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Author: Daytona Demon
Summary: Mike torments Peter all day with sexual contact that offers no release. Now the band is at a restaurant, and Mike starts up again, pushing Peter to the brink in front of his bandmates.
Warnings: Explicit sexual language and situations, combined with sheer silliness.
Disclaimer: This story is about the characters, not the guys who played them, no implication is meant about the men who played the characters, I don't own the characters, and I get no profit from this (except a case of the jollies). So there.
Davy, Micky, Peter, and Mike sat at the large booth in the corner of the diner, waiting to place their orders. It had been Mike’s idea for the band to go out and treat themselves to a meal other than cornflakes and root beer. It was also an opportunity for Mike to continue teasing Peter mercilessly as he had been all day.
Since morning, Mike had continually brushed up against Peter at every opportunity, fondled his crotch when Micky and Davy weren’t looking, grabbed his butt and passed it off as a joke, whispered dirty things into his ear, nibbled the back of Peter’s neck, and more. Even on the way to the diner, Mike had pulled Peter into the car next to him while Micky and Davy piled into the back seat, and off they had driven, Mike resting one hand on the steering wheel and the other in Peter’s crotch.
Peter had tried to seek relief. He’d begged Mike to join him in the shower, in the bedroom, on the beach, even for a quick mutual-grope session in the kitchen that would have promised orgasm for both of them, but Mike wasn’t having any of it. No, Mike’s business for the day was ensuring that Peter remained in a state of constant, unrelieved arousal, and business was good…very good.
Now the band sat in the booth at the diner, Micky and Davy across from Mike and Peter, and Peter acting noticeably distracted and irritated.
A waitress approached the table, pen and order book in hand. “What’ll ya have, doll?” she asked Micky.
“Brigitte Bardot,” Micky joked. Mike and Davy laughed, while the waitress rolled her eyes, and Peter looked down at the table and fidgeted.
“OK, OK, I’ll have a cheeseburger,” Micky said. Davy shook his head, still chuckling at Micky, and ordered his meal. “Hamburger and chips, please.”
“He means French fries,” Micky told the waitress.
Davy elbowed Micky. “No, I didn’t. I meant potato chips. Ruffled ones, if you please, or even if you don’t.”
The waitress cast a cynical stare at Davy. “Would you boys like some talent to go with your comedy routine?”
“No, that would just spoil our charm,” Mike drawled, putting on his most innocent, wide-eyed face.
Micky and Davy snickered as the waitress looked first at them, then at Mike. “OK, cowboy, what’ll you have?” she asked.
Mike trotted out the hick voice he used to entertain the band on occasion with his off-the-cuff farm reports. “Ummm, I reckon I’ll have me a big ol’ side a’ beef. Just walk that critter on out here, gimme a knife and fork, and I’ll cut off all the parts I like.”
The waitress put her hands on her hips and stared harder at Mike as Davy and Micky collapsed into laughter. Peter remained still, eyes cast down at his place setting.
“Or, if ya want me to make it easier on ya, just break its horns, wipe its ass, draw a lit match across both sides, and set it on a plate, and I’m good,” Mike continued. Micky and Davy slumped into each other, giggling helplessly and wondering why Peter wasn’t laughing, too.
Peter wasn’t laughing because Mike was groping him. Again. He’d tried to move Mike’s hand before the waitress had arrived, and had received a spectacularly frightening glare in response. Peter wasn’t up to dealing with one of Mike’s creative punishments; he just wanted to get off, and he wasn’t going to do anything to spoil the chance of that happening later.
“Very funny, cowboy,” the waitress snapped at Mike. “You shoulda been a comedian. Oh, wait, then you wouldn’t be here, because you’d be starving to death.”
“I reckon you’re right,” Mike shot back. “Doesn’t look like anyone who works here is in danger of starving to death.”
The waitress slammed her order book onto the table. Micky and Davy recoiled. Peter turned to glare at Mike. “Shut up. For once, just give your order and shut up,” Peter said dully.
Micky and Davy looked at each other fearfully. Mike tilted his head at Peter and smiled sweetly, squeezing Peter’s thigh under the table. “Sure thing, shotgun,” he said, and then turned to the waitress. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. Please forgive my rudeness. I’ll have the steak and fries. Peter, what’ll you have?”
Peter looked angrily at Mike and turned away. “Salad. French dressing,” he muttered, looking down at the table again.
The waitress paused.”Drinks, boys?”
“Breast milk,” Davy said quietly, causing him and Micky to collapse into each other again, laughing.
“Cokes all around,” Mike said.
The waitress snapped her order book shut and stomped away.
Davy’s face became serious. “Peter, what’s with you tonight?”
“Oh, nothing,” Peter said, casting a sideways glance at Mike, who maintained his grip on Peter’s thigh. “Just, you know, sometimes, when you really, really need something and someone won’t give it to you, it makes you kind of angry, you know what I mean? Because they’re being really selfish and mean and they ought to think about what they’re doing.”
