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Of Schoolgirls and Stockbrokers	By : Raletha Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 1479 -:- 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-Of Schoolgirls and Stockbrokers
- 1
Of Schoolgirls and Stockbrokers

by Raletha

NC-17 :: 3x4x3 :: post-canon, humour, lemon, kink, romance, satire, language, PWP

He didn't resemble a girl at all.

But whether or not this was desirable remained undecided. Trowa smoothed the pleated front of his skirt against his thighs and peered dubiously at his reflection. His broad shoulders and slim hips wrecked the illusion. Quatre's more willowy build could have been far more convincing, except Quatre was to be spared this particular indignity.

Trowa frowned in recollection. He should have insisted upon two out of three games.

No, he sighed, he didn't look like a schoolgirl, more like some perverted version of a saucy Scotsman—except for the false breasts, which still didn't feel like they were sitting quite right. He tugged at the bottom of the bra's underwire but to no avail; it continued to dig uncomfortably into his pectoral muscles. Trowa was also fairly certain that even a saucy Scotsman wouldn't wear women's panties. If one were pressed to do so, he likely wouldn't choose them in red lace.

But upon red lace Quatre had insisted—despite Trowa's protestations that such racy (Red!) panties did not at all go with the Black Watch tartan of the skirt, let alone the prim style of the starched white blouse, white knee socks, and the shiny, shiny, black mary-janes.

Only the naughtiest schoolgirls would dare sport such underthings, Trowa had maintained.

"Precisely," Quatre had said with a wink.

That had been a startling glimpse into his partner's fantasies.

Trowa eyed the wig lying in one of the room's armchairs. It sat looking like some sort of deflated, auburn coloured rodent. It could stay in the chair, Trowa decided. The mascara, blush, and lip-gloss were more than enough of a concession. And he couldn't forget the waxing. He winced in memory of the whole body waxing he'd endured. Since he'd retired from the circus, he'd not had to suffer through such torture for vanity, but he could hardly wear a skirt and display hairy legs. At least that wasn't the particular image of femininity he wished to portray.

And yet... something about the feel of his own smooth skin, his bare thighs beneath the skirt, wasn't wholly unappealing. He shifted his legs against one another to feel the silky slide of smooth skin between his thighs. This sensation was answered by a speculative twitching of his penis.

Interesting.

Yes, there was definitely something about the free air moving around his legs, the more naked than naked feeling of hairless skin, and the tension of the thin fabric cradling his rousing cock. He smoothed his hands over his thighs again, and the fine wool of the skirt prickled against his hypersensitised skin. In the mirror, he watched the fabric covering his crotch shift over his burgeoning erection.

Very interesting—he certainly hadn't expected this. Considering his reflection, he widened his stance and arched his back to better display to himself the evidence of his own arousal. Cupping the shape of his erection with one hand, he rubbed his thumb along the hardening ridge. He hissed at the heavy throb of more blood flowing to his groin, at the increasing heat spreading over his skin.

Well, there was nothing for it. With Quatre not scheduled to return from the costume shop for another hour, he'd have to take care of this new, most fascinating development on his own. Removing the costume seemed the sensible thing to do, but it was—at least in part—the costume that had rendered him so aroused (not only that, but Trowa was disinclined to have to reassemble his artificial bosom later), so he did not undress as he lowered himself to his knees before the mirror. There was no direct line of sight between here and the door so he had some small warning lest housekeeping come. Trowa couldn't remember if Quatre had put the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the doorknob when he'd left that morning.

He fixed his gaze in the mirror, watching with an almost detached anticipation and curiosity as he lifted the edge of the skirt and revealed his hard cock, swollen and beginning to ooze. Its head jutted out from the top of the panties, and their elastic was distended around his balls; their scarlet lace sheer and stark against his flushed genitals.

Perhaps this was what had motivated Quatre's choice of his underwear. It was both an erotic view and an erotic sensation. He took his cock in one hand, using the side of that hand to push the elastic top of the panties down to the base of his erection. He stroked lightly at first, coaxing more surges of hot anticipation through his nervous system, more delicious and decadent tingles of building want. He teased himself while he watched his hand working his cock, his fingers—tanned and slim—so agile in their handling of the dusky flesh, so sure in their coaxing of more heat and wanton desire.

A shudder rippled through his thighs as he pinched the glistening tip with thumb and forefinger. "Fuck me," he swore to his flushed reflection and smeared a slippery trail of pre-ejaculate down his shaft. He met his gaze with a breathless and self-indulgent smile and sighed. "I am a naughty girl."

