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The apartment was way too quiet without Hank there. Art hated it. Hank’d been away on some business trip for almost two weeks now, and Art missed him so much. Missed Hank’s voice filling the air, waking up next to him. He'd never admit it, but he even missed picking up after Hank, the socks next to the laundry basket, the mess in the kitchen after Hank made his morning coffee. They'd been calling and texting loads, of course, as well as falling asleep on facetime together, but it just wasn't the same as actually being together.
After Hank gets home Art will continue nagging him for these things, knowing absolutely nothing will change. And not wanting anything to change. He likes the routine they've set in since moving in together, the familiarity of it all.
For now though, Hank wasn't here. And Art was horny, hasn't gotten off in way longer than he usually likes to go between orgasms. He knows he could just jerk off, he's got his left hand and a working internet connection, but something in him doesn't want that. Getting himself off without Hank’s voice in his ear, praising him and talking him through it, without Hank’s hands on him — it just wouldn't be as good.
Their first time getting off together had been an accident, all the way back in college, before they'd even started dating. They'd been friends. Art had just facetimed Hank to chat, and Hank had accidentally picked up mid-wank. It had taken Art a second to realize why Hank’s face was so flushed, what those slick sounds were, but once he'd spotted the rapid movement in Hank’s left shoulder that had been all he needed to know. Next thing, they'd both been masturbating, still on call for the other to see. Hank laying on his back on his bed, Art sitting in his desk chair.
He could picture it so vividly now; the way Hank had moaned and gasped, the way his back had arched off the mattress as he'd fucked into his own fist. Couldn't stop thinking about how Hank had just been so good at dirty talk, how he'd just reduced Art to a needy, desperate mess who could only nod along dumbly. Not much had changed in that regard, it was still always Hank doing most of the talking. Art felt greedy about that sometimes, like he took more than he gave in return, but Hank had assured him he liked it that way.
He could text Hank, he decided. He was already half naked because he'd been about to hop in the shower, and now he was half hard just from thinking about Hank too. And if Hank wasn't here with him, he could at least talk Art through a wank. Sure, it was the middle of the day, and there was a chance of Hank actually being busy with work. But still, texting him couldn't hurt.
God, there was something so cliche about sending a thirst trap whilst wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants. But Art couldn't bring himself to really care right now, taking and sending a selfie that captured him from the lower half of his face down his body.
He'd give it a few minutes, he decided, to see if Hank was by any chance free. If not, he'd get up, take a shower like planned and just will this feeling, and his semi, away.
Luckily, he didn't have to wait long for Hank to call. Art picked up on the second ring, Hank’s face filling his screen.
Hank chuckled, “well hello there, that was quite the picture, wasn't it?”
Art felt his face grow hot already. He briefly wondered how Hank always seemed to know what to say to get him all worked up. He'd wanted his picture to make Hank feel worked up, but it seemed like the tables were already getting turned on him
“Getting shy already, baby?” Hank’s tone was teasing, in that way he damn well knew drove Art crazy, “you picked up real quick, like you were waiting for my call me after that picture you sent.”
Art groaned, feeling his cock stir completely untouched in the confines of his sweats.
“But you were, weren't you?” Hank continued, “you were waiting for me to call you, and I bet you're feeling desperate already, aren't you?”
“Yeah,” Art whispered, almost breathlessly, fighting the urge to touch his now almost fully hard cock.
“When's the last time you came?” Hank asked, leaning forward towards the camera a bit.
“Twelve days,” Art answered without thinking, “since before you left.”
He felt a bit embarrassed admitting that, but all shame quickly faded as Hank let out a low, impressed sounding whistle.
“Been waiting for me, haven't you? Good boy,” Hank spoke in a low voice, and Art whined loudly.
Hank continued like he hadn't heard anything, “no touching your cock at all? Nothing in your hole either?”
Art shook his head at both questions, “no, nothing, didn't want to, not without you.”
He angled the phone down to show Hank his cock; still trapped in his sweats. Hard, and desperate, and leaking steadily. He squeezed himself once through the fabric, just to take the edge off.
“Not yet,” Hank decided, “we'll get to that, but I think I'd like to take my time with you. Especially since you've been waiting for me so nicely. My good boy, my perfect boy. Fuck.”
The view on Art’s screen changed, as Hank propped his phone up against something to free his hands. The change in angle revealed his location, and Art keened loudly when he saw Hank’s office in the background. He briefly imagined someone walking in, and seeing him on Hank’s phone screen like this. He imagined being there with Hank, folded up underneath the desk with Hank’s cock in his mouth, trying not to get caught as Hank talked to a coworker about whatever office people talk to their coworkers about. A spurt of precum leaked from his cock at the thought.
The view on Art’s phone screen changed again, now revealing Hank fully, his pristine white button up shirt, all the way down to his unzipped work slacks, and his hard cock. He was touching himself. Slowly, no urgency behind the movements at all, his grip loose as his hand moved over his length. All Art could do was watch and be mesmerised.
“What,” he began to speak, desperation thrumming through his whole body, “what would you do if I was there?” He cringed, god, he really was bad at this dirty talk thing.
Luckily, Hank didn't seem to care.
“If you were here like this? All desperate and needy and on edge like this? I think I'd kiss you first. God, I miss kissing you. I'd run my hands all over your body, everywhere except where you'd want me to. I'd play with your nipples, always sound so pretty for me when I'm touching your nipples, baby. Can you touch them for me?”
“Yeah,” Art whispered, thumbs flicking over his nipples. He let out a low groan as he felt them harden underneath his fingers.
“Hank, please, more. Need more.”
