The Dusty Courtyard

Sonny

I checked the coast was clear—it was—and I relieved my bladder onto my pee-bale, now situated in the walled gardens. Over the past two weeks—though it may have been more, may have been less, difficult to keep track of the days in Stinkhorn Manor—my pee-bale had been alternating between the gardens and the paddock where the ley lines met.

Claude spent most of his time practicing weather glamour, switching between the teacup in his rooms and the storm magic in the field. It was going frustratingly slowly, but I tried not to let it register on my features. Claude hadn’t so much as conjured a drop of rain or a gust strong enough to blow a single tea leaf. I was starting to worry he might not have it in him.

After day seven or eight, he sent me away. “Go and find the library, or go do some gardening or something. I can’t concentrate with you around.”

I tried not to think too much about his dismissal. Did he mean I was a distraction in a bad way? Or, well, not a good way, but... a good way? Like, did he like me?

So, that was what I did. I planned and recorded lectures, and logged into the university’s online system to chat with students, and I worked in the gardens. I scattered wildflower seeds on all the bare patches of soil, and watered them in with Claude’s butt water. I didn’t have any good compost to hand, but I’d found a decent-sized empty area behind the walled gardens where I could create the beginnings of a compost yard.

Jenny had provided me with timber and some tarps, and basically everything I needed, and I built a row of bays to start the new compost off. Jenny had also given me a wormery, so it wouldn’t be long before the quality of the soil began improving.

I planted veg in the veg gardens, and fruit bushes under the cages, and even found time to trim the shrubs out the front of the bed and breakfast, turning them into little topiary sculptures of mushrooms, because what else would I shape them as?

I traipsed the grounds around Stinkhorn Manor and took all sorts of soil and fungi samples to study in my private lab.

And Claude would update me with how he was getting on, though each day he seemed more and more dejected. “I’m pretty sure a leaf moved today, but I did sigh, so it might have been that. The air was moister by the ley lines this afternoon, I think.”

We needed to mix it up a little. Still have Claude practise the weather magic, but break up the days by trying other things. The ritual might not even be the lightning storm. We should test out other theories just in case. I had a few tumbling around in my mind.

The other consistent issue of the past couple of weeks was the searing, agonising need to come. Waking up each morning was getting more difficult. My cock was harder, more painfully full with each erection. The urge to climb on top of Claude and put on a show that ended in me striping his chest and face with my cum was getting almost impossible to ignore. I should ask him for consent, before my dick robbed every single droplet of blood from my brain and I simply short-circuited.

Claude had the same issues as I did. I swear every morning the tent he made under the duvet grew by an inch.

“I’m gonna crack,” I would tell him. “I can’t handle it anymore. It’s painful, Claude. Why is it painful? I feel like a fucking teenager again.”

“It’s always watching,” he’d reply, in reference to the house.

“Maybe I don’t care. Maybe I just need... to come.”

“Gods,” he’d said, running two hands down his face. “Me too.”

But I had managed not to touch myself. Somehow. Managed to think of the least sexy thoughts every time I found myself hard. But honestly? I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d last. If Claude didn’t want to wank in front of the house, well, that was up to him. I on the other hand—pun unintended—needed the release more than anything.

I also needed to stop thinking about all of this while taking a piss. I’d get a chub again and crimp the flow.

I finished peeing, tucked myself back into my jeans, and did my fly up, just as Claude came tearing around the corner and into the walled garden.

“Sonny! Oh, good, you’re... here. Jenny said... you would be,” he said, running up to me and grabbing both my arms. He was panting, his cheeks red, sweat beaded on his forehead. “Run. You need to run.”

“Run? Why?”

“She’s . . . she’s . . . looking for you,” Claude said between gasped breaths.

“Who is?”

“Mrs Ziegler! She wants... your pee-bale.” He braced himself, holding his knees, trying to catch his breath. He must have run here from his room, or the paddock.

“What the fuck? Why?”

He held up his hand to indicate he needed a moment. “She said she’s going to... stuff Mr Dupont’s... mattress with your piss hay.”

“No. She can’t do that. That’s my pee-bale—”

“Professor Daye?” called out an unnerving and familiar voice. A haunting, deep, demonic voice. The sound of it echoed through my marrow, chilling my bones.

“Shit! She’s here. Hide,” Claude said. His head spun left and right, looking for somewhere to run.

“Here, this way!” I grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side of the house, into the alley adjoining the tiny courtyard. “Jenny? Disguise the entrance, please.”

With that, a wall of ivy grew over the opening, just as Mrs Ziegler marched into view in the walled garden.

