Page 76 of Shroom for Improvement

There was jizz everywhere. All over our bare stomachs—both of our messes swirled together—on my jeans, Claude’s suit trousers, the sides and cuffs of his shirt, on my canvas trainers, and in stripes across the dusty earth.

He laughed. “I did warn you. That’s two weeks of cum right there.” Gods, why was that so adorable?

I tucked my sated cock inside my ruined jeans, Claude did the same to his, and I reached for my T-shirt. I wiped my hands on it, then used it to clean the cum off Claude’s stomach. He watched me with soft, unfocused eyes. I turned the shirt inside out and cleaned myself up.

“Can I kiss you again?” Claude asked. That he had to ask made my heart ache.

I cradled his jaw with my least jizzy hand and brought my lips to his. Soft this time. Savouring. There was no longer the urgency we felt moments ago. I took my time, enjoyed him, made it last. His lips were pillowy soft, and he tasted of chai tea. The skin beneath my fingertips was still smooth from his morning shave. He kissed me back with feather-light strokes, didn’t try to ram his tongue into my mouth, didn’t try to claim it. If anything, my heart beat quicker than when we’d kissed the first time.

It was exploring, gentle, caring, kind of sloppy in the way we learned the shape of each other. Imperfectly perfect. His fingers tickled over my bare shoulders, down my ribs, up my arms, and the tiny hairs on my body rose in their wake. Goosebumps blossomed. I fought an indecent moan. I wanted to live in this moment forever.

This one. Not the hot, heavy, breathless moment we shared a few minutes ago.

The kiss came to its natural conclusion and Claude took a few moments to study my swollen lips. I watched as his eyes traced the lines of my face, and a subtle smile tilted the corners of his mouth. His pupils were blown wide, his freckles glittered, and I’d never seen him look more beautiful.

“We should go back to our rooms and change out of these trousers. Maybe shower,” he said.

“That’s a great idea,” I agreed. The waistband of my jeans and the parts of my stomach where I should have cleaned more thoroughly were sticky. Though secretly, part of me lamented having to step away from the courtyard, and Claude. I would spend all day covered in his drying cum if it meant he would keep looking at me like he was now.

We were quiet as we walked back to the house, relaxing only when we got through the main doors where it wasn’t likely any of the bed and breakfast guests would be lurking. Thankfully, no one spotted us. I had my balled-up, cummy shirt in my hand and Claude had roughly buttoned his, but hung his jacket and waistcoat over his forearm. If anyone besides Jenny saw us, there’d have been no doubt in their minds what we’d been up to.

“Thank you,” Claude said, as we ascended the spiral staircase to our rooms. “That was very... perfect.”

“It really was.” I smiled at Claude. “Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer if the question is offensive. I’m just a little curious.”

“Sure.” He fought his own smile.

I gave a nervous laugh, suddenly feeling like I might be overstepping the line. “Would you say you’re about average size for a shroom fae, or did you win the genetic lottery?” Scrap that, I’d leapfrogged over that line and into the next realm.

“Oh.” He scratched at his brow. His eyes passed over my naked torso, over the crusty crotch of my jeans, and back up to my face. “You’ve heard of my father, right? Angus Stinkhorn?”

“Yes, of course.” One couldn’t conduct the level of research I had into shroom fae and not hear about the explorer, Angus Stinkhorn. A man more famous for his conquests than his discoveries. A man who once allegedly refused to pack for a three-month excursion to the Oread Mountain Range, commenting,I’m already packing.“So, a bit of both, then.”

“All the better for freely spreading his spores.” Claude shrugged, as though the mention of his dead father had no impact on him. “Perhaps I should be more concerned. There may be other Stinkhorn bastards floating about who might usurp me as the Lord of Mushrooms.”

“Oh, gods, I never considered that before. But it might not be such a bad thing if there were. For one, the burden of saving this place wouldn’t fall squarely on your shoulders.”

Claude opened his mouth to say something, stopped himself before any words came out, closed it again. “I guess you’re right. That would be... a relief.” The corner of his lip twisted up into a smile, but I couldn’t tell for sure what emotion played on his face.

Williwaw in a Teacup

Claude

After our showers—my second of the day and it was only midday—Sonny came to my room to help with the tea-leaf magic. Not that he did much besides keep me company, but I liked having him around despite all the places my mind kept wandering. I had a new level of focus that seemed only to make its appearance now.

We were sitting on my couch again, had been for almost an hour already, except this time Sonny and I weren’t at opposite ends. We were in the middle, together. Jenny, for the most part, remained silent. Occasionally, it would let off a melodramatic yawn as though letting me know it was still there, and that we were boring it to death.

Whilst in the shower, Jenny had tried to ask me fourteen billion questions about what happened in the courtyard.

“You saw everything, and I am not talking about it,”I’d said after the first ten questions. And then when it still didn’t shut up, I began politely telling it,“Leave it, please.”Which morphed into,“Mind your own business.”Which eventuallybecame,“Oh, just fuck off already.”And when even that didn’t shut the thing up, I began holding up a very particular finger.

Not that I cared what the house thought, especially when Sonny’s thigh almost, but not quite, touched mine. He’d put on a clean T-shirt—black, with illustrated mushrooms and the textMILF: Man, I Love Fungi—and shorts, not jeans. His bald, reddened knees poked out of the hems. The skin on his knees was thicker and a little scaly. Psoriasis, or a lot of time spent on all fours. I shook my head before my mind went there again. He was a gardener, of course he spent a lot of time kneeling.

The rest of his exposed skin was pale, peppered with dark hair, invitingly soft looking. I half wished I owned a pair of shorts so that our bare flesh might accidentally—and repeatedly—keep touching.

It should have been a distraction, having him so close and yet not close enough, but our release in the courtyard earlier had given me a sense of invigoration.

We hadn’t talked about what had happened earlier, and I wanted to, but I didn’t think now was the right time. I wanted to establish whether I could expect more frequent frotting forays, whether this meant our nil-wanking pact was back in place, or if that didn’t matter anymore since Jenny had witnessed everything, and whether I might look forward to other things with him. Could I kiss him when the moment struck? Could we do more than kiss and mutual masturbation? BJs? Sex?

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