Oh, it was so sweet like this, the pleasure, the unexpected eroticism of his situation. He thought he'd discovered all his own sexual idiosyncrasies by now. To find something altogether fresh like this? It gave his arousal a sharp edge; this taboo and strange thing he'd only reluctantly agreed to—he would have to thank Quatre properly later.

And he couldn't deny the appeal of watching himself like this. He squeezed his cock more firmly, shortened and sped his hand along his length. Pleasure was heaping up in his groin, the heat was gathering, his balls were tightening. He was almost there... almost; it was so delectable this pleasure coming over him, so perfect in this moment just before the inevitable ending peak...

The door lock clicked, and Trowa froze, gasping at the serrated backwash of sensation following his abrupt cessation of stimulation.

The door opened with a muted whoosh of changing air pressure. "Darling, I'm back. The shoes were easier to track down than I thought."

Thank God, it was only Quatre.

Even so, Trowa grimaced, gulped a quick lungful of air, and willed the giddy disorientation of his near-orgasm to dissipate. He scrambled to his feet, smoothing his clothes. With some effort he managed to slow his breathing and keep his posture casual—even with the costume—but his mouth felt uncomfortably dry, his skin uncomfortably damp, and when he spoke his greeting sounded forced.

"Hi," he called stiffly, just as Quatre rounded the corner and they came face to face.

Quatre stopped and stared at him, his smile and words of greeting freezing on his lips.

Trowa's relief waned, and a sense of embarrassment grew as he observed his partner's expression melt from genial to something altogether different; although Quatre said nothing immediately, he simply stood and continued staring.

No, Quatre wasn't staring; he was gawking.

But at least Quatre's current immobility provided Trowa the chance to have his own first look at his partner's attire for the evening. Accustomed though he was to seeing Quatre in suits of many distinctive styles, fabrics, and colours, he'd never seen Quatre in anything quite like this.

Electric plum was the best description for the colour claimed by the boxy, single button blazer Quatre wore. It looked like some sort of vintage American fashion, and the way the light played—or rather didn't—over the fabric's texture suggested something synthetic and cheap.

And the shoes—the design was positively perplexing. What started out as conservative black wingtips were grossly distorted by a good three inches—perhaps even four—of solid, stacked platform soles.

"Oh...my..." Quatre stirred back to life with a series of rapid blinks and a shaking of his head. "You look, damn, you look... utterly beyond description." Quatre's gaze glided over him, taking in the costume, and his smile gradually blossomed to a wide grin of approval.

Trowa cleared his throat and folded his hands in front of his crotch, "I, uh, wasn't expecting you back so soon."

The strategic arrangement of his hands did not go unnoticed. Quatre's grin waxed wicked with an arching of an eyebrow. "But what have you been up to?"

Under Quatre's study, Trowa grew increasingly aware that the scant fabric of his panties provided neither adequate covering nor adequate support of his prized—and fully roused—private parts.

"Enjoying yourself?" Quatre inquired and prowled across the small distance separating them.

"You are, I see." replied Trowa feigning a coolness he in no manner felt.

"And here I expected to come back and find you... ah... grouchy," said Quatre. His fingers were cool and irresistible as they closed around Trowa's wrist and tugged his hands away from his lap. In Quatre's eyes, Trowa could see surprise, affection, and certainly amusement, but his partner's smile was not at his expense.

"You like the costume after all?" Quatre asked.

It might have been Quatre's gain in height from the strange shoes; it might have been the girl's clothing; it might have been the accidental discovery—both his and Quatre's—of the erotic potential of the situation, but Trowa felt a shard of anxiety catch in his throat. He felt vulnerable, and he couldn't recall the last time he'd allowed himself to feel thus. It had to have been the first time they'd made love, when everything had been novel, and neither of them was sure of anything but that moment.

Quatre stroked the back of Trowa's hand with his thumb, and that simple touch, meant to be soothing perhaps, in Trowa's current state sparked a fresh wave of desire.

"It's... interesting," Trowa replied.

Quatre tugged at the unbuttoned top of Trowa's blouse to peer within. "Nice tits," he commented.

"Thank you. They took a while to... arrange."

Quatre leaned closer and exhaled hotly past his ear. "I like the costume too, Trowa," he said, his voice low—rich and smooth as chocolate ganache. "You look amazing." Quatre's hand, which had been lingering at Trowa's, released his wrist and traveled to lightly brush the front of his skirt, glancing over the shape of his unrelieved and aching arousal.

