#objectum spamton

Spamton checked his watch for what must have been the fortieth time, wondering how much longer Vivienne intended to chat with that impossibly beautiful but severe woman. She was always frowning and impeccably dressed, but he could never remember her name. Something with a C, he was fairly certain.

Interesting taste the Queen had.

After fourteen hours of meetings, his eyes had given up any real hope of staying open, and he suspected he might simply fall asleep standing up, right there in the car park with his briefcase still in hand.

Being a big important person drained your soul, scooped it out with a tiny silver spoon and served it to people who wouldn't even remember your name. At least the spoon was nice. Pity about the soul, really.

A yawn overtook him so completely that the briefcase found its own way to the asphalt, freeing both hands to brace against the Cungadero, letting his faithful friend take the weight of his body without complaint. He'd been awake for twenty hours. Twenty hours of handshakes and small talk and remembering which fork to use.

Bodies did strange things when you pushed them past their limits, they forgot how to stand, how to think, how to keep the blood from rushing somewhere inconvenient the moment you pressed against something familiar. Entirely indifferent to his suffering, or so Spamton assumed until the Cungadero’s doorhandle caught the fabric of his trousers.

A finger hooking into his belt loop and tugging him closer. His body decided that still wasn't enough, pressed was better than leaning, friction was better than stillness, and he found himself rolling forward once, experimentally grinding against the door panel that sent a jolt through him so sharp he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.

What the hell he thought he was doing, rutting against his own car while Vivienne could appear at any moment. Although, to be fair, she probably wouldn't be entirely surprised. She knew, from Spamton’s own mouth no less, that he’d given himself a hickey with a vacuum cleaner as a teenager.

It was pathetic, grinding against a door handle in darkness while his business partner chatted away inside. The knowledge of his own absurdity should have killed the arousal dead in its tracks but instead it seemed to feed it, because here he was, doing it again, much slower this time, letting the metal ridge drag along the length of him. Wishing the door handle would curl fingers around him and squeeze.

Look at you, Spamton told himself. Twenty hours in a boardroom and this is what you do with the first minute alone?

And the truly ridiculous thing was that he'd been meaning to see a doctor about this. Weeks now, he’d been telling himself it was stress, the insomnia, the shrimp cocktail dinners that passed for nutrition. Nothing had stirred below the belt in so long he'd started to blame the endless cortisol.

Yet here he was. Exhausted and starved. And hard as a gearshift.

The Cungadero finally released the lock for its owner. Spamton preferred to imagine the car was letting him in because it wanted him inside, had been waiting all day just like he had, patient and ready to receive him. Whether entering a vehicle could be compared to entering a cathedral was a difficult question, but the hush that greeted him felt holy enough to count.

Both left you alone with your sins in the dark.

“Eccomi, amore mio. I know, I know, I left you out here in the cold. Let me make it up to you.”

I’d drive you to the coast, Spamton thought, one hand drifting to his belt. I’d take you apart on an empty road where no one could hear us. Every bolt, every wire, every hidden thing inside you that no one else has ever touched. I’d push you until the speedometer begged.

His fingers found their target through the fabric and he groaned against the wheel.

Or I’d simply climb into your back seat and show you what a man can do with nothing but desperation and a very, very patient automobile.

Slowly, he slipped two fingers into the air vent, past the first knuckle, then the second, feeling the cool plastic grip him. “So tight,” he breathed. “you'd squeeze me just like this, wouldn't you? I'd have to work for it. I'd make it worth your while.”

You'd let me do anything. You're so good. So patient. So fucking beautiful just sitting here waiting for me to come back.

He let himself moan, imagining the Cungadero was the one touching him, the seatbelt tightening across his chest like a lover's arm. The car took every whimper he gave, swallowed them, asked for more, greedy thing that it was.

Spamton’s hips rolled forward against nothing. It’s alright. There would be so much time to think of all the other ways he could show his beloved thing exactly how devoted he was.

He'd barely begun to imagine what else his tesoro might let him do, how loudly it might purr, when his phone rang.

Mike’s name burned across the screen, forcing Spamton’s rhythm to stutter. Damn Mike who always sensed the exact moment Spamton was about to have something for himself.

His other hand, the one not currently occupied, twitched toward the phone on instinct, because you answered when Mike called. Mike had trained that into him, and the training didn't just vanish because your brain was foggy with want.

But the car’s leather creaked beneath him, and Spamton imagined it was protest. Jealousy. The Cungadero wanted him all to itself and resented every second his attention was elsewhere.

“Shh,” he breathed, pressing his palm flat against the dashboard, soothing. “Shh, I know, I know. He doesn't get to interrupt us. He doesn't get to have this. You're the only one who takes me this well, aren't you?”

A missed call was a conversation later, and conversations later were always worse.

“You're right... He can wait,” Spamton kissed the steering wheel's centre. “He can wait while I finish what I started with you. You've been so patient all day, haven't you? Sitting out here in the cold while I shook hands and pretended I wasn't counting the minutes until I could come back to you. You deserve my attention more than he does.”

His thumb, clumsy with haste, fumbled the phone. He was sure he didn't pick up.