Simon x Billy
Chapter 11: What is my hand doing?
[Gif not mine]
Prompt: Secret relationship reveal
Masterlist || ao3 || start || prev || next wip!
RECAP: When last we left our lovers, Simon was still stuck in Brooklyn for career purposes, but at least he got to tell his besties that he is A. on a panel at Comic Con for reasons; B. moving to Italy; and C. talking to someone there. That would be Billy, but the besties think it’s Billie — so that’s fun. Billy, on the other hand, has not been told about Simon’s decision to move. But at least he finally has been told when Simon is coming back to see him — in two days. Today is not that day. Tomorrow is. Until then, the pair are inventively and intuitively making use of technology to come together again. But before we can get to that, the plot thickens/deepens/moves forward. TW: Phone sex written by someone who has never had it. If this is a hideously awful embarrassment to phone sex-havers everywhere, please leave a comment, DM, whatever. Why should they have bad phone sex when they can have better phone sex? Seriously, I ask you.
Chapter 11: What is my hand doing?
———/Simon/———
Ugh, Brooklyn. (Blasphemer! I’m calling myself out and I am a-shamed.) But it's true. Brooklyn is ugh to me right now. At least the wait is almost over. Kelly finally arranged to have me sent back to Italy tomorrow night. Like a- Well, like whatever kinds of objects get sent back to Italy.
Wait.
I rewind that thought back to where I said ‘tomorrow night,’ and this time think it with a bullhorn. TOMORROW NIGHT! Hallefrickinlujah.
The fear is that she’s probably made all the arrangements necessary to have me air dropped from a moving helicopter to get back at me for announcing I’m abandoning Brooklyn. She is truly angry at me. It became particularly apparent when I asked for help with the real estate stuff. That might have been exactly the wrong thing to ask for her help with. This will require a fitting gesture of my undying admiration, and my amazement at her next level ability to put up with me. She levels up every time I breathe in her general direction.
I’m calling Billy without even realizing it.
“Hey, man,” Billy answers. “Howeyeh?” I can hear him smiling.
“Do you have plans tonight?” I ask. “Beyond sleeping, I mean.”
“Just sleepin,” Billy replies with curiosity. I can hear him yawn at the other end and it feels endearing in my stomach. Which is weird, but pleasant. “What did you have in mind?” I can hear his smile change to a sly smirk all the way from Italy.
“I want to fall asleep listening to you fall asleep,” I admit, and immediately die of cringe. Hello, creeper. It’s too late, and I can’t take it back.
“Now, see, yeh can’t just go round sayin beautiful stuff of that sort. It’s unfair, that’s what it is. Say it again.”
“I want us to fall asleep together,” I repeat. “Even if we can’t exactly be together when we do it.”
Billy makes a noncommittal sound. “Time difference is a heartless bitch, Simon. How early can yeh manage fallin asleep?”
“Well,” I pause in frustration cuz I hadn’t thought about that at all in my internal fantasy of hearing him sleep. (Creepy? Romantic? Romantically creepy? Don’t know, don’t care.)
I offer an alternative. “Wake up just for me, then go back to sleep?”
Billy snorts right about the time I realize that that’s actually kind of a tall ask. And again, possibly creepy. Or romantically creepy. “Am I creepy? Or romantically creepy?”
“It’s more romantically presumptuous, really. But I’m setting my alarm, nonetheless. Now let me alone so I can finish prepping the zeppole. Hot pillows of sweetness sent by the Lord himself.”
“Like my own hot pillows of sweetness?” I giggle. I’m giggling.
“Er,” Billy begins. After a moment’s consideration, he clears his throat. “You bake?”
———/Billy/———
“Will yeh be wantin a tour guide and a driver for Pompeii, then?” I ask the pair before me, tryin not to yawn into the late afternoon sun as I count out the change for their beach chair rental. No less than 70, if they’re a day.
“Why? You think we can’t find our way ourselves without them? We’re more than capable, young man,” says the missus. I can see she’s just windin up for a tongue lashing. Grumpy in the mornings, could be.
