Hand Cranked

Hand Cranked

by Lou

My poor boy. Look at him, so sore, so tired.

"Roobbb, my arms are killing me", he moaned.

Now, there is a reason I try to steer him clear of garage sales, and the old hand-cranked ice cream maker seemed at first sight to fall squarely into the category of "useless crap that will clutter up the house". But looking at, tasting, the results, I was willing to admit my error.

Grinning, I raised the spoon to my lips, slowly licking off the creamy strawberry goodness. He looked interested and groaned.

"Such a shame your hands don't work, my love."

Surf 2

Surf 2

by Lou

"TIM! Come out here!"

Swallowing on a mouthful of cereal, I ambled bowl in hand towards the verandah and found Rob crouched by the esky looking none too pleased. 

"What?" A vague remembrance of an intention to clean it out after the beach picnic returned and, oh no.

Rob lifted the lid and the ghost of lunch past, long long past, wafted over us. Hmm, interesting. 

"You know, you really should clean that", I gestured with my spoon, hoping my winning humour would save me.

Rob stood, shut the lid and advanced on me. 

"Don't make me spill the milk!"

Surf

Surf 

by Lou

I leant back against the ice-filled esky, smiling as I took in the sight of Rob's lean torso, board shorts riding low on his hips as he used both hands to shade his eyes. The waves crashed on the point and behind me, the grass rustled in the dunes. 

"You going in?" 

"Not without you", he said, glancing back and barking laughter as the contents of my salad sandwich were deposited on my lap.

"Damn. You're a rubbish Top", I pointed out, ditching it to the waiting seagulls.

Launching myself across his back, he carried me, screaming, into the surf. 

Deliciously Ugly

Deliciously Ugly 

by Lou

"You are supposed to eat it, not fellate it", I pointed out helpfully, grabbing a cushion from the couch, plopping my bum down on the floor. 

Rob grinned and aimed a lazy cuff at the back of my head, slurping at the chocolate mess as he did so.

"Shurrup", he mumbled, eyes glazed as he enjoyed the rare treat. Too healthy by half I would say, but then again, I would.

Leaning back against his leg, I turned my head and offered a hopeful look. "Give us a bite? Roobbbbbb."

Moaning happily, he blew me a kiss and kept chomping.

Grey Days

It wasn't my fault my team were playing like rubbish, but I knew I'd cop grief for anyway. Disgusted, I flicked off the footy and sighed, Melbourne's drab day settling in around us.

"Whaddya want to do?" 

"We can always get the food in", he said, lazily scratching his belly, not looking particularly excited by the notion. "Or..." and at this he turned a distinctly leery grin my way, "we could always discuss that dent in the car door."

I barked with laughter as he grabbed my waist band and pulled me forward over his knee.

Staying in was good.

NMF 5

It wasn't my fault. 

Christ himself would have slapped that woman. Hell, the Tooth Fairy would have knocked her molars out. And as I admit to being neither holy nor trained in the pugilistic arts, I swore.

Honestly, some people were just small-minded, parochial dickheads. 

"Some people ought to be shot!" I ranted, the woman heedless of both fury and glare.

He reached over my shoulder and flicked off radio, my startled panting the only sound in the kitchen. Palming the soap from its dish on the draining board, he turned on the tap.

"No more talkback radio for you."

Drabbles by Lou

Hand Cranked

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Written for the Writing Lines Spring 2010 "It wasn't my fault..." Challenge

NMF

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NMF 2

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NMF 3

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NMF 4

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NMF 5

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Grey Days

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Written for the Spring 2010 Gay Pride Drabble Challenge

Mardi Gras

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Written for the Tea Room July Picnic Challenge

Deliciously Ugly

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Surf

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Surf 2

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Written for the Writing Lines Chillax Challenge

Itch

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Snap

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Discord

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Quibble

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Written for the Loving Swats Breakfast in Bed Challenge Challenge

Breakfast in Bed

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Off

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Written for the Tea Room September 2011 Leather Challenge

By Royal Decree

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Soon

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TopHat

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More Stories by Lou

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Mardi Gras

"It wasn't my fault. If we are late, it's your doing."

"We can't even see the parade from here" I complained, "Why even bother coming if you can't see a damn thing!"

Hands on my waist steadily pushed me forward in the available space until I reluctantly had to admit the view was not quite as limited as I may have made out. Whistling loudly at the group marching past, competing music and shouting ringing in my ears, I barely caught the words but felt the teasing hands digging at my ribs.

"Stay out of the corner next Mardi Gras."

NMF 4

It wasn't my fault. Everyone knows I cannot carry a tune in both hands.

Pulling off his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, I avoided his eye, though I could sense his grin.

"What was that?" he chuckled. "I've never seen my mother go that shade of red before and the minister..."

Pushing the shirt back off his shoulders and reaching for his belt, his arms were nicely pinned.

"I mean, how did you reach that note? Oi!" he yelped as my hands nipped.

"Like that." Smiling, I leant in, "Are you coming to bed, or do I have to sing again?"

NMF 3

"It's not MY fault. You should've known better than leave that sort of thing to me."

Now wait just a minute! That never works when I use it. 

"You're the Top! You're supposed to be good at this sort of thing. What bloody good is it having a bloody Top if they can't –OW!"

Right. Maybe a step too far.

"I'm sorry, okay? I am. I just don't understand how a grown woman can stuff that up quite so comprehensively. No! Keep your hands to yourself, just listen for a minute."

Executing a neat sidestep didn't spare me the glare.

NMF 2

It wasn't my fault. Okay, it was, but that doesn't help me, does it?

"How long have you had to do this?" he asked, sounding so bloody resigned and weary as he shuffled my papers into some semblance of order that I felt horrid.

"'It'snotmyfaultwaschattingandtimejust-"

How a person can slap you on the arse and disconnect the keyboard at the same time is beyond me. Maybe he has had practice. Wrapping the cord around the offending item (the keyboard, that is, not me) he nodded at the mound of paperwork.

"Go on, you'll feel better when it's done, love."

"Reckon?"

NMF

"It wasn't my fault."

Slapping the pen on the desk and flexing my fingers, I awaited the inevitable as the pages were scanned. Three, two...

"That's not what -"

"Wait a minute" – I can Look with the best of them – "I can write you a shopping list, I can write you a poem, I will happily write you a story so wrong you will blush and have your pants off by the second page, but I am not writing some daft lines. Especially", I pointed at the offending words on the top line, "THAT!"

"Because...?"

"It. Was. Not. My. Fault!!!"