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Arthur Penrose was a wonderful artist in his own right- all straight lines and angles, architecture and patterns that filled his mind to the brim and spilled out on paper through the lead pencil he furiously scratched against his art pad. But it had never been good enough for him, really. A greedy boy who wanted it all, Arthur wanted to act, to play the clarinet, to write poetry.
His mother paid for music classes, and they never took hold. Some afternoon discussions with his English teacher on how to get inspired for poetry left Arthur confused and unable to put anything to paper that sounded right (teen angst just wasn’t his thing, and as such, no poetry could come from his soul).
Sophomore year in high school, Arthur took a drama class to try his hand at acting. He found that this was also a terrible idea, as every time he got up in front of the class, he froze and became dizzy with anxiety and embarrassment- text book stage fright. He finally gave up, kept to his own sparse drawing talents, but continued to consider himself a patron of the arts.
Whereas most students Arthur’s age were out on Friday nights getting drunk and fooling around, Arthur could usually be found at the playhouse or the amphitheater, enjoying the local productions and the pianists, the overdone Shakespeare plays and the charming chorus line. He didn’t have a lot of friends, and the ones he did have certainly didn’t share these interests, so Arthur was not only stuck as a 16-year-old virgin, but he was stuck attending shows alone as well. It was disheartening at first, but Arthur grew not to mind the silence, the peace of mind, the lack of whispering into his ear every five minutes that surely would happen if he dared bring a friend.
On one special occasion, Arthur found that there were certain advantages to coming to plays alone.
Hamlet was on the menu tonight- classic Shakespeare, hopefully not too boring. It was a different mix of actors this time around, and Arthur always loved to see different people portray the characters he loved- it made it a different show every time, seeing different emotion and passion put into the role that wasn’t there the previous time.
Tonight, the lead role was a lovely young man that Arthur had never seen before. The program told him the man’s name was Charles Eames. A strange name for sure- wasn’t “Eames" a type of chair? Arthur couldn’t deny that the young man had talent. More talent than he’d seen anyone else put into the same role, for sure. It became almost hypnotizing, seeing the man throw himself into the character with all of his being, seeing Eames strut around the stage and snarl his rage, weep his sorrow.
At one point nearly halfway through, Eames was standing aside and casually cast a glance out into the audience- he was standing behind the other actors, not the focus of this scene, clearly relaxed. Arthur’s heart skipped a beat when Eames’ eyes met his. He couldn’t help a grin, and much to his surprise, Eames grinned back.
And then the moment was broken as the dialogue turned to shouting, and Eames was once again in character, the ghost of the former King finished with his torment of Claudius for now. But from then on, whenever Eames faced the audience, he made sure to cast at least a glance in Arthur’s direction.
It made it hard to concentrate, but it certainly didn’t diminish Arthur’s appreciation of the play, which was one of the best (if not THE best) production of Hamlet he’d seen yet. And as Hamlet sank into Horatio’s arms the final time, Arthur felt his throat constrict, his eyes well up with tears. He gently cleared his throat and then everyone was standing, applauding, and Arthur was glad at the chance to take a loud breath, dab at his eyes and blink the tears away. He’d never felt so emotional over Hamlet before.
After the ovation died down and the actors finished with their last bow, Arthur filed into the lobby with the rest of the patrons, wondering if the talented Mr. Eames would be coming out to meet the audience members or not.
He waited around a moment, hands deep in the pockets of his slacks, and after a few moments he didn’t see any cast members come out. His nerve broke, and he decided he’d just go home and Google the guy, see what other shows he’d be playing in.
Just as he turned to head for the exit, a firm hand gripped his elbow and there was suddenly a man at his side- Horatio himself, with makeup still smudged one cheek, lips full and pink, grey-green eyes sparkling with humor. He’d (hastily) donned a nice pair of pants and a blazer over a t-shirt not even tucked in, and Arthur swallowed a laugh.
"Did you enjoy the show?" came Eames’ voice, and Arthur was startled to find that Eames was British- he’d used a clear, American accent during the performance.
