His Spitting Image

Oh. My. God!

I can’t believe I’m actually standing in a lift with… no, it can’t be. I must be mistaken. Kidding myself. Dreaming even. I mean, what would he be doing here? Heading for the second floor of a bloody Travel Lodge? This guy must be a lookalike, an imposter, he can’t really be…

But he looks so much like him! The all-black ensemble is so on point it’s almost scary. Old band t-shirt stretched over hard muscle. Tight jeans, heavy with silver chains and trimmed by a tarnished belt buckle, the rubies in the skull’s eyes glowing when they catch the light. Leather boots, chunky, unlaced and showing flashes of uncharacteristically colourful socks.

And the famous bandana and shades combo!

But not where I’m used to seeing them. Instead of covering his eyes the glasses are perched on top of his head, and instead of covering the lower half of his face, the bandana is knotted around his neck. I’ve never seen a picture of my idol’s full face on account of that bandana, but I have stared dreamily into his eyes on more than one occasion while I was, uh, busy. And the contacts this guy is wearing are first rate. His eyes are identical, right down to the improbably thick, curly lashes.

Yeah, this lookalike is good. So good I consider asking…but I don’t. How offensive would it be? Chatting someone up just because he looks like someone famous? And just because the guy he’s emulating is gay, it doesn’t mean that he is. Do I need to have this kind of conversation with a hot guy in a lift after living through the worst day at work? No, I don’t think I do.

When the lift stops he steps aside, motioning for me to go first. For some reason, my shoes feel like they’re full of lead when I lift my feet. Not good considering the fact that my legs feel like every bone in them is made of string. I wonder if he’s watching. Honestly, I can’t remember ever feeling this conscious of myself, of the way I walk, the way I look, the way I smell. I know I’m puffing out my chest and doing the old hip shake as I saunter to my room but I can’t stop myself. Let him laugh at my peacocking, it’s not like I’ll ever see him again.

No sooner do I close the door to my room than is someone knocking on it. Shit, what if it’s him? I reach the door and wait, gripping the handle, using every technique I’ve ever heard of to calm myself. Once I feel less likely to flake out, I open the door.

Holy fuck, it’s actually him! Hot-fake-rock-star-extraordinaire. He twitches his nose at me and starts to walk into the room, uninvited but probably more welcome than he’s ever been anywhere in his life. He kicks the door closed and keeps coming forward, following me even though I’m backing away. We both keep going until my back hits the wall and just six inches of space separate us.

I mumble an incoherent sound of confusion, waiting to see what…why…

Without uttering a word, he raises his hand and strokes my jaw. Brushes my scruffy hair out of the way with his knuckles. Though the metal of his rings is slightly cooler than the rest of his skin I feel them like a burn. Two of his fingers press gently into my neck and then he watches my face in careful silence.

After an agonising few minutes, he quietly utters, “You’re not breathing.”

Oh shit! His voice is a perfect imitation in tone, pitch, and accent. I exhale, feeling small and almost ashamed when the liberated breath comes out sounding like a death rattle.

He nods like a wise old owl, lips pursed, and eyes narrowed. “It’s just as I suspected.”


“The longer I touch you, the faster your heart beats.”

I don’t know where the sudden nerve comes from, but I reach up with a shaking hand, push my fingers beneath the bandana – God, if only it was the bandana – and feel around with my fingertips until I locate his pulse. Another deep breath. “As does yours.”

“It would appear that my thinking in the lift was right; we do have the same curious effect on each other. I wonder what would happen if…”

Kill me! Oh someone please kill me now. Do it before I catch fire or melt into a puddle or explode. His lips are softer than any I’ve ever felt before. The pressure is so light I can barely feel the kiss. At the same time, I can’t feel anything but. Those soft lips move lazily over mine, his tongue probes, a question wrapped up in the boldest of offers.

When he breaks away he opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it. I wish I hadn’t, because I’m twelve sentences in and I haven’t said one sensible thing yet. But my mouth is in overdrive and I can’t shut up, I just rattle off unconnected words until I’m breathless, watching him reach up to unknot his bandana.

My gaze flickers over the tattoos that run down the length of both of his arms. This is one dedicated lookalike, each one is a perfect replica. The mermaid, the shipwreck, the pirate skull, the Kraken.

With a dirty smile, he stuffs his bandana between my teeth and pushes me back against the wall. He’s on his knees. Quick fingers whip off my belt, unzip my trousers, ferret my cock from beneath my shorts.

My God, his mouth is so warm! All of me shakes as I watch him run his tongue beneath my head, watch him kiss the tip before grasping the base of my cock with one hand. He takes me deep to the back of his throat. I feel his tongue rolling against the underside of my shaft, his teeth dragging at my skin.

Is he…he is! He’s humming one of my favourite songs, sending the vibrations rocketing through my cock, making my ass squeeze and release in time to a beat I don’t need to hear to respond to.

When he pulls away I cry out in agony, but he just looks up at me with such a lustful gaze I leap ever closer to orgasm. “Come in my mouth,” he pants. “I want to feel you come in my mouth, I want to taste you.”

His hand is cupping my balls. Just the tip of my cock is in his mouth and he’s sucking, slipping his tongue into the slit, taking every inch down his throat every few seconds. One of his long fingers works its way into my ass and after just two shallow thrusts I’m done.

The only sound that comes from me is a whimper, but he’s loud. His mouth is wide open, his eyes are closed, and he laughs deep in his throat while I spurt all over his face. Spunk fills his mouth, drips from his lashes, pools in the black flesh tunnel in his ear.

When I’m done he bounces up, snags the bandana from my mouth and wipes his face. He hands me the sullied square of fabric and heads for the door. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“Aidan,” I tell him, then he’s gone.

An hour later I’m sat on the sofa with my shoes still on and my trousers still around my ankles. I’m listening to the radio because my favourite singer is being interviewed and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

The host asks him how he’s liking our fair city and he replies in his deep, rough voice. “I’m loving it. I’ve seen some of your sights, visited a few clubs, and of course the arena where we’ll be playing tonight.”

Now that I can’t wait for! It’s going to be awesome, not to mention a little surreal.

“And I’ve met some great people, too, so friendly, like the guy I met this afternoon who invited me into his hotel room and gave me a drink. Shout out to Aidan for that, it was delicious.”

Oh. My. God.

Prompt #315 – Trademark

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