"Quatre..." Trowa groaned.

"Are you wearing them?" Quatre fingers crawled over his erection, gathering up the material of the skirt. The moving fabric added its airy caress, bumping and swaying against Trowa's legs as Quatre tugged it higher.

"Yeah," he sighed and bit his lip to forestall betraying himself with a more emphatic sounding utterance. He tried to stay (relatively) calm, but Quatre's fingers, warmer now, ventured beneath the skirt, lightly scratching the front of the lace over his cock, and then descending to fondle his testicles.

"Do they feel...good? Do you feel sexy in them?" Quatre asked.

Leaning his temple against Quatre's cheekbone, Trowa squeezed his eyes shut and gritted out another shaky but coherent admission: "Yeah...I do."

A gentle chuckle answered him. "I can tell," said Quatre, turning his head and pressing his lips to Trowa's head. The deficiency in Trowa's undergarments he exploited ruthlessly, slipping a teasing fingertip into the gap between Trowa's skin and the strained elastic of the garment's leg opening. "Oh, I definitely do like these," Quatre murmured into his hair. "Easy access." Quatre hooked a finger about Trowa's erection, while his other digits continued playing with and occasionally darting behind his balls.

God, his cock ached—his whole groin ached with a hungry tension, and none of Quatre's caresses were doing anything to relieve or satisfy. He wanted—needed nearly—to fuck. It became his entire existence just then. Yes, it was such a desperate want, his passions inflamed to this point of single-minded clarity. He wanted Quatre; that was all. It was so simple, so perfect.

"Want to fuck you, Quat..." he mumbled and took Quatre by the shoulders to turn them both toward the room's king-sized bed. He pressed forward, forcing Quatre to take several short steps backward, and followed like a dance partner.

The stacked shoes made Quatre wobble. He made a small sound of protestation and moved his hands to clutch at Trowa's elbows to stabilise himself.

His half-hearted complaints quickly turned to hiccupping laughter. "You can't fuck me when you're dressed like that, Trowa."

"Like hell I can't..." Trowa took advantage of Quatre's bizarre footwear, easily pushing his partner off-balance as he steered him closer to the bed.

"It's just... not right, it's..." Quatre fell to his back with an 'OOF!' "... not right at all!" he wailed amidst his building laughter—the energy of which threatened to metamorphose into a rare fit of giggles.

Trowa fixed him with a stern glare and put his hands on the mattress on either side of Quatre's shoulders. "Look, if you expect me to wear this outside our room this evening, then you'd better be prepared to get screwed by the schoolgirl."

Quatre's laughter calmed, but his wide grin remained. "Huh, you know, you were right about those panties..."

"Hm?"

"Shall I blame them? You are naughty."

Trowa chuckled. "You have no idea how..."

"Then give it to me..." Quatre's eyes sparkled. "... an idea, that is."

"All right," he said, and kissed Quatre, open mouthed—and somewhat sloppily he felt due to the slippery lip-gloss—while he began undressing his partner. First he unbuttoned Quatre's blazer and shirt, spreading the garments apart on either side of Quatre's chest. Quatre's revealed bare skin summoned his touch and he obliged that summoning, skating his fingertips across his lover's torso, over his stiff nipples to the soft trail of hair leading from below his navel to beneath his waistband. Quatre sighed and squirmed under the light touch. Encouraged by his partner's eagerness, Trowa pulled off Quatre's socks and strange, heavy shoes, hauled off his slacks and boxers.

Quatre stretched and parted his legs. His eyes were wide and dark and—just then—solemn as he gazed up at Trowa.

Other times Trowa might have paused to admire his lover's sleek, flushed body displayed so provocatively. He might have savoured the exchange of wordless intimacy and kissed Quatre again: slowly, deeply, and tenderly. But he was in no mood to dawdle. He knelt on the bed between Quatre's legs and lowered his head. Roughly he licked at the weeping crown of Quatre's cock, noisily sucked his way down its hard shaft, and Quatre gasped in delight.

Trowa pushed Quatre's legs further apart, slid his grip to the back of his lover's thighs, and pressed them back. Obligingly, Quatre bent his knees, and hooked his hands behind them to draw his legs up higher, to his chest.

Now Trowa stopped—but just for a moment—to admire the spectacle of his enthusiastic partner, while Quatre murmured quiet, private words of entreaty. To answer them, Trowa placed a hand on either side of Quatre's ass, spreading the smooth cheeks while using his thumbs to gently lift Quatre's balls.