It took a moment for the words to come out, but Arthur finally replied, “Yes. Um. You were absolutely wonderful."
A grin spread itself on Eames’ lips, showing a set of horribly (charmingly) crooked teeth, and Arthur found himself staring at that mouth, wanting to kiss it.
"Of course I was, Darling. Would you like to see the dressing room?"
Arthur, virgin Arthur, poor un-touched Arthur, didn’t even consider saying no.
They took the scenic route, probably to escape fans, and Arthur’s heart was practically beating out of its cage as he was pulled into a narrow hallway around the back of the stage. Stage hands and cast members milled about in various states of undress, but Arthur only had eyes for the man in front of him, trailing the scent of stale sweat and cheap cologne.
It was all going so fast, and suddenly they were in a small, dimly lit room with costumes thrown haphazardly about, lighted mirrors, and makeup on almost every surface. Eames shut the door behind them, turned the lock.
No words, only a growling purr as Eames took Arthur’s head in his big hands, tipped up the young boy’s chin, and sealed their mouths together in what wasn’t quiteArthur’s first kiss, but definitely the first one he’s ever enjoyed. The tongue in his mouth swirled around his, massaging, probing, delving as deep as it could while Eames’ hands slipped down to play at Arthur’s collar, pick at the buttons.
"How old are you?" Eames asked when their lips finally parted, his mouth going to Arthur’s neck to suck and lick at pale skin. “Please say you’re old enough for me to fuck."
A strangled laugh from Arthur’s throat and he blurted, “Sixteen, I’m- I’m old enough," because he hadn’t been asked permission, but by God did Eames have it. It was obvious in the way Arthur arched into the man’s touch, thrust against the hand plucking at his zipper.
Eames pulled back and squinted at him, eyelids heavy and face flushed. “I thought the legal age was eighteen?"
Arthur stared, not wanting the touching to stop, ever. “No, not here. Sixteen."
It was good enough for Eames, obviously, because he shrugged and began kissing down Arthur’s collar, licking a stripe along the collarbone on Arthur’s left side, and then his mouth was on Arthur’s nipple, oh God, this is really happening!
"Hold on," Eames mumbled around the tit in his mouth, suckling and nipping as one hand reached around Arthur to the drawer of the makeup table, opening it and digging around for something. “Mm, perfect. From behind then?"
Arthur gave a jerky nod, body too full of adrenaline and endorphins for fear to take over. He was about to lose his virginity, he was about to be fucked by a stranger in a strange room, about to have a strange dick in him. This was what the other teenagers his age were doing every weekend, this was what Arthur had been secretly wanting to experience.
As Arthur was turned around, he noticed that the view was better like this anyway. He could see them both in the mirror- Arthur bent over the table with his arms resting in front of him, ass in the air, dress shirt open and chest rest from bites and licks. The nipple that Eames had been playing with was still red and puffy, and Arthur reached in a hand to feel it for himself, tweak the nub between his own fingers as he bit his lip.
Eames had shoved Arthur’s pants down his hips, was searching again in the desk for something. He pulled out a half rolled-up tube of lubricant and popped the cap, spreading it liberally on his fingers. When he pressed one in, just barely past the muscle, he looked at Arthur in the mirror, very seriously. The voice that came out had been raked with coals, was not Eames’ own. “You don’t do this very often, do you?"
Arthur shook his head. He’d tried fingering himself in the shower a few times, but that was it.
His finger all the way in now, Eames pulled it back out, pushed it back in, added another finger. He watched Arthur the entire time, pressed himself to Arthur’s back warmly, bit the tip of one bright-red flushed ear. “You’re very tight. I don’t know if I’ll fit."
Hanging his head, Arthur let his gaze drop to his own prick, hard and leaking between his legs. He licked his lips and looked back up in the mirror, said the first thing that came to mind- “We can try."