Grumpy.
I head her off at the pass, picking up the beach bar’s ancient phone with a finger poised to dial. “Not in the least, not in the least. But I guarantee you’ll get more out of it with a guide to show you all the secret corners, peek inside the archaeologists’ tents, tell yeh the local lore and the wisdom of the ages.”
She relaxes. Guaranteed it was the ‘wisdom of the ages’ bit what did it.
“Ah, go on. Let me call the front desk. They’ll arrange for everything.”
“I can arrange for everything my-” she begins, pugnacious as ever.
“Martha,” the man says softly with his hand on his wife’s back. “Let the boy do his job.”
Bright eyes, big smile, Delaney. Simon would be proud of my Guest Services face, and then demand I’m lying about never attending theatre school. I hmmm inaudibly to myself.
Shocked am I, the whole thing is managed entire without another objection, and the mulish Martha and her man are sat there happily installed on their beach loungers.
Oh, Lord. Here comes trouble. “It’s to be that sort of day, is it?” I grumble.
At the very least, I have fair warnin as I can hear the trouble comin. The soft tinkle of bells at her toes announces her arrival. “Well if it isn’t the lovely and mysterious Sabina. Docked the barge, have yeh.” Land ho.
“It’s Billy, isn’t it.” Not a question. Lovely.
“More a ‘he’ than an ‘it.’” Get your pronouns right, miss.
She doesn’t deign to acknowledge my comment. I’m to be ‘it,’ then. Is she offensive on purpose, or does it just come naturally? Perhaps she’s simply gifted that way.
“To what do I owe the honor, my dear?”
“Instructions,” she says with a coolness that verges on frostbite. “For a party next Saturday night. You will come out to the boat as my guest,” she informs me, and tips her head to the side as she gauges my reaction.
Is she- I mean, she wouldn’t be- askin me out? Never.
“Bring Simon as your +1.”
“He’s the +1?”
“You be the +1 if you like that position better.” Her monstrously oversized sun hat casts shadows across her tip to toe, straw letting through tiny, bright dots of light that shift as she shifts. Just as the day I made her cheerful acquaintance.
Has it really only been two weeks? Really? That can’t be right.
“Greta will text Kelly the details, technicalities, all that,” she informs me. Kelly is Simon’s PA, so I’m assumin Greta’s her own.
“Kelly? You know Kelly.”
“Of course. She’s Kelly. People know this about her.” She waves away the question as if it’s both beneath her and boring.
“Sabina, has anyone ever described you as a piece of work? I’m meaning a work of art, acourse.”
She lowers her sunglasses and without cracking the slightest smile, winks at me. Well fuck me sideways.
“How did you know?” I ask, takin my opportunity where I find it. “It’s been botherin me ever since your show. You well knew the party was at a pan club. Why us? Tellin the two of us to come. What did you see in Simon and me that told you somethin would happen?”
Ignoring my question, she floats onto a barstool and flips her curtain of glossy, black hair behind one tanned shoulder.
I put back on my Guest Services face. “Something to drink? Might enjoy an espresso, biscotti,” I offer.
“No. I will not eat,” she informs me.
“Then what can I do for yeh, my dear?”
“Come next weekend. Another birthday party. They happen every year,” she says, lackadaisically. “The house. The boat. You know how it is.”
“Do I?”
“Maybe you don’t.”
She never answered my question, and I’m of a mind to persist. “We’ll consider it, if yeh answer me. Why did you tell us about your show in Naples? What did you see in the pair of us? How could you have known, when even we didn’t?”
“Billy.” She places her hand over mine. I use wiping down the bar as a reason to casually free it again. Watching my reaction over her absurdly large sunglasses, she gloats almost imperceptibly. “Make me a bellini.”
Sabina taps her fingernails on the bar top and takes the opportunity to study me as I pull out the peach purée. I add the sparkling prosecco and place the drink in front of her, giving her an arched eye caterpillar.
