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Title: 23 - Dirty
Rating: NC-17,
Warning: Unsafe gardening practices. Wanton destruction of personal property.
Disclaimer: Has absolutely nothing to do with the real life men the book and movie were based. It's only inspired by the movie and I make no profit. And I do not set forth this type of relationship as ideal or healthy for anyone. Although it works for these two.
Dedication: For missmishka , for all her lovely fb and bunnies and ideas and perviness.
Dirty
It was the first warm, dry Saturday of spring. McKnight had hoped to spend the whole weekend relaxing with Grimes. Of course, McKnight’s idea of relaxing with Grimes was far from sedentary, so he’d been fully prepared to burn lots of calories.
Except Grimes was on a mission.
So McKnight would have to expend his energy helping Grimes complete his mission. The sooner it was done, the sooner McKnight would get to the active relaxation part of the weekend.
McKnight could only hope he wouldn’t be too tired to relax at the end of the day.
In part, he blamed his sister. Linda had been showing Grimes pictures, reminiscing about how beautiful the garden used to be when Mildred was able to tend it. Grimes wanted to honor Mildred’s memory and make Linda happy.
There was nothing wrong with that. Linda had certainly done her bit to help Grimes and make him happy. McKnight just wished the pay back didn’t have to happen on his day off.
By helping Grimes, McKnight would make Grimes happy. And when Grimes was happy, he smiled. McKnight found himself willing to do whatever it would take to get Grimes to smile, because Grimes’ smile did things to McKnight, somewhere deep inside his gut. Things McKnight liked. Things McKnight wanted to feel all the time. That not-quite-queasy, giddy feeling you get on a roller coaster, or your first ever bottle of beer, or your first… kiss.
So, really, it was McKnight’s own damn fault he was working so hard on his day off.
He was almost finished phase one of the project, the phase in which the entire front garden got tilled. Grimes had rented a hand-held, gas-powered tiller. It was heavy, dirty, tedious, smelly work. But McKnight was determined to have all the earth turned and the weeds churned up by the time Grimes got back from the garden center with the peat moss.
Grimes had been planning to do all this himself, in the evenings, or during the day while he did his other work in the evenings. It had not taken long for McKnight to decide that things would go a lot faster if he helped.
Grimes was perfectly capable of doing the work on his own, but McKnight was bigger, stronger and more motivated, since he had a ten-day training session coming up. If they got the garden finished by Sunday night, he would have every evening, all week, with Grimes, until he had to leave on Saturday. Powerful motivation.
There was never enough spare time to spend with Grimes. At least part of McKnight always seemed to want to be with him, whenever he wasn’t fully engaged with work. He wasn’t that far gone; McKnight didn’t let Grimes impeded his ability to do his job. Much.
But when he was waiting for someone to show up, stopped at a traffic light… elevators… line-ups… his mind pretty reliably wandered to Grimes.
It wasn’t a painful kind of yearning, or desperate. It was warm and comfortable. Grimes was always around. He’d laundered the clothes McKnight wore, prepared the food in his belly, made sure he got to work on time. McKnight often thought he could feel the ghost of Grimes’ hands on his shoulders and back, easing away tension. He could smell Grimes on his own skin.
He was not looking forward to the ten days away. Traces of Grimes would become thinner. He’d even thought about bringing one of Grimes’ t-shirts so he would never have to be alone. But Grimes would never let him smuggle an unwashed article of clothing out of the house.
McKnight wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. This was work. He shouldn’t let his mind wander. Grimes would be upset if McKnight accidentally chopped up the roots of the lilac bush or plowed through the hedge.
There was a plan, of course. He had, in his pocket, a carefully drawn map of the garden, with the various soil requirements detailed and labeled in grid squares. Another map showed the eventual placement of flowerbeds, shrubbery and trees. Grimes had dug up the salvageable plants the day before, and they were lined up against the shady wall of the house, roots wrapped in waterlogged burlap. Grimes always did his prep thoroughly.
Grimes got back with the peat moss, fertilizer and something called vermiculite, which made McKnight think of the freeze-dried grain cereal they’d put in field kits for a while.
