
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/679256.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      South_Park
  Relationship:
      The_Mole_/_Kyle_Broflovski, Christophe_/_Kyle_Broflovski
  Character:
      Christophe, Kyle_Broflovski, The_Mole, Kenny_McCormick
  Additional Tags:
      Alcohol, Mountains, Anal_Sex, Virginity, Sex_Education, Cigarettes, Dirty
      Talk
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-02-10 Words: 8680
****** Mountains and a Mole's Hill ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     "Did you bring the buttfor?"
     "What's a buttfor?"
     "For pooping silly...among other things."
     Christophe teaches Kyle about anal sex. SP Kink meme prompt.
       “What can I say? We French, we surrender to desire. And everything
     else, really. But mostly desire.”
Notes
     Prompt from SP Kink Meme. French from Google >XP
See the end of the work for more notes
Kyle could sniff out the smokers in his grade, and that was the only scent to
follow if he was to unearth the Mole. Christophe didn't go to their school
though; he was taught at home by his mother, and he never quite acclimated to
the social expectations of most kids his age. Rumors were the only fuel to feed
Kyle's curiosity. When he failed on multiple occasions to glean any useful
information from the goth kids, too distracted by their sulky reveries about
the nineties, he had one last source to tap. The truth was that Kenny always
smelled like cigarettes and sour milk, and was never short on information about
the nefarious underbelly of South Park. The last he'd heard, Christophe was
prone to retreat to the woods behind the gas station and kept up a habit of
laying his infamous booby-traps and setting off explosions on the weekends.
“Well, how do you know he's not grounded for that?”
“Fuck if I know! He's still digging holes and causing fires, ain't he?” Kenny
blew smoke in his face. Kyle sighed, but basked in the faint cloud of nicotine.
“What do you want with the Mole anyway? He's a high strung motherfucker, from
what I hear.”
“I...” Kyle didn't want to admit the truth to Kenny. “Stan said he's pretty
fucked up, right? Maybe he needs someone to talk to, after all these years.”
“Yeah, like he really needs someone to talk to.” Kenny pitched his cigarette at
Kyle's snow boots and stalked off. Kyle stomped out the glowing butt and
chalked Kenny's sour attitude up to it being his time of the month-- at least
he was just grouchy and not suspicious. He was glad to be rid of Kenny and his
questions though, because admitting that he wanted to probe the young
revolutionary's mind on a very specific topic was too embarrassing to bring up
to one of his oldest friends.
The next afternoon, after school let out, Kyle defected from the usual
afternoon game of basketball to wander off into the very woods that Kenny spoke
of the day before. The hum of automobiles faded away behind him as he stumbled
deeper into the thicket, beyond the smell of gasoline and grease. He plotted a
vague course along the winding slope of the uneven stretch of craggy hills,
sweating in spite of the cold, but it wasn't long before the eerie calm was
interrupted by the sudden bark of a thickly-accented voice.
“What do you want, menace!”
Kyle yelped and spun around, only to see a dark silhouette thrusting the spade
of a long-handled shovel at his throat. The telling red ember of a cigarette
burned in the shadow's mouth.
“Répondez!” The shovel jerked closer to his neck.
“Mole! Christophe! I come in peace!” He thrust his palms out in front of him,
showing that he carried no weapons, but then ungracefully stumbled into a
foxhole. Nudging his hat out of his eyes, he caught a look of derision on the
older boy's face as Christophe ground his cigarette out with the heel of his
boot and leaned down to extend a calloused hand to Kyle.
“This is a surprise.” Christophe remarked dryly, dropping the spade of the
shovel into the dirt as Kyle brushed the leaves off of his ass. He glanced at
his rubber wristwatch and frowned. “It is a bit early to expect any company.
Especially when they arrive uninvited, ten feet away from ze bear trap.”
“Bear trap?” Kyle craned his head to inspect the fallen debris of the forest,
but he could see nothing of the sort. “Why do you need to catch bears?”
“I am not trying to catch ze bears,” he deadpanned. “I am trying to catch ze
trespassers.”
“Aren't you the one trespassing?” Kyle noted, with only the slightest edge of
contempt. But he instantly regretted his snark when Christophe tossed a raggedy
log only a few feet away from where they stood, and the ground fell away into a
rocky crevasse. A metallic snap echoed out from the sharp divot in the earth,
Kyle instantly wished he had never come out here to try and shoot the shit with
a notorious psychopath.
“Alright, you've got boundaries. I get it.” Kyle wiped the sweat from his brow
and muttered, “Shit.”
“Is this a social call, Broflovski?” Christophe glanced at his watch a second
time, and then inspected Kyle's stature once more, leaning on the handle of the
shovel. “Honestly, I thought you were smart enough to try and catch me at home.
Away from ze...spectacle.” He gestured to the dark pit for emphasis.
Kyle's tongue turned to lead in his mouth. His nerves were already shot from
the sudden shock of almost becoming bear bait. Following up on his initial
reasoning for being out here, alone in the wilderness, seemed impossible.
“Unless you meant to catch me away from prying eyes.” Christophe's lips pinched
themselves together in a smirk, and he took a more business-like air about him,
letting his gaze wander to the maze of weathered trees. He pried a cigarette
from the tight fold of black bandanna around his head and pursed his lips
around it. It appeared to be bent and slightly dampened from his own
perspiration, but nonetheless, a lighter appeared out of his utility belt and a
white cloud spiraled out of his mouth.
“Well, you seem like you have some problems with your mother...” Kyle stuttered
out, his eyes following the smoke as it was swept away into the trees. “And I
did want to talk to you alone.”
“Change your mind, then?” Christophe scoffed, flicking the ask of his cigarette
into the rotting trunk of a fallen tree. “You think that you are a fucking
mind-reader? We all have issues with our mothers, because we were their first
problem to begin with.”