She tips her head toward me and says, “All right. I’ll tell you. Simon, you know he’s from New York.”
I nod.
“We know the same people,” she says as if that explains anything.
“And?”
“And from the cafe I saw Simon Lewis sitting in my marina.”
“Your marina?”
She bats the question away. “Of all the times Simon and I have wound up at the same parties, I’ve never seen him look at anyone else the way he looked at you.”
Fuck me.
She continues, “He wanted me to go away, deeply. Who could make Simon want such a thing? So I thought I’d have a little experiment. Nothing outrageous.” She smirks. “You couldn’t take your eyes off him. But he practically pissed a circle around you.”
“Not at all. He spent the whole time dealin with you, my darlin. And if anything, it was me as was sat there doin the pissing. I didn’t much care for the way you spoke to him.”
She laughs low. “Your expression gave you away, you know. The kiss was a test; a simple one.”
“Then what if we hadn’t been, I don’t know, swept up in the whole thing that night?” I challenge her. “What would have happened then?”
“Does it matter? Were you? Swept away? The right music at the right moment can make anything happen.” She dismounts with the tinkling of tiny bells, bellini untouched.
Before she reaches the hotel elevator, Sabina calls back over her shoulder, “Oh and Billy. Dress for Capri.”
Ah. Understood. I take a deep breath. “I’ll do the best I can.”
She nods, and departs without a word.
“Lovely to see you, too,” I mutter.
———/-/———
It’s Wednesday? I thought yesterday was Wednesday. Fuck me, an extra day. Life drags on at a snail’s pace.
Opening photos, I realize Simon’s face was the last shot I took that wasn’t of my genitals. It’s of him in the tunnel, moments before we entered the club. All bold, confident, and full of excitement, with not a clue of the direction the night would take.
When I look at him, I’ve no idea who I am anymore. I’ve never really been that certain to begin with, in all honesty.
For a man without a rudder, I’ve never needed to know who I am. Just all the whos I’m not. Not a father, not a son, not a brother, not a bother.
Alfie tells me I’m the best of friends. Cheers, mate. Nice to hear, but I’m not sure I believe it overmuch. Not when I’ve never stuck round long enough to be a good friend to anyone.
I’m a nomad. And I hate it.
I’ve only just realized that I hate it. Before Italy, before this glorious place, I’d have described my life as Freedom. Carefree, exciting, mind-broadening, instructive, adventuresome, even a right good time. But as I feel all these words strung together in my mind, I realize they’re all empty and meaningless, when it’s clear I’m the one who’s strung together. Like stringing lights about a Christmas tree. Invariably there are big holes crying out to be filled. Gaps with nothin big enough to fill them. That’s me — gaps big enough for a man to fall through. Never to be heard from again.
For certain, not a sole Delaney has ever noticed I’ve gone. Isn’t that just grand. All the times I’ve lived under one roof or another, time done for what? Some stories told over a pint at Christmas. And not the funny kind.
“Remember that cousin Billy?”
“Oh sure’n let me see now. He was the one as had the curly hair, yeah? Nice fella.”
Or the older generation? They might say, “Oh that Billy, he always was such a helpful young man to have round the house when somethin needed seein to. So helpful. Can’t remember the sound of his voice or the colour of his eyes, but he sure was helpful. Cryin shame we never had a good place to put him when it was our turn.” Sure’n that’s what they’d say.
Oh, shit. Must remember to ring Shazza and wish her a happy birthday.
———/-/———
“Vittorio, buongiorno,” I say as I enter his office.
Rosalina has just been to fetch me from the kitchen, where I’d been losing myself in the mundanity of prep work.
Problem is, I’ve also been gettin lost in too many mental images from the weekend. Just couldn’t clear my head. All good, so good.
It was all so good until Simon’s phone lit up like a christmas tree, and everything hit a wall. Just bam! Face first. A wall. (Shaped like a woman named Kelly, presumably somewhere in New York.)
