He knows it's wrong. He does. It's just that he doesn't care.
It was just supposed to be a joke. The whole show was a joke, of course; that was the point. That's why they'd cast Bret as the female lead, instead of one of any number of girls they studied with. Not that they were going for any ha-ha-that-girl's-obviously-a-man-in-a-wig angle; they were all pretty sure Bret's manhood would not be immediately noticeable. He made a damn good girl.
He was a good sport, of course. He wouldn't have taken the role if that hadn't been the case. The play was a re-working of some awful drama script they'd stumbled across in class, twisted to make it into a dark comedy. Bret was playing some high-class lady (originally a princess; they'd all agreed that was a bit much, even for comedy purposes) kidnapped and ransomed by what was described in the play as "a band of ruffians". As ever, rehearsals had gone more along the lines of cracking themselves up than actually learning lines, but with their performance date looming they'd decided to start working properly. This involved Bret being grabbed and manhandled into a chair, where he was handcuffed and blindfolded.
Jemaine hadn't been able to concentrate on anything much since this had happened.
The script had specified that the lady had been lashed mercilessly to the chair with ropes and blindfolded with a "silken kerchief". Looking for the funniest spin on this, the group had all trooped into a sex shop together, wanting to find the most obviously sexual restraints they could. The shopping trip had really only required one man, but all were keen on poking their noses into the wilder side of sex. Besides, surely buying things like handcuffs required back-up? None of them had considered until after piling into the small, grubby shop together what connotations five men looking at bondage gear might have. Nevertheless, restraints had been bought, and had been duly slapped onto Bret.
Squirming in a chair, forced into a leather blindfold and handcuffed at the wrists with his lips pouting and curls flowing onto his forehead, Bret looked like an angel trapped by demons. Looking at him made Jemaine feel like a demon. He was certainly having enough impure thoughts to warrant a pointed tail, not to mention a punch in the face.
Obviously since their friend had been helpless, the four of them had taken advantage. Bret had suffered through several pranks during his restraint with increasingly-diminished humour; the tickling hadn't had much effect, tipping ice down his shirt had got yelps then laughs, twisting his nipples hadn't amused, and tipping ice down his pants had resulted in shivery streams of abuse. After a morning like that Jemaine had been sure he'd expected more, but this had not dulled his annoyance when they'd broken for lunch and all four left Bret tied up and alone in the middle of the stage.
The swearing had been spectacular. The threats that Bret had himself recognised as being pretty futile until he was released were even better; Jemaine had particularly enjoyed, "If you don't let me go right fucking now I'll punch you all in the mother-fucking balls…as soon as you let me go!" Neither impotent threats nor cursing had been successful; the four friends had merely laughed and gone off to enjoy their lunch.
But Jemaine had soon felt like a bit of a bastard. It took a fair bit to work Bret up into real anger, and his reaction had suggested he'd reached his limit. They were taking advantage of him, he knew it, and that made him feel pretty shitty. Ignoring the mockery of his friends Jemaine had wolfed his lunch in record time and had trotted back inside to let Bret go, sure he'd earn both grudging gratitude and the punch in the balls he'd been promised.
Bret had lapsed into silence in the ten minutes or so he'd been alone, but it seemed like his fury had not vanished; judging from his red face and occasional pulls at the unforgiving handcuffs, it seemed to have merely simmered down into sullen petulance. His mouth, already prone to pouting, was down-turned and his head lolled uncomfortably against the tall back of the chair. As Jemaine watched fixedly he wriggled and groaned in discomfort, trying to stretch his back out. His hips rose off the chair, improbably inviting, and Jemaine shook himself.
If merely leaving Bret alone to his predicament had been taking advantage, then what the hell could he call the thoughts currently going through his head?
He tried to tell himself it wasn't his fault. Sure, maybe it was his for being a little bit…well, gay. But it wasn't as if he was constantly throwing himself at men; he'd harboured a few crushes in his time, but had only a few tentative, clumsy notches on his bedposts to show for it. Anyway, gay or not, if Bret was going to be so fucking…pretty, then he had only himself to blame when Jemaine noticed him that way.
That logic, warped or otherwise, encouraged him. He'd managed to resist Bret since they'd met, through drunken nights and friendly wrestling, but today he'd reached the end of his tether. Bret was practically being presented to him on a plate! Staring at the lone, rather pitiful figure was making Jemaine feel almost a little dizzy, as if he were outside himself; as if he was somebody else. Not Jemaine, Bret's friend, who would do anything to preserve their friendship, even if it occasionally meant wanking himself raw and blushing when next he saw Bret. He felt different. He felt like somebody who was allowed to touch Bret as much as he wanted, to let him know how bloody beautiful he was before walking away to deal with his guilt. Really, when he thought about it (or stopped himself thinking too much), Jemaine would just be giving Bret a good time.
