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“But you are doing this for me,” Malcolm says, drawing closer – too close – towards Ollie and pointing at – now touching – his chest. Ollie can smell the sharp scent of the gents and Malcolm’s expensive cologne. Ollie can hear the slight echo to Malcolm’s voice from the tiled walls, and his own nervous swallow.
Ollie is very, very hard, as he so often ends up being whenever Malcolm pays him attention for just long enough to shout furious, well-thought-out threats, and he is hoping that Malcolm somehow, somehow, doesn’t notice.
Malcolm doesn’t move away.
“I– I… ”, Ollie stutters. “I can’t go back to Emma, Malcolm.”
“Yeah? Knew I should have sent you to Mannion’s other one instead. Phil Smegma, whatever his fucking name is. Let you rub your tiny cocks against each other and have him spunk his side’s ideas all over your hairless chest. Do you need some tips on how to bang a bird, you queer cunt? Because I can fucking give you those. Or do you need some further motivation?”
To Ollie’s horror, Malcolm moves his hand down to brush against the tent in Ollie’s suit trousers, and his cock gives a twitch.
(He and Emma haven’t had sex for weeks, in his defence, and Malcolm is bloody Malcolm.)
“Of course I’ve fucking noticed,” Malcolm seethes, looking as if he wants to roll his eyes. “I’m director of communications for this great and ignoble government; it’s my fucking job to fucking notice things.”
“So, um– ” Ollie tries, his voice sounding high, the sweat on the back of his neck making his skin prickle. His head swims with how much he needs to come right the fuck now, and all Malcolm’s done is look at him and shout at him and touch him. “Perhaps you could offer these tips of yours in a few days’ time? In writing?”
“Is this what you want, Oliver?” Malcolm murmurs dangerously in his ear, and Ollie has so rarely heard Malcolm use any version of his actual name that it makes him even harder. “Will you patch things up with horseface if I fuck you up your scrawny arse?”
Ollie scrunches up his eyes and sort of nods.
“Right. You’re your past and future girlfriend, and I’m, God fucking help my soul, am you, though thankfully only for the duration of this fucking exercise. Now, you got anything other than twenty quid and a fucking student railcard in that wallet of yours?”
“Wh- ah, I have-“ Ollie manages to say, feeling his face flush hotter, and his fingers fumble for a sachet of lube and a condom in his wallet’s central pocket.
“What’s this, you’ve got lube as well? Have you got a Barry White album? Quite the little Boy Scout, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes Emma needed a little extra… help.”
“Aye, I bet she did. Those few fifty or so times when conjuring up images of Prince Harry’s posh army mates just weren’t quite enough to distract her from your bastard quivering face.”
Ollie exhales a shaky breath he had been holding, and wildly wonders whether there is any possible escape strategy, or else any chance his raging hard-on is going to disappear this very bloody second.
“Does she like missionary? Do you?” Malcolm asks. “See, I think the best way is like this– ”. And Malcolm forcibly turns Ollie around so that he is facing the mirror too, and bends him over the sink.
Ollie’s eyes flick towards the door.
“I locked it when I came in, you twat,” Malcolm says. “I might have had to punch your fucking lights out.”
He can only see as far as the door because his glasses are still on. Ollie would have usually removed them by now; this time around, he’s not sure he’s allowed. Malcolm wants them on, as if he wants him to remain as clothed as possible. And for him to be able to see everything.
“Anyway, so she’s like this. You can grab their tits... “ Malcolm continues, as he runs a terrifyingly gentle finger over one of Ollie’s nipples.
Ollie to his shame, squeaks.
Aware of his hands flapping hopelessly by his sides, Ollie steadies himself by moving them so that they are clutching the outer sides of Malcolm’s thighs.
“Do not,” Malcolm whispers, “fucking touch me. Your hands aren’t good enough to touch my suit”. Ollie makes another high, involuntarily noise, and hangs his head in shame.
“No, look up. Look up at the fucking mirror. And put your hands on the sides of the sink. Yes, like that. Don’t fuck about.”
Still wrapped up in his bloody coat, Malcolm slowly unzips his trousers and pushes them down just enough to reveal evidence of arousal that, positioned like this, Ollie can’t even fucking see.
