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r_scribblesFor this prompt in the CP Meme - "Martin's not a virgin. He's been fucked many times. Sometimes it was even sort of nice. However, not once has any of his partners ever kissed him. Until now."
Emotional h/c fic. TW for dub-con/attempted non-con. Martin with several OFCs & OMCs, hints of M/D, M/A. Have been informed it's not too angsty - there's quite a lot of sweetness in there, too.
1 - Mrs Smithson
-x-
The first time was just awful. It was with a friend of his Mum’s… but it wasn’t anything like that, you know. He was 18, and it wasn’t as if he’d said no, or anything. They’d both been drinking. Well, everybody had been drinking. It was his Mum’s 50th Birthday Barbeque, and the punch was really strong. It didn’t help that he’d been drinking beer as well, even though it tasted disgusting. Trying to impress Suzie Perks from next door. It hadn’t worked. At a little after 9.30, he’d spotted Suzie sitting in Simon’s lap, swigging Lambrini and laughing.
Martin had suddenly felt a bit ill, and had slipped off to bed. He hadn’t got much rest, since his bedroom was next to the bathroom, which was in pretty constant use with the party still in full swing. He was just concentrating to try to stop the room spinning when his bedroom door opened.
‘Sizzn’t th’bthrmm,’ he slurred.
The figure in the doorway didn’t apologise or head out again – the bedroom door closed again, and the figure walked wobbly towards his bed until he could make out the shape’s features. It was Jane Smithson, his Mum’s friend from the office.
‘Mzzs Smithsnn?’
‘Shhh,’ was the intruder’s only reply. ‘Shhh.’
She slipped into bed with him, her hot breath smelling of lager and cigarettes. Martin frowned and squirmed up a little, but didn’t get out of the bed or tell her to leave.
She pushed a hand through his hair, clumsily. ‘Growing up so fast,’ she mumbled. ‘Handsome young men now, you and Simon.’
‘Thankyou?’
‘Saw you looking at that Suzie slag,’ she added in a whisper. ‘Skirt up to her arsehole, but she’s just a little girl, isn’t she, Martin? You boys, you don’t want a stupid little girl, you want a woman. Someone who knows what she’s doing.’
Martin wasn’t quite sure how, but suddenly Mrs Smithson was on top of him, straddling his narrow hips.
‘Did you know,’ she added, ‘women reach their sexual peak in their 40s, while men reach theirs at 18? What do you think about that?’
Martin wanted to say that Mrs Smithson wasn’t in her 40s any more, but he couldn’t. The booze made the words cling to the roof of his mouth, and what happened seconds after that made coherency even more difficult. She shoved a hand down the front of his underpants.
‘I…’ he murmured.
She began to rub him, rather too hard to be comfortable – first with the palm of her hand, then grabbing him in her fist and pumping.
‘Er,’ he said.
‘Shhhh,’ she entreated again. ‘Don’t have a girlfriend, do you?’
‘N…no. But…’ But there was a Mr Smithson, and he was big and loud and intimidating and only downstairs, and why were they doing this, again?
‘Little tarts don’t know what they’re missing,’ whispered Mrs Smithson. ‘Their loss.’
Martin was now completely hard as a result of Mrs Smithson’s slightly painful handiwork – so he had to be enjoying it, he reasoned to himself. And, she was right. He didn’t have a girlfriend, so what was he worried about?
She took his hand and pushed it up her skirt and past the elastic of her knickers. Martin blindly felt the alien territory that he’d only ever seen in some of Simon’s magazines – coarse curls, a fat, soft mound, a split… warm, damp and silky on the inside. Drunk as he was, perplexing as this was, he did like the feel of it under his fingers. Were they going to have sex? Was that her plan? Was he going to get to put his cock… there? Surely, that was a bonus, Martin. Surely, that was a good thing. She manoeuvred his fingers again so that the tip of his middle finger found a little nub right at the front. He rubbed it, encouraged. He’d found the clitoris! With only minimal help. According to a lot of the comedy programmes he saw, it could take some men their whole lives to find that, and here he was, getting it the first time.
She sighed. ‘Good boy.’