Kyle's antagonistic nature got the better of him and he responded, “Well, not
really. Their first problem was doing a guy, right?”
“Hm.” Ignoring him, Christophe straightened his utility belt and then heaved
the shovel up and onto his shoulder. Kyle caught the glint of a hunting knife
against his thigh. At least it was still in its holster, he thought to himself,
but the Mole managed to look pretty damn menacing with the shovel balanced on
his frame like a facet of armor, puffing away on a cigarette in the semi-
darkness of the trees' shadows. He was in his expected black garb, although it
looked like the garments had seen better days; they were ripped in places,
spotted with dirt and what Kyle could only identify as scorch marks. It pained
him to admit that the Frenchman's rugged appearance suited him in a way that
made Kyle's throat tighten. He stared down at the spindling laces of his combat
boots, flecked with spots of mud, the odd dried out leaf crumbles scattered on
the tucked in canvas of his well-worn cargo pants.
“Um. Hey, Mole. Do you have-- I mean--” He was about to make a tremendous fool
of himself.
“Oui, Kyle.” Christophe spat into the rotting log. His surge of disgust at the
act made Kyle wince, but it got his jaw working again, and with the proper
resolve and a defiant smirk, the right words finally tumbled out of his mouth.
“What's a buttfor?”
Without missing a beat, Christophe responded, “For pooping, silly.” He smiled,
his eyes crinkling in subtle mirth. “But not always.” He bent down a few steps
away from Kyle, his knees only just grazing the earth, and put out his
cigarette on the grey remains of the stump. He looked up at Kyle, his eyes
catching the warm ambient light of the woodland that surrounded them, causing
the blood to rush to Kyle's face. He quickly looked away. When Christophe
returned to his full height, he lumbered forward, raising him arm to encircle
Kyle's shoulders. In the pocket of silence, Kyle tried his best to read the
time on the face of Christophe's watch and failed miserably.
“Ah. Enculé de merde.” He was so close that Kyle could the tobacco on his
breath. He leaned back, brushing against the body of a young tree, only to
avoid the temptation of leaning into the trajectory of Christophe's chapped
mouth. He grasped onto a spindly branch to brace himself, and opened his mouth:
“Voulez vous--”
Christophe recoiled, throwing his hands in the air. “Oh, shut ze fuck up. I
don't want to even hear you finish that sentence.” The log beside them cracked
as Christophe delivered a swift kick to it's skeletal remains.
“Do you know how many times that FUCK-ing song has been used to pick up my
whore mother? It is like I'm living in that bitch Nicole Kidman's God-forsaken
burlesque club of American trash!”
“Okay! Okay! No French!”
Christophe brushed of his anger as if it were a piece of lint, and shrugged.
“Well, that is not off the table, entirely. Come.” He and Kyle circumnavigated
around the trap and, once on the other side, Christophe dropped the shovel in
the cradle of an old tree's roots. On the ground, Kyle could see the dislodged
web of nylon rope. He reached for it, but Christophe snatched it away. As he
reeled it in around his fist, the hidden tarp was restrung around the five foot
gap in the ground. “Get some leaves,” Christophe ordered, and Kyle obeyed,
albeit cautiously. He wasn't sure how many more traps were set in the vicinity.
“Can you...tell me-- if you know--” Kyle panted, tossing handfuls of leaves
over the rewired trap as Christophe retied complicated knots, “I mean I think
you know, otherwise I wouldn't ask, but I keep thinking about it and I really
wanna know, so there's nothing to stop me from asking you.” The last toss of
leaves fanned out in the breeze so that none of them really landed on their
target and mostly ended up on Kyle's coat instead, causing him to splutter
indignantly.
“Except you are not asking me a question.” Christophe finished with the rope
and faced Kyle once more, his impatience evident in his stature, but belayed by
the mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Shouldn't you have reset the metal trap?” Kyle suggested blandly, flinging a
leaf away.
“Quoi? Non, there are beveled spikes down there as well. Your real question?”
“Oh, God. Do I have to say it in English?” Kyle whined, his fingers curling
under the brim of his hat, preemptively tucking away any of his red hair.
He gave a firm nod. “Oui.”
“What else can you do...with your butt?”
Christophe held on to his poker face for what seemed like a lifetime to Kyle,
who started to nervously dig the toes of his shoes into the ground, but refused
to break his earnest gaze with the young Frenchman. Then, the incriminating
stare melted into a piteous grin, and Christophe shouldered his shovel once
more. A tingle of fear crept along Kyle's skin, and he eyed the shovel
dubiously.
“Allons-y.”
Kyle blinked. “What?”
Christophe sighed dramatically and pointed further along the steep
mountainside. “This way, Kyle. I show you.”
“Show me?” he squawked, the rush of distrust flooding his senses like the taste
of sour fruit. “What-- I mean, where?” he amended rapidly, feeling dumber by
the second. There was no way he was ready to make a mountain out of a mole
hill, so to speak...
Christophe peeked at his watch again and shrugged. “We talk, or we don't talk,
you choose.”
Christophe leaped over a fallen tree and slipped into a dense thrush of
evergreens. Kyle hesitated, watching the pine needles settle. It was his last
chance to turn back, but he was overwrought with curiosity that churned in his
belly just as intensely as his apprehension. There were only so many ways that
he had imagined this scene playing out in his head, but by any indication,
Christophe was ready to play his part in Kyle's bizarre and whimsical
investigation. With new-found determination, he clambered over the tree and
chased Christophe into the abundant green.
When he caught up with Christoph's brisk pace through the woods, he blurted out
between gasps of air. “We can talk, but I don't know if I wanna delve into all
the details. I'm not really old enough to--”
“Take a drink?”
“What? Why?” Stumbling only a little at the flask thrust in his face, Kyle was
more surprised that his hands wrapped around it so eagerly and unscrewed the
top without waiting for an answer.