Ollie briefly considers the idea that Malcolm’s had a hard-on every time Malcolm’s bollocked him. The image makes him feel, for a moment, powerful.
“Malcolm, have-”
“Did I ask you to talk? Did I ask you to fucking talk, you fucking pathetic… stick of fucking broccoli?”
Ollie watches himself shake his head in the mirror.
“If you don’t shut up,” Malcolm intones silkily, “I will shove something deep down your throat to shut you up. Do you fucking understand me?”
Ollie gives a tiny moan, and blushes even redder. Even the idea of getting to his knees on the hard floor and… the idea was so excruciatingly humiliating and arousing–
“So,” Malcolm continues, as if Ollie could think of Emma right now if he tried. “Like this, you get a great view of a generous arse. Not that the site of your twiglet body bent gives me much pleasure.”
For a moment, Malcolm pauses.
“Undo your fucking belt,” Malcolm then instructs. “Let’s get this over with.”
Still bent forward and with shaking fingers, Ollie does so, and shoves his trousers and underwear down to his knees, freeing his erection, embarrassing in its heaviness.
With a single finger, Malcolm actually touches the cleft of Ollie’s bare arse, shitting Christ, from top to bottom. He needs just a bit more, Ollie thinks, just a bit more of Malcolm and he could finally come, come humiliatingly all over the bathroom tiles–
“Spread your legs,” Malcolm intones, and Ollie instantly complies.
Ollie feels so exposed like this, bent over under Malcolm’s eye when Malcolm is still as buttoned up as he was outside in London’s January. Malcolm pushes Ollie slightly forward so that Ollie’s leaking dick is rubbing against the sink. Ollie gasps.
“Be quiet,” Malcolm says, not even looking at him.
The sound of foil being torn, and the feeling of two of Malcolm’s fingers inside his arse mean that Ollie has to grit his teeth in an effort not to touch himself. In the mirror, he looks debauched. Malcolm looks untroubled.
He breathes heavily and obviously as Malcolm just begins to find a spot inside him that makes his arch his back and desperately need more of that right now, God. An initial moan comes from loss of contact, then a shudder of anticipation as he hears the snap of latex behind him.
“You fucking disgust me. You’re a fucking incompetent pathetic hanger-on turncoat,” Malcolm spits, and then Ollie’s lips part in exquisite shock and his dick hardens still further when Malcolm pushes inside.
Malcolm thrusts in and out, hard, and – unexpectedly – his (lube-covered) fingers reach up and pull firmly on Ollie’s hair.
Ollie can’t stop moaning, even though he can see himself and hear himself and, hell, probably the whole of Richmond Terrace can hear him, but the only person that matters right now is Malcolm. Ollie’s cock rubs against the sink on Malcolm’s every thrust, but – shamefully – the only thing he wants more than for Malcolm to just touch him is for Malcolm to never stop filling his arsehole like this.
Malcolm looks furious, incredible. “You’ll fuck dour right-wing cow after dour right-wing cow, Ollie, when what you really want is for precome to be dribbling out of your gaping arse and for you to be left to sort yourself out afterwards. Used and tossed aside, like some– ah– ”
Malcolm speeds up, and Ollie can think of nothing but just how balls-deep Malcolm Tucker is inside him as Malcolm exhales; somehow he manages to come without much fanfare.
Unceremoniously, Malcolm removes and knots the condom. “Now wank yourself off into the sink, you repulsive tart,” Malcolm says, still menacing but in between slightly ragged breaths.
Via the mirror, Ollie watches Malcolm watching him with casual disdain, and sees his own flushed, roughed-up self furiously jerking himself off with Malcolm’s words still ringing in his ears.
It only takes a few strokes before he comes. He bites his lip to stop himself groaning, but he can’t stop his hips canting upwards as he tips over the edge.
“Now, wash that mess down the plughole,” Malcolm says, his hand on the door handle, ready to leave. “And if you don’t get it up again for Lady Bitchface and give the opposition that legacy tonight, I will personally stick an orange segment in your mouth and disembowel you organ by organ. Right?”