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by James


There are a lot of things Wesley thinks about. A lot of things he spends entirely too much time thinking about. He knows this, has never doubted it about himself. He developed the habit too early on, of depending only on his own thoughts for entertainment, to be able to stop thinking unless he uses something else to stop his mind from whispering.

Times like this one, he does both. He's been thinking -- too much -- about other people, certain someones he can't ever realise fantasies with. Certain someones he has no right to think these things about. He indulges, then pushes them away until they crowd out all other thoughts in his brain and he has to come here.

In both meanings of the phrase.

He lays on his back, his legs in the air, and someone in the darkened room is fucking him. He doesn't know who, he never asks, rarely looks. It doesn't matter, as long as the actions are right and there are no demands made of him greater than 'roll over, I want to take you the other way'.

The bench is cool on his skin, and uncomfortable. He could easily have gone into one of the other rooms, found a comfortable if questionably clean bed, or found a spot against a spot against which to be taken. But he prefers this room, its utter lack of decor and its austere touch. Everything is anonymous here, and that is the way he wants it.

He's brought his own partners into this room with him, in his head. It doesn't matter who the man is between his legs, driving into him with forceful pounding thrusts. He closes his eyes and lets his mind provide him with a face, with a voice, and as long as the person fucking him says nothing, it will all be perfect.

The man is grunting, now, and that's fine, it doesn't distract him. Fingers are digging into his legs and he would demand that he grip tighter, leave bruises and shove his way into Wesley's body as hard as he can and devil may care for damage done. But he doesn't wish to speak, and that's more important than having things adjusted slightly. Another man will do it that way, just as another man will be gentle in his demands. He gets fucked by them all, eventually. As long as he's fucked he doesn't care.

He's gripping the edge of the bench, wishing and pretending, and the rescue of his body is short in coming. He can feel it, the tension thrumming in his legs and his stomach. His partner can tell, he's changed the way he's thrusting now and has grabbed onto Wesley's cock. He doesn't bother telling him he doesn't need it, to come. He accepts it, lets the man do what he likes, and behind Wesley's closed eyes someone else is taking him, and that is all he needs.

He shouts as he comes, and the man whose cock is inside his arse groans, then he is coming as well. Still fucking quickly, as long as he can before he must slide out. Wesley lets his legs drop, and doesn't look over.

The man doesn't try to say anything and Wesley wonders for the first time if he's been fucked by this particular stand-in before. He doesn't ask, doesn't look over as he hears the man leave the room. Wesley remains where he is, panting very slightly as his heart beat races. His chest is sticky, splattered with his own semen. There might be a towel somewhere, but there will be a shower later before he leaves and then will be soon enough.

Someone else walks into the room, and Wesley meets his eyes. Nothing is said, and this man is no one he remembers seeing before. Without a word, Wesley raises his legs, and the man walks forward. The man smiles as he positions himself, and against the offered greeting Wesley closes his eyes once more.

the end

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