he was too shocked to respond.

Not getting response, Anton continued, pressing feverish kiss on the corner of his mouth. Gently, almost like a gesture that didn’t reach its destiny, but he felt it, felt its whole power crossing his lips, burning him. At the same time the hand on his buckle pushed deeper and he knew he was pass his shirt now, tightly between his jeans and bare skin.

His lips moved from the corner towards the centre of his mouth and Furqan understood he had to do something. Stop him or go with it, right now he knew he wasn’t clear on which way to take. He hadn’t noticed when he closed his eyes, but forced the eyelids open again. He stared at his friend, taking in how close he was, the smell of his skin, the aftershave, gel he put in his hair. He wanted to say he liked it, but he couldn’t. The hand moving slowly on the edge of his manhood wasn’t repulsive, but he hadn’t expected it either, complimenting the scruffy day old beard that scratched his, mingling with each other.

He raised his hands and captured Anton’s face and stopped it midway. The man opened his eyes, slowly, afraid to look at him. He was probably realizing the consequences of his actions, Furqan thought, scared instead that he might stop. He did feel the hot hand being pulled away from his jeans and he immediately imprisoned between his fingers. He cleared his mind, this wasn’t the time to think, and forced the hand back, deeper, closer to his curve. It felt good there.

Furqan tried to respond to his kiss, but the hand in his pants tensed and brushed too close to his manhood, pulling a slight groan from his throat.

The kiss he received took more serious turn. Furqan knew immediately he wasn’t doing this because he had tender feelings in play. Something he said earlier, a lesson he had to understand. Didn’t matter now, he was old enough to play and enjoy. Anton was tantalizing, charming his way to his safe zone and he didn’t care. As long as his hand stayed on its place.

He felt the fever in him grow, slowly taking over his rigid body and he reached his hands around the man, who brought the heat in him. Far enough to capture and pull him closer, force his body join his tactics.

“Don’t!” he heard Anton’s whispered command against his ear and slowed his move. His hips had started the rhythmical dance against his body and without noticing had pulled him along. Anton’s hand slid away.

It emptied his mind even more and he knew if he didn’t get it now, he’d go mad. Still, he didn’t move as Anton placed the last almost untouchable kiss on his cheek and disappeared in his bedroom.

Too late to play saint now, Furqan reminded grimly, he wanted him, but he knew that if he’d force himself on him now, the game would be over far earlier than he would have liked and he wanted more.

He followed him, opening the door as quietly as possible and sliding in. Anton had already taken papers from the mess on the table and tried to read something, but was not concentrating. With few steps he was next to him, took the papers from his fingers and reached out for his lips. He didn’t move first and his toned lips stayed closed.

“You don’t start something like this and just walk away, Anton.” He whispered, merely touching his ear, pulling him gently up, placing his hand back on his stomach, forcing it softly in between the belt and his shirt before trying his luck again on his lips. “Finish what you came to do.”

The man didn’t response right away, face stiff and eyes fixed in his, but his hand forced him an inch closer and then continued its way downward. His lips parted and let him in, making the kiss his and taking the control back to his hands, but then his lips curved in a wicked smile and he retrieved his hand.

“You’re old enough to know how this works, I only hinted where your problem lies.” Anton’s voice was irritatingly velvety. He sat down and grabbed the next paper and just like that Furqan was left standing there cold.




He didn’t move another five minutes, completely in mess. Anton wasn’t in mood when he started this. He’d been with share of lovers, but this looked or felt like neither of them. He had just kissed him. Just like that. With reason he couldn’t comprehend. He wasn’t gay, that much he knew. Then why?

When he managed to control his shaky legs again, he dragged himself to his bedroom and lay down.

Touch of his hand had twisted something in his stomach. He pulled his shirt up and moved his hand under it. It didn’t feel the same, but he felt the familiar tingling return. He let his fingers explore, slowly dancing with them over his abdomen and lower under the belt. He removed it and unzipped his pants. Slow, so every move could be cherished.

Sound of a bedroom door made his eyes clued to the small split, which he left to let some air in. It wasn’t Anton. Rosh went by, stopping cold, sensing his look on him and turned to look straight to his angry eyes.

“May your offspring rot!” he swore, venom filling his every word.

Rosh disappeared faster from his view than a mouse pinpointed by a cat.


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