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Behind the Wheel	By : Raletha Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 1587 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing/AC, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Behind the Wheel
- 1
Behind the Wheel
by Raletha

NC-17 :: graphic sex, language, kink, adult themes :: Trowa/Quatre
Come

Pull my strings

Watch me move

I do anything

Please

"Not that one," came Quatre's voice close in Trowa's ear. "I want the one with shimmer."
Trowa quirked a half smile at his reflection and set aside the chestnut coloured lipstick he'd been about to apply. He reached for the tube of lip-gloss, a sheer and pale neutral tone with plenty of shimmer. The thick gloss tingled as he drew the wand across his lower lip, and then swept a generous amount of the stuff into the peaks of his top lip.
"Sometimes," Trowa said and returned the wand to the bottle, secured the cap with a deft twist, and set it aside. "I worry you're objectifying me." He selected a lip brush from the porcelain cup holding the rest of his makeup brushes and uncapped it. Leaning closer to the mirror he pushed his lips into a pout and evened the spread of the gloss to the edges of his lips. In the bright illumination of the room, the sheen looked almost metallic, and his lips were already swelling from whatever it was they put in the lip plumping gloss.
"I am." Quatre chuckled in his ear. "You're too pretty not to."
This time Trowa's smile reached both sides of his mouth. He blotted his lips with a tissue and examined his work: very shimmery. The closest camera whirred; Trowa glanced over and saw its lens telescoping, tightening in on his reflection.
"Speaking of pretty," Quatre said. "You know what I'd like to do to your mouth right now, don't you?"
A flash of memory mingled with promise, and a shudder trickled down Trowa's spine: Quatre's hand fisting tight in his hair, Quatre's cockhead nudging his lips apart, the smear of gloss along Quatre's length, the taste of Quatre sharp on his tongue. "Pity you can't," replied Trowa, reaching for the mascara.
"I'll be home this weekend."
Carefully, Trowa brushed his eyelashes black. "You'll be too jet lagged to do anything but lie there."
Quatre laughed. "You can open your other parcel now, if you like."
Trowa stood and pushed the low stool back under the dressing table. Air swirled about his naked upper thighs and his cock jounced heavily in its scant covering. Upon the bed were an open shirt box and an oversized shoebox nestled amidst wrapping paper, tissue paper, and ribbons. A third, smaller parcel sat nearby, unopened.
"Wait," said Quatre, and Trowa halted between the dressing table and the bed. He stood motionless, calm despite the hot pulse under his skin. The fluffy edge of the baby doll chemise he wore brushed the bottom curve of his buttocks.
"I want to look at you," Quatre continued. "The white looks amazing against your skin. Turn around please."
Slowly, Trowa turned, looking directly into each camera as he did so. Thousands of miles away Quatre was at the other end of the cameras' feed, directing their movement from his laptop. Directing Trowa.
"Do you like the boots?"
"Yes," Trowa answered. The white patent leather embraced his legs up to mid thigh, and the platforms were not as difficult to maneuver in as Trowa had feared. Much easier than stilettos.
"How do they make you feel?" Quatre asked.
"Naked," Trowa replied. The closeness and warmth of the boots on his legs did make him feel that much more bare everywhere else.
"And?"
"Turned on."
"Show me," Quatre said. "Show me your cock."
Trowa lifted the front of the baby doll and hooked the thumb of his other hand in the elastic of the g-string, tugging the front of it down to his balls. His gaze lowered from the camera to his exposed erection.
"You're so pretty," Quatre murmured. The gust of his exhale burred through the audio feed. There came a click from one of the cameras: Quatre snapping a still. Trowa knew, far away, that image was coming warm from Quatre's photo printer. Later, after the laptop was turned off, Quatre would lie on his hotel bed and look at the stills he captured of Trowa, look at them and touch himself, touch himself like Trowa knew he wasn't now.
