AUTHOR: Fionnabair and Andromeda – fiandyfic
FANDOM: Life on Mars
SUMMARY: Some customers have different ideas about value for money.
RATING: Brown Cortina
WORD COUNT: 965
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Part of the Hookerverse. Again. Written for the 1973flashfic Out of Time Challenge. Dedicated to lozenger8 as an abject apology for writing more Hookerverse Challenge fic.
DISCLAIMER: Life on Mars is copyright Kudos and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.
As per his instructions, Sam arrived at the Phelps's house an hour earlier than usual. He just hoped the reason wasn't Wagner – staying awake and being attentive to Mrs Phelps was more tiring than bending over for her husband.
The house was big, but not ostentatious. Fred Phelps was a self-made man who'd married young and who frankly admitted his success was as much due to his wife as to his own endeavours. The Phelpses lived comfortably, but still held an austerity-era attitude towards unnecessary spending. On her second glass of sherry, Mrs Phelps would refer to Sam as her "only luxury".
It wasn't strictly true. Sam had enough knowledge to know that the jewels she wore were good, that she dressed well and that the childless couple in their late 50s were prominent in certain social circles.
So, once a fortnight, Sam escorted Mrs Phelps to a concert or the theatre. He was polite, he was charming and everyone knew Mr Phelps hated that sort of thing. Most people who encountered Sam assumed that he worked for Fred Phelps. Except, of course, those who had encountered him elsewhere, and self-preservation kept their mouths shut.
And after every trip, Sam escorted Mrs Phelps home to Fred's inevitable offer of a drink. Mrs Phelps would excuse herself and go upstairs to bed, and a quarter of an hour later, Sam would be bent over in the kitchen while Fred buggered him.
It wasn't too bad. Fred gave him time to prepare himself and at most there was ten minutes of flesh slapping against him before Fred grunted, came, and reached around to wank Sam.
It wasn't how Sam would choose to spend an evening, but since he had no choice, he did his best. Mrs Phelps was demanding, but only in the way of a shrewd housewife expecting her money's worth. As long as he was charming and attentive to her, she had no complaints.
Mr Phelps wasn't very different. Sam would disappear into the downstairs loo, spend five minutes getting himself ready and return, sometimes to drop his trousers immediately, sometimes to finish his drink first. Mr Phelps hadn't even been bothered by Sam's diffident suggestion that he use a condom – particularly when Sam pointed out that it made cleanup much easier. He'd nodded, rolled it on, and mid-fuck mentioned that it reminded him of the war.
It was routine. Everything was inevitable and the Phelpses lived the pattern of their lives without variation. The most excitement Sam got from the whole process was wondering if it would be a play, a concert or the ballet that Mrs Phelps had tickets for.
But here Sam was, an hour early, and Mr Phelps answered the door.
"Sam," he said. "Come on in, lad." He led Sam down the passageway to the big kitchen at the back of the house.
"I have to go to London tonight," explained Mr Phelps. "So I won't be here when you bring Margie back. Make sure she's safe inside before you go, won't you?"
"Good lad. Now, if you want to go and get ready for me..."
Sam raised an eyebrow and jerked his head, indicating upstairs. Mr Phelps laughed.
"She won't be back for a bit and I'm paying you for this as well, remember."
Sam just nodded and headed into the toilet. It didn't take him long to get ready these days, so five minutes later he was back in the kitchen where Mr Phelps was drinking a cup of tea at the kitchen table, which was already set for supper.
"Good lad," he said. "Hands and knees. Margie's left the supper ready for me, and I won't half cop it if I break a plate."
Sam glanced a little nervously at the kitchen door. "Are you sure you've got time?"
"Of course we've got bloody time."
Without further protestation, Sam moved to the middle of the floor and dropped his trousers and underpants before kneeling down with his arse in the air.
"That's what I like about you," said Mr Phelps moving behind him and unzipping his flies. "No nonsense. Just get on with the job."
Sam waited for the double grunt that indicated Mr Phelps had tugged on his cock and pulled on a condom. He spread his legs wider when the older man knelt down behind him and gritted his teeth as he felt Mr Phelps push inside.
"Good lad," grunted Mr Phelps. It was his highest accolade.
Sam braced himself harder against the tiled floor as the older man began pounding into him.
It didn't last that long. Fred Phelps approached fucking as he did most things in life – swift, efficient and with a rapid conclusion. Sam could feel him stiffen, hips jerking as he came, and then he nearly fell down as the much heavier man collapsed on top of him.
"Good boy," gasped Phelps and he reached around for Sam's half-hard cock.
A gentle cough interrupted and they both stilled in shock. Sam looked up to see the blazing eyes of Mrs. Phelps staring down at them. Mr. Phelps immediately withdrew his hand and she nodded, almost imperceptibly.
"That floor was scrubbed just this morning." She sniffed and turned on her heel. She paused at the kitchen door and, pulling her coat on, looked back at the frozen pair, raising an eyebrow. "Are you coming, Samuel?"
"Not now, I'm not," Sam muttered under his breath as he finally scrambled into action, pulling up his trousers and reaching for his coat. As he joined Mrs. Phelps at the backdoor he realised that he wasn't going to be allowed to clean up before leaving for the concert. This was bound to be an uncomfortable night, in all senses.