Lashings of Sauce

Dressing Down by Clare London-4

I’ve always been pretty good at recognizing when a party’s coming to its natural end. I’d been to get Gaz and me another drink, but a lot of the visitors had already left, and the ones that were left were flagging. Vincenzo was slumped in a chair in the lounge, deeply asleep. Someone had put his cap into his lap and filled it with what looked like strawberry jelly. I didn’t want to be around when he woke up and put it back on his head. Over on the couch, Lily and Ginger huddled together, giggling. Lily’s pins had all fallen out of her hair, and she’d given up any pretence of keeping her shirt buttoned. Ginger had spilt cherry cola down her baby-doll and the fur trim was looking sticky. But they looked happy enough. When I last talked to them, they’d confessed neither had found the novelty of dancing with clergymen particularly inspiring.

According to some of my other friends, the clergymen had enjoyed the novelty of dancing with the Tarts, but that’d be another story to tell in the morning.

No one had danced with Gaz except me. There appeared to be an exclusion zone around us. Did I give off that possessive aura? I wasn’t bothered if I did. I’d clung to him throughout the evening and ignored the dropped jaws around us. No, that wasn’t exactly true. I’d really enjoyed the effect and so, I think, had Gaz. His hands had been on me all night, whether just stroking my arm or hugging me to him.

I stepped carefully over the collapsed bodies in the hallway. Someone had sat on Chris’s mitre, and it lay in a squashed heap under the hall table. He’d drunk far too much punch and passed out. He now lay huddled on the hallway floor, snoring, his back against the wall. Bren had shed his cowl a long time ago, and sat on the floor beside his boyfriend in shorts and a T-shirt, eyes almost closed and humming something that sounded like a bastardized version of Climb Every Mountain.

Gaz came out of the lounge and looked over. Our eyes met. He flushed. I carefully put our glasses down on the hall table and waited for him to join me at the foot of the stairs. “We’ll get our jackets,” I said, though no one either listened or answered.

We went upstairs and found the guest room. There weren’t many coats or jackets left to collect now, just a small heap in the middle of the bed. It was dark in the room, but I didn’t turn on the light. Neither did I bother looking for our coats. I picked up the whole pile and put them carefully outside the room on the landing. Then I turned back to the bed and pulled the door firmly shut behind me. An extra bonus was a key in the lock.

Playfully, I pushed Gaz down onto the bed, and he fell flat with a curse and a laugh. One of his shoes twisted off his foot and spun over onto the carpet by the window. I followed him, tumbling with him on the mattress, kissing, nipping, my hands groping up under the lace edging of his corset. He grunted, his voice muffled against one of the thick pillows.

I banged my shin on the table beside the bed, and something clunked on to the floor. I think it was either Gaz’s other shoe or the bedside lamp. Gaz shifted and I yelped, my finger caught and twisted under one of the corset bones. “s**t, Gaz, how are you meant to get this thing off?”

There was an exasperated sigh, and his head emerged from under a pile of cushions. In the dim light of moonlight through the blinds, Gaz wriggled away from me and stood up on the bed. The mattress bounced, and he spread his legs apart, holding his balance with care.

“Gaz?” I sat up, panting, bemused and, let’s face it, very horny.

Gaz reached a hand to his chest. The front of the corset was fastened with thin, silky ribbon, albeit loosened and a little sweaty after all the dancing. He caught the end of it between his fingers, and tugged. There was a gentle, teasing creak from the bones of the corset as it opened wider. “I can show you,” he whispered. The garment started to peel away from his torso.

I nodded, dumbly. Then I wondered if he could see me in the dim light. Then wondered if he was going to go ahead anyway. My throat was very dry.

Gaz laughed softly. He slowly unlaced the rest of the ribbon. The corset fell down onto the bed with a soft thump. Gaz’s n*****s were very prominent against his pale skin. His n****e ring glistened. It looked like he’d run a wet finger over himself, making the silver shine and the nubs of skin harden. The thought of that made my throat even drier.

“Take off your shirt,” he said. Not exactly an order, but I wriggled out of my shirt indecently quickly.

He bent forward, leaning down his leg. There was a sharp snap, and I saw the shadow of a garter belt flapping out against his tight thigh. Another snap, and another slim piece of laced elastic swung loose.

I drew in a fast breath. It almost hurt. “How does it feel?” I whispered.

Gaz’s limber body bent again at the waist, and his hands started to roll something down his leg. I heard the soft whisper of sheer silk. I saw the deeper shadows of muscle on his calf: the shine of smooth, shaved flesh as it was slowly uncovered. “Fabulous,” he whispered back. “Fun. Powerful. Beautiful.”

“f**k,” I said, in some awe.

Gaz started to laugh, but bit it back. “If you don’t like this…?”

“Don’t stop!” My voice squeaked with almost-panic. “I mean…” I swallowed, hard. I slipped the zip of my trousers because things were getting way too uncomfortable down there. “I just never thought you’d be so perfect in the part.”

“Hush,” Gaz said, throatily. “Go back to the ‘f**k’. And let’s take it from there.” He unfastened the skirt and let it drop, a creased bit of silk that was barely modest in the first place. Then he slipped his hands inside the waist strip of his thong briefs, and pushed them down. His c**k sprang out free, thick and shining at the tip. He stood there, his legs bobbing gently on the shifting mattress, his costume just a small pile of fabric at his feet. His body slim but muscled, the skin taut, everything very male: all male. Naked. Stripped. Mine.

I gave up pretending to be discreet with my trousers. I dropped back down on to the bed, tugging them over my hips, my legs flailing in the air, my foot catching on the hem. I cursed a couple of times, trying to keep my voice low. My c**k was thickening fast, straining to be set free, pressed so hard against the seam of my briefs I thought it might be permanently disfigured.

Gaz dropped to his knees on the bed beside me, reaching out to help. The mattress creaked. Someone flushed the toilet downstairs; someone else slammed the front door behind them. The party was over. No one was going to disturb us up here.

I sighed with immense satisfaction. “You are such a Tart, Gaz.”

“You reckon?” He chuckled, but now his face was nestled between my thighs and his breath tickled the skin under my balls. “So you can leave the money on the table. That’s if you can afford me.”

My answering laugh was deep and rich. “Aren’t I supposed to be a Vicar?” Gaz was licking slowly over the front of my briefs, warming my erection, mouthing the shape of it under the cotton. I groaned. “Is this appropriate behaviour for a man of the cloth?”

“It will be,” came the muffled, impatient reply. Gaz slid his hand in under the cloth, pulled out my d**k, and his mouth ghosted over the swollen head. “You’re about to be well and truly unfrocked!”