And then Eames was pulling his fingers out, rolling a condom on, and slicking his cock up before pressing against Arthur’s entrance eagerly. “I saw you in the audience," he growled, pushing the head in, one hand on Arthur’s hip and the other slipping around to Arthur’s chest. “And I wanted you so bad."
Arthur’s breath came in short puffs, his body trying to cope with the fact that there was a foreign object lodging itself deep inside his ass. His shoulders trembled, as did his knees. He thanked God that there was a desk to lean on or he would collapse. The burn was intense, like nothing he’d ever felt, and a look in the mirror showed that Eames was somewhere else, on another plane of existence, lost to Arthur.
Did he really feel that good?
Eames fucked into Arthur slow and deep, one hand playing at Arthur’s nipples, splaying over the hairless chest, ghosting down a torso to land on Arthur’s smooth stomach, just barely a line of hair trailed from cock to navel. Eames pressed against Arthur’s stomach as he fucked him, breathed into Arthur’s ear, “This is where I am, can you feel me? I’m fucking you here."
It was too much, and Arthur barely had time to grab the base of his cock before he was cumming, toes curling in his dress shoes, ears filled with the sound of rushing blood and the slap of skin on skin. Eames was fucking him so deep, balls slapping rhythmically against Arthur’s, and then the thrust sped up as Eames groaned and dug both hands into Arthur’s narrow hips.
"So tight, never fucked anyone this tight before, fuck!" Eames hissed, “God you’re a fucking treat."
The dirty talk was embarrassing to Arthur, who’s head was still fuzzy from orgasm. The adrenaline was dying away, and now that he’d cum, the pain was starting to outweigh the pleasure. “Too much," Arthur whined, “too much…"
"Sorry, sorry, I- Oh, there it is, let me-" and then Eames was changing his angle, standing on the tips of his toes to get in, and Arthur was outright keening. “Oh, fuck!"
Eames was cumming, Arthur could feel it. The man’s dick was so big, throbbing hard inside of him, and even through the condom he could feel it, warm and hot and filling him up.
The angle, the throbbing dick inside of him, the burn, it was all too much, and Arthur was reaching between his legs again, jerking himself, and Eames was just thrusting slowly, shallowly, purring into Arthur’s fucking ear as Arthur came again with an unmanly squeak, legs full out shaking at this point.
When Eames finally pulled out, Arthur slumped to the floor and laid down on his back. The wood was uncomfortable, dirty, and he was lying on a shoe, but all he could manage to do was laugh, and cover his face in embarrassment.
"Something funny, sweetheart?" Eames asked curiously tossing the rubber away in a bin and pulling his pants back up.
Arthur sighed and lifted his hips, pulling his pants up as well. There was a sticky mess between his legs, but he had a change of clothes in his car- he’d be fine for now. “No, nothing, i just… I never imagined getting my cherry popped by Hamlet. Poor Ophelia- if only she’d known Hamlet was gay, maybe she wouldn’t have thrown herself into the river?"
Eames snorted. “I swear, everyone knew Hamlet was porking Horatio anyway. She was just too proud to admit it.”
Both of them dressed and out in the hallway again, Arthur shyly ducked his head when Eames kissed his brow. Eames smiled. “So do you have a name, Cherry? I very much fancy doing this again sometime.”
Arthur pulled his phone out of his pocket, shaking his head. “It’s Arthur. I’m Arthur Penrose. Here’s my uh… my number.”
Eames pulled out his own phone and added a contact. “Arthur ‘Cherry’ Penrose. Got it, darling, cheers.”
-
Monday, Arthur headed to the drama room after school to tell Mrs. Cobb about the wonderful actor he’d met over the weekend, who breathed new life into Shakespeare’s Hamlet.
He was shocked however, to find Eames sitting on the edge of Mrs. Cobb’s desk, grinning ear to ear. “Cherry! Mallorie, look. It’s the Cherry I told you about.”
“Arthur!” Mrs. Cobb cooed. “You know Charles? I taught him everything he knows!”
Arthur stared between the two of them. The universe was a funny thing sometimes.