h3llcat:

Happy Birthday, @cremesin, my clydeland mentor and supplier of greasy donut ❤

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“If you take a job I got on Saturday, I’ll give you two weeks worth of my best shit.” The offer from his dealer had immediately peaked Stensland’s interest. While he wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of more work, he was assured that it would take half an hour at most which had sounded manageable, and it would allow him another vacation from his actual job for two weeks. It sounded like a great deal, really. It had then anyways. At the time. Now he isn’t so certain, the tiny shorts he’d been given riding up his ass, his nipples chafing beneath the unnecessarily tight matching top.

He squints at the numbers screwed into the aluminum siding of the trailer beside the screen door, and compares them to the ones he had scribbled onto a soda stained napkin, satisfied that the address matches up. “You’re a beautiful condor, Stensland,” he assures himself as he makes his way up the couple of steps with his fragmented pride. “Spread your wings and soar. Show ‘em what you’ve got.” He knocks.

The door is answered by someone who has no business being as large as he is both vertically and horizontally, tall and broad, muscles bulging obscenely at his clean button down (though he is missing a hand, so Stensland supposes that balances things out a bit). There doesn’t seem to be a party or an event of any sort happening behind him as Stensland had expected, but he’s never done this before, so maybe he had just assumed wrong. “Hello,” he says awkwardly before remembering the script he had copied in now-fading ballpoint pen on the back of his hand. He shifts his weight awkwardly from one booted foot to the other as he tries to make out the ink smudges. “You’re under arrest for not having enough fun on your birthday.” He remembers he’s supposed to sound enthusiastic halfway through the statement. He pulls the fake handcuffs off his costume belt with a spastic flourish while trying to wriggle past the man into the trailer, fumbling with his phone in his hand to find the song that had been selected for him.

–

“Hey, wait a minute…” Clyde’s mouth gapes as he watches the skinny stranger in an offensive parody of a police uniform shove past him into the room. “Birthday? But it’s not—“ The stranger gets the music playing, a terrible, thumping song the likes of which Clyde imagines they play in those fancy clubs in the city. Is this how they dance in the city too? One moment he looks as if he’s swinging an invisible lasso above his head, the next he’s wagging his finger at some unseen misbehaving dog, shrugging his shoulders, all as if he’s listening to a different song altogether.

The redhead tosses his police cap at Clyde’s chest before spinning around and popping his bottom to some beat that’s definitely not present in the synthetic noise bubbling from blown out phone speakers. He pulls the uniform shirt over his head, or he tries anyways, but Clyde has to step forward and help when it gets caught on his head. Next his hands go to his shimmying hips, gripping both sides of the shorts and giving a hard tug. And another tug. Another. Finally the snaps give, leaving him in only a pair of underwear that look mighty uncomfortable, some sort of stretchy material in sequined silver that flosses up between his buttcheeks.

“Why are you takin’ your clothes off in my home?” Clyde finally asks, arm clutching the costume pieces as he watches a soft, pale body writhe to the music.

“You’re under arrest for not having enough fun on your birthday. I think you’re supposed to sit down so I can rub my arse on your cock.” Small hands are placed on Clyde’s shoulders and he’s given a push until he’s seated in his tattered recliner. The redhead awkwardly straddles the wide chair, plopping down in Clyde’s lap in a move he isn’t sure is deliberate or if he’d just lost his balance. His tailbone grinds down against Clyde’s hip, off target, ass cheeks clenching unattractively each time he lifts back up. He’s humming something under his breath, the tune staccatoed through his bouncing. The stripper rolls his hips in an inelegant, awkward movement, but still Clyde feels his dick stirring to life and quickly shoves his hand between them in an ineffectual attempt to hide it. A clammy ass crack grinds across his knuckles, and he makes a garbled sound in the back of his throat somewhere between lusty arousal and horror.

“It’s not my birthday for‘nother month!” Clyde insists, voice coming out more like a wounded yelp.

“It’s not…?” The stranger stops dancing, shoulders drooping pitifully with his awful posture, the gears turning in his head nearly visible. “Isn’t this 156 County Road 13?”

“Nope. This is 159. Sorry ‘bout that. The 9 on my house fell over so it looks kinda like a 6, ya see. Guess I shoulda… fixed that sooner.” He can feel his cheeks lighting up bright red as he averts his gaze.

“Oh,” is all the dancer dumbly says with a few slow blinks. “Oopsies.” He shrugs and bends at the waist to pick his clothes up off the floor, the searching movements wiggling him around more in Clyde’s lap before he hops up to redress. He can’t get the snaps on the shorts to cooperate, so finally just wraps the uniform shirt around his waist like a towel, a completely ridiculous sight with one side of the shimmering thong riding up on his wide hips. It’s… really damn cute. “Guess I’ll be going then.”

Clyde hops up to see him out, polite even with his hand still covering his flagging erection. “You can come back for my real birthday… if you wanna.”