Pairing: Cliff Richard/Olivia Newton-John
Warning: Yes, not just RPF, but RPF about Sir Cliff. Read at peril to your immortal soul.
Notes: Written for MMOM 2012, Day 10. Inspired by This video. Unbeta'd. Comments, concrit, Brit-checking welcome.
Summary: Cliff loves God, but he can't resist Olivia.
Fly away Peter, fly away Paul, before there’s nothing to fly at all.
Cliff shook his head in time with the music. He’d always loved that song; thought it was one of Hank’s most powerful lyrics, and a great melody. He was thrilled that Olivia had put it on her new album. Then she’d called him up and told him she was doing a promotional video as well.
“Come on down to the studio. I’m putting on some silly costumes and crawling around this mad set for the video. You have to promise you won’t laugh too loud.”
The costumes were pretty outlandish, and yet Cliff’s response wasn’t laughter. It had been a long time since they’d been anything but dear friends, but Olivia would always be special, the one that could have been. Something about Olivia as a Pierrot or a politician or even as some sort of cosmic astronaut got to him in a very personal, somewhat embarrassing way. He asked a slightly star-struck production assistant where he could find a loo and hoped she was dazzled enough by his smile to avoid looking in the vicinity of his crotch.
Once he had some privacy in a stall, he quickly undid his trousers and breathed a sigh of relief. Cliff knew that a bit of self-relief was no sin. Reverend Graham had explained quite clearly that Onan’s transgression had nothing to do with masturbation; that was all about disobedience and failure to procreate. The Apostle Paul wrote that it was better to marry than to burn, but he suspected that even Paul must have indulged in a little pocket pool on long nights in Judea in between epistles.
He’d learned his technique a long time ago, in a toilet, considerably less well tended than this one. Hank had been rather shocked to learn that Cliff didn’t play with himself and taken it upon himself to teach him how to toss one off in a hurry. Cliff had been reluctant until Hank pointed out that there was nothing but temptation waiting for him beyond those doors in the form of screaming girls would literally do anything. If a bit of diddling would save him from the depths of depravity and a possible paternity suit, what was the harm?
Cliff couldn’t play as fast as Hank, but he knew how to find a rhythm and go with it. It was the fantasy that he worried about the most. The sin wasn’t in the act, but the improper thoughts. Olivia, his beautiful, sweet Olivia. He thought of them being together, married, making love, and it worked for awhile, but then the record would jump and then images would grow darker. He’d imagine himself plowing into her like some kind of brute, saying words that he himself would never use yet he could hear them clearly in his mind as he growled them into Olivia’s ear. As much as he hated to admit it, that was what his body reacted to, pushing toward completion. He grabbed his testicles roughly, hoping perhaps to punish his flesh and then felt the release rushing through him and seed spilling onto his fingers.
He let out his breath in a deep sigh, managing to suppress any sounds that might give him away should there be anyone in the vicinity. It would be unfortunate if he were to be discovered, especially by a member of the press, but at least they’d find him alone. The worst they could do was call him a tosser, and they’d already been doing that for years.
Mrs. Whitehouse would be very disappointed, of course, and Cliff had to smile at the potential look on her face. Hard to imagine poor Mary ever having seen a willy at all, much less a man beating off. Cheeky fellow, he thought to himself, and of course a very lucky one.
God would forgive him, and Olivia would never know.