Funny How Love Is (Maylor AU)

Chapter 70

The end of the day seemed like an impossible destination for the professor and the music instructor, the hours dragging on at a snail's pace. While Brian taught his classes, finally getting around to the lessons that would be addressed on the final that drew nearer and faster than both he and his students were prepared for, Roger—his face clean of the makeup that previously stained it—wandered around the campus, looking for students he could recruit for the next semester, or even the rest of the current one. He needed to secure his place at the university; it was the only way he and Brian had any chance of growing close, and of Brian gaining the courage to do something about their attraction to one another. A small part of Roger wanted to do something himself, but he knew he couldn't—not with Tim breathing down his neck and Chrissie keeping a sharp eye on him.

As he passed through the deserted second floor—hands shoved into his coat pockets and a cigarette sticking out from the corner of his mouth—the sound of a heated argument hit his ears. He raised a suspicious eyebrow and changed his lackadaisical waltz into a brisk stride, the shouts growing louder the closer he approached the end of the hall, where Headmistress Mullen's office sat.

"Stop lying to me, Chrissie!" a deep male voice boomed. Roger wasn't entirely sure, but he swore he'd heard that voice before. It sounded so familiar.

"For Christ's sake, I'm not lying to you!" Chrissie yelled back.

Roger reached her office with a newfound sense of caution, slowly peering into the room through the door's long, thin window and seeing the headmistress perched on her desk, legs crossed, hands placed behind her on the desk, and frustration in her rolled eyes. His attention quickly shifted to the man who entered his view, dressed in a suit and tie, hands woven into his hair, and head hung low. The blonde didn't need to see his face to know who it was—it was Chrissie's husband, Timothée.

Roger grunted as his body shifted up the mattress after a particularly hard thrust from Timothée, his hands gripping the sheets in the hopes of some sort of purchase. His ass, currently perched in the air, was sore from all the spanks it had received, and the skirt—haphazardly flipped up to rest on his back against his button-up—began to itch, but the blonde had no right to complain with the lofty payment he was receiving per hour.

A slight stutter in Timothée's movements told Roger the other man was close, and he silently prayed that the transaction would soon be over, his own cock having lost interest minutes ago. The high-pitched moan that escaped Roger's throat came from a place of discomfort rather than pleasure—not that Timothée could tell the difference—and the small tear squeezed from his eye immediately was absorbed into the pillow underneath his head.

It seemed like an eternity before Timothée pulled out and finished with a breathy groan, most of the mess ending up on the back of Roger's thighs. As the client tumbled down to lay on the bed, noisily catching his breath, Roger rolled off the mattress and staggered over to the mirror neatly hung above the dresser, a wobble to his walk. The blonde aggressively ripped the tie from his neck and stopped for a moment, contemplating his actions before reaching back to clean himself up.

"Hey, no, use this instead," the client interjected from behind the younger man while tossing a pillowcase at him. Roger greedily accepted the offer, relieved at the prospect of avoiding another fight with Tim over ruined clothes. He wiped away the sticky substance in silence, keeping his back to Timothée the entire time.

"Are you mad at me?" Timothée quietly asked from his spot on the bed, almost sounding innocent if it weren't for the current situation he just partook in. Roger didn't even have it in him to verbally answer, ever so slightly shaking his head in denial of the question as he stared himself down in the reflective surface and fiddled with the disheveled wig placed upon his head. The inquiry remained unanswered as the blonde turned around, giving Timothée a fake smile that quickly faded.

"I should get going," Roger sighed, fixing his skirt and walking towards the closed bedroom door. "I'll see you next time, yeah?"

"Wait." Timothée's gentle command stopped the prostitute in his tracks, standing at the foot of the bed. "Can't you stay a little longer?"

"You've already used the hours you paid me for, and you got cum on my skirt. I'll have to clean it before it stains," the blonde replied, his attention and hands focused on the undone button of his shirt in avoidance of facing the older man, now sitting up on the mattress.

"You know money isn't a problem for me, darling," Timothée smirked, reaching for the wallet in his discarded trousers. "And you didn't even get off this time."

"I don't get paid to get off. I get paid to make sure you get off," Roger grumbled, shifting his gaze to the floor in faint embarrassment at talking back to a client. Luckily, they'd been seeing each other long enough that his defiance didn't faze Timothée at all.

"Come on, sweetheart, that's not the right attitude to have," he cooed, pulling a thick stack of bills from his wallet and arrogantly waving them to catch the blonde's attention.

Roger bit his lip as he looked up at the feigned charm exuding from the older man and his wad of cash, knowing Tim would encourage him to go for it even if he was ready to leave for the night. "But isn't your wife due back soon?" he questioned, gingerly settling himself back down on the bed across from his client.

"Don't worry about her. She's out with her friends getting pissed, leaving me all alone in this big empty house with no one to talk to or play with..." Timothée pouted, slipping the folded money into the waistband of the prostitute's skirt, "...so, please, stay just a little longer. Don't you like spending time with me?"

A clear disconnect existed between Roger's mind and body as his cock, still slightly hard and visible through his thin skirt, twitched at the words spilling from Timothée's mouth. The blonde huffed and rolled his eyes, gently pushing against the client's shoulder to have him lay back against the mattress. He settled himself against Timothée's waist, straddling the other man and silently cursing at himself for choosing not to wear underwear as he felt the client's length against his bare ass. Before the situation had a chance to escalate, the sharp squeak of the door interrupted the moment and both men directed their attentions to the threshold where, standing in the shadows, was Chrissie.

"It's not what it looks like!"

The memory ended abruptly as Timothée's voice was replaced with Chrissie's, the wife now saying the exact same thing her husband did the night she walked in on them.

"Then what happened to your knickers yesterday? Huh?" he shouted at her, completely ignorant of where they were, "You didn't leave the house not wearing them, I know you didn't!"

"I told you! I had an—" The headmistress's drastically quieter explanation was cut short, her tired eyes meeting Roger's and doubling in size.