It’s his career, Delaney. Quit thinkin what yer thinkin. It’s just God punching us in the nads with fate, as Simon would surely say.
Thing is, I do feel as though I’ve been punched in the testicles. I do. And I’m not sure what’s makin me feel worse — the testicles or the fact that we said goodbye immediately after my life was rocked on its foundations.
Am I bi? Never figured I was before. Does that mean I’m not? I love makin love to a woman. So, not gay per se. But not entirely straight, neither. How could I be?
So, bi?
Bein bi would explain Simon’s sudden appearance on the short list of people who’ve ever made me come that hard. Does that make me bi?
“Beelee!” The hearty voice of Vittorio greeting me snaps me out of yet another reverie. With that big-loving smile, kisses to the cheeks, an arm round the shoulder, he makes me feel welcome, and he knows how to make me feel useful. Helpful. Good at what I do. And like I contribute to this little family he’s built in his kitchen.
My smile stretches wide. Not just because I feel like smilin, but more because he deserves all the smiles. “Vittorio, you are a gentleman and a scholar.”
He laughs with a boom. “Si, certo!” Yes, obviously.
“Certo,” I agree, and indeed it is obvious. He’s wise, and kind. I hate getting attached. But I’ll hate saying goodbye to Vittorio. Ah, fuck. I’m attached. It’s too late.
“Come, Beelee. You will sit with me,” he says, opening the doors out to his private garden patio, and motioning me past. He picks up a sweating pitcher of the homemade lemonade they call limonata, made and bottled here in one of the orchard’s outbuildings. If sunlight had a taste it would be Vittorio’s limonata.
“Beelee,” he begins, once we’ve settled in. He looks out at the view and sighs. “The year you are with us is coming near to end,” he says with the most marvelous Northern Italian accent. “You are considering this with much thought, yes?” He leans back comfortably and sips his limonata in a motion he’s likely developed over decades in that chair with this view. Quite a place to talk business and no mistake.
His words finally penetrate my addled brain. “Have I thought of movin on?”
“Si,” he nods.
Movin on.
No, I have not been considering with much thought. But maybe I should. He’s right. It’s only a couple months off, innit. I’ve barely kept an eye on the goings-on in the culinary world since I arrived in Sorrento. And that is curious.
It’s curious, as every other country I’ve been I've always seen as a gig. Workin to live, yes acourse, but livin to expand my ability, my craft, my creativity, along those veins. Finding the joy in learning the tempo of life in each place. I have loved almost all of my gigs, and enjoyed the environs as much as time allowed. And yet I’m always counting down the days, weeks, and months, months, weeks, and days, well before the end for each city. Until now.
I love Vittorio. Adore him. Both as a mentor and as a man. He is a good man. Solid. Steady. Fiercely loyal and protective of the hotel family he’s built. He may have been born in the North well away from the water, but after all this time he has come to be a man of the South. Its cliffs, the sea, the vertical living with stairs to get anywhere. This is his home. Yes, he was born in Siena, but he chose to live his life in Sorrento. He chose this place to plant his roots, and settled in to live his best life.
I long to live that dream somethin awful. Some sort of permanence in this temporary life of mine. A life I could build, myself. A place of choice. A family of choice. Finding my tribe. And holding on to them. Holdin on for as long as I’m allowed to keep ‘em.
Vittorio looks at me with those intuitive eyes of his. “Qua cosa? What thing is so bad to make your face is falling?” He pretends his face has fallen to his lap to illustrate. “You are having sadness?”
“I haven’t thought much about leaving, to be honest,” I admit.
“You fall in love with Italia, I think. In you I see this, each day a little more, a little more. I am thinking the thoughts that you I should send to Firenze. You learn to cook in the North. It is, come se dice, how you say, molto bene very good y diferente with the Campania kitchens of us here.”
“Si, si, I’d like to learn the northern cuisine.” I can barely get my mouth to shape my next words. “Before I leave Italy.”
“Si. O posso Venezia. Pero non sera ristauranti che va bene.”