Claude and I peered through the gaps in the leaves. I tried to steady my breathing, tried to make as little noise as possible. Maybe she’d see I wasn’t there, and she’d go away. Give up. Let me keep my pee-bale. I’d been working so hard on that over the past couple of weeks.

I hadn’t realised how small the alley we’d crammed ourselves into was. My back was flush against one wall, Claude’s back against the other, our bodies aligned with only an inch gap between us.

“Professor Daye?” Mrs Ziegler called out again, this time with a little more aggression. She stepped into the space a mere five feet away from us.

Both Claude and I stiffened, scared to move even the smallest muscle in case she heard.

“Where is that insufferable mycologist?”

I mouthed the word “Insufferable?” to Claude, and he shook his head.

“Well, if he’s not here to defend it, it’s mine.” Mrs Ziegler walked over to my pee-bale and magicked it into the air.

“My pee-bale!” I whimpered, reaching out my arm as though I could take control of the floating, urine-soaked bale.

Claude slapped a hand over my mouth. Pressed his body against mine. And instantly, all the fight left me.

His palm was soft. It smelled like him—soapy and musty and earthy. His chest rose and fell against my stomach. His eyes bore into mine. I had momentarily forgotten about Mrs Ziegler, but I caught a whiff of ammonia and my pee-bale floated right past the gap in the wall.

I shut my eyes, unable to bear witness to its loss. I only knew it and Mrs Ziegler were gone when Claude removed his hand from my mouth. I opened my eyes to find him staring at me, bouncing his gaze over my face.

“My pee-bale,” I whined again. Goodbye all those soil-enriching nutrients.

Claude took a big inhalation. “Sonny, forget about the pee-bale. I’ll get you a new one, okay? And I’ll buy a tanker of soda and fill it up for you.”

“You would do that for me?”

He didn’t answer. He simply stared at my face for the longest time. His pupils dilated, his chest heaved against mine, and all thoughts of pee-bales were wiped from my mind. Scratch that, all thoughts altogether had been wiped from my mind. Only one remained.

Just how much I wanted Claude to crowd up into my space and push his tongue into my mouth.

Gods, I wanted that so fucking much.

I tried to will my mouth to speak. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me . But the one time I seemed unable to blurt out my thoughts was the one time I desperately wanted to.

After a few moments, Claude spoke. He glanced at my lips and then gazed into my eyes. His voice was scratched and rough, sandpaper against rocks. “Truth or dare? And say dare.”

“Dare,” I whispered.

I knew what it would be before the words left him. “Kiss me.”

My body responded before my brain, slamming my lips down onto his. The back of his head knocked against the alley wall, as I angled his mouth to mine, claiming it feverishly, like at any moment he might stop me. But he was the one to take things to the next level. He was the one to push his tongue into my mouth, to caress mine with urgent, hot strokes.

Any hopes I had of keeping my erection at bay were decimated. It pressed insistently against his abdomen. Claude’s arousal dug into the crease of my thigh and pelvis.

But before I got too used to the sensation, Claude pulled off me. He closed his eyes. “Go away!”

“Wha—”

“No, not you. Never you.” He cradled my face. “Jenny. The house. It’s whooping.”

“Whooping?” I repeated, barely containing my laugh.

Claude pinched his smile between his teeth. “Please, Jenny, just give us a moment alone.” He paused, for what felt agonisingly close to several minutes. “It says it’ll stay quiet. And let us...” He slowly blinked his eyes closed. “And let us get down to business.”

It wasn’t an outright rejection, and my lips already missed his. “May I kiss you again?”

Claude didn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. He brought his hand around my nape and pulled my head down to his, mashing our lips together. I whined into his mouth, and Claude swallowed it down.

His kiss was pleading, insistent, desperate. Tongues and teeth and panted breaths. His hand, once gentle around the back of my neck, snaked its way to my shoulders and forced me backwards against the wall. I did the same to him until we were playing this push and shove game of urgency.

“More. I need more,” he said, ragged and breathless. “I need these dirty fingers on me. I mean, if that’s okay with you.”

“Come through here.” I held his elbow and guided him through the alley into the dusty courtyard. And immediately I slammed him against the wall again. Slid my hands under his lapels, over his shoulders, and shucked his jacket. I tossed it onto the pink metal bench. His waistcoat was next, then the buttons of his shirt. I pushed it open but let it hang from his shoulders. Our mouths remained connected the entire time.

I pulled away because I needed to look at him. Had spent so long wondering, imagining what he looked like underneath that adorable conductor’s uniform. I’d been right. He was perfect. Brown skin dusted in copper coils. He had a tummy, beautiful and round. I hovered my hands above it, waiting for his consent.