"God, you're so hard already," Quatre said. The breathing in Trowa's ear quickened, and Quatre didn't speak for several more moments. Trowa held his pose: head tilted forward, eyes downcast, genitals bared. He kept his own breaths even, and he waited. "Trowa," Quatre breathed, and Trowa closed his eyes, felt the syllables of his name from Quatre's lips sink into in his blood. Their affection and longing vibrated through his cock making it quiver to the cadence of his heartbeat. It had been a long four months apart, and even Quatre's imminent homecoming did not ease the ache of unfulfilled desire.
"I miss you," Trowa said.
"Five days."
"Not soon enough."
"No," said Quatre, and then, "Go to the bed, Trowa, please. Open your other parcel."
Trowa released his garments; the band of the g-string snapped against his cock, trapping it, only half covered, against his belly. The flimsy fabric of the baby doll swirled an airy caress over his cockhead, and settled, caught against his skin by his pre-ejaculate.
Before he picked up the unopened box, he collected the empty boxes and wrappings, stacked them neatly and bent – deliberately, backside toward a camera – to set them on the floor next to the night table. He gave the remaining parcel a push across the bed and lowered himself to the mattress. The bedspread in this room was decadently soft, silver faux fur, and Trowa took his time crawling to the centre of the bed, letting his hands indulge a slow slide through the velvety pile of the cover, letting his performer's vanity enjoy the hum of the cameras tracking him. He twisted and lowered himself to his side and adjusted his wireless headset. The tiny contraption often felt on the verge of falling from his ear. Satisfied it remained secure, he pulled the package toward himself.
A tug pulled the ribbon free, the paper came off with a crackling rip, and Trowa held a shiny black box with a hinged lid. It was too short to be a musical instrument, and too large to be jewelry.
"Open it," Quatre prompted.
So Trowa did. Nestled in blue satin was a dildo. It was purple, translucent, and slightly curved. It had a flared base and the shape, while reminiscent of a phallus, was streamlined, slick almost. This relieved Trowa, for he possessed an abstract disgust toward sex toys that too much resembled disembodied body parts. He removed it from the satin, turned it over in his hands – this was a novelty. Quatre and he had never before incorporated toys into their sex play. Its length and girth were not too dissimilar from Quatre's own endowment, so Trowa felt confident he could accommodate it in whichever way Quatre so desired.
"Come closer and lie on your stomach, facing me."
Trowa rolled forward and slid himself toward the edge of the bed, toward the closest camera. Leaning on his elbows, he dangled the dildo between a thumb and index finger.
"Bend your knees."
Trowa lifted his feet into the air, the heavy platform soles tugged uncomfortably at his ankles, so he parted his thighs and crossed his ankles, letting each buttress the weight of the other. The fluffy edge of the baby doll draped the small of his back.
"Do you like your gift?"
Trowa smiled.
"Suck it, Trowa. Show me how you like to suck my cock with your pretty mouth."
A shiver prickled Trowa's skin. All Quatre had to do was talk to him like that, and Trowa got a little dizzy. He started with his tongue, sliding the flat of it beneath the end of the silicone phallus. Long, slow strokes of his tongue alternated with rapid flickers of its tip. With each long lick, he rolled his hips lazily against the bed. He heard Quatre swear, heard the camera click, and wondered if this time, he might inspire Quatre into masturbating while they were online together. He shut his eyes and pulled back from the dildo. Closing his lips he pressed the tip against the seam of his mouth, pushed his lips apart with it, pried open his jaw, pushed its slick thickness across his tongue, relaxed his throat to push it deeper, deeper –
Until he gagged. Coughing, he yanked it from of his mouth. Even the gentle curve was too much to take all the way into his throat. He wanted to, but the angle was wrong. If he turned it over, so it curved down his throat instead of up against his soft palate, maybe –
"It's okay," Quatre said, breathless, but not breathless enough. "It's okay," Quatre repeated. "That was – Trowa, I could almost feel it."