Phase two was particularly irksome to McKnight. Mixing dirt with other dirt seemed like the kind of make work project the army might make you do to test your endurance.
McKnight wasn’t sure any of this was necessary. He hadn’t seen anything wrong with the way the garden looked before. It was a bit wild, overgrown and weedy, but McKnight figured that just made the place look less hospitable. More private.
Grimes was turning the soil over by hand, stirring up the various organic materials. He bent over to break up a stubborn clod of dark brown stuff, and spread it over some lighter brown stuff.
It was too mild, and too early in the year, for heat stroke, so it must have been lust that made McKnight’s head go all floaty like that.
Grimes was working in the sunniest part of the yard, and his clothes were starting to stick to him with his sweat. Except, somehow, Grimes’ clothes didn’t stick to him the same way other people’s clothes sick to them. Grimes’ clothes hugged his curves and grooves. It was almost obscene.
McKnight looked around to make sure no one else would see Grimes like that, with his t-shirt plastered to his shoulder blades and the line of his spine almost visible through the faded olive green, jeans riding low enough to show a strips of back and belly, and worn denim, snug on his ass, with a tiny hole at the corner of one back pocket.
The hole was small enough to not be noticeable until Grimes bent over. Then it became clear that Grimes was wearing exactly nothing under those jeans.
McKnight was still standing in the middle of a pile of dirt, leaning on a shovel handle and staring, thinking about how much he'd like to wriggle his finger into that hole and feel the smooth skin of Grimes’ ass, when his sister showed up with a picnic lunch.
“Thought you boys might need a break,” she said. She winked at Grimes in a manner in which no older sister had the right to wink at her younger brother’s even younger boyfriend.
Grimes thanked her profusely for the lunch, and she reminded him for the thousandth time to stop calling her ‘ma’am’, Grimes got all bashful, and McKnight wished Linda would go the fuck home.
But she and Grimes chatted about the garden, and she offered to take the rental equipment back, which would save money and time, so they could finish the job all the sooner. So she wasn’t a complete irritation.
McKnight ate in silence, and was grateful, in a way, that Linda had shown up when she did, even if he wasn’t happy that she showed up. Another minute later, and McKnight would have had Grimes half-naked and sprawled on a flowerbed. That would have embarrassed Grimes to no end.
McKnight was beyond caring what his sister knew about his sex life. She could think whatever she wanted of him.
But.
He would behave himself for the sake of Grimes.
McKnight drank the lemonade Grimes handed him. “Have to keep up your fluids,” Grimes said. He didn’t actually say ‘sir’, but McKnight heard it.
The afternoon grew from warm to hot. Linda left, Grimes and McKnight worked steadily. Grimes was worried about the plants wilting, so McKnight tried to spend as little time as possible staring at Grimes.
That was the hardest part of the job. Not getting distracted. Especially when Grimes started digging strategically placed holes for the plants, and filing them with water to test the soil.
Grimes held the hose in front of him and drank, open-mouthed, water spraying up on his face, making the dirt on his cheek run a muddy track down the side of his neck. Grimes smiled at McKnight. Dazzling.
Plants. In. The. Ground.
McKnight picked up the nearest shrub. “Were do you want this?” he asked gruffly.
Grimes consulted his plane and pointed to the nearest hole.
“This is going really fast, sir,” Grimes said happily.
“Not nearly fast enough,” McKnight muttered under his breath.
How many goddamn plants were there? Was it really necessary to save ALL of them?
McKnight fetched the next plant, supporting the root ball with one hand, as instructed.
Grimes gave him a full-on grin. “It’s going to be beautiful, sir.”
It already was, in McKnight’s opinion.
The next one wasn’t a shrub. It was a fucking tree. And it weighed as much as Grimes, almost.
McKnight couldn’t ignore the hot flush of blood to his groin when he thought about the precise manner in which he’d discovered how much Grimes weighed. He could feel Grimes' ass against his front, Grimes' back pressing into his chest, Grimes' hair brushing against his face as Grimes let his head fall back over McKngiht's shoulder.
"Sir?"
McKnight lugged the tree across the yard to where Grimes stood looking slightly dazed.