“Because it will ease that American shame off your tongue.” Frowning at that,
Kyle took a swig, and Christophe snickered as Kyle grimaced, his cheeks full of
vodka. “And we talk a little easier. Tu comprends?”
“Sure.” Kyle coughed, wiping the spit off on his sleeve and passing the flask
back to Christophe, who shook his head and tipped the flask into his mouth. He
swallowed and licked his lips, and Kyle paid for his distraction by dragging
his foot into a particularly deep puddle of sludge and snow.
“I must admit, I'm surprised you came to me about these matters. It is
very...European of you.”
“I...like to do research. I mean, I like to know the context from which people
refer to when they say they've...ah...”
“Fucked in the ass?” Christophe paused at a wall of eroded rock and passed the
flask back to Kyle. He heaved himself up and over a slab of sediment jutting
out of the ground, and Kyle, who hadn't quite recovered from the other boy's
brusque statement, sucked down another mouthful of vodka in his momentary lapse
of diction. Christophe dusted off his hands and bent down, offering his open
palm to Kyle.
“Sh-yeah.” Kyle finally blurted out, sticking the open flask in Christophe's
outstretched hand. The boy gave him a questioning look, and then tucked it back
into his waistband while Kyle tried to scale the rock by himself in a fit of
sovereign bravado. After a few moments of embarrassed scrambling, Christophe
gripped his wrists and pulled him up with far more ease than Kyle expected.
Christophe's touch didn't linger though, and he sauntered off into the
overgrowth before Kyle had time to be act affronted at the complete disregard
of his aspired manliness. He cursed to himself, and ached for another turn with
the flask, but he followed speedily, fearing to be left behind. Catching his
gaze as Kyle eventually matched his stride, Christophe began:
“You know, ze thing about us heathens--” Kyle's hands flew up in protest, but
were promptly ignored. “--is that we never learn our sin from a textbook, like
the rest of these pig-dogs. They think we do, but our bodies have more impulses
than our brains can put together one kind of socially-acceptable pleasure. It
is more than rutting around in the dark like animals. Have a drink.”
Kyle was a little dismayed when Christophe passed him a small plastic water
bottle. At least it gave him the opportunity to wash the aftertaste of the
liquor from his teeth. Christophe rambled on:
“We live under the unmerciful gaze of a hateful God who damns us to a mortal
world where there is no rest to ze undying agony off needing physical release,
except in our most isolated fantasies. Do you know what I am saying, Kyle?”
Kyle didn't want to risk revealing too much to his guide through the forest,
but he could stand one truthful admission about the familiar but unwarranted
shame rooted in his soul, and the stimulating thrill of his body's even
stranger predilections.
“Yeah. I think I do.”
“So what do you know about ze ass?”
Kyle stopped short at the base of another steep incline and leaned onto the
sticky trunk of well-weathered pine, exasperated. “Aren't I supposed to be
asking the questions here?”
“Yes, but like you say. Ze context is très important.” Christophe made a
serious face, unknowingly taunting Kyle by gripping his shovel in an expertly
phallic manner. “So? How do you spank ze monkey?”
“I dunno. The normal way? In the bathroom.” Kyle replied, blushing and becoming
increasingly more agitated with the sudden invasion of privacy. He had the
sudden impression that he was still talking to Kenny McCormick instead of a
carefully vetted stranger. If he'd known the conversation was going to take a
turn for the nasty so quickly, he would have just let Kenny explain his
philosophies on butts in the relative safety of his gutted pick-up truck with a
swiped fag rag from the gas station, and resigned himself to the world of
internet porn until he was thirty.
“That is not normal. That is a tragedy. What do you do?" Chistophe was going to
get splinters if he kept winding his hands on the handle of his shovel like
that.
“I...I get in the shower and I rub one out! What else is there to say?” Kyle
folded his arms, and found that they were quite sticky with tree sap. Failing
only a little in his distress, Christophe at least had the decency only purse
his lips in a constrained smile instead of letting out a spiteful guffaw at how
ridiculously Kyle was representing himself as one of the brightest and most
intelligent people in South Park.
“There is always more.” Christophe responded with genuine severity. “What do
you do with your hands?"
“I...” Kyle hesitated, searching for the right verb. “...yank on it. But it's
already pretty sore...The water always feels good." He added as an
afterthought.
Christophe looked considerate, and replied, “Oui, lubrication is key. Ze
females, they have the natural fluids we lack. Ze pussy is wet, non?”
“What the fuck? Nevermind. This was a bad idea.” Kyle felt his stomach turn and
he started to plot a path back down the mountainside in his head, only to
realize that he hadn't been paying close enough attention to get back by
himself, thanks to the distracting burn of alcohol in his head.
"Do you want to learn? I am giving you a lesson, bitch.” Christophe rolled his
eyes and gazed up at some unseen summit ahead, pausing to take a gulp of water.
They could have been a mile up the mountain at this point. Stomping ahead of
Christophe, Kyle realized it would be too much of an effort to try and retrace
his steps alone, and he would just have to suffer through the inappropriate
interrogation with as much of his dignity in tact as possible.
“What else? Where do you touch yourself, Kyle? On the stomach? On the balls? On
your butt?” Christophe prodded him on the behind with the shovel handle as he
passed him and reclaimed his position as navigator.
Dignity be damned, Kyle thought, rubbing his ass. "I squeeze a little."
“Your ass cheeks?”
“Ugh. Yes. And sometimes, I go between...”
“And you use your finger in ze butt?”
“I don't put it in! It just feels good to massage it, I guess. It grosses me
out, and I cum. End of story.”
They trudged through a thicket of dried bushes. Christophe swung the shovel in
front of them, batting away the entangled branches so that there was just
enough room to squeeze through.