He approached slowly, not knowing until he reached his friend precisely what he was going to do. He knew had time to linger; their lunch breaks were long, lazy affairs, and he knew the rest of the group would be inclined to leave Bret to suffer for as long as possible.
Bret stiffened at the approaching footsteps. There was a fine line here, and his words would decide whether he came across as furious or pitiful. "This isn't funny any more, you bastards. It wasn't ever funny. Stop being pricks." There. Cold fury. Nowhere near pleading.
But no answer. He sighed, hands twisting in the cuffs. His wrists hurt a bit, and being without his vision left him feeling more vulnerable than he'd like to admit. "C'mon, man. Four guys onto one? That's…it's not fair. This isn't cool." Okay, a little closer to whining. It was fine. Anybody would whine, after the morning he'd had.
The footsteps began again, circling him. He cocked his head to follow them, steeling himself for some further prank. Was he going to be hit? Was something going to be poured on him? He winced instinctively when contact was made, then frowned. Somebody was stroking his hair with a hand that seemed to be shaking. He jerked away, aware that he could be being touched with anything, however distasteful; they were all guys, after all. But to his surprise a hand slid up his neck, cupped his chin, and gently guided him back. A thumb stroked his jawbone with a hesitant touch, rubbing soothing circles on his skin as if he were a flighty animal.
"What the fuck –" he mumbled in surprise, and was bewildered when he was shushed. What was going on? The hand began to move over his hair again, more confidently, petting him. He shivered involuntarily when fingers slid through his thick curls to the back of his neck, nails scratching ever so slightly at the sensitive skin. "Who…who is this?" he asked suspiciously, trying to draw away despite the tingling in his stomach. "Is this a joke?"
Again, no spoken answer, but the hand tugged lightly at his hair and he jumped in surprise. It didn't feel painful; closer to teasing, as if somebody was trying to soothe him. This, naturally, made him even more suspicious. "What's going on?" he demanded, jerking his head away and wishing he could move out of this bloody chair. "Is…look, just…let me go. I want my lunch. This isn't funny," he finished with a petulant grumble, and frowned as the person walked in front of him. His head was guided back, exposing his throat, and he swallowed as those same fingers stroked over the smooth skin of his neck. It was a possessive gesture, no longer hesitant, and for some reason…for some reason, it flooded straight to his gut, coiling warmly. Oh, dear God. He cleared his throat and fidgeted uncomfortably, deciding not to rise to whatever fucked-up joke this was. No doubt his friends were watching, complete with video camera, hoping to catch him freaked out and/or hard on stage.
His resolve lasted, he guessed, less than four minutes. It was hard to tell how much time had passed without any visual reference and, try as he might, he couldn't shift his focus from the weirdly tender exploration of his throat. Brushing pads from the sharp line of his jawbone down to his Adam's apple was fine, and he could just about ignore the smooth strokes along his collarbone, but when the line was dotted with a wet kiss he had to bite down hastily on a groan. "S-stop it," he mumbled, fingernails scratching at the chair's arms, before adding in a soft, shaking voice, "Who is this?" He moaned in frustration as two fingers were pressed to his parted lips, a clear request for silence.
Nothing for a moment or two, and then he cringed as his shirt was raised. He disliked his body, whenever he thought about it; it was too skinny and pale and, well, weak, but as a pair of hands began to explore his torso he felt as if he were being worshipped. Large hands moved over his stomach, fanning out over his skin as if determined to touch every inch of him. A thumb brushed teasingly down the trail of hair feathering into his pants and he gasped as it slid beneath the waistband for a brief second, cheeks flushing. Before he could comment the fingers moved up beneath his shirt, pressing very lightly at his ribs then tracing around his nipples. He swallowed, embarrassed by how hard they were, and squeaked instinctively when they were pinched. Again, the feeling rushed down to his gut and he realised with no small amount of shame that he was stiffening appreciatively. Oh, fuck, no.
