Strip Night!, Let's get the boys together

[Zoe]

“I said,” repeated Faramir as though to an inattentive child, “do you know how much I love you?”

Boromir quirked a reluctant smile at the sight of his ever so serious brother, staring at him as though they were the only people in the room and ignoring the cheers, hoots and whistles coming from the intrigued crowd. “I think I do,” he said, so quietly that only Faramir could hear.

“At bloody last. In that case, park yourself down there, shut up, don’t hit anyone and wait for just five minutes more. Then…” Faramir moved in tantalisingly close as he said this and ran a caressing hand over Boromir’s back and down over his arse…”if you can still move, you and I are going somewhere quiet, and peaceful and you’re going to show me your appreciation for what I’m about to do. Agreed?”

Boromir, agreeing wholeheartedly with this planned programme, managed a nod and what felt horribly like a rather gormless grin. He climbed back down the stage steps as Faramir strode off backstage and headed back to the booth, which was now empty. Without being asked, a waiter brought him a tall, misted glass and set it down on the table next to him. There was a note accompanying the drink: ‘You’ll probably need this; I know what he’s about to do. See that you have fun, boyos. Catch you later, Dylan.’ Boromir sipped at the drink and laughed. It was iced water.

The crowd settled themselves back down as a mist flooded the stage. Pale lights played down, illuminating the whole area like moonlight. It rather reminded Boromir of home. The mist billowed, and revealed…Faramir. There was no music, and you could have heard a pin drop in the bar as Faramir slowly and surely began to remove his clothes.

Graceful, poised and not once taking his eyes off Boromir, all he did was get undressed. Jacket, bow-tie, shirt went first, revealing a muscled torso and bowman’s arms. Boromir gaped and had a swig of water, amazed that steam didn’t pour out of his ears in response.

He had no idea how he’d done it, but Faramir had managed to remove those strange trousers in one neat move (prompting a small round of applause and a muttered comment of ‘well, I can’t do that, I fall over!’ from somewhere behind Boromir. It would appear that his brother had done his whole song and dance routine ‘Ranger’ style as he was now totally and utterly naked. Gorgeously, phenomenally and mesmerisingly naked.

It was the first time that Boromir had ever properly looked at his brother and see the beauty therein. The whole performance had been for him and his benefit alone, and the result was ball-achingly erotic. Boromir chugged the rest of the water in one gulp, shot to his feet and opened his arms to Faramir, who simply walked down off the stage, through the crowd and into his brother’s embrace.

[buttonbright]

There were three fingers now, twisting like eels inside Eomer's well-lubed channel. Three fingers -- and his body gripped them hungrily.

Yet this was not enough.

"I need your cock!" he pleaded, turning his head as far as it would go. "For God's sake give it to me. Give it to me now!"

Chuckles of lascivious amusement were heard all around him. More and more men seemed to be watching him, and drawing nearer until he was walled in by a solid ring of male flesh. He could see hands rubbing chests and crotches, sweat beading brows and throats.

Then he gave a gasp. The three fingers had been suddenly withdrawn, sucking every atom of air from his lungs. And at last he felt it -- a domed head nudging at his entrance, pushing him apart, sliding inside him. He braced himself for the revelation that would follow, the glory he had never imagined or anticipated, the bliss he had felt with his King. Any moment now, he told himself -- any second -- it would rise up and fill him. His very next breath . . .

Nothing yet.

Perhaps the penetration was proceeding too slowly. He pushed himself back against the man who was fucking him, pushed back hard till he felt bone against his buttocks. Surely now . . . ?

It felt fine. Better than fine. It felt good. But "good" was not what Eomer hungered for. "Good" was not what had tempted him out of his sleeping King's bedroom and into this steaming vat of utter maleness. "Good" was not revelation, it was not glory, it was not bliss.

The anonymous man behind him pulled back and thrust again -- and again -- and again. His technique seemed to be fine -- excellent, even -- and Eomer could find no cause for complaint. And yet . . .

What on earth was the problem?

Perhaps if someone else were to try . . .