"Aah...h-how indecent," Quatre protested weakly even as he writhed in encouragement.

Trowa merely hummed his agreement, lowered his head, and placed a slow, glossy kiss behind Quatre's testicles.

Quatre groaned. "Oh...! You know I can't stand it when you do that."

Trowa let his mouth linger, adding his tongue to the play of his lips. Unhurried now, with his concentration shifted from his own pleasure to his partner's, he began his ultimate journey of seduction between Quatre's thighs. He inhaled deeply this most intimate scent of sex, of Quatre's desire, and he relished the tang of Quatre's sweat on his tongue. He ventured further behind the taut sac of Quatre's testicles, lapped at the smooth skin of his perineum, and, at last, circled the crinkled rim of Quatre's anus with the tip of his tongue. And Quatre moaned. Trowa pointed his tongue to probe the centre of the tense, little hole, and Quatre's moans turned to gasping, gulping cries. His hands clutched at Trowa's hair, pulling at and tangling in the gel-sticky strands.

Tightening his grip on Quatre's thighs, Trowa pushed his face forward and forced his tongue deeper, striving past the tight, twitching muscles, thrusting and stretching his tongue until the root of it ached and he'd saturated his senses with the taste of Quatre, of salt and bitter musk and heady need.

Lying between his lover's open legs, with Quatre chanting his name, his face buried between Quatre's thighs, and Quatre's ass so fervently gripping his tongue, Trowa forgot all traces of his earlier discomfort with his attire. He thought nothing of it when he finally pulled away from Quatre's body to yank off his tiny red panties (though he was careful not to tear them when he pulled them off over his mary-janes) and unzip his pleated skirt. While Trowa undressed, Quatre retrieved a small packet of lubricant from his breast pocket.

It was an inspiring spectacle Quatre made: his entire body blushing with lust, as he panted for oxygen and smeared the gel along the cleft of his rear before—most unabashedly—shoving two slick fingers into his loosened entrance. Trowa watched him, and their eyes met, Quatre's glazed and half lidded, even as his boldness began to falter under Trowa's scrutiny.

"Don't stop," Trowa murmured as he came back to kneel on the bed. The sight of Quatre's hand thrusting between his legs prompted Trowa to reach down and wrap his hand around his partner's cock. Trowa matched Quatre's rhythm, stroking and tugging Quatre's erection much as he had earlier handled his own.

The tension mounted quickly in Quatre's body; Trowa could see the glimmer of sweat on his brow and the needy creasing of his forehead. He watched Quatre's tongue creep out from between his teeth to touch his bottom lip, watched his eyelids slip lower to shutter his ardent gaze.

"Trowa, please..." Quatre whispered hoarsely and pulled his hand from his body. The remaining lubricant he reached and fumbled to smooth onto Trowa's cock. For a span of several dozen heartbeats, the two merely gazed at and masturbated one another, breathing in their silent communion.

But urgency quickly returned to Trowa's desire, and soon he had arranged himself above Quatre with Quatre's legs draped over his elbows.

And then he was sinking into the bliss of his lover's body, only gradually beginning to move, to build a rhythm as he savoured their closest joining.

He couldn't remember when it had ever been quite like this, when his blood had burned with such intoxicating heat, or his head had spun with such delirium and euphoria. Embedded in Quatre's bowels so deeply, with no more space between them, no barriers, no inhibitions, it was perfectly and brutally beautiful. He drove headlong, over and over, into the suffocating heat. His hunger and his fear chased him: hunger for more—always more—and the simultaneous fear of the inevitable loss that was coming.

He fucked Quatre, desperate in that moment to feel all of it, exist in every sensation—every touch, every cry, every scent and sight, every pleasurable pressure and ache of exertion, rushing them both toward climax even as he tried to hold back, to make it last an eternity in their hour.

Quatre yelled out with each collision of their hips and grabbed at Trowa's torso. His left hand found purchase on a false breast, and Quatre's closed eyes snapped open with a different cry—one of surprise. It broke Trowa's rhythm and focus, and he stopped with a groan, stared at Quatre staring at his own hand for a moment, clutching the lump of gel-filled mammary illusion.

Amused horror quickly overtook Quatre's slack expression of pleasure. "God... this...is...surreal," panted Quatre, and snatched his hand away to reposition it on Trowa's upper arm.