“Well you will be pleased to know that ze asshole is supposed to feel like
that. For boys and girls, mon petit agneau.”
“What did you just call me?” Kyle batted the dried vines away from his face.
“Don't call me that.”
“I am calling you Lamb. Am I not ze Lion though? Isn't this your sexual
education? Quite frankly, I'm surprised you didn't ask McCormick, even in spite
of his deep appreciation for bosoms. Do you know what ze prostrate is?"
“God damn, do you have to say that?”
“Well I can't call it agneau, so...”
“Of course I've looked it up! But it doesn't make sense. Books don't make sense
when they're talking about sex like that.”
This was the truth, for the most part. There were quips made on a daily basis
about homosexual acts made by the the boys that he knew, whether it was Cartman
inadvertently making a hypocritical faggot of himself, or Butter's unabashedly
referencing his experiences with other people's balls in his mouth. Sex was a
topic that had been delegated to those braver than Kyle, like Jimmy who proudly
worked his wood into a new brand of standup, or Token who relished relating the
grotty details of the pornos he'd grown a nefarious habit for, and of course,
the adventurous mouth and mind of the whore McCormick. But the practice of sex
and asses was something that Kyle was so secretly adhered to, that the typical
jargon of homosexuality was beyond his grasp. He only knew that it was a
practice he dreamed about in his sleep, and the thoughts taunted him like the
sweets he wasn't allowed to consume.
“I didn't want to ask Kenny. He would just be confusing and all...gross.”
Kyle would have rather been strung up like holiday lights than have asked Kenny
about what it felt like to fellate another man, whether it was Howard Stern or
Bill Clinton. And it happened that Kenny was difficult to address in the wake
of his political seizure of South Park in it's criminal underbelly. He had no
intention of asking what Mysterion and Professor Chaos got up to on Saturday
nights in the safety of the storage unit by the used car lots. It would breech
the virginal code of conduct he wanted to cling to, and ultimately change his
opinion of his friends, if what Cartman joked was going on between the costumed
duo was true. Kyle only wanted to change his opinion of himself after all, if
only to prove that he was smart enough to figure things out by himself.
“But you asked him about me,” Christophe said, inclining his head in mock
modesty.
“You don't know that,” Kyle snapped back.
Christophe wore a telling smile that suggested otherwise, and flicked his
cigarette into the wind.
He brought them through the craggy woodland mountainside in stunted silence
until they arrived at a shelf of broken up rock. They took a few spartan leaps
into the shallow quarry, and arrived at a scorched blemish in the rocks that
smelled distinctively like a pot left on burning stove. Kyle peered into the
darkness sheepishly.
"I...heard that you started some fires out here.”
“You cannot blast through rock with only a shovel. Where do you think McCormick
gets his fireworks anyway?”
Christophe crushed another cigarette into the rock. He coughed, “We cannot
smoke here, see. This is where I keep ze explosives.”
“Uh, maybe we should go home then.” Christophe must have known that he was the
only person carrying a lighter. Kyle would sooner pick up a cigarette to eat it
than risk his integrity by picking up another unfathomable habit to be rudely
discovered by his mother or father or god forbid, Ike.
“Home. Where is home but another place to hide. No smoking.”
“Alright. Fine,” Kyle spat, rolling his eyes. The back of Christophe's palm
smacked him in the chest, startling the sarcasm away. The two teetered at the
mouth of the cave, staring each other down with an unexpected ferocity.
“So I show you, oui?” Cristophe's gruff voice echoed into the darkness.
“I don't need you to show me. You can just tell me--”
“I show you. It's easier. You want me to, non?” Christophe kicked a few stray
rocks from the path into the cave. Once again, he checked his wristwatch, and
mentally plotted out the time before the darkness fell over South Park. Kyle
figured that he had an hour before the sun would begin to set; Christophe was a
businessman before anything else, Mole, revolutionary, or muscle-for-hire. Kyle
blanched at that last thought, his mind straining at the prospect of gaining an
intimate relationship with the Christophe's muscles.
“Lead the way," Kyle said, throwing up his hands in deferment to the Frenchman.
He was startled when Christophe grabbed his arm, interlocking their fingers and
dragged him into the shadows. To Kyle's surprise, the cave was not damp at all,
but dry and lacking the icy overtones of the outside air. As Christophe
navigated past the jagged rock walls and canvassed crates of who-knows-what,
Kyle felt his whole body turning to cold jelly in spite of the warm and
temperate cave atmosphere. Christophe had his hand in a vice, and more than
once did Kyle stumble into his side, knocking his head against his shovel but
more importantly, accidentally wedging their clasped fists in between each
other's legs. Christophe's extra hand would gently press into Kyle's waist,
bracing him upright against the rock when their clumsy feet got the better of
them in the dark.
“You're, uh, very hands-on.”
“What can I say? We French, we surrender to desire. And everything else,
really. But mostly desire.”
After a while of staggering against each other in the dark, it seemed that
Christophe felt they were deep enough into the mountain, more than safe from
from anyone's view than maybe a few wayward bats. He unstrapped his shovel, and
turned on a dim electric lantern, illuminating the crevasse with pinkish light.
Christophe released Kyle's hand, to his unexpected displeasure, and went about
dragging the tarps off of wooden crates lined with hay. Kyle dared to peak into
one, only to be shell-shocked by the red sticks of dynamite that lay stacked in
the beds of straw.
“Mind the boxes," Christophe murmured, laying the canvas on the ground in lazy
piles and dropping the lantern to the side. He unlatched his utility belt,
fishing out the flask once more and wordlessly handing it to Kyle, who
unlatched it and drank steadily with unpracticed ease.