I laugh at such a sweeping statement of negativity from this man. “There are no good restaurants in Venice?”
“If there was good ristaurante, I send you to there. But Roma.” He rolls his r with gusto and passion for the eternal city. RrrrrrrOmmmmma. “Roma? Si, son ristauranti with the goodness I demand for to send you to there.” He nods thoughtfully. “Stefano, si.”
“Stefano Rossi?” Jaysus, good enough?
“O in Toscana, to Rodolfo.”
“Rodo Molinaro?” For serious?
“Si.”
Before I can bleat about these two utter gods of Italian cuisine, he interrupts me. “Or we take you from Italia and make you in France. Parigi - what you are calling Paris? Provence? You stay on the Mediterraneo you try Nice, la Riviara Franca.”
At least the French Riviera is just down the coast. (And that’s my first thought? How close I’d be to here?)
I try to interject, but he continues. “O in Spagna. I am having the very strong thought of Barcellona. O Siviglia. O to where you are calling Switzerland — Lucerne. You like Lucerne?”
“I’ve never-“
“You think with deeply careful thought of these places. I have thought very strong and with time that is long and full of care. These are the places you consider.”
“Vittorio. You are a dear, dear man and I cannot think of a suitable way to show how very much gratitude I have for you.”
“But your face is not a face of a man is happy,” he observes. “You are disappointing with these choices I give you?”
“No! Never, Vittorio. Not ever. I would joyfully live in every one of these cities! Florence, Rome. Paris, Nice. Barcelona, Seville. Lucerne. All of them.” Or none.
————/Simon/————
“I’d be in the air already, but I have to fit in one last fake fight with Kelly before I go. I promised to take her to brunch so we could fake-fight in person.”
“Let me guess, ‘It’s kind of your thing.’ Seems to me I’ve heard that one before,” Billy snarks into the phone. He sighs in defeat. “I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but I think I’m jealous.”
“Oh yeah? Why? Literally dying to know the answer.”
“How long do I have to wait?” he asks, sounding greedy.
“For what?”
“Before I can have you again,” Billy growls, in a tone he’d surely describe as naughty. Or at least I would describe it as naughty.
“With your moans in my ear, breath hot against my throat,” he continues. See? Naughty.
“Billy.”
“Simon.”
“Billy. What are you doing?”
“Hearing that sound you made when I licked a stripe up your neck, still salty with sweat from the club.” His voice is all gravel, low and rumbly.
“You don’t fight fair,” I whine. But in an appealing, sexy way.
————/Billy/————
I like that impatient sound. “I wish this was your hand,” I say, trying to keep the grin out my voice.
“What? W-what is my hand doing?” I hear Simon swallow at the other end.
“That twist you did — it’s like you read my mind: How to wank Billy Delaney.”
I don’t have my hand anywhere close to my cock. I just love gettin to hear him all flustered.
“Uh, um, Billy? Are you having solo phone sex right now? Is that what you’re doing? Cuz I gotta tell you-“ he breaks off.
“What do you have to tell me, Simon?”
Silence.
“And make it good,” I rumble.
“Jesus Christ, Billy.”
“No, just Billy.”
“Funny,” he responds dryly. Which acourse makes me smile. It’s the combination of exasperation, frustration, and libido all fighting for their turns to spring out his mouth.
“Is it? I thought we were gettin someplace, Simon.” I pitch my voice as low as it will go. “Someplace good.”
He lets out a whimper, then all I hear is rustling. Something clatters on a hard floor. Simon gasps, “Shit!” followed by, “Oh, thank God,” then somethin else falls with a thud. I hear shuffling in the background and angry muttering.
“Simon?”
“Wait, wait, hang on just a-“ I hear a jingling of bells, and then the sound of street traffic. People in conversation getting closer and fading away. Sirens. Loud sirens. I hear the tell-tale sound of his Converse slapping on pavement, accompanied by rapid breathing and some mumbled curses. “Come on come on come on!” I hear him whisper.