“What?”
“I had to use the wheelbarrow for that one,” Grimes said, staring at McKnight’s arms.
Ah-ha, McKnight thought. I’m not the only one getting tired of the gardening.
He shifted the tree in his arms. “It is a bit heavy,” he admitted, completely ignoring the way his forearms and shoulders were screaming at him to put the fucking tree down, for fuck's sake.
And his cock was screaming for him to put Grimes down on the ground while he was at it.
Grimes bent to fuss with the burlap, and McKnight sidled closer, brushed the fat ridge of his cock against Grimes’ hip.
Grimes pretended not to notice.
McKnight could tell he was pretending from the way Grimes’ voice was a bit higher than usual when he asked McKnight to lower the tree into the hole.
McKnight thought about trees and tree trunks and holes.
The rest of the afternoon went like that. McKnight hauled stuff around. Grimes drove him crazy by kneeling to press down soil and adjust things, sometimes with his ass up in the air. McKnight noticed the hole in Grimes’ jeans had ripped a little bigger over the course of the day’s work. He really wanted to wriggle his finger inside it.
By the time they had transplanted the last bush, they were both covered in soil and sweat.
McKnight had seen more dirt, and been dirtier, than most people, after all those years in the army. Back when he was going to night school, when he was a sergeant, his job had consisted of making privates crawl around in the dirt and much, making them tired and dirty and sweaty until the weak were identified and weeded out.
But this... McKnight had never found dirt so sexy in all his life.
Grimes was caked in it from knees to nipples. His forehead and cheeks were smeared. His hands, usually so meticulously clean, were filthy.
McKnight probably looked the same, dirt-wise. Other than the dirt, McKnight knew he didn’t look anything like Grimes.
Grimes was slender and beautiful and boyish and sexy. Fucking sexy.
McKnight figured he looked big and rough and old and…
But Grimes was looking at him.
Looking at him.
The bouncing on the balls of his feet and rubbing his palms on his thighs and flicking out his wet, pink tongue kind of looking at him.
What the hell did it matter if McKnight didn’t look, in McKnight’s opinion, anywhere near as good as Grimes, if the way McKnight looked, in Grimes’ opinion, was just fine. McKnight wasn’t looking at himself. He was looking at Grimes.
And Grimes was looking at him.
McKnight looked around.
“She won’t be back until morning,” Grimes said. “She told me when she said good-bye.” He moved to the side of the house, to a patch of grass between the house, the garden shed and a massive hedge.
McKnight took a few seconds to study the sight lines.
Damn. Grimes had really done his homework. It was concealed from all approaches. How had McKnight never noticed before?
McKnight followed.
Grimes stood on the low ground, on a little area paved with slabs of sun-warmed stone, and ran water from the garden hose over his arms, while scrubbing at the dirt.
McKnight approached slowly. He wanted to enjoy the view for a while.
Grimes kicked off his shoes and rinsed his bare feet. Grimes was a bit self-conscious abut the scars on his foot, even now, but McKnight didn't see them anymore. Grimes had nice feet. Grimes had nice everything.
McKnight was wearing an old khaki shirt, the one the medic had ripped the sleeve off when McKnight’s arm was fractured. McKnight had ripped the other arm off to match. Grimes had been sneaking looks at him all day.
McKnight wondered if Grimes had been thinking about that night in McKnight's room with his arm in the cast and the pain pills. It was still a little hazy, but McKnight was sure that was the first time he ever tried to suck Grimes’ cock. And the first night Grimes’ ever stripped without being told. Even if he couldn’t remember everything, he knew that had happened.
McKnight started to unbutton his shirt.
Grimes looked as if he might drop the hose to help. He loved to undress McKnight. So McKnight pointed and said, “You missed a spot.”
Grimes scrubbed at his neck with his free hand.
McKnight gestured at the hand holding the hose.
Grimes turned the spray on his neck, soaking his t-shirt in seconds, making his nipples stand out like diamonds.
McKnight made a noise in the back of his throat as Grimes let the water flow all over him. He watched Grimes scrub at his hair until it stood up crazily. He watched Grimes wash the dirt off the front of his jeans, and then the back.