“It's cold in here,” he drawled, fiddling with the hanging cap and sucking the
sour alcohol off his lips. He looked at Christophe shyly, leaning against the
wall of the cave and offered the drink back. Taking it from the red-faced boy,
he emptied the last of the booze into this mouth and dropped the flask on the
floor, sauntering closer to Kyle, reaching for his coat zipper.
“Oui.”
Pressed so close to the wall that he thought he was going to start climbing it,
Kyle wore a stony face and kept his arms firmly at his sides even as Christophe
tugged the zipper teeth apart and pushed the coat off his shoulders.
“I just said I was cold.” His hat was drooping over his eyes. Christophe poke
it upwards with one finger, and stared into Kyle's unwavering and defiant
glare.
“And I am going to touch you.” His calloused hand snaked behind Kyle's neck,
and the cool touch made Kyle bend away from the wall and against Christophe's
chest.
“You don't feel cold Kyle. You feel very warm indeed.”
They shuffled there for a minute, Christophe's hands winding into the gap of
skin exposed by the fallen coat. Kyle kicked it away, and tentatively touched
the tattered wool that hung over Christophe's stomach. He murmured in an
encouragement, and Kyle finally found a firm grasp around Christophe's waist.
He could feel the wool strain against his fingers as he wound an indistinct,
nervous pattern into the cloth, parsing out the body beneath.
“Tell me about the shower again. You like the water? It moves against your
skin?” Christophe's mouth hovered mere inches away from Kyle, and the toxic
scent of tobacco filled his senses and turned his stomach. He turned his head
away and looked at the splintering boxes at his side, and the tendrils of hay
that peaked over the box; he had an overwhelming urge to stuff every stray
stalk out of his sight.
“Yeah.” Kyle's curiosity got the better of him, and his kneading fingers moved
to the small of Christophe's back. His chin was almost wedged over the curve of
Christophe's shoulder, and he swallowed the sudden want to bury his head into
the musky warmth of his armpit. “It's like a giant hug.”
Christophe shuddered with a scarcely concealed snort.
“Don't laugh!” In his strange attempt to headbutt Christophe, the two almost
toppled over. Still chuckling, Christophe braced their bodies on the wall of
the cave and buried his head into the nape of Kyle's neck. Boxed into his
embrace, Kyle dug his hands into Christophe's back and twisted his nails into
the grove of his spine. Christophe nearly lost his footing again, and when
their thighs touched, Kyle squeezed his eyes shut and resisted the urge to
grind into him, letting Christophe take the credit instead. The friction of
belt buckles and zippers made caused him to feel a greater strain in his groin
than he thought was possible; he unsuccessfully stifled a groan into
Christophe's shoulder, shuddering as his outburst echoed into the depths of the
caverns.
“I'm sorry, you are just so... Tell me more. No more laughing.” And with that,
Christophe kept his word, opening his mouth and gently sucking on the exposed
skin of Kyle's neck. The warm suction of his lips spun practically spun Kyle's
concentration into thin air. It only took an encouraging nip to force words out
of Kyle's gaping mouth.
“I...get on my knees.” He bent his neck further to the side to let Christophe
suckle on his collarbone. At that admission, Christophe levered his full weight
onto Kyle's body, and they sunk to the floor abruptly, but nonetheless, on
their knees and still aggressively wiggling in each others arms.
“How. Like this?”
“Yeah,” Kyle gasped, attempting to hook his hands over Christophe's shoulders
and heave himself upright. His legs spasmed from the sudden impact of the cold
ground, but he couldn't fully register the blunt pain with Christophe forcing
his hands in between their thighs, coercing him to lean back against the wall
of the cave. Falling astride the rock with a frustrated grunt, Kyle realized he
had too much pride to act embarrassed by his eagerness, especially now that
Christophe was trying to set the pace of his unconventional lesson. Their knees
touched, but they were otherwise detached, only their steaming breath colliding
in the space between them. The dim pink light illuminated the sweat on
Christophe's brow; he wasn't smiling, too steeped his indifferent
concentration, and his intense eyes flicked up and down Kyle's body. Kyle
chewed on the inside of his cheek and summed up Christophe's stoic impatience
to his shoddy storytelling.
“And I...hold it against my thigh at first.” Kyle reached above him and pressed
his hat flat against his skull, yanking it down so it would be more secure and
pillow his head against the rocks. He was reluctant to go on, but Christophe's
eyes piqued with interest.
He hummed in acknowledgment, bending his torso closer to Kyle's, but carefully
keeping his distance. “You touch your balls?” he asked, his hands curling into
fists that rested passively on his thighs. The leather of his fingerless gloves
creased with a plastic twang that made Kyle want to swat them away out of
prudishness.
“Yes," he replied impishly, because any other answer to that question was
unnecessarily obvious. "I play with my...beard too," he finished, not convinced
that he was prepared to say pubes when 'they' were the designated seed of
prank-revenge plots among boys, and were not to be the fodder in fantasies of
another consenting youth getting their mouth on. Beard sounded idiotic, though-
- had he regressed to fourth grade?
“Oh ho.” Christophe's relaxed his hands and eased them over the touching
juncture of their kneecaps, skating over the wrinkles of Kyle's jeans with his
palms. “Are you very curly then? And red? Down there?” His voice was tweaked
with excitement; Kyle supposed it was only proper that the Frenchman was a fan
of the ego-maniacal torture of dirty talk. Kyle's mouth was much more suited
for debasing insults than sexual intrigue; he considered that Kenny's strength,
despite the hood wringing his neck so that people have to lean in to hear his
foul language. Unluckily so, Kyle was left stammering, distracted by the hands
creeping up his torso.
“Yeah, but it's ugly," he snapped. This was not going to end nicely if
Christophe kept at that tangent; Kyle was keeping his hat on at all costs.