“Yeah,” Mike drawled, lapsing into his hick voice again. “I wanted that side a’ beef, dammit. I even brung the match.”
Micky and Davy leaned into each other again, snorting and giggling.
Peter rested his head in his hands, annoyed and frustrated.
“Aw, come on, now, “ Mike said, turning to face Peter, his hand sliding over Peter’s crotch under the table. “Where’s that party spirit? We’re all having a good time, aren’t you?” Mike flashed a wicked grin and squeezed the hardness in Peter’s pants.
“Stop it, Mike,” Peter snapped, trying once last time to move Mike’s hand away from his crotch. Mike offered that smile again - that aggravating, sarcastic-sweet smile that made Peter want to punch him at times - and pinched the inside of Peter’s thigh.
“Ow! Shit!” Peter yelled, punching Mike’s arm. Davy and Micky both winced.
Mike retained his composure. “Easy there, Peter. Settle. Dinner’ll be here in a minute,” he said, his tone soothing, but his eyes gone intense and black. Peter felt a harder pinch and bit his lip to keep from responding, knowing he was being warned. He wished the pain just hurt, instead of fueling the fire between his legs, making him crave release even more desperately.
The waitress returned to the table, setting each meal down carefully in front of its recipient. She tapped Peter’s arm.
“Hon, are you sure you just want a salad? You feeling OK?”
Peter looked up at her, touched by her concern, and forced a smile. “I’m fine, ma’am. Thank you for asking.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, sweeping a disapproving glance across the rest of the table. “Your friends could learn a lot from you.” She swooped off, leaving Micky and Davy to grin at and elbow each other.
All four bandmates placed their napkins on their laps and dug into their meals. Peter was relieved that for the moment, Mike was occupied with his steak.
As Peter shoved a forkful of salad into his mouth, he felt himself being groped again, Mike’s long fingers pushing the napkin away from his lap and tickling the inside of his thigh, then tracing the outline of his hard-on through his tight pants, the ache in his groin resurrecting itself.
Peter forced himself to think of other things. Salad. Dressing. A fly on the wall nearby. Songs the band needed to practice. Bills to pay. Mike naked and writhing on the bed, pulling Peter onto him, wrapping his long legs around Peter, as would almost certainly happen later. Damn it. Something else. Anything else. Think of something else.
Peter could think of nothing else. He fixed his eyes on his plate, shoveling salad into his mouth forkful after forkful, trying to shut out the pleasure as Mike touched him. Peter felt Mike undoing his zipper, thought surely that Davy and Micky would hear the unzipping sound, but they remained concentrated on their meals.
“No,” Peter whispered, feeling Mike slide a warm hand inside his pants and grasp the hardness within. Mike stared at Peter, expressionless, his hand expertly working Peter’s erection.
“Mike, you’re not eating much of your steak,” Micky said, nodding toward Mike’s plate.
Mike offered a brief smile. “Got more meat than I know what to do with,” he quipped, rubbing his thumb over the tip of Peter’s cock and spreading the leaking pre-cum down the shaft.
Peter dropped his silverware, the sensations ripping sharply through him. The clang of fork and knife on the table made Micky and Davy look up.
“Peter, are you OK?” Micky asked.
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Peter gasped. He knew he wouldn’t be able to move Mike’s hand away, and he’d reached the point where he didn’t care. He didn’t want Mike to stop.
Peter gasped again, clutching the edge of the table with his hands. Mike’s hand gripped him harder, moved faster.
“Peter. You don’t look right,” Davy said, his dark eyes wide with concern. “What’s going on? Are you sick? What’s wrong?”
Peter dug his fingers into the tablecloth, unable to answer coherently.
“Peter,” Mike said quietly, the trace of a smug smile on his lips. “It’s rude to ignore your friends. Now answer the question. How are you doing? Hmmmm?”
“Uh,” Peter choked out, Mike’s hand relentless on his cock. “I…I…ahhhhhhhh….”
Peter threw himself back into the booth, moaning and closing his eyes, thrusting under the table as the release he’d sought all day overtook him. Mike swiftly moved the napkin on Peter’s lap to catch the hot cum spurting from Peter’s cock, stroking and mopping at the same time.
Micky and Davy stared at Peter, then at each other, unsure of what they were seeing.
Mike moved his hand quickly back up to the table, cutting another bite of steak and eating it.
Peter lay back in the booth, flushed and sweating. He saw Davy and Micky looking at him, their expressions both quizzical and worried.
“The salad was really, really good,” Peter breathed, offering a weak smile.
Micky looked around for the waitress. “Ma’am? Ma’am?” he called, beckoning her to the table. She walked over, flipping open her order book.
“I’ll have what he’s having. Salad, French dressing,” Micky told her, pointing at Peter.
Peter raised one shaking arm. “And I need a new napkin while you’re at it.”
Davy looked confused. Mike winked at him and continued eating his steak.