"Stop it!" he snapped, summoning up every ounce of determination. He wriggled as far back against the chair as he could, trying to escape the slow touches by curling up as small as he could. "This is fucking weird, you can't just go around…" He clenched his hands into fists in the cuffs, wondering how to end that sentence without looking like an idiot. 'Turning your friends on'? He couldn't admit that, and was hoping to fuck that it wasn't obvious. "Fuck, stop it! I'm not joking –"
His lips were parted mid-protest when without warning the person's lips pressed close. The corner of his mouth was kissed lightly, in a brief, almost apologetic gesture, before the lips moved to his mouth, enveloping his bottom lip in a surprisingly chaste kiss. Bret's eyes squeezed shut behind the blindfold when a hand was rested at his jaw, stroking his cheek while his lip was sucked lightly, nibbled upon, and released. Bret whimpered, surprised by how such a brief kiss could feel so sensuous. He felt as if his nerves had been set aflame, his whole body over-sensitive and trembling suddenly in his seat. He licked tingling lips timidly, struck dumb as he uncurled a little. This couldn't be a joke. It just couldn't. Nobody kissed like that for a prank.
"Please," he whispered, feeling vulnerable and bewildered by how he didn't precisely dislike the feeling. "Who is this?"
The answer was another kiss. He could sense the person looming over him, bent over with his hands either side of Bret's head on the chair to get close. It left him shivering, feeling even more trapped and confused about how this was not, according to his stiffening prick, a bad thing. Bret moaned as the hand at his jaw slid up into his hair and gripped, tilting his head up confidently. He found himself helpless to resist kissing blindly in return, eagerly parting his lips at the slick, warm press of a tongue. Whoever this was, whether stranger or friend, this kiss was hot. He knew he should be freaked out; he was tied down and defenceless, and…well, being taken advantage of by some guy!
And yet he was undeniably enjoying his predicament. He wasn't even picturing that this mystery person was a girl; the hands were too large, too rough, and the scratch of stubble against his jaw was unmistakeable. It probably shouldn't be turning him on further. He probably shouldn't be fidgeting restlessly in his seat, tugging at his cuffs as he ached to touch this man in response He certainly shouldn't be hard in his jeans for some stranger!
Then his tongue swiped over the man's teeth, and he smiled.
Bret was kissing him back. At first he thought it was wishful thinking, but then his friend's tongue was thrusting into his mouth, dancing with, almost battling with Jemaine's, and Bret was kissing him back.
He pulled away only when he had to, when his lungs were screaming for air. He bit his lip at Bret's apparent displeasure with the loss of contact, watching as he groaned and thunked his head back against the chair in frustration. "Don't stop," the younger man whispered, and Jemaine almost swallowed his tongue with his pleading tone.
Fuck, Bret looked amazing. His lips were already a little swollen from their kissing, rosy and irresistible. Jemaine thumbed lightly at his pouty lower lip and his eyes shut involuntarily as Bret's tongue snaked out and swirled around the pad in a gesture both suggestive and hopeful. He forced his eyes open again, needing to see every detail, to make himself remember every moment of this. He wasn't thinking. He was merely acting instinctively, knowing this was his only chance to do everything he'd ever wanted with Bret without throwing their friendship away.
He dropped to his knees and – channelling a confidence he did not truly possess – parted Bret's legs with a firm hand on each slim thigh. The chair offered them little room and Bret's legs remained pressed close around him as he shuffled forward. Bret's breathing hitched.
Jemaine merely watched him for a long moment, trying to imprint this image onto his mind. Bret looked completely, well, debauched; hair messed, lips parted and swollen, cheeks pink, hands tied, prick obviously hard. He found himself fixated on the visible beat of a pulse at Bret's throat, the delicate skin fluttering with each heartbeat. Jemaine pressed himself flush against his friend and leaned up to press warm lips to the spot. Bret whined when he tongued the pulse firmly and Jemaine was fascinated to feel his heartbeat speeding up at the attentions of his mouth. The eager jerk of his hips when Jemaine's teeth bit gently at his collarbone was unmistakeable, and the gasping moan he produced flooded straight to Jemaine's cock.
He ignored it. He was already taking advantage of Bret. All Jemaine wanted was to be with him, just once, to see Bret come undone at his touch. Just to give Bret one good time without ruining their friendship. Get him off, and walk away, and try his hardest to deal with his guilt later.
One hand bunched Bret's shirt up around his shoulders as Jemaine leaned close and dotted kisses over his thin chest. He sucked on both sweet nipples, circling each hard nub with his tongue and having to stop himself groaning as Bret whined deep in his throat, the sound almost animalistic. Jemaine couldn't let himself make a sound. He couldn't let Bret know.
His cheeks reddened as he reached Bret's belly button, struck with a strange fancy. He lapped his tongue around it then, feeling strangely filthy, he dipped it into the hollow. His teeth had to bite hard on his lip as Bret whimpered, "Th-that feels so good," in a voice low and needy.
Hands clumsy with shyness fumbled to open the button on Bret's pants for a moment or two, before Jemaine stilled himself and took a deep breath. This had to be good. He wanted…he needed Bret to think back on this for the rest of his life, to be forever in his mind, even if Bret never knew who had done this for him. There was no room for nerves. He settled himself, and unzipped his jeans.