“Not ugly. Only bitches trim.” Christophe flicked the ear of Kyle's hat, and
tucked one finger underneath the lining. Kyle glared, preparing to hold a firm
resolve-- and then startled when Christophe brushed his thumbs over his
freckled cheekbones in an uneven swipe along his jawline. Kyle sucked his
bottom lip into his mouth and winced at the feel of his gloves when Christophe
cupped his chin.
"These come off," Christophe hung his hands in front of Kyle, palms open and
expectant. He expected the Mole was more than capable of undressing himself.
Kyle curled his fists into the bunches of canvas beneath him, rearing forward
to argue. But Christophe just unsnapped the backs of his gloves, and lazily
eased his hands into Kyle's. He met Kyle inches from his lips, murmuring
darkly, "I'm not that easy."
Kyle's jaw unhinged, but he fumbled to pull their hands into his lap.
“This is really weird,” Kyle huffed, rolling his eyes and pulling the glove off
one hand with a quick snap. He did the other with two hands, because it got
stuck the fingers, biting away a scowl and a quip about consenting foreplay and
laziness. His sarcasm masked his swelling relief when Christophe's bare fingers
hovered over Kyle's neck and collarbone, and stroked down the middle of his
chest. As Christophe tenderly traced out the folds Kyle's t-shirt over his
stomach, Kyle's lungs heaved and deflated at the gentle sensation. But he was
still determined to look uncomfortable pressed against the wall, in spite of
still clutching one of Christophe's gloves in a tight grip.
The corner of Christophe's lip twitched, “This is not weird, étrange. You will
never feel this good again.”
Restless as he watched Christophe prepare to launch into another bout of
investigative voyeurism, Kyle scooted forward, pulling himself flush against
Christophe once more, and clasped both hands firmly on Christophe's ass. The
nylon of his cargo's was thick with extra pockets, but Kyle hastily slid his
hands further down over his back and thighs in a daring show of impatience,
courageously rubbing against the telltale bulge of his balls. Cradling his head
on Christophe's chest, Kyle breathed in the trampish aroma of pine, tobacco,
and sweat. The Frenchman's stony posture briefly yielded to Kyle's fervent
handling, and his agitated hands found Kyle's backside very quickly to squeeze
with equal vigor.
“F-fuck. Don't you like it?” Kyle whispered, rocking his hips into Christophe's
and relishing the pressure built from their subtle, unsynchronized gyrations
against each other
Christophe growled, pushing his hands into the back pockets of Kyle's jeans and
clutching. “I like it very much. It makes God angry. Now, turn around.”
Kyle gave him a nauseated glare at the unsolicited command, but kept massaging
his hands into backs of Christophe's thighs. His passionate deadpan stare
suggested that Kyle would be unwise to ignore him. With some reluctance, he
flipped himself over, surprised by Christophe's insistent, grabby hands that
guided him through the movement, and his subsequent instructions: “Put your
hands against the rock.”
Kyle complied, though his hands were far more empty than he wished, and his
arms shaking, but not from the cold. Christophe pressed himself flush against
his back, rucking his t-shirt up to his neck and fanning his hands over the
Kyle's pectorals. His fingertips brushed over frigid nipples and raked the
stretching skin of his ribcage. Kyle's arms turned to noodles and his stance
slipped, with his face colliding with the stone wall and his hat only doing so
much for comfort.
Christophe's tantalizing ministrations spread over his chest and down his
stomach, until they planted themselves at the curve of Kyle's pelvis to the
ghostlike trail of fine red hair peaking just below his belly button. With the
rims of his fingernails, Christophe combed through them, only to stop at his
belt buckle and then bevel his hands into Kyle's skin. Combined with the
enveloping stimulation on his back and ass from his grinding, Christophe teased
out Kyle's strangled moans of pleasure and spittle-laced gasps for air.
“Oh, man. That feels awesome," Kyle choked out. His knees slid against the
canvas on the ground, but he pushed back on the cave wall to meet Christophe's
touch, eager for more dactyl attention.
Christophe huffed over Kyle's shoulder, yanking him backwards onto his lap to
rest on his thighs. He wove his hands over his hipbones and pushed his fingers
only just past Kyle's belt. “It feels full, non?” he whispered as he continued
to rub wonderful pressure into his lower half.
“Yeah. I need--” Kyle still reached out towards the wall, using it as leverage
to push back against Christophe's kneeling body.
“Unbuckle.”
“Yeah. That. Okay.”
With shaking hands, Kyle undid his belt and rolled his pants and briefs down to
his knees, shamelessly freeing his dick and letting it hang in front of him. He
heard Christophe lick his palm and then wrap his arms around Kyle's waist once
more; Kyle wordlessly raised his hands to the wall. Christophe's mouth was
stitched behind Kyle's neck with his needle like tongue, dragging his teeth
along the bumps of his spine. Kyle's hands barely slapped to the rock in time
to support himself when Christophe's wet palm wrapped around his thickening
cock and begin to slide up and down the shaft with practiced ease. Kyle coughed
up an embarrassingly loud cry of pleasure, and squeezed his eyes shut, a
foreign hunger swelling through his muscles.
“Are you still cold?”
Kyle let out a bark of laughter. “A-ah- Of course not,” he panted, though he
could feel a curious chilled draft between his legs below the hot mess that was
saturating his thighs. It was the tiny breeze achieved from the plunging speed
of Christophe's hand. The rest of Kyle's body churned as if it was filled with
fire, boiling with the desire to be consumed by Christophe's dirty, calloused
hands.
“Bien.” Christophe murmured, slowing his sultry treatment to a halt. “It's time
for ze real lesson.”
“Huh?” Kyle blurt out, dismayed as Christophe pulled away again. But when he
saw Christophe wrestling with his pockets and smear a glistening substance onto
his fingers, Kyle's nerves shivered with debauched excitement. His hand
migrated to his crotch and he began his impromptu ritual of combing through his
matted red pubic hair before he grasped his cock and began to mimic the same
even strokes that Christophe had so expertly delivered only moments ago. The
creeping sensation of sweat on his balls and the unpredictable drafts of the
cave made him crave Christophe's body, the overflowing pillar of warmth it had
proved to be.