“Ey! I’m walkin here!” he says loudly, away from the phone. Followed swiftly by an angry, “Yeah, fuck you too, buddy,” under his breath. I feel as though I’m listening to every film about New York ever made.
“Hang on, just a sec,” he huffs faintly, as if the phone isn’t at his ear. I hear the jingling of keys. Everything he does is suddenly amplified, all with a strange, hollow ambience. A few loud, echoing footsteps later, and again I hear the sound of keys scraping into a lock.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Closer to my bed than I was five minutes ago,” Simon answers. “Not there yet.”
“Where were you five minutes ago?” This is pure gold.
“The bodega on the corner.”
“Serious?” I laugh. “Why’d you turn round?”
“Fuck you, Billy.”
“Not yet.”
I hear him trip over something. The phone clearly just went thud on carpet, and I hear a distant voice, swearing, “Where are you, fucking bastard.” His voice gets closer and closer. “Oh thank fucking Christ. I thought I broke my phone. Oh my sweet baby, an angel at one ear, a devil at the other.” He pauses as he shuffles whatever’s in his hands. “Billy? You still there?”
“Oh, I’m here, Simon.”
“Ok, start talking dirty again.”
I blink.
And we’re both laughing. “I like that you make me laugh,” I tell him.
“I like that you talk dirty. Can we go back to that please?”
“You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine?” I tease.
“What does that even mean?”
“Where are you, Simon?”
“Standing at the base of my bed.”
“Naked yet?”
He chokes, “What?”
“Just wonderin. Set the scene for me, Simon.”
“Theatre school, I’m telling you, theatre school.”
“You’re thinking about theatre school at a time like this.”
“Not even a little, when you sound like this. Jesus, Billy.”
“Where are you now?” I keep my voice fluid.
“Oh! Um, not where I was a minute ago the last time you asked. No, not still there,” he says.
“Naked yet?” It all started out as a gag, but I’ve become increasingly invested in his answers.
“Shoe-less. But I’m working on it.”
“Let me hear you take off your shirt.”
“Okaaay. How?” he asks in confusion. “Shirts aren’t loud. Am I supposed to rip it?”
“You like the shirt? Cos I want to hear all the buttons popping off.”
I didn’t think he’d do it, but I clearly hear the sound of buttons set free, pinging off every surface.
“Button fly again tonight?” I ask, thinking back to how easily his jeans came undone with just a flick of his hand.
“Not tonight.”
“Let me hear the zipper when you pull it down.” I hum as I hear the zzzzzz.
“Did you hear it?” he asks, voice turning gruff.
“I didn’t think I would, but that was hot.” I thought I was teasing, but now I know I’m not. “Let me hear the material slide down your legs. Slowly, Simon. Don’t rush it.”
His phone amplifies the rustle of fabric sliding over skin as though my ear is right there. My eyes slip shut. I can picture the material being pulled slowly over his hips, revealing the V of his muscles there, then catching on the swell of his arse. Sliding over that magnificent arse. Fuck, when he runs, I bet it bounces. And the image makes me groan.
“Mmm, that sounded good,” Simon nearly purrs. He’s gone from 1 to purring in under 3 seconds. “Did it feel good, Billy?”
“Yer man’s got game then, has he?” I challenge him.
“You haven’t answered my question, have you, Billy.”
“Is the secret just to work my name into every sentence? Cos I’ll be honest with yous. It’s doin it for me.” I need more than this. Without preamble I switch us to FaceTime.
“Rude!” he squawks.
“Are you offended, Simon?” I set up the angle for him to watch. He’s gone silent. Turns out I’m clothed enough for some suspenseful stripping of my own. His face is priceless.
————/Simon/————
Merp.
—————/Billy/—————
I watch as his eyes go dark, and his expression turns unselfconscious. Hungry.
I’m more’n likely to show him whatever he wants to see, though it can be hard to actually ask for it. “What and where, Simon?”
“Mmhm that sounds nice,” he says absently.