Yes. Good. He was good at this. He was doing well. This wasn’t a problem. Not a problem at all. He was 18, it was high time he had sex.
‘Good boy,’ she whispered again. She took his hand away, and hitched down his pants to his thighs.
He felt himself flush a little. It was one thing them touching each other, but for Mrs Smithson to see him, in that sort of state… after all, this was Mrs Smithson. It was Mrs Smithson. No, no, no, this was wrong, this was very wrong…
He half got up, but she pushed him down again. ‘Good boy. Good boy.’ She shifted her body, pulling the crotch of her knickers aside a little and, before Martin could protest, pushed herself down on top of him.
‘Er,’ Martin panicked.
‘Don’t worry about condoms,’ she whispered, thrusting against him. ‘Got the coil, love. This your first time, yeah?’
‘Er.’
She threw her head down and dug her nails into his shoulders, riding him. That was the only adjective he could think of – “riding”. Like a rocking horse.
He’d never realised that it could actually be quite painful for the man. Maybe it was the angle they were at, or the way she was moving, or the fact that there wasn’t any lube, but it was sore. He didn’t want to complain. He came to a quick, quiet, unsatisfactory orgasm, and she followed very soon after – no crying out, no sighing, no gritting of teeth. The only indication he had that she was coming was the way her nails dug even harder into his shoulders, and that she dismounted him seconds later.
‘You want loo roll?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘Got tissues.’
She nodded. ‘No word of this to your Mum, yeah? She’d take it the wrong way.’
Martin nodded back at her, wordlessly, and she adjusted herself and went into the bathroom to clean up. He did the same, with a tissue, and then fell into a drunken sleep.
He woke up hungover and smelling of sex. A long shower got rid of the latter, at least. It took the rest of the day to get rid of the former and a lot longer than that to get rid of the horrible feeling he got in the pit of his stomach when he thought about what had happened in his room. He found out that afternoon that Mr Smithson had been making quite the fool of himself, visibly leering at Suzie Perks. Everyone had noticed. Jane hadn’t blown up at him or anything – she’d just gone indoors alone to simmer down for a while. Martin’s Mum had marvelled aloud at Mrs Smithson’s restraint and patience.
Martin didn’t cry about it. Not for years and years.
Part 2
Emotional h/c fic. TW for dub-con/attempted non-con. Martin with several OFCs & OMCs, hints of M/D, M/A. Have been informed it's not too angsty - there's quite a lot of sweetness in there, too.
1 - Mrs Smithson
-x-
The first time was just awful. It was with a friend of his Mum’s… but it wasn’t anything like that, you know. He was 18, and it wasn’t as if he’d said no, or anything. They’d both been drinking. Well, everybody had been drinking. It was his Mum’s 50th Birthday Barbeque, and the punch was really strong. It didn’t help that he’d been drinking beer as well, even though it tasted disgusting. Trying to impress Suzie Perks from next door. It hadn’t worked. At a little after 9.30, he’d spotted Suzie sitting in Simon’s lap, swigging Lambrini and laughing.
Martin had suddenly felt a bit ill, and had slipped off to bed. He hadn’t got much rest, since his bedroom was next to the bathroom, which was in pretty constant use with the party still in full swing. He was just concentrating to try to stop the room spinning when his bedroom door opened.
‘Sizzn’t th’bthrmm,’ he slurred.
The figure in the doorway didn’t apologise or head out again – the bedroom door closed again, and the figure walked wobbly towards his bed until he could make out the shape’s features. It was Jane Smithson, his Mum’s friend from the office.
‘Mzzs Smithsnn?’
‘Shhh,’ was the intruder’s only reply. ‘Shhh.’
She slipped into bed with him, her hot breath smelling of lager and cigarettes. Martin frowned and squirmed up a little, but didn’t get out of the bed or tell her to leave.
She pushed a hand through his hair, clumsily. ‘Growing up so fast,’ she mumbled. ‘Handsome young men now, you and Simon.’
‘Thankyou?’
‘Saw you looking at that Suzie slag,’ she added in a whisper. ‘Skirt up to her arsehole, but she’s just a little girl, isn’t she, Martin? You boys, you don’t want a stupid little girl, you want a woman. Someone who knows what she’s doing.’