“What's that?” Kyle asked, jerking himself steadily and clenching his buttocks
in premature excitement.
“Chapstick." After a beat, he added, "I don't have anything else.”
Kyle scoffed, but preened with silent glee when Christophe tucked himself
behind him again, yanking free Kyle's legs from the noose of his jeans and
underwear, nosing into Kyle's shins, and spreading them from each other.
“You're not nervous?”
“Uh, of course not. No.” Kyle half-chuckled, half-stammered, affronted by the
forgiving lilt of Christophe's tone.“Not really."
At this point, Kyle balked, one arm hanging off his dick, and one on the wall
in front of him, his ass splayed out for the older boy behind him. If he really
understood the nature of of a learned experience of South Park, he should have
come prepared for these measures, however unpredictable they may have been. But
here he was, damned by the ineffable logic of South Park's heightened
elevation, inexpertly seducing a volatile anarchist for the sake of his own
pleasure in the mountains of his hometown. He was more exposed to Christophe
than his mother had been when she was changing his diapers. He stiffened when a
distinctively slimy hand cupped his bottom, and instantly regretted letting his
mom get into his head-- germs, protection, my bubbeh -- he didn't think of her
for long.
Sensing his fatigue, Christophe amended his sleight of hand to fearlessly
grease up Kyle's crack with the emulsified lip balm, his hands hardly
accommodating to the heat building there. Christophe tutted when Kyle pealed
out with echoing yelps, shuddering as if he were made of paper instead of blood
and bones.
"Excuse moi, cold hands. You'll have to warm them." Christophe coughed.
Kyle continued to ride the swaying pressure of Christophe's slick hand, as the
other held him by his pelvis, ghosting over the ridges of his hips, ready to
press him back onto a lubed-up digit.
"It won't be good unless you are comfortable."
“Oh, oh-- You've bullied me up to comfortable and then some. Just do it
already.”
When he felt Christophe wind his finger in the sensitive grove of his ass, Kyle
groaned and swung his head back, conking it against the other boy's skull. But
Christophe was nothing but polite, and only managed to bite into his shoulder a
little harder as he pushed in and out of his asshole parsing out a stacatto
rhythm. He could feel the tight pucker of his opening clench and relax into the
wiggling dance of that single finger, which turned into two in length of a
minute.
“Oh my God.”
“Do not say his name.” With his free hand he raked his fingernails into his ass
checks, which only made Kyle groan and thrust into his rigid fingers.
Palms sweaty, Kyle's grip faltered on the stone, causing him to inch down to
the pillow of canvas, propping one hand between his head and the wall so that
he could still push himself back onto the fingers with more force, even as he
lay grimacing and biting into his lip. Christophe slid his free hand up the
length of his back, gathering his t-shirt at his neck and curled his fingers
inside of Kyle's ass until he squirmed against a stretch of muscle that
incensed his pleasure to unintelligible levels of garbled panting.
Christophe ground needlessly into Kyle's thighs, his staggered breath blasting
a hot circle onto the small of his back while his fingers worked him into with
a frenzy. The sensation was unbelievable, and too hot, but too empty.
“Fuck, I need more.”
“Ah, well, I can't do that yet,” stuttered Christophe, his pace dawdling at the
question, rolling his sheathed erection into the bridge of his thigh.
“Why not?"
"I do not think--"
"Have a little faith, Mole. I'm ready for this. Are you?"
"Faith! Now I know you have done this before..." gloated Christophe, affording
Kyle an affectionate slap on the ass and a good-natured chuckle.
"No, 'cause-- cause-- I keep almost getting caught!" Kyle hissed back
desperately, his frustration catching in his throat. "That's the most you'll
get out of me."
"We'll see about that," Christophe returned with a canine growl.
He laughed outright at the sounds of Christophe fumbling with his clothes, the
rustle of wool, the snap of leather, the ring of a silver buckle smacking
against the ground. Christophe's pants and belt fell into a heap at his knees
and Kyle drowned his nerves by yanking his dick back and forth, his body racing
towards a familiar peak.
“How much stuff you got under that belt, Mole?" He dared to say into the crook
of his arm while he waited. He chanced a smile when he heard a gasping laugh
and the snap of an elastic waistband. Covetous hands heaved him back over the
naked thighs.
The crescent of Christophe's dick slapped against Kyle's backside like an
electric shock. Sliding into position, Christophe ground his cock into the
valley of Kyle's ass cheeks, smearing the chap stick bath away in his own
leaking juices. The head rubbed into the back of Kyle's balls as Christophe
panted away like a chained dog behind him. Kyle rested a curious hand
underneath himself to capture the head with his palm, Christophe slowed his
eager humping so that Kyle could blindly paw at his uncircumcised dick.
Everything was soft and moist, and only just out of Kyle's sight. They swooned
as they rocked against each other, Kyle's fingers cupping a ribbed hole for
Christophe to thrust into.
They shifted and evolved from that awkward undulation to fully thrusting
against each other, with Christophe's hands fixed on the indents of Kyle's
waist, rubbing himself along his slick crevasses, and Kyle bracing himself
against the wall with one shaking hand and wildly jerking himself off with the
other. Writhing in this insatiable need for pleasure, Kyle blurted out in
between daunting gasps for air.
“Put it in!”
“Quoi?”
“Now! Do it, now!”
