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Water. trickles around the dark curves of Albert Laurent’s back when it shifts up a bit. Dark rivulets following the grooves between muscles. Tiny droplets catching the light on the high ground, sparkling in deep browns and purples, golds and reds, all the colours that make up Albert’s lustrous skin, shifting as his muscles shift under it, colours changing and glowing in the candlelight. The mass that is Albert’s right shoulder moves, so every muscle is defined, every tendon clear, and his hand slides up the back of the tub, fingers pressing into Lincoln’s skin in a line of pure
Fire. Burning deep in Laurent’s lungs. Pressure building. The urge to breathe. But the solid feel of Lincoln’s cock in his mouth is something Laurent is unwilling to give up. It is hot and full and he can feel Lincoln’s pulse with his lips, feel the blood throbbing in Lincoln’s body, driving him, making him want more. So hard and needy. So undeniably Lincoln. All his questions and concerns and worries shunted to the side for once, all his focus on the mouth on his cock, on his desire. The desire grounds him, grounds Laurent, connects them both to the
Earth, which tilts and rolls as if they are on the sea. Lincoln gasps and grips the edge of the tub with claw-like hands. So good, so right, so just what he wanted even though he’s never thought of it before but he should have known Albert would come up with something this good. He always does. He is a magician, Albert is. A wizard who can conjure please in ever increasing amounts. And is always willing, eager to do so. Lincoln tilts his head back and moans as Albert raises his head and takes in a huge gulp of
Air. Water dripping from his formerly submerged head, cascading down his back in rivers of purple-brown Lincoln can’t actually see unless he were to twist his head and look in the mirror on the wall opposite, but Lincoln’s looking straight ahead, into Albert’s blinking eyes.
“Well, was that two minutes?”
Lincoln doesn’t answer immediately. It felt so good to have Laurent’s mouth on him like that, under water, Laurent would be willing to bet that Lincoln completely lost track of the time. He’s ready to get smug about it when Lincoln opens his mouth.
Two minutes, seventeen seconds,” Lincoln says.
Luxury
“So, what did you learn from your card party?” Albert asks as he stretches out on the bed next to Lincoln.
Lincoln blinks and rolls to one side so he can put his hand on Albert’s arm.
“Well?” Albert prompts.
Lincoln has forgotten the question. He’s distracted, and who wouldn’t be? He has naked Albert Laurent beside him.
Lincoln imagines that if a massive marble statue of a warrior were to come to life, it would look a lot like Albert does right now. The bath oil has given Albert’s skin an extra sheen. His muscles are relaxed, his penis lies soft and sated over his balls. This is one of his favourite ways to look at Albert - right after a bout of vigorous mutual masturbation and cocksucking in the oversized bathtub. (MacNeil is not going to be happy about the water all over the place, bath oil rendering the marble of the floor treacherous, but it will, Lincoln hopes, at least be dry by the time she next shows up.)
“Did you learn to play euchre?”
Lincoln nods. “I understand it. And I can see why it’s so popular, socially. You can get to know people from how they play, and you don’t have to concentrate too hard, so people can talk when they’re playing. It’s fun.”
“Always analyzing,’ Albert teases. “What else did you learn? I know there’s more.” Albert puts his hand on Lincoln’s hip in a comfortable, friendly way. It’s not a sexual gesture, Lincoln reminds himself. But it is sensual. And Lincoln’s nowhere near ready for more yet, but Albert’s huge, warm hand on his hip makes him think it would definitely be a good idea to continue the sex a little later.
The hand is as distracting as Albert’s skin.
“I’ve learned there is no end to the pleasure I find with you,’ Lincoln says.
Albert looks please but a little embarrassed by that, as if he just noticed how naked he is, and how Lincoln is looking at him. Lincoln hopes Albert isn’t going to cover up. It would be a shame to spoil such a beautiful view.
Albert moves his hand around Lincoln’s hip and cups his ass. “That is entirely mutual.” He gives Lincoln the tiniest squeeze, and his penis shifts slightly. So does Lincoln’s.
Wow. Lincoln really likes that. They could just lie here and talk and say or do little things that would produce little reactions like that, and eventually all the little reactions would add up, and at some point they would both get hard again, and it would be like seamless, continuous sex but with enough of a rest to let them keep going forever. It would be luxurious.
They have the luxury of time, and no pressure, because they both had really great orgasms so there’s not need to rush. They have the luxury of this huge, comfortable bed, and soft sheets, and a bottle of delicious fruit beverage, like a fake wine but it isn’t pretending to taste like wine. It has its own clear, clean taste. MacNeil gave it to them, saying “Chill it well. You two drink too much scotch.” Which may be true. Lincoln can’t tell. But he sips the pale liquid and enjoys the taste and all this luxury.
“I’ve learned that MacNeil was right about this stuff. It’s very good,” Lincoln says. “Maybe we do drink too much scotch.”
Albert makes a face, and it almost makes him look boyish. Lincoln loves it. Albert is reluctant, but he accepts the glass from Lincoln and sips.
“Mm, not bad. I think I’d like it better if I licked it off your skin.”
Yes!
“Later,” Albert says. “I need a little rest.”
That may be so, but Lincoln can’t help noticing that Albert’s penis has shifted again, and is the slightest bit bigger.
“What else did you learn?”
Lincoln thinks over the evening for a minute. It takes a bit of effort to push past the memory of the bathtub, but once he does he thinks about the card party. What did he find out? Jones is smart. He knew that already. Jones is also very… what did Talia call it?… quirky. And twitchy.
Talia has a great vocabulary. English is not her first, or even second language, but you wouldn’t know it from her way with words. And you wouldn’t know it from her accent – not strong, not all that distinct, it gives her voice a warm, round sound. She sounds like she’s from a lot of places. But Lincoln didn’t learn that tonight. He already knew that.
“For such a smart guy, Merrick can’t play cards for shit.”
Albert laughs. Lincoln can’t tell if he used the slang wrong or if he thinks it’s funny that Merrick is such a lousy card player.
“And he wants you,” Lincoln adds.
Albert stops laughing. “No, he wants you.”
“He was watching you, Albert. He has hungry eyes,” Lincoln insists. Not so much hungry as greedy. Greedy green eyes drinking up the sight of Albert’s tall, muscular, elegant frame as he leaned against the counter in the kitchen and chatted with MacNeil while she poured drinks. Devouring Albert’s long, long legs. Relishing that impossibly beautiful vee of Albert from shoulders to waist.
Albert shifts his hips. He must have noticed Lincoln staring at the vee of his torso, or rather at the bottom of the vee, the rippled abs and the other vee of his hips and the growing…
Lincoln looks up. “I can’t blame him for wanting you.”
Albert’s eyes are dark. “I believe it is you he desires.” Albert’s face is hard.
“Does that…” Lincoln studies the serious lines of Albert’s face. “Does that make you jealous?” he dares to ask.
Albert shakes his head. “No. I would be jealous if I thought there was a chance you returned his desire. But I do feel…” He