Surely Bret would stop him. He'd tell him to fuck off, to stop being such a creep, and part of Jemaine readied himself for this as he issued a commanding couple of taps to Bret's hips. But Bret merely moaned and lifted them obediently, the silent message understood. Jemaine awkwardly shuffled his pants down over his slim backside to his thighs, breath hitching at the obvious hardness straining against his boxers.
He had done that. Bret was hard for him.
His hands shook visibly as he brushed his palm over Bret's shielded prick, confidence buoyed as his friend gasped and rocked against him. "Please," he whispered, his voice hopeful and thick with desire. "Touch me?"
Jemaine was almost too shy to look when he guided Bret's boxers down, freeing his swollen cock. It took him a few moments to raise nervous eyes from Bret's trembling thighs but, as he looked, he knew what he wanted to do.
He found he had to bite down on laughter when Bret jumped as his breath ghosted over his prick. Bret wetted dry lips with the tip of his tongue and Jemaine mimicked the gesture, teasingly trailing the tip of his own tongue around the head of Bret's cock. He had no clear idea of what to do, none at all, but he knew he wanted to hear his friend gasp like that again.
"O-oh God, I didn't think – please," he begged, hands clinging to the arms of the chair. "D-don't tease!" Jemaine ignored this. The chance to see Bret strung out and pleading was too tempting.
He had very little experience of…this kind of thing, of course. A few fumbles when drunk, none of which he'd admitted to his friends. He could see nothing but embarrassment that way. It also meant, to his relief, that Bret had no previous suggestion that Jemaine might be the kind of guy keen to blow his best friend. Jemaine would have been indifferent to the matter, had said friend not been Bret, with his slender body, tempting lips and heated gaze.
So, slightly at a loss as to what to do, he turned his thoughts to himself. What did he enjoy in a blowjob? That seemed to be the best way forward. He trailed his tongue slowly, steadily up Bret's length, pleased with the delicious groan he produced. Pressing his fingertips into Bret's pale thighs he took a deep breath, steadied his nerves, and took the head into his mouth. Bret bucked his hips up immediately at the first touch of wet heat, over-sensitive and panting. Pleased with the reaction Jemaine grinned and moved a hand to press his hips down pointedly, earning a petulant whine of protest.
By the time Jemaine stopped teasing and enveloped the firm prick in his mouth Bret had been reduced to begging. His wiry legs had risen to wrap around Jemaine's body, locked at the ankle as if he had no intention of letting him leave. He writhed restlessly in his seat, pleading and cursing as Jemaine slowly discovered what drove him wild. He knew he was hardly an expert, but whether by luck or accident his mouth had driven Bret to the brink. "I'm…I'm gonna…" Bret stammered, his meaning clear, and groaned appreciatively when Jemaine did not pull away, but instead redoubled his efforts. "Oh f-fuck, that's s-so hot!"
Jemaine kept his eyes fixed on Bret's face as he panted. He wanted more than anything to see Bret undone, to fix the image in his head. He was flushed, biting his lip and rocking into Jemaine's hollowed mouth. It was almost perfect. The only thing better would be if Bret could know…
…and then he cried out Jemaine's name as he came.
How could Bret resist? His few sexual experiences had showed him how vocal he could be, and he had to let Jemaine know he'd recognised him somehow. At least this way he could show his appreciation simultaneously.
A few moments passed while he recovered before he realised that Jemaine had remained silent. Bret licked his lips and let his legs slide down Jemaine's body, parting in a way he was sure made him look slutty. He didn't care. Smiling lazily to himself, he slid bonelessly down in the chair, suddenly finding it a lot more comfortable in his pleasant, dreamy haze. Fingers that seemed to be trembling tucked him back into his underwear. Bret raised his hips without being asked, arching up fluidly and grinning to himself, wondering if the image was making Jemaine smile, but he got no reaction beyond his jeans being pulled up. "Thanks, man," he murmured as the zip was tugged. The fingers made an attempt at his button but, he realised, seemed to be shaking too hard to manage it. "Don't worry about it," he smiled. "Just pull my shirt down. Nobody'll notice. Or you could let me go, and I'll do it myself," he said pointedly, but with no malice. His situation no longer seemed so bad.
But still he received no reply. The thin material of his shirt was pulled over his lap, and then, to his surprise, he felt the close presence between his legs withdraw. "Jemaine?" he ventured, wondering what was going through his friend's head. He got no answer, beyond a brief stroke of his hair and a muffled, rather miserable noise. He cocked his head closer to the touch, and was confused when it was snatched away. "Jemaine," he said softly, gnawing with growing worry at his lower lip. "You're freakin' me out. Talk to me."