The moment that Christophe stretched Kyle over the barest inch of his dick,
Kyle lost himself in the immediate burning heat that erupted around the ring of
his ass. It hurt, stung awfully, but the arms around him caressed him beyond
the pain into the drenching throb of slick, unfettered sex. Christophe thrust
in halfway before Kyle burst, but pulled out and away as cum spurt out of
Kyle's dick and onto his sweating thighs. As Kyle emptied himself onto the
ground, Christophe began to thrust into his fist, grunting incessantly and
rocking into the lurching curve of Kyle's bedraggled form. Kyle, swimming in
the flushed fever of his release, twisted his hips back against Christophe's,
inviting him to thrust in again, and grabbed Christophe's free hand to pull it
against his breastbone. Christophe pressed his hard cock into Kyle, with short,
quick thrusts that stretched him into a minute's haze of sweaty aching, without
a cry of complaint. Christophe's fingers scratched at his right nipple, and
then scooped down to grasp his stomach, pulling out and thrusting into the
crevasse of Kyle's damp ass-cheeks and beating his hips into his in a slow,
unwinding grind until Kyle felt the telltale shudder of Christope's body. A
violent volley of slurred French erupted from his mouth and echoed
treacherously into the mountain. Kyle promptly reached down to smear his hands
in the white spunk that dripped down the back of his balls, fully warm and
enraptured.
“Yeah, yeah...” Kyle chorused into the wall of the cave, pressing the new grime
against the skin of his taint and rocking into his own hands. This was beyond
locker room garble and schoolyard jests, beyond the unintelligible language of
sex-riled boys. Kyle would have called it heaven, a warm slice of peace of
mind, which was dragged down to reality by the slow unsticking of two bodies,
and then meeting the cold air alone. There was an exchange of a sheet of dry
canvas, and the passing of the water bottle as they patted themselves dry. They
were only just as clean as God made made them.
Their walk back to the livelihood of the city was long and silent, the two of
them still evaluating the tender pleasure that had transpired between them. The
quiet was a blessing; Christophe's conversational pillow talk had been
smothered by a chain of swiftly burnt cigarettes, and Kyle much preferred it
that way. He drowned his thoughts in the evening breeze as it rattled through
the woods, and the lingering warmth of hands on his body.
Comfort pooled in his stomach every time Christophe lit a cigarette as they
walked; it was a subconscious ritual, stopping short on a cliff or bridge,
tapping at his pack, digging a lighter from his pocket. That was far easier
than looking at his pants, and thinking about how they had felt against the
backs of his legs as Christophe moved. Or imagining him with his shirt off,
bent over him, hot and consuming. It made him feel unnecessarily warm and
sticky, though the wind was carrying frigid breezes down from the mountain.
Kyle was even brave enough to share a smoke with him as they approached the
narrow stretch of the motorway. He choked a little, but managed to feel sated
by the spasms of his lungs and the accompanying crispy tingling in his throat.
They passed a white stem back and forth for a few moments, the lonely gas
station peeking out from where it was nestled at the cusp of the wooded hill.
"So, can you promise that it'll never feel that good again?"
"Tabacco? Or..." Christophe chuckled. He glanced from Kyle, back in the
direction of his fortress, frowning and wringing his shovel in his hands. "You
have no faith."
"I've got plenty to be faithful for, thank you very much." Kyle replied,
nibbling at the raw skin on his lips. He had a sudden feeling as if his organs
were twisting inside of him like a snail writing in salt. Staring down
Christophe, he felt too confused to argue semantics, religion, any rhyme or
reason that would force a definition on the second revolution-- or more aptly,
revelation-- that brought them together. Christophe disposed of the cigarette
butt, and turned to go.
“Hey," Kyle called out, striding towards him. Christophe looked exhausted, but
his eyes were alert and leaping around him into the falling darkness. Kyle
strode awkwardly up to him, and then took a few zig-zagged steps closer,
leaning in to mumble, “Thank you.”
"Will you be back?" Christophe glanced over Kyle's shoulder down at the road.
One hand clasped Kyle's upper arm gently, ready to yank him out of sight.
“I don't know. This doesn't mean anything at all, right?”
“You're wrong, agneau. It means just enough. And since you know where to find
me, I'll ask you to be more careful in the future...Avoid walking past ze holly
on your way down. I've laid some snares.”
“So, do I need to ask you to keep quiet about this?”
“Non. My lips are--”
Kyle cut him off with a soft open-mouthed kiss-- their first, to be exact-
- sealing the end of their engagement for the evening. Christophe barely
recovered, his neck stiffly oriented to the cleared area below them, his cheeks
red and indignant. But he did kiss back a little, Kyle considered fondly, as he
wandered down the side of Mole's hill, swerving away from the holly bushes, and
stumbling onto the main road. It was no joke; he really couldn't walk straight
without something stinging down there.
Though he was reluctant to, as it would contradict the finality of his exit
strategy, he looked back-- and didn't regret it.
From the sheath of the darkening tree's, Christophe plucked a fresh cigarette
from his mouth, smoke twisting away from his lips, neither waving or smiling,
but knowing. That was enough for Kyle, his assurance. To know that he had a
place in the borderlands of his mountain town. Where secrets are just the
truth, and the age of the rocks makes you feel young forever, and the only
rules are just consensual. Where a little more than a craving quenched can
bring about the fresh hunger for consumption.
Nobody was shoving shit in their mouth. No one was trying to funnel rodents
into their colon. No one was even farting and then farting some more, or
queefing. No one had to laugh, no one had to pay for their actions, and no
one's feelings got hurt.
Kyle was deep in thought, kicking off the sludge he'd trampled into and looking
ahead at the lampposts flickering on down the street. He ambled down the avenue
towards the more intimate parts of town, to houses that he knew better than his
own hands. He cupped his hands over his mouth, inhaling the lingering smell of
cigarettes.
Now, that's what a butt's for, bitches.
End Notes
     Posted Originally : "http://southparkkink.livejournal.com/
     529.html?thread=319761#t319761"
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