“Shh, I've got you, baby,” Hank’s voice was soothing, grounding. “I think I'd bend you over my desk, next. Put a finger in your hole, feel how nice and tight you are for me. Can you do that, baby, can you finger yourself and tell me how tight you are?”
Art nodded, leaning over to rummage through his nightstand to grab the lube he knew was in there. He managed to find it eventually, and triumphantly showed the half empty bottle to Hank, who chuckled fondly.
“Good boy, get your fingers nice and wet for me, kay? There we go, just like that.”
Art made a clumsy attempt at coating his fingers with lube and undoing the drawstring on his sweats at the same time. There was nothing graceful about it, but he managed. His fingers were slicked up, and his sweats lay forgotten at the foot of the bed where he'd kicked them off.
He remembered Hank’s earlier words then, I'd bend you over my desk. Art felt a pang of heat in his lower belly as he decided that probably means he should be on all fours for this rather than laying flat on his back. He scrambled to get on his knees, cock twitching again at the way Hank moaned out his name. God, he could probably come untouched just from listening to Hank. Maybe they should try that sometime. Not now though, he's got other things to focus on right now.
He fumbled with the lube a bit as he put some more on his fingers, before moving his hand behind himself. Teasing his rim, spreading some of the wetness there. Then, just as he was about to put a finger in, Hank’s voice pulled him back to earth again.
“Or maybe I wouldn't give it to you straight away. Maybe I'd just tease you, till you were begging for my fingers,” he was smirking. The bastard. “I think I'd like to hear you beg.”
At another time, maybe Art would've at least tried to hold out. Not give in so easily. But not this time, the first ‘please’ was already out of his mouth before Hank had finished speaking.
A stream of “please, Hank, touch me, let me touch myself. Want you, want your fingers,” fell from Art’s mouth, until Hank let out a satisfied hum.
“My good boy, begging so nicely for me. Go on then, finger yourself for me.”
Art’s finger plunged home immediately, and he let out a hiss at the initial stretch. A few months ago, that would've worried Hank, but by now they both knew Art liked the burn.
He was tight, tighter than he'd been in a long time. It'd been twelve days since his last orgasm, but it'd been even longer than that since he'd last had something up his ass. Breathlessly, he told Hank so.
“I'd move my finger if you were here, nice and slow. Do that for me, baby, just how I would,” Hank instructed.
Art was shaking like a leaf, trying his hardest to keep the movement of his finger slow and steady, like Hank had instructed. It wasn't enough, he wanted to speed up, give it to himself hard and fast how he liked it. God, he wanted to cum so badly. But he held out, keeping up that slow, agonising rhythm as more and more desperate sounds kept escaping his throat.
“I'd keep going like that, get you to the edge, and then keep you there. I'd add a second finger then,” Hank sounded more worked up now too, hand moving steadily over his cock, occasionally squeezing at the base. “Put a second finger in for me, baby. Spread them out a bit, let's get you nice and ready for my cock.”
Art moaned loudly as his fingers grazed his prostate, low curses falling from his mouth as a stream of precum dripped onto the tile below him.
“Look at you, leaking like that. I bet you'd be begging me to touch your cock by now, wouldn't you? So fucking desperate for me. So eager. Not yet though, can't have you cumming before I'm done with you, can we now?”
Art’s free hand curled into a fist against the sheets underneath him. He was so close, the spring coil in his groin was being pulled tighter and tighter, an orgasm looming just outside of his reach.
“I'd add a third finger now. Just for a moment, just to the point where you'd be opened up enough to take my cock, but still tight enough so you'd feel the burn as I slide in. Put another finger in, baby.”
Art moaned as he did, speeding his fingers up slightly. Chasing an orgasm he knew he wasn't allowed to have. He was close, so close, just a bit more, and then-”
“Pull out,” that was an order. The first proper order Hank had given him, and Art obeyed without hesitation. Hips bucking into the air as he felt the wave of the orgasm ebb away again.
“Good boy, my perfect boy. So nice and obedient for me. Show me your hole, baby, show me where you want my cock.”
Art cursed as he nearly ended the call in his haste to grab the phone. He brought the phone behind himself with one hand, spreading his cheeks as best he could with the other. He couldn't see what he was doing exactly, but judging by Hank’s cursing he'd gotten the angle right and was giving a view of his stretched out hole.
“God, you're perfect,” Hank groaned, “like you were made for me. Made just for me. Do you want this cock, baby?”
Art brought the phone back to its original position, and watched as Hank’s movements on his own cock sped up, becoming more deliberate.
“I'd start by fucking you nice and slow, but you’d be begging me to speed up. To be rougher and make it hurt, wouldn't you? I’d give it to you just how you like it, baby. Been so good for me. Fuck yourself on your fingers, gorgeous, pretend they're my cock. I want to see you fall apart for me.”
Art nodded as he did so, moving his fingers as fast and as deep as the angle allowed. Ignoring the slight cramp in his wrist, the numbness in his knees. All that mattered was being good for Hank, watching Hank unravel on his phone screen, and the orgasm that was steadily building again.
“Touch your cock for me. Want to watch you come. So good for me, you've earned it, baby.”
It didn't take Art long, one, two, barely three strokes before he was coming. The orgasm felt endless, wave after wave. He fucked himself through them all, a repeated stream of Hank’s name falling from his lips like a broken record.
Eventually, it got too sensitive, too overstimulating, and he had to move his hand away. Hank had come too, Art noticed. He was now cleaning himself off with a wad of tissues.
“Love you,” Art slurred out, feeling completely boneless and sleepy, “isn't fair that you're all the way over there instead of here with me.”
“I know baby,” Hank sounded sad, “I’ll be home in a few days. Go shower, okay? I’ll call you tonight. Love you too.”