Silence, then a soft, sweet kiss was pressed to his lips. Before he could respond the person pulled away, and to his horror he heard footsteps retreating across the stage. "Jemaine?" he tried, hesitantly, and his breath caught as the footsteps did not halt. "J-Jemaine! Where are you going? Don't – you can't do all that and just…" His hands moved jerkily in the cuffs as if they'd suddenly be able to reach his blindfold and wrench it free. He heard the stage door opening and, trying to swallow his blossoming doubt, he summoned up his strongest voice and cried furiously, "I know it's you, Jemaine! Don't you fucking leave me like this, you bastard!"
The silence was deafening. It stretched out, then Bret squeezed his eyes shut in pained misery as he heard the click of the door shutting. "Fuck," he mumbled to himself, his head hanging. Was he wrong? Had some stranger just got him off while he pictured his best friend? Or, worse than that, had Jemaine got him off and then just walked away, like it was nothing? Like he was just some toy to use and throw away? Like…like this had actually been just a horrible joke?
"How did you know it was me?" Bret's head shot back up in shock, thumping into the chair, and he yelped. It was Jemaine's voice, albeit more wretched and guilty than he'd ever heard it before, and it approached accompanied by returning footsteps. "Watch yourself, you idiot," he mumbled, and those same hands returned to Bret's hair, rubbing the spot he'd banged.
"Who else would do this kind of shit to me, man?" Bret smiled, relief pounding through him like adrenaline. It was Jemaine. It wasn't some creepy asshole out to take advantage. It was Jemaine, and he hadn't walked away. His friend snorted.
"You can't just assume…"
"I felt your teeth."
"…What?" Bret smiled smugly, aiming it up at where he guessed Jemaine was.
"I don't know anybody else with a gap in their teeth, Jemaine. I felt it. With my tongue. When you kissed me," he added pointedly as Jemaine remained stubbornly silent. He sighed. "You gotta talk to me, man, I can't see you. Would you please untie me?"
"No." Bret growled in his throat, once again regretting ever agreeing to do this stupid play. Jemaine knelt beside the chair and rested his chin atop Bret's hand. "You'll hit me."
"No I won't."
"You will. You should," Jemaine assured him, his voice quiet and more than a little broken. Bret frowned to hear him sniffling, and felt the tell-tale wetness drip onto his hand. "Jesus, Bret, I practically –"
"– Gave me the best blow job I've ever had," Bret finished firmly. Jemaine was silent, and Bret carefully moved his hand to stroke as much of the thick, dark hair as he could reach while he sniffed miserably.
"But I've never…before."
"Well," Bret said mock-thoughtfully, bemused by how natural it felt to suddenly be having a conversation like this with his best friend, "I mean, maybe you're not exactly ready to start hiring yourself out. Don't start hanging out on street corners yet, hmm? Get a bit more practice in." Jemaine laughed in surprise, and Bret grinned in satisfaction. "But the handcuffs and blindfold worked in your favour, man."
"Yeah. It was really, really hot," he admitted softly, with no hint of a joke in his voice. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Jemaine replied, apparently instinctively, and both cracked up, feeling the tension ease a little. "So…even though I'm the creepiest, most despicable bastard you know, everything's okay?
We're still friends…?"
"I think if I stopped being your friend after you gave me a blow job like that, I'd be a very ungrateful friend indeed," Bret said dryly. Jemaine smiled, but poked him pointedly in the thigh.
"You know what I mean."
"We're still friends, man, but I'm pretty sure that we'll be more than friends before very long." Jemaine rumbled with laughter, and Bret was pleased to hear how delighted he sounded. When he spoke, he seemed to be trying to play it cool, despite the relieved hand that crept into Bret's grasp.
"Oh yeah? That's you assuming again, Bret. Are you asking me to, uh, date you?"
"Oh. Then why would we…?"
"I'll tell you if you take this blindfold off?" Bret offered, and blinked when light flooded back into his world within moments. He blinked awhile to get used to it, before turning his eyes up on a very welcome sight; Jemaine stood before him, arms crossed and giving him a fond, warm smile. Bret grinned in return and leaned his head back against the chair, eyes half-lidded and gleaming. "Hey, Jemaine."
"Hey, Bret. So, if you're not asking me out, how are we going to be more than just friends?"
"Because," he said slowly, a filthy grin spreading across his lips, "I'm going to be tied up like this every day until the play starts, and I don't think you'll be able to resist me for very long."
Jemaine's lips met his, and Bret was proved right.