“Nice.” That’s not what I’ve been goin for. Seems his thoughts are a mite preoccupied. “Do you know what I want to do to you the minute I see you?” I challenge.
“Um. No?”
“I am going to strip you bare after Customs if you stop for any reason except to walk straight to me.”
“You’ll be there at the airport?”
“And I will strip you bare. Right there at Customs. Don’t test me, Simon. After you’ve landed? If I see yeh doing anything?” I prompt him.
“I’ll come straight to you,” he says on a whisper.
“That’s right you will. And the moment we reach the car, I’ll press you against it, undo your jeans, and wrap my hand round you, with just enough firm pressure.”
He whimpers.
“What do you like, Simon? Tell me and I’ll give it to you.”
“What I-“ His eyes go blank. “Merp.”
So I continue. “Then I’ll tell you what I want from you when I get you back to the hotel.”
He whimpers again.
“I want you to strip me slowly, make me impatient. Because I’ll be dying to have you fast. I’ll have been waiting for you, wantin to take you in that tiny car, wanting to feel all of you, and lay you down. But-“
“But she’s too small,” he whispers, getting into it a bit more.
“I’d bend you over the bonnet, but you won’t let me.”
“I won’t?”
“No Simon, you won’t. You’ll tell me the fuckin luggage can wait, and you’ll drag me to your room.”
“I’ll be dragging you?” he asks, sounding confused.
“Just go with it. You’re breaking my flow.”
“Sorry,” he whispers with a grimace.
“Shhh.”
“Ok.”
“Shhh. Hear me. I’ll want to drag you to bed instantly, but you won’t let me. You tell me to slow down. Take my time.”
“Take your time? We’ve gone a whole week without each other. How much more time will we need? Are we even naked yet?”
“Shhh, Simon. See it. See me in agony, desperate for every second I can have with you again. I’ll start at one end of your body and work my way to the other. Those runner’s legs, God. All that skin up, up, following my hands with my lips, lettin the hair slide across my mouth between kisses. Show me where my lips are, Simon.”
His breath catches. “Jesus, Billy.”
“Do you want to see how close my mouth will be? I’ll show you. Watch where I start, Simon, just here. See me.”
He lets out a high puff of air. His breath rate has picked up. So has mine.
“I’ll stop and kiss here.” I circle the spot. “I want my mouth on you, Simon. The soft, warm spot behind your knee you’ve never thought about until I became the first person to tongue you there. Or here,” I whisper, drawing my hand up my inner thigh. I have one thought and one thought only: get this next shot right.
I bring the camera round, laying back to give him the long view up my body.
“Mmmfm, you have a wet spot in your briefs,” he says in a huskier voice. He’s finally getting out of his own way.
“Do you know why, Simon?”
“Why?”
“Because all I can think about is running my lips over all of this skin,” and I draw my fingers slowly up to where my thighs meet. He lets out a high breath. “Show me, Simon. Show me where my lips are.”
The image on the screen swings wildly around, showing bits of lightly furred leg, the color of his sheets, confusing body hair, and the paint on the ceiling. He grunts as he repositions himself. Suddenly, the image is swinging around to show me the path up his knee and I get an eyeful of the long view he’s giving me.
“Mmmmm, do you know what I see, Simon?” All that flesh leadin to the sight of a cock and balls from below, snug in a pair of boxer briefs, lookin monstrous huge from this vantage point.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, I know ex’ex’exactly what that l’looks like.”
“Draw your hand up the inside of your thigh for me. Let me watch it, your phone followin behind the whole way up.” I give him an example to inspire him. “Tell me when to stop, Simon.”
A high moan escapes him. “W’when do you want to stop?”
“Never.”
He groans. “Take off your briefs, Billy,” he instructs me, feeling bolder. “Now.”
I smile to myself. That’s the spirit.
“For you, anything, Simon.” And I realize I actually mean that. I probably would do just about anything he told me to.