"I thought you liked my tits," growled Trowa, bending closer and giving a freshly emphatic shove into his partner's body.

Quatre hissed sharply before replying in stuttering breaths, "Only... to look at. Oh, I... don't know...what...the world is coming to..."

Trowa chuckled breathlessly, pulled back, and thrust again, deeply.

"Ooooh.... I mean... perfectly respe...respectable... fuh-fluh-floor-traders being molested by... schoolgirls... fuck."

"It's terrible," Trowa panted, withdrawing. "Filthy, really."

"Mmm... Sssooo bad..." Quatre mumbled and closed his eyes.

He shoved back in, seeking again the clarity in which he'd been immersed before.

"Ooooh...yes..." Quatre moaned.

Abruptly, he pulled all the way out and gave Quatre a sharp slap on the thigh.

"Crikey, Trowa..." Quatre complained, but he didn't seem very upset.

"Turn over."

"Yes, miss."

"God, Quatre, please don't-" he started; 'rub it in too much,' he was going to finish, but Quatre interrupted him.

"Then shut up and do me, you big stud," cooed Quatre as he arranged himself on all fours. He shot Trowa a wink and a crooked grin over his shoulder.

"You're the one who sounds like bad porn."

Quatre laughed, and Trowa moved closer behind him, arresting his partner's laughter by sliding the pad of his thumb between Quatre's buttocks and pressing it against his pliant opening. With a startled choking off of his chuckling, Quatre fell silent, flexed his spine, and spread his knees more widely on the bed.

Trowa bent his thumb's knuckle and pushed the digit inside, firmly and deeply. It might pale to the intensity of pushing his cock into Quatre's gut, but the feeling of initial constriction giving way to embracing heat thrilled him nonetheless.

Unerringly, he found the sensitive nerve cluster he sought. Relentlessly, he rubbed, pressed, and cajoled that singular spot until Quatre was rendered utterly incoherent and his entire body quaked. Then—only then—did Trowa poise himself to penetrate his partner again. The massaging of his thumb he stilled, but he did not remove it or relinquish the pressure he applied to Quatre's prostate as he pushed the head of his cock in alongside. A deep shudder shook Quatre's breathless form, and his elbows buckled. While Trowa slid deeper, Quatre pressed his forehead to the bedspread and sobbed.

There could be no holding back now. Each inbound thrust Trowa accompanied with a throb of his thumb against his pleasure-vulnerable target. Each withdrawal dragged the underside of his cock over his knuckle and added to the sweet friction of Quatre's body.

They'd both been driven so close to their limits, it ended too soon for Trowa. But then, the end was never truly welcomed. Quatre came first, his throaty moans and guttural cries sounding as if Trowa had dragged them from the deepest reaches of his being. Trowa soon followed, his orgasm crashing over him as a hot wave of fleeting revelation.

And then it was over. Reality returned with heavy limbs, sweaty clothes, and dry, gasping throats. Trowa pulled out, and Quatre collapsed to lie flat on his stomach.

Trowa bent down and kissed Quatre between his shoulder blades, and then fell to sprawl on his back beside his sated lover. He closed his eyes and for some unknown span of time simply experienced his breathing and his heartbeat.

At last Quatre stirred, and Trowa opened his eyes.

"Mmpf," said Quatre, and rolled onto his side to face Trowa.

They exchanged weary smiles and a soft, lingering kiss. When the kiss ended, Trowa spoke first. "Thank you," he said and touched Quatre's jaw with his fingertips. He hadn't noticed the detail earlier, but now it seemed stark: his short nails were painted a pale, translucent pink. It looked strange, seeing his own hand so atypically adorned in such a familiar setting—touching Quatre's face. He dragged his fingers against the direction of hair-growth and felt the stubble just under Quatre's smooth skin. Everything about their recent encounter had been like this: novelty overlaid upon the familiar. He'd never guessed it could be so exciting.

"I saw Hilde in the lobby today," Quatre said, breaking Trowa from his reverie.

"Oh?"

"She's here with Duo. She's...ah..." Quatre trailed off with a chuckle.

"Yes?"

"She's going as a day trader."

The invitations to Sally's birthday party had been very specific. Each couple was to consist of one schoolgirl themed costume, and one stockbroker themed. Trowa felt a smile curving his lips. "And Duo?" he asked.

"Well," Quatre said. "Let's just say you won't be the only guy wearing a skirt at the party tonight."

the end.

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Of Schoolgirls and Stockbrokers

Of Schoolgirls and Stockbrokers