Martin wasn’t quite sure how, but suddenly Mrs Smithson was on top of him, straddling his narrow hips.
‘Did you know,’ she added, ‘women reach their sexual peak in their 40s, while men reach theirs at 18? What do you think about that?’
Martin wanted to say that Mrs Smithson wasn’t in her 40s any more, but he couldn’t. The booze made the words cling to the roof of his mouth, and what happened seconds after that made coherency even more difficult. She shoved a hand down the front of his underpants.
‘I…’ he murmured.
She began to rub him, rather too hard to be comfortable – first with the palm of her hand, then grabbing him in her fist and pumping.
‘Er,’ he said.
‘Shhhh,’ she entreated again. ‘Don’t have a girlfriend, do you?’
‘N…no. But…’ But there was a Mr Smithson, and he was big and loud and intimidating and only downstairs, and why were they doing this, again?
‘Little tarts don’t know what they’re missing,’ whispered Mrs Smithson. ‘Their loss.’
Martin was now completely hard as a result of Mrs Smithson’s slightly painful handiwork – so he had to be enjoying it, he reasoned to himself. And, she was right. He didn’t have a girlfriend, so what was he worried about?
She took his hand and pushed it up her skirt and past the elastic of her knickers. Martin blindly felt the alien territory that he’d only ever seen in some of Simon’s magazines – coarse curls, a fat, soft mound, a split… warm, damp and silky on the inside. Drunk as he was, perplexing as this was, he did like the feel of it under his fingers. Were they going to have sex? Was that her plan? Was he going to get to put his cock… there? Surely, that was a bonus, Martin. Surely, that was a good thing. She manoeuvred his fingers again so that the tip of his middle finger found a little nub right at the front. He rubbed it, encouraged. He’d found the clitoris! With only minimal help. According to a lot of the comedy programmes he saw, it could take some men their whole lives to find that, and here he was, getting it the first time.
She sighed. ‘Good boy.’
Yes. Good. He was good at this. He was doing well. This wasn’t a problem. Not a problem at all. He was 18, it was high time he had sex.
‘Good boy,’ she whispered again. She took his hand away, and hitched down his pants to his thighs.
He felt himself flush a little. It was one thing them touching each other, but for Mrs Smithson to see him, in that sort of state… after all, this was Mrs Smithson. It was Mrs Smithson. No, no, no, this was wrong, this was very wrong…
He half got up, but she pushed him down again. ‘Good boy. Good boy.’ She shifted her body, pulling the crotch of her knickers aside a little and, before Martin could protest, pushed herself down on top of him.
‘Er,’ Martin panicked.
‘Don’t worry about condoms,’ she whispered, thrusting against him. ‘Got the coil, love. This your first time, yeah?’
‘Er.’
She threw her head down and dug her nails into his shoulders, riding him. That was the only adjective he could think of – “riding”. Like a rocking horse.
He’d never realised that it could actually be quite painful for the man. Maybe it was the angle they were at, or the way she was moving, or the fact that there wasn’t any lube, but it was sore. He didn’t want to complain. He came to a quick, quiet, unsatisfactory orgasm, and she followed very soon after – no crying out, no sighing, no gritting of teeth. The only indication he had that she was coming was the way her nails dug even harder into his shoulders, and that she dismounted him seconds later.
‘You want loo roll?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘Got tissues.’
She nodded. ‘No word of this to your Mum, yeah? She’d take it the wrong way.’
Martin nodded back at her, wordlessly, and she adjusted herself and went into the bathroom to clean up. He did the same, with a tissue, and then fell into a drunken sleep.
He woke up hungover and smelling of sex. A long shower got rid of the latter, at least. It took the rest of the day to get rid of the former and a lot longer than that to get rid of the horrible feeling he got in the pit of his stomach when he thought about what had happened in his room. He found out that afternoon that Mr Smithson had been making quite the fool of himself, visibly leering at Suzie Perks. Everyone had noticed. Jane hadn’t blown up at him or anything – she’d just gone indoors alone to simmer down for a while. Martin’s Mum had marvelled aloud at Mrs Smithson’s restraint and patience.
Martin didn’t cry about it. Not for years and years.
Part 2