“You liked that, didn’t you?” he asks me. “The wet spot just got bigger.” He sounds terribly proud of himself, and continues with more confidence. “Oh shit, your cock just got bigger, too. God, I can see the tip peeking out of your waistband.”
I steadily reveal every millimeter until he can see the full head. “Oh God. Billy.”
“I want you naked and fucking your hand, Simon, now. Let me watch.”
Simon whines.
“Naked, Simon. Then hand.”
Again, his high puffs of breath turn into a whine. But the moment I fist my cock, Simon’s voice drops two registers — as if he knows this is the moment we really get started. He’s saying, “I want to see the tip poke out of your fist, see you drawing the hood back as you stroke.”
“Fuck yes, Simon.”
“Closer,” he demands.
I moan at the thought that he wants to see it up closer. That an eyeful doesn’t send him runnin for covers. But no, he’s enjoying being in control.
“What does your other hand really want to be doing?” Simon rumbles. “When it’s not holding the phone, what’s it holding? Or fondling? Or sliding over. Show me, Billy. Show me what you do when you’re alone.” It’s a command, not a request.
I let out a long stuttering breath. “Simon, I think you might be quite good at this. Given some more practice,” I say, as I try in vain to get my phone under control. I need a place to prop it so I can use both hands. Finally, driven by the agony of frustration, I set the phone against a pillow at the right angle and kneel with knees spread wide.
“Oh fuck shit fuck,” comes straining out of him, and he’s fully stroking himself in earnest. “Nhhhh, Jesus Billy.”
What’s he on about? I look down at myself and visualize the view from that angle. Oh God. “You, too,” I grind out. “Want to see you too.”
He gives me what I want. Lord, that is a filthy fuckin sight from that angle. My hips punch my cock through my fist and I cradle my balls.
“Fuck yes,” he moans. I look down and find just how much precome I’m dripping. I hitch my hips closer to the camera and splay my legs wider. “Oh Jesus Billy fuck,” he gasps at the sight.
“Show me,” I tell him. He takes a screenshot and turns the phone round to show me. “Show me on you, Simon.”
“Oh, right,” he breathes.
“Faster,” I tell him. “Let me hear you.”
“What makes you come, Billy? Mmmmmfffwant to see it up close,” he groans.
I reframe the phone, but the sight from this distance has got to be brutal.
“Oh Jesus, Billy,” he huffs, then “Oh God,” comes out with an urgent tone. I’m flyin in and out my fist, yet somehow he can see it all.
“No, don’t stop,” I complain as his hand stutters to a stand still. He puts the phone down on the bed below him, and squats just over it. It’s an intense view. “Oh God, Simon. That is obscene.”
“Now you,” he instructs. “I want to see both hands better.”
I try to angle more carefully so he can see more cock and less balls.
“Oh fuck,” he says in surprise. “Right there, yes. No, too far, bring it back, bring it back - stop! Perfect. Show me.”
“That’s,” I grate out, “my line.” Oh God, I feel the sensation begin to build. “Simon- Si’ nhhhh, I’m- are you-“ I can’t think.
“Yes,” he grates out, followed by a strained, “Fuuuuuck!” I’m glad he’s as close as I am. I want to see him tip over the edge while he’s watchin me do the same.
I’m fucking panting, every breath I force out comes back in gasps. “Oh God yes,” I whisper. “Simon.”
“Me, too, me, too, oh fuck yes fuck. B’Billy?”
The look on his face is all shock and awe, then all I can see filling the screen is the head of his cock pulsing spurts of come landing somewhere outside the frame.
Ho shit. Fuck fuck fuck, the heat blooms throughout my body in warning. “Oh God, fuck Simon, fuuu, can you see? I want you- watch-“ I call out nonsense. I can only focus on the rush I feel throughout my body. I come in full view of the phone and my knees buckle.
Rolling to my back and still panting, I try to remember my name and country of origin. But “Simon,” is the only word I can find.
————/-/————
Masterlist || ao3 || start || prev || next wip!
————/-/————