Grimes turned the hose in McKnight’s direction, and McKnight stepped into the flow.
The cold water sizzled on his skin. He shrugged off his shirt and got his hands clean so he could scrub at his chest. It was so different from Grimes’ chest. Broader, coarser.
Grimes paid more attention to McKnight’s chest than anyone else ever had. When he massaged McKnight, he ran his hands over it and played with the hair and licked the nipples. When they fucked face-to-face, Grimes’ rubbed his own chest against McKnight’s. Grimes would stroke the hair and lay his cheek on it when he went to sleep some nights.
Grimes was staring at it now, as the water ran over it, plastering the dark hair to the pale skin. Grimes dropped the hose.
“Sir,” he said. He grabbed the hem and peeled his own t-shirt up off his torso.
McKnight went on automatic. He reached for Grimes’ waist first. Trim waist, with a curve at the hip that fit McKnight’s hands to perfection, fingers around the back, thumbs to the front. McKnight could feel the muscles ripple as Grimes’ pelvis rolled forward.
The t-shirt smacked the stones wetly.
McKnight latched his mouth on a hard nipple.
Since he’d formally recognized his oral fixation, McKnight smoked less and was much freer with his mouth on Grimes’ body. All over Grimes’ body.
As long as he kept his distance from Grimes’ cock, Grimes seemed to really enjoy being licked and sucked and kissed. All over his body.
McKnight kept his eyes open so he could watch Grimes’ abs go crazy when his nipple was nibbled. Grimes had his hands on McKnight’s shoulders, kneading and digging in.
McKnight licked up Grimes’ neck and pressed their cold, wet torsos together. Not cold anymore. Grimes tilted his head back and opened his mouth, accepting McKnight’s kiss passively. His back arched against McKnight’s palms. McKnight adjusted the splay of his hands so he could feel every muscle possible.
The grass was six, maybe seven steps away. McKnight started to shuffle backward, careful to avoid stepping on bare toes.
Grimes flipped the hose up with his foot and directed the spray between them.
McKnight jumped back when the water soaked the front of his trousers, cold but not cold enough to destroy his erection. Grimes was laughing.
Grimes was playing.
Maybe Grimes had underestimated the seriousness of the situation.
Or maybe McKnight had overestimated it.
Maybe McKnight should play too.
He snatched the hose from Grimes and shoved it between that perfect belly and the waistband of Grimes’ jeans. Water poured in, seeped through the jeans, poured out through a rip at the knee.
Grimes shrieked and writhed. Liquid sex encased in sinfully tight wet denim.
Playing was fun.
They wrestled for control of the hose. Grimes kept distracting McKnight by rubbing against him. McKnight nipped at Grimes’ neck so Grimes would push against him with his crotch. The heat and cold warred.
Grimes got control of the hose again and aimed it up just as McKnight caught his mouth for another kiss. They both ignored the water; both dropped the hose so they could touch each other again.
Playing had been fun. Now it was time to get serious.
McKnight slid over Grimes and lowered him to the grass. There were squelching noises as Grimes bucked under him.
Gardening was fun.
Trying to tear Grimes’ soaking wet jeans off was not fun.
It was frustrating.
Frustrating was fun in its own way, because the denim was glued to Grimes’ wet skin, which made McKnight want to lick it. And Grimes was wriggling frenetically, which made McKnight want to do a whole lot of other things.
“Sir, in the shed…” Grimes panted.
McKnight tore his eyes off Grimes for the second it took to estimate the size of the shed.
It didn’t look big enough to fit the two of them standing up and chatting, let alone McKnight fucking Grimes three ways past Sunday, and McKnight was not in the mood to chat.
After all that working and gardening and smiling and playing, he was in a definite fucking mood.
Actually, he’d forgotten all about the gardening mission. The new mission was to get his cock inside Grimes’ ass. ASAP.
“Second shelf to the left…” Grimes undulated from head to toe when McKnight tried to cram his hand down the back of Grimes’ jeans.
McKnight could not fathom what could possibly be important about the goddamn shed.
“Green tin, sir,” Grimes said.
Good for it, McKnight thought.