Claude seized my wrists and pulled me to him, pushing my fingers up his naked torso.

“Sonny, I can’t tell you . . . how many times . . . I’ve thought about this. Can I?”

“Yes.” The word escaped without any consideration of what he might be asking.

Claude lifted my shirt over my head and threw it in the same direction as his jacket and waistcoat. We paused our kiss only for the fabric to pass over my lips, and then his hands were on me in a way that didn’t give enough time for insecurities. Didn’t give me time to think about my scrawny, boyish, six-foot- seven frame. My chest that curved inwards instead of out. My complete lack of any downy, manly covering. My skin so pale it was almost translucent.

He touched me like he was worshipping me. Like he was trying to memorise the shape of me through his fingertips alone. Then he wrapped his arms around my shoulders and his kiss turned more furious, more heated, more urgent.

Our bodies slotted together perfectly. Where my body curved in, his curved out. He bucked his hips against me, rolling them, holding them, pinching the head of his cock against my hipbone. He cried out into my mouth and bumbled an apology.

But it was all the encouragement I needed to replicate his movements, rocking against him, already chasing that delicious friction, shuddering with the overwhelming need.

And I knew in that moment my two weeks of holding back were over. I was coming today. There would be no stopping either of us now. In all likelihood, I would come in my jeans. And I was okay with that. Two weeks of neglecting my dick, all because that bloody house was watching.

At that moment, I could have searched the entire Stinkhorn estate and not found a single fuck to give.

I was gonna come. I was finally gonna fucking come. I was already dangling dangerously close to the edge.

“You feel so... Gods, it feels so...” I could barely get my words out. “I’m ready to end this pact right now. Are you? Tell me you are.”

“Yes. I’ve been so desperate for weeks,” he panted. “I need—can I touch you?” He paused his hand above my belt buckle, and scrunched his face into a ball, as though the pain of abstaining from dry humping me was overwhelming him.

“What about Jenny?” Just because I’d stopped caring whether the house had a live porn show didn’t mean Claude had. He was the one who could hear it, the one who would have to listen as Jenny discussed or recounted what it’d seen. Possibly in blow-by-blow detail. Or hell, what if it would narrate?

Claude shook his head. “I can’t hold back any longer. I need this, Sonny. I need to fucking come. I’ve never been this desperate before, and honestly, I’m losing my mind a little here. I want these dirty, muddy, painted fingers on me. Please. I don’t care if the fucking house is watching. Let it. Let’s put on a filthy show for it.”

“Ye—” I started to say, but before I finished, I mashed my mouth to his again, my hands already clawing at the fastening on his trousers. His hands whipped my belt open, yanked my fly down, and dove straight into my boxers, wrapping around my cock.

My knees wobbled, I fell forward, and cried out at the blissful intensity of Claude’s warm fingers on me.

“Sonny, you’re perfect. So fucking perfect.”

I wiggled his trouser fastenings loose and pushed down his underpants until his cock was free.

A half-anxious, half-exhilarated laugh escaped my lips. It—Claude’s cock—was enormous. It had no right to be so big. Mine, in comparison, seemed teeny, and it wasn’t as though at six-seven it was disproportionately small.

“You’re... fucking huge,” I said, as I closed my fingers around him. They just about met. If we did fuck, and I really hoped we would now we didn’t care that Jenny could see, I would need a serious amount of prep to get me ready for that. Hours probably. “I think you might give Jasper a run for his money.”

Claude huffed out a laugh, which morphed into a guttural cry as I began to stroke him. I aligned our hips as best as I could, our cocks as flush as our height differences would allow. Claude’s fingers brushed my wrist as he closed the circle around both of us.

We worked in perfect unison. Our hands bobbing at the same time. Even our breaths and moans were harmonised. Our pace quickened. The desperation dropping away, crumbling like a canyon wall, as we both realised how close we were to falling.

“Claude, slow down. I’m gonna come.” I pressed my forehead to his and panted into his open mouth to steady my breath.

He slowed, matched my rhythm again. “I don’t want this moment to be over.”

But before I knew it, our joint pace had increased to almost punishing speeds. Our mouths were connected, but we were no longer kissing. We no longer had the breath power, or concentration levels for that. With his free hand, Claude slid his fingers behind my head, locking it into position by grabbing my hair.

“I’m gonna make such a mess of our clothes,” he huffed. It sounded like both a promise and a threat.

“Claude, I’m so close,” I said, my voice refusing to be any louder than a whisper.

He flattened himself against the wall and pulled my head back to look me in the eyes as he stroked me. “Come on me. Paint me.”

