A creak of a bed resounded through the room as two bodies laid down on it. The creak was followed by a contented sigh. Hands touched skin that was softer than silk and damp from sweat. Arthur kissed the woman beneath him on the neck, travelling to her shoulders and ignoring her breasts. Her one finger was playing with his little hole. She probably had a fetish of the sort, but Arthur was one kinky man. His soft lips travelled back up her soft neck, her short blonde hair tickling his nose slightly. Suddenly he felt something not so soft against his cheek, something that had the same feel as an overused piece of sandpaper. With a curious frown the Brit looked at the woman and only to find that the person under him wasn't a woman at all. He might have not minded it as much if it wasn't Francis laying under him with a smug grin. "Please continue, mon amour" the Frenchman whispered into Arthur's red ear.

Arthur gasped and jolted upwards in his bed, his chest rising and falling heavily as he tried to catch his breath. His mind was still trying to make out whether the dream was a nightmare or just a really bad wet dream. Just to be sure, the Brit peeked under his sheet and saw how his pants tented from his weeping erection. He gulped and decided that the dream was not worthy a morning jerk. With a sigh, he got up from the creaky bed and walked to the bathroom to get a shower.
His hair stuck to his face as he was pushed against the bathroom wall and was kissed deeply by the same Frenchman he had seen in his dream. He still felt the cold water hit his shoulders, but it only made him hum into the passionate tongue battle he and Francis were holding. Pressing a leg between Arthur's, the taller blonde managed to get a moan out of that pretty little mouth of Arthur. "Fra-"
Arthur shot his eyes open, the cold water still hitting his bare chest and back while his wet hair had found their way into his green eyes – which were more the colour of a freshly polished emerald than grass. A frown found its place on his face as he realised that what just had happened actually hadn't. It was one of his naughty daydreams that he had so many times lately and always left him with a dry feeling in his mouth. But the dry feeling wasn't thirst, or you could say it was. You could call it a thirst for passionate kissing, the thirst for feeling the wet muscle inside his mouth. Arthur gulped and turned the water colder, almost shrieking as it hit his creamy skin. The Brit wasn't really the cold water type, he usually took baths so hot that it left his pale skin red.
Once he had found himself to be calmed down enough, Arthur stepped out of the shower. He quickly had found his clothes and looked out of the window. The bright shine of the sun – which barely ever visited England – was hurting his eyes and made him squint. It was a beautiful day, but it didn't seem so beautiful to the short blonde. With a low grunt he took his wallet, key and phone and went out. He wouldn't be back till late. Very late.

The first call came when he was sitting on a bench in the park. A loud 8-bit melody hitting his ears and destroing his train of thought abruptly. Arthur's thick browns rose and soon dropped once he looked at the caller ID that was proudly displaying "moron" with a picture of a frog. Not feeling up to have a chat with Francis after his wanton dreams, Arthur pressed the red button and ended the call. Stupid Frenchman. The bright green eyes returned to the clear sky and hazed once the Brit got back onto his small mind train and rode off.

Arthur was sitting in a pub, looking at a beautiful lady not so far from him. He bought her a drink – non alcoholic, mind you - , like a real gentleman would when he wanted to get a damsel's attention. She had gorgeous plump lips, short blonde hair, sky blue eyes. And most importantly, she had really big breasts. Arthur beamed from success when she placed her soft gaze to him and a soft smile curved her sweetlooking lips. The woman stood up from her chair and walked over to him. They both knew what they wanted: the warmth of someone else without any consequences.
They tumbled into his bedroom, messy kisses exchanged between them as the lady – no matter how Arthur had seen a woman, they would always get the needed respect from him – was pushed on the bed by Arthur's comfortable weight. His lips travelled all over her and made her moan while her hands were busy with pleasuring him. It must have been the alcohol, or maybe something else, but Arthur didn't feel much. Maybe it was just because there were no other feelings than lust involved, or maybe because he was still too shocked from his dream; but his need to kiss was not quenched.
Her breasts were pressed against his chest as she moaned and held onto him, her head lost in pleasure while Arthur was doing his best to find his own while thrusting in and out of her. After having given the woman three orgasms and not having gotten any himself, the Brit gave up, blaming alcohol. Luckily the lady forgave him and left early home.

Arthur was laying on his back, his erection long dead, and was staring at the dark ceiling above him that showed how cars passed by, making it light up. He sighed and turned onto his side. The Brit wasn't drunk, not a tiny bit. It was just the stupid Frenchman that had settled himself inside his mind like some sort of a parasite and wasn't planning on letting him go. Arthur groaned and stood up, walking over to his small cabinet.
The chrystal bottle was only half filled. The Brit always made sure that he only would it fill half, not more or less. The bottle glugged happily as it was tipped over slightly so the goldish brown liquid would fill a whiskey glass. Arthur wanted to get drunk, drunk enough to forget what religion he was part off, drunk enough to forget his name and most importantly: drunk enough to forget about Francis. The cold glass felt very inviting against his soft lips and he was about to tip it over to down the nice drink so he could feel the burning feeling in his throat when he heard the 8-bit music interrupt him for the second time that day. Thinking that it wasn't smart to answer the phone when drunk, Arthur put the full glass down and fished his phone out of his pants – which were sprawled over the floor. Same caller ID, same picture. Frog. He sighed and finally answered it.
"Hello?" he asked with an obviously irritated tone.
"Bonjour, Angleterre" resounded from the other end of the line.
"Speak the language I understand, frog"
"How cold…" Francis responded with a laugh.
"What do you want?"
"The meeting has been overplaced to tomorrow"
And before the Brit had time to retort and protest, the call ended. Stupid Frenchman.
With a low sigh and grunt Arthur walked over to the cabinet and chugged down the bottle of whiskey and the glass he had prepared for himself before the call. The burning feeling calmed him and he waddled over to his bed giddily before plopping on it.

That night was the first night ever that he masturbated while thinking about the Frenchman.