Grimes started to shimmy. McKnight had abandoned the back and started to strip back the front of the jeans. Dark curls glistening in the open vee, and McKnight could see the shape of Grimes’ cock clearly under the dark blue.
“It’s slippery, sir!”
Slippery. Yeah. Slippery was good. McKnight could use some slippery.
And Grimes was in no shape to get up. He might have to pull his jeans up the few inches McKnight had managed to unpeel them, and that would be so wrong.
McKnight leapt to the shed and yanked it open. If it had been locked, he probably would have ripped the door off its hinges. Green tin. Something or other ‘balm’. He didn’t have time to read the fucking label. If Grimes said it was slippery, that was good enough for McKnight.
McKnight turned back to Grimes.
“Oh,” was all he could say. He couldn’t even swear, and that had never happened to him before.
The hose kept spraying water about and the grass was fast becoming a mudhole. Grimes had slipped and was halfway turned over, jeans partway down his ass, top of one, perfect smooth globe visible on one side, smudged with mud.
McKnight kicked the hose to one side and said ‘oh’ again.
McKnight’s pants went down easily. He couldn’t get them past his boots, but they were off his skin where it mattered most. All he could get contact with, though, was denim.
No matter how much McKnight, who was mostly naked and getting spattered with mud and not caring at all, tried to yank them down, they were stuck, with the waistband rolling and getting even tighter.
They might have come off if Grimes straightened his hips and legs, but McKnight didn’t have time to explain that, and he really didn’t want Grimes to straighten out because the way his ass was up in the air begging to be fucked made logical, efficient problem solving seem cumbersome.
Had McKnight been thinking logically in the first place, he never would have let Grimes turn the hose on himself until he was absolutely naked. But he’d been greedy. Eager to see the dark material molded to the slender body, the dark blue shimmer as denim plastered itself to his thighs, the peaked nipples under the shirt, which had come off easily, because it was loose and stretchy. Jeans, on the other hand, were impossible.
Logic would be of no help at all; he would have to solve this problem in the head-on, no-holds-barred Danny McKnight manner.
“How much do you like these jeans?” he growled.
Grimes pushed futilely and snarled, “I fucking hate them right now, sir.”
Good enough. McKnight jammed his finger into the hole at the corner of the pocket, which was only an inch or so beneath where it would normally sit, proving that the jeans, while somewhat less concealing than a few minutes ago, were not coming off nearly fast enough.
They had to go.
McKnight crooked his finger and ripped.
Grimes’ ass, at least from McKnight’s vantage point above and behind, appeared to burst out of the jeans.
“Oh, god, sir!” Grimes hollered, a little too loud, but McKnight didn’t care.
Except he did.
“Hush,” he said as he grabbed the flap of denim and tore it down to the crotch seam and then across. Grimes closed his mouth and hummed.
It wasn’t ideal, but the hole in the jeans gave McKnight enough access to the only hole that mattered. He popped the tin open and scooped out thick, white goop.
“You sure about this stuff?” he asked, eyeing the greasy substance suspiciously.
“Fuck, Sir! Cock in my ass, now!” Grimes howled.
McKnight’s cock jumped from where it had been hovering in the air, right into McKnight’s slippery hand.
Grimes had never demanded anything before. Not like that.
McKnight didn’t know if he liked it, or loved it.
He smeared the goop on Grimes’ ass and slipped a couple of fingers inside.
“Fucking… fuck, you’re a good boy.”
Grimes bounced on McKnight’s fingers.
McKnight used the hand not in Grimes’ ass to rip at the jeans a bit more. Grimes helped, which gave him one less hand to balance on, so he fell into the mud onto his shoulder. He shredded the front of the jeans and pulled his cock out.
“Motherfucker, yeah. Keep your hand on your cock,” McKnight ordered. “Good boy.” He grabbed squirming hips and steadied Grimes.
He slipped in the mud, so instead of a slow, controlled insertion, it was a sudden invasion.
Gardening was better than fun. It was fucking fantastic.
Because McKnight was fucking Grimes, out in the relative open, and the sun was shining down on them.
Continued in: 24 Really Clean
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