Fandom: Peep Show
Pairing: Hints of Mark/Jeremy, Mark/Johnson
Word Count: 1,000
Notes: Written for picfor1000. And I'm sort of sorry about this? But it's what the picture brought to mind… :)
Summary: Was Mark Corrigan really the sort of middle-class, middle-rank executive who should be getting himself involved in anything that could be described as a circle jerk?
It was fascinating, really, Mark thought in a slightly hysterical way. It was amazing how he managed to get himself into situations like this. He didn't really know how he had managed to end up on his own living room floor - and really couldn't they have just gone to whatever doss-house Super Hans was using at the moment - in order to take part in… what could only be described as a circle jerk.
Now was he the sort of middle-class, middle-rank executive who should be getting himself involved in anything that could be described as a circle jerk? No, he was not. And it wasn't even rhetorical, it was a straightforward, flat-out no. Said in a clear, calm managerial voice in his head. No, Mark Corrigan was not the sort of person who should be involved in anything as sordid, as messy, as that.
Mark looked around the room, at his carpet and his curtains and his TV - his pristine leather sofa was right there. What if it got… splashed? Cleaning up would certainly involve more than a small sponge-full of washing-up liquid. Dettol - maybe he could drench the place in antiseptic? How much was steam-cleaning anyway?
He glanced about - a wobbly sort of glance, it had to said, because at least he, Mark Corrigan, hadn't become involved in something like this sober - to observe the others that shared this dubious honour. Super Hans, and Jeremy of course, and Kevin, that friend of Jeremy's from the chip shop, where he'd worked for practically a day and a half. Which was almost a record for Jeremy, as it happened, and Mark had bought him a celebratory beer as a reward - just in case positive reinforcement worked. And, of course, sat next to Mark, almost so their elbows brushed, and Mark could smell the scent of his aftershave when he moved, was Johnson.
Which probably explained Mark's involvement, really, when it came down to it. He couldn't refuse Johnson - he'd never been able to. Truth be told, he didn't really want to try. Johnson wasn't sober either luckily, Mark could hear how his breathing was both rapid and shallow, and he was still clutching his wine glass. Johnson had been a bit off the rails since JLB Credit went under, it couldn't be denied. And with the baby coming, it wasn't as though Mark got much chance to relax either. That had been his In. Jeremy had thought it would relax them. Relax them both. And he'd had a scientific experiment to conduct too, which seemed to fire Johnson with enthusiasm. Although it bore as much relation to actual science as watching Brainiac, in Mark's opinion, although he darkly suspected that it didn't really matter.
So here they were. On Mark's living room floor, conducting experiments. He looked around - Super Hans had the banana, Johnson had the tissue delicately imbued in balsam, Jeremy had the buttered hot-dog bun, and Kevin had the high-heeled shoe filled with jelly - which was particularly dubious. Where did Kevin get the shoe from? Was it his wife or girlfriend's? Did he have to go into a shop and buy it? What happened to the other half of the pair? Really the questions were endless.
Mark, by the way, had the sock.
"Right then," said Jeremy, his voice soft and kind of hoarse. It made a shiver prickle up Mark's shoulders. "When I say Ready-Steady-Go, we spank away, and the first one to shoot his load gets to win. And then we compare notes. Experiences. That kind of thing. Yeah?"
And what does the lucky contestant win, Mark thought. An endless supply of lube? The eternal humiliation of his peers?
But it didn't stop Mark rubbing away with the best of them when Jeremy shouted 'Go'. His sock was one of his own - at least he knew where it had been - and was cotton-soft against his prick. It was easy to hide himself inside it too, pretend he wasn't really doing this, although his cheeks still felt hot, and his skin was too tight, and he couldn't get a proper rhythm going, but kept fumbling it instead. Great - tomorrow they'd be saying that Mark Corrigan couldn't even wank off properly. Just fucking marvellous.
But then Mark looked around at his titular mates and ex-colleague, and realised they weren't going to notice or care. They were caught up in the moment. In their own moments. The jelly was squeezing out obscenely from the shoe, Johnson's head was thrown back and he was grunting as he thrust into his own hand. Mark blinked and tried not to find it erotic - he didn't think he'd quite succeeded.
Then he looked further around the circle, as far as Jeremy - Jez, his oldest friend and flatmate, the bane of his existence, the bastard - and found himself transfixed. The long bun fit him just nicely, and the butter obviously helped with lubrication, while the bread seemed to retain enough friction to make things interesting. Jeremy was bent over, concentration creasing his forehead, and a frown tugging at his lips, as his prick slipped in and out of the parted jaws of the bun. It went beyond obscene, and well into the realms of the most perturbing pornography Mark had ever managed to liberate from under Jeremy's bed, which Mark found ironic, even as his own hand sped up, involuntarily, on his own dick.
He couldn't help but make a noise in the end, a small gasp that was barely audible, but it was enough. Jeremy looked up, even as he continued stripping himself, his fingers tight on the bread, indenting it, a sheen of sweat gracing his neck. Jeremy stared right into Mark's eyes, and then he licked his lips, before grinning, wicked and rude, and entirely for Mark. Everything offered on a plate, it seemed - literally. Mark couldn't look away.
And even more disturbingly, he came.