by Kaysee Renee Robichaud
While Cary Grant traded smirking witticisms with Boris Karloff lookalike Raymond Massey in the finest autumnal season movie of all time, Burt leaned close to whisper how much he loved Grant’s smarmy charm. “You know,” he added, “you’ve got his smile.”
A smirk born of self consciousness dawned as I asked “I do?” Even Cary Grant wished he was as charming as Cary Grant, after all.
Wistfulness filled Burt’s sighed response. “Oh yes.”
Outside, the thunderstorm tapped our windows with hundreds of impatient fingertips. The smell of dinner -chicken and mushrooms, fresh wheat bread, steamed greens – permeated my apartment. I’d made way too much food since no one but Burt showed up for the Devil’s Night Dinner and Double Feature; not that I blamed them for staying home since not even a double feature of Arsenic and Old Lace and The Crow could compete with gusting winds and a miserable rain.
I glanced at Burt, admiring his boyish face, soft and whisker free, loving his dark eyes and stylishly disheveled mop of even darker hair – so very Colin Firth circa 1989’s Valmont. “Well, darling,” I said in my best Grant imitation, “would you prefer the gentleman bastard or the lovable screwball?”
“The bastard,” Burt said. “You’re a delightful bastard.”
“Kiss me, darling.” He blinked with surprise and leaned in to brush his lips across mine. His tongue dipped into my mouth, hesitant though practiced. Our hands and mouths danced while Cary Grant poked playful fun at Peter Lorre’s accent and role as a sinister plastic surgeon.
“That was nice, Mike,” Burt said, and I had to agree. “Since the party is sunk, shall we try to have a little fun?”
“Are candy corn pumpkins strangely addictive?” I asked and jiggled the nearby bowl of them.
His hands found my shirt, searching for buttons to unfasten, hungry for skin to caress. His erection looked uncomfortably confined in his new skinny jeans. Desire reddened his lips.
I tutted and pulled his hand away. “A kiss is all you get,” I admonished, “until the movie’s done.”
His lips trembled between smiles and frowns. “How much is left?”
“Oh,” I pretended to examine the DVD case. “Not quite an hour.”
He swallowed. “A whole hour?”
“Yes, darling,” I said. “So, just sit and keep that erection for me. Think about the lovely-awful things we’ll do when the fillum’s done.” An Irishman we knew used the word “fillum” once, and I loved the way he said it. I was not Irish myself, merely eclectic on the pronunciation of things.
“But aren’t I,” I asked through a grin, “a bastard?”.
I turned my attention back to the picture show. The crazy spinster aunts who assisted elderly gentlemen shuffling off this mortal coil via arsenic infused elderberry wine, a psychopath murderer who finds himself lagging behind his sweet relatives in terms of body count, and a poor sap who has to maneuver these waters while trying to escape with his new bride for a little love time seemed an incongruous mesh for a Halloween-set comedy, but it worked. The crazy plot was peppered with plenty of madcap dialogue as well as a couple of gay-coded characters worth falling in love with. Ah, vintage Hollywood! So subtle in its flagrant boy lovin’.
Of course, I laughed at the jokes delivered at 250 words a minute. Burt did too, but his laughter came a little late.
He wasn’t paying terribly close attention to the film. Mostly he watched me. Making him sit and wait was getting me even more excited. I wanted to kiss him again. I wanted to feel his throat against my lips. I wanted to feel his caresses. I wanted to pull his clothes aside, to worship every inch of freshly exposed skin with my kisses and my teeth and my tongue and my fingers…
Burt was a sweet guy. Terribly shy. It must have taken all the courage he could muster to admit his interest and still more to actually kiss me.
What a delicious technique he had to the tongue dance. Turning lovely circles, tender but strong. I wondered how he might feel playing with my cock. And how might his stiff lad look? Would it bend to the left? To the right? Straight on ’til morning?
What kind of lover would Burt make? A quiet mouse? A shrieking slut? And how long might he last? He seemed earnest enough . . .
By the time the chair bondage scene showed up, my hand found its way to Burt’s thigh, and I gave him a promising squeeze. He moaned at this, and his hand tried to mirror the touch. “Ah-ah,” I said, and pulled his hand off me. “I’ll grope you a while, but I don’t think you’re capable of controlling yourself enough to touch me. Not yet.”
“Bastard.” No malice. Only yearning.
Our eyes met. Did I detect the shimmer of tears? I asked, “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
He said nothing for half a minute. Then, “How much longer?”
“Maybe twenty minutes.”
“And then there’s your pick. The gloom and doom thing with the dead guy and all those . . . those guns.” He knew I enjoyed the dark adventures of the undead Brandon Lee.
“Oh. Yeah. Right.”
“Don’t you like the movies?” I asked. “Think we should call it early? “
“Clean up. Call it quits for the evening. Tomorrow comes early.”
A fresh gust of wind increased the tapping at the window. Sounded just like a bird’s beak, telling us “Now or Nevermore!” The shiver that ran through him was less to do with the thunderstorm than my cold shower suggestion.
“Wouldn’t I?” Probably not, but the trick was convincing him I would stop at a moment’s notice. There was my smile, again, and he melted just a little more.
“I want to see,” he said, “how it ends.”
Cary Grant was signing documents to get his nutty brother a free trip to Happydale Sanitarium, and his Aunts were fretting about being alone. We were speeding toward resolution. Then, I allowed my hand to ascend Burt’s leg, moving steadily inward and upward, until it drew across the inside of his thigh and found his encased erection. He squirmed, moaned again, put his hand atop my own, and held me against him. I glanced over to see him nibbling his lower lip.
I kissed him again.
“But the movie,” he said.
“Damn the movie,” I replied, “I want you, darling.”
“And I want,” he said, between kisses and around his gasps, “to see how it ends.” His eyes found the screen, and I wondered just when he had taken the reins.
“Kiss me,” I said, but he didn’t. His cock twitched, hard against my palm, his musk was strong in my nostrils. Food and sexy man scents were driving me to distraction.
“Burt,” I urged.
“It’s almost over,” he said, and in his wicked smile, I found such promise there. His mouth was a perfect little tool; one over which he held mastery. His hand squeezed my thigh, promising strong strokes, while he sucked. His body was compact, but strong.
Oh, to see him nude. To feel him inside me… To feel myself inside him…
I silently willed the movie to hurry, while envisioning the way my cock might feel tickling the back of his throat. While waiting for Grant and his movie squeeze played by Priscilla Lane to have their escape to a barrel ride over Niagara Falls, I imagined 69ing, our heads and hands moving in time. Time crawled, while my mind filled with promised pleasures. How I longed for my own happy ending.
For now, only the storm was achieving that, the thunder rumbling away and with great speed.
Burt even waited for the credits to be done before showing me wonders I could not anticipate, and I loved every interminable second. Colin Firth could play quite the charming bastard, too . . .
Kaysee Renee Robichaud lives and writes in east Texas where Halloween brings more than costumes and candy; it brings a welcome break from the summer/early autumn heat. She is the author of three novels about operatives working for a secret society that tries to remove horrific magic grimoires from circulation (The Bookworm Brigade) as well as numerous short stories of romance and sexy adventure. After the Dumpster fire that is 2020 ends, readers should finally see The Bookworm Brigade’s long awaited fourth volume, Hack Work.