“Oh, gods,” I managed to get out before my orgasm, the one that had been building for two weeks, washed over me. Blacked out my vision. Shot silky white ribbons up Claude’s bare chest and stomach.

His whole body jerked and spasmed. He pulled my head down to his again and buried his face in the crook of my neck. He groaned, and wet heat exploded over my fist. Claude’s climax seemed to last an eternity—I was transfixed. Until he fell back limply against the wall and I saw just how much mess he had made.

“You weren’t lying,” I said, flicking my wrist to the ground so gravity would remove most of Claude’s jizz. “My jeans are wrecked. Your trousers might need dry-cleaning, too.”

There was jizz everywhere. All over our bare stomachs—both of our messes swirled together—on my jeans, Claude’s suit trousers, the sides and cuffs of his shirt, on my canvas trainers, and in stripes across the dusty earth.

He laughed. “I did warn you. That’s two weeks of cum right there.” Gods, why was that so adorable?

I tucked my sated cock inside my ruined jeans, Claude did the same to his, and I reached for my T-shirt. I wiped my hands on it, then used it to clean the cum off Claude’s stomach. He watched me with soft, unfocused eyes. I turned the shirt inside out and cleaned myself up.

“Can I kiss you again?” Claude asked. That he had to ask made my heart ache.

I cradled his jaw with my least jizzy hand and brought my lips to his. Soft this time. Savouring. There was no longer the urgency we felt moments ago. I took my time, enjoyed him, made it last. His lips were pillowy soft, and he tasted of chai tea. The skin beneath my fingertips was still smooth from his morning shave. He kissed me back with feather-light strokes, didn’t try to ram his tongue into my mouth, didn’t try to claim it. If anything, my heart beat quicker than when we’d kissed the first time.

It was exploring, gentle, caring, kind of sloppy in the way we learned the shape of each other. Imperfectly perfect. His fingers tickled over my bare shoulders, down my ribs, up my arms, and the tiny hairs on my body rose in their wake. Goosebumps blossomed. I fought an indecent moan. I wanted to live in this moment forever.

This one. Not the hot, heavy, breathless moment we shared a few minutes ago.

The kiss came to its natural conclusion and Claude took a few moments to study my swollen lips. I watched as his eyes traced the lines of my face, and a subtle smile tilted the corners of his mouth. His pupils were blown wide, his freckles glittered, and I’d never seen him look more beautiful.

“We should go back to our rooms and change out of these trousers. Maybe shower,” he said.

“That’s a great idea,” I agreed. The waistband of my jeans and the parts of my stomach where I should have cleaned more thoroughly were sticky. Though secretly, part of me lamented having to step away from the courtyard, and Claude. I would spend all day covered in his drying cum if it meant he would keep looking at me like he was now.

We were quiet as we walked back to the house, relaxing only when we got through the main doors where it wasn’t likely any of the bed and breakfast guests would be lurking. Thankfully, no one spotted us. I had my balled-up, cummy shirt in my hand and Claude had roughly buttoned his, but hung his jacket and waistcoat over his forearm. If anyone besides Jenny saw us, there’d have been no doubt in their minds what we’d been up to.

“Thank you,” Claude said, as we ascended the spiral staircase to our rooms. “That was very... perfect.”

“It really was.” I smiled at Claude. “Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer if the question is offensive. I’m just a little curious.”

“Sure.” He fought his own smile.

I gave a nervous laugh, suddenly feeling like I might be overstepping the line. “Would you say you’re about average size for a shroom fae, or did you win the genetic lottery?” Scrap that, I’d leapfrogged over that line and into the next realm.

“Oh.” He scratched at his brow. His eyes passed over my naked torso, over the crusty crotch of my jeans, and back up to my face. “You’ve heard of my father, right? Angus Stinkhorn?”

“Yes, of course.” One couldn’t conduct the level of research I had into shroom fae and not hear about the explorer, Angus Stinkhorn. A man more famous for his conquests than his discoveries. A man who once allegedly refused to pack for a three-month excursion to the Oread Mountain Range, commenting, I’m already packing. “So, a bit of both, then.”

“All the better for freely spreading his spores.” Claude shrugged, as though the mention of his dead father had no impact on him. “Perhaps I should be more concerned. There may be other Stinkhorn bastards floating about who might usurp me as the Lord of Mushrooms.”

“Oh, gods, I never considered that before. But it might not be such a bad thing if there were. For one, the burden of saving this place wouldn’t fall squarely on your shoulders.”

Claude opened his mouth to say something, stopped himself before any words came out, closed it again. “I guess you’re right. That would be... a relief.” The corner of his lip twisted up into a smile, but I couldn’t tell for sure what emotion played on his face.