AUTHOR: The Corrupter
RATING: Possibly "PG" (for those of you who don't read the Glossary, that's PornoGraphic) for young and overly-sensitive 'uns... good ol' blah fun for others who can take it
CHARACTERS / PAIRING: Like I actually have to fill in this part... *rolleyes* Note that their relationship is very different than what you're normally used to. Take it as you will.
SUMMARY: See title? Ok. That's about it.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: First, R/T are... um... friends... or at least, very... friendly... or something. Second, the people who have read this already say it doesn't suck (hm, love that word)... much. Third, Pooh is an angelic prude, so she's not sure when she was unfairly labeled as "The Corrupter," but what's done is done. Sigh. She and her hotties were getting all toasty one night when one of them suggested she put her creative skills to use and write a sexfic. Of course, she protested vehemently since she's not that kind of gal (hehehehe) and this is what she came up with (hohohoho). Proceed at your own risk (hahahaha).
DISCLAIMER: Heh. I keep saying they're not mine, but I'm so delusional, I can't be too sure anymore.


WARNING!!: The following contains content that may be offensive to under-18 readers, or over-sensitive "adults." You've been warned. If you send feedback b*tching about the ending or the content, Pooh, Fectas, and hotties will giggle over them, then go shag our hotties (individually, not some weird pervy orgy thing). Bwahahaha!!!

“Don’t touch that!” Rory’s voice rang out in the dark silence, the undercurrent of desperation in her voice.

There was a faint tsk and melodious chuckle. “But it’s so juicy. So… soft…” A hum of delightful surprise that ended in an elated murmur. “I never knew…”

An embarrassed silence ensued. “Tristan, I…” Rory gasped, taken by surprise. “Ahh…”

“It looks delicious.” Chuckle.

His laughter was interrupted by a sudden scraping noise, as if a metal object had been bumped by accident, or in haste.

“Don’t do that!” Rory’s voice came out breathy, a pant of weak objection. What could she do? Tristan was much bigger and stronger than she was, and there was no way she would be able to stop him from doing whatever he damn well pleased.

Simultaneous surprised “oh” came from the both of them.

Tristan recovered first, emitting a soothing, seductive laughter. It was followed by the soft sigh of something fluttering to the floor. Then another. “Don’t be so uptight. Just relax,” he cooed, thoroughly enjoying himself.

Fidgeting ensued. “I can’t believe you just did that.” Rory hissed, barely audibly. She squirmed, banging a bare leg against one of the metal counters. One of her socks had fallen down, resulting in the touch of cold metal to overheated flesh.

“I couldn’t resist.” The smirk was evident in his triumphant voice. “Don’t worry… It’ll be over in a little bit.” Calm. Assuring.

“We’re going to leave a mess.” Rory, sounding slightly frightened.

“We’ll clean up. Like all the other times.” A predatory and innuendo-filled chuckle uttered in a deepened tenor voice.

“I…” Bump. “There’s not enough light in here.” Rory, whimpering.

“I thought you liked doing this in the dark. Preferred the dark.” Tristan, voice lowered, conspiratorially.

Grunt. More movement. A squeak of the counter. Soft, startled, yelp.

“I don’t think I can do this.” Rory, sighing softly.

Tristan’s voice, lowered to a low, practically inaudible level, murmured encouragingly to her before breaking down into various other sounds. Groaning. Strained noises. Another squeak, and the blatant sound of rustling fabric.

“Here. Put it between your thighs.” An anxious, breathless edge in Tristan’s voice. He sounded upset and impatient with her. “You need a little leverage.”

Muffled sounds. The crackle of fabric against fabric.

“It’s not like I’ve never done this before.” Rory, sounding just as impatient and annoyed as he did.

Tristan growled in irritation, the haste and agitation rising in his intonation. His breath wheezed loudly, coming in sharp bursts from between his lips. “Don’t fumble with it. It’s not a football.” Another sigh. “Tilt it just a bit. You’ll get a better angle.”

“It’s too big. I can’t get a good grip on it,” Rory mewled.

Slap. Scraping. A grunt from Tristan. A corresponding groan from Rory.

“Fooled me. Here… Let me. You’re too slow. Like this.” Tristan’s impatience increasing with every second.

Expectant silence. Sharp intake of breath. Soft pant of exertion. A long moan.

“What is it?” Rory’s fretful voice. Worried.

“It’s so…” Groan. “…tight…”

“Just… twist it… a little,” she advised, trying to be helpful, her words coming out gasping with anticipation.

“I’m… trying.” Slightly annoyed. A deep breath. “Here. Grab it and pull a little.”

Shuffling noise, followed closely by Rory’s murmur of complaint. “I can’t. It’s too slick.”

Exasperation. “Don’t rub it like that. Just… oh, god… Just grab and squeeze a little. Then…” His suggestion was cut off by Rory.

“Better?” Quiet. Anticipating.