Unbidden, Trowa rolled to his back and scootched closer to the centre of the bed, knees bent with his booted feet braced against the bed's surface and his legs wide apart. Overhead, the light glared in his eyes, and he lowered his lashes. The chemise rode up baring his back to the plush bedspread and his belly to the air. He swung the dildo over his face, as if Quatre were kneeling above him, and batted it with the tip with his tongue, making it bounce against his lips. He sucked it into his mouth, lifted his head to swallow more of it, but didn't take it too deep this time. With his memory of Quatre's preferred cadence Trowa fucked his own mouth with the dildo: not too fast, slow enough to savour it all. Since he'd changed position without Quatre's instruction, Trowa expected to be told to stop, but it was a while before Quatre spoke again, and when he did, it wasn't 'stop' he said but, "Touch yourself, Trowa.
"Touch, but don't make yourself come yet." Quatre continued. "Just feel yourself."
Trowa changed to a one handed hold on the dildo and rested his fingers upon the exposed shaft and head of his cock. Lightly and with fingertips only he touched, traced the flared ridge of his crown, the blood thickened veins below, and back up to the wet tip. The scarce contact made him tremble, but he allowed himself only as much as Quatre directed. He panted through his nose and his jaw began to hurt. He was, after all, out of practice.
"Okay," Quatre said. "You can stop." Trowa heard rustling. "Wait a moment, please." The line went silent, and Trowa lay, lips numb, arms spread wide, catching his breath. Aching.
Quatre wasn't gone long. He returned with an appreciative hum in Trowa's ear. "As much as I'm looking forward to Saturday, part of me will miss this too."
Trowa opened his eyes and tilted his head back to look, upside down, into a black camera lens. "We can still play like this when you're home," he said. "If you want to." Trowa didn't need to see Quatre to know he was smiling.
"What I want is for you to take off that g-string, turn around, and get on your hands and knees."
A thrill fluttered in Trowa's belly as he complied. He eased the g-string off over the boots, and let out a little whimpering moan as his cock came free. He rolled over and came up to his knees, turned his back to the cameras, and fell forward to all fours.
"Spread your legs a little wider, arch your back," Quatre said, and Trowa did. "That's good," Quatre praised. "This is how I want you when I get home. Just like this. For now? I want to look at you more. Open yourself for me, please. I want to see you." Quatre's voice softened, lowered. "Show me where you want to take my cock."
His exhalation stuttered as Trowa lowered his shoulders to the bed to take his weight upon them. He turned his face to the side, pressed his cheek into the bedspread, and sought the contact of a camera with his eyes. The folds of leather behind his knees compressed uncomfortably into the back of the joints, but he ignored the discomfort and reached back to grasp his buttocks. It was unnecessary to hold himself open for Quatre: his posture was doing that, but he held himself anyway, attending closely to the rush of Quatre's breath, waiting for Quatre's next words.
"I wish I could kiss you," Quatre said. "When I'm there on Saturday, I'm going to open you with my mouth. I'll fuck you with my tongue till you're begging for my cock."
"Quatre," Trowa whispered raggedly. Aching more. "Please."
"I want to," Quatre murmured back. "God, I want to, but you're going to have to do it yourself for me." Quatre gave a lush sigh before speaking again, and Trowa heard the arousal breaking his voice. "Use your present, Trowa, and show me how you want me to take you on Saturday. Show me," and his voice faded to a whisper again, "please."
Trowa had to crawl forward to retrieve the lubricant from the night table, but returned to his previous place and arrangement. The baby doll bunched under his arms, and the bedspread's softness was a delightful tease against his nipples. Both the lubricant and dildo were cool against his entrance. He rubbed himself with the slickened tip of the phallus, circled and massaged his hole, jiggled against it, coaxed the muscle to relax enough to – Ah, there! – just push inside.
But he needed more lubricant. The silicone caught at his skin in a way Quatre's flesh did not. More lube helped, but he was still so tight. The dildo was also solid and heavy in a way Quatre was not. His body wanted to resist it more, but Trowa pressed resolutely against that resistance, felt himself opening – slowly, steadily – as he pushed deeper into the thick constriction of his own flesh.
An appreciative rumble rose in his throat, and passed his lips as a groan. It was the opening that he liked the most, that first aching yield of his body. And he loved the way, once inside, Quatre wouldn't move at first, he'd still and wait for Trowa to reshape and relax around him. Thus Trowa held the dildo unmoved for a time, felt the stiff shape of it deep in his belly, felt its coolness dissipating into heat.
"How does it feel?" Quatre asked.
"Heavy," Trowa said. "Full."
"Good?"
"Yeah." He was panting a little now, and a film of perspiration failed to cool his skin. "Not as good as you though."
Slow and shallow, Trowa started, changing angle a few times and using the curve of the toy to apply pressure where he wanted it most.
"I'm touching myself for you, Trowa," Quatre said softly, a quaver infecting the words.
"You are?" Trowa asked, redundantly, but he wanted the confirmation, wanted to hear Quatre say it again. He thrust into himself with longer strokes, still slow – measured so he could feel it all. He tucked one shoulder beneath himself and palmed his balls with his free hand.
"Yeah," Quatre said, a catch in his breathing. "Before, I got undressed. Now I've got my hand on my cock."
"For me?"
"Yeah, for you."
Trowa bit into his smile.
"If I were there," Quatre said, "I'd pull out and flip you on your back now."
"Okay," Trowa said, pulled the toy free and rolled to his back, squeezed a fresh dollop of lube onto his fingers to smear over his opening and pushed back in with an easy slide. This angle was better, and he could touch himself more.
"Fuck yourself harder," Quatre said. He gasped as Trowa complied. "Yeah, like that, just like – Fuck, you're hot."
From experience, Trowa knew there was a direct correlation between Quatre's level of arousal and the frequency with which he used the word, 'fuck'.. With one hand he worked the toy; the other, he closed around his cock, and Trowa said, "Say fuck again."
"Fuck," Quatre said emphatically. "I'm going to fuck your ass so hard on Saturday..."
"Good," murmured Trowa.
"Ah... Trowa, I'm close." Quatre swallowed a moan into a grunt. "Are you?"
"Yeah, Quat, yeah." Trowa closed his eyes and listened to Quatre's breathing, to the little sobbing cries he made, coming faster and more incoherently. "Kiss me when you come. Kiss me..."
Trowa tried to will the evaporation of the next several days, tried to force time into a blur so that when he opened his eyes, it would Saturday, it would be Quatre fucking him, and it would be Quatre's tongue passing over his bottom lip as his climax took hold. It shuddered through his limbs, squeezed rapture from every nerve...
But when he opened his eyes, it was just him: alone, sweaty and gasping, pulling a length of silicone free from his body and listening to Quatre, panting for air thousands of miles a way. Thousands of miles and five days.
"Hey," Trowa said softly. He rolled to his side and stroked the plastic of the headset with a finger.
"Mmm, hey," Quatre replied, his voice lazy with satiation.
"That was fun."
"You're amazing. To do all those things for me."
"I love doing it." Trowa grinned. "It's not a chore, you know."
"I know," Quatre said, amusement warm in his voice. "It's just – you know."
"Yeah," Trowa said. Quatre couldn't – or wouldn't – reciprocate. He was too modest, too self-conscious, too many other things. "Thank you for today." Trowa smiled at the camera. "Thank you for coming with me."
Quatre chuckled. "You know? I think that was our first simultaneous orgasm."
Trowa was sure that it had been, he nodded. "For a moment, I believed you'd be here when I opened my eyes."
"Soon, I will be."
"It'll be worth the wait." Trowa stifled a yawn against the back of his hand.
"It's late there. Do you want to sleep?"
"Mmm, it was a long day." Trowa sat and unzipped the back of one boot.
"I'll leave the line open for a bit."
"All right." He dropped the boots to the floor and pulled the baby doll off over his head.
"Sleep well."
Trowa pulled the bedspread back and slipped between the sheets. He could shower later, wash the bedding later. He had five days. "See you soon," he said to Quatre before unhooking the wireless from his ear. He cradled it in his palm and settled comfortably on his side. No further sound or motion came from the cameras, but Trowa knew, as he drifted off, Quatre was still with him, watching over him.

the end

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Behind the Wheel

Behind the Wheel