Tristan’s voice, strained to a whisper. “Just a little… Don’t… No, I’ve got it… Hold on… Wait…” His fractured words coming out in breathless, winded gasps. “Still… too… tight.” His voice cracking under the exertion.

Rory’s soft giggle at his efforts. “I thought you were a man. A nice strong man…”

Pause. “Never tease a man when he’s in this position,” he advised, quietly and seriously, though even she could sense the leer on his lips.

“Then leave,” Rory teased. “I can do it better by myself.”

“Why? Have you been practicing?” A raised eyebrow. In the dark, she could still see the flirtatious twinkle in his eyes. “I think I’d like to stay and watch that, but trust me. I can still do a better job.” His voice was filled with promises. A beat, then a sigh. “It’s too slippery.”

“It wasn’t a moment ago.” Rory, annoyed now. The agitation and overstimulation was making her impatient for some kind of resolution.

“My hands are wet.”

Scraping noises. Muffled sounds. Two bodies banging into each other, then into the counter.

“I told you not to touch that.” There was a long, drawn out sigh – too muted to distinguish the emotions inherent in it.

“But it looks so good. How am I supposed to know it would be so wet.” Short silence. Tristan “mmm”ed. “And sweet… Just like I knew it would.” Teasing, seductive laughter.

Rory squirmed and blushed under his intense, devouring gaze. “But now your hands are sticky.” She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue.

“I licked it off,” Tristan whispered, sending shivers down her spine.

“Disgusting.”

“Prude.”

Breathless eagerness. “Come on. Keep going. Harder this time.”

“I am trying.” Deep-throated groan.

“Harder!” Growing excitement in Rory’s voice.

“Hey, I want it as much as you do.” Rhythmic music of shifting cotton rubbing against skin.

“You’re too slow.” Hitch in Rory’s winded voice. “Try doing it faster. It might help…” Her voice trailed off in a murmur of approval.

“What… are you in a hurry?” Rubbing noise. A sharp squeal from Rory. “Just be patient. It’ll be worth it in the end. Trust me.” Teasing pause. “Do you want it?”

Silence, then begrudging consent. “Yes. I want it. I want it now.” There was an edge of long-held expectation in her answer, as if she had been patient for much too long.

Scuffing noise. A low guttural moan. Rustling fabric. A long drawn out breath. Tiny, startled squeak from Rory as flesh absently came in contact with a cold glass and metal surface, and then immediately met hot, sweaty skin. A strong hand covered hers, and squeezed it, trying to aid her.

“I’m trying to give it to you.” Another grunt. Silence. Then muttered cursing. A reluctant sigh of defeat. “Well, I think you may have to wait for a ‘real man’ after all.” Tristan cleared his throat with a degree of embarrassment he was unable to disguise.

Rory inhaled sharply, annoyed. He tried again, the intermittent grunts permeating the otherwise quiet room. Tristan’s voice cracked under the strain, and he was too winded to form any coherent sentences. Rory, breathing deeply, tried to calm herself and ignore the disappointment welling within her.

“But I want some and we’re almost there.” She was upset. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Rory’s breath caught by surprise in response to one of his exaggerated growl of effort. “Just one more try. So close…,” she prodded, gently, soothingly.

Annoyance. “You know, it doesn’t help to have you yell instructions in my ear. I think I know what I’m doing.”

Sounds of movement. More scuffling.

Rory let out a snort. “You sure? You’re acting like it’s your first time.”

“And you’re acting like you haven’t had any in forever,” Tristan snapped, before his voice broke off under the strain of physical exertion.

Long sigh. “Tristan…” She let his name play flirtatiously on her tongue, before ending it with a hum of encouragement.

A final grunt interrupted her.

Tristan sighed, exhausted. “I give up. It’s not happening.”

A snicker. Hurried movement. Shoes scraping on linoleum. Fingernails lightly scraping against metal. The straightening of clothing.

“You’re such a disappointment.” Rory’s anger evident in her biting remark. In the dim lighting, she watched as Tristan smoothed out the creases in his trousers and fixed his tie. She crossed her arms over her chest, staring inconsolably in his direction.

Before Tristan could respond with a snide remark about how her own performance left much to be desired, they were interrupted by the opening of the door. Light from the hallway ungratefully flooded into the room, revealing the secret rendezvous. Rory and Tristan turned their heels, faces frozen in expressions of guilt. She took a quick step behind him, crossing her arms delicately and modestly before her, mindful of her disheveled appearance. Tristan stood rooted to the spot, aware that the man would not understand their mission.

The intruder’s hand reached out and flicked on the overhead fluorescent lights. “What are you two doing in here?” The deep, authoritative bass voice boomed with menace.

Startled, Tristan dropped the jar with the too-tight lid, letting it fall to the Chilton kitchen floor, glass breaking into ten or so large pieces and splattering pickles all over the tiles. By his feet, the evidence of orange peels lay scattered, and on the metal table beside him, the remainder of a juicy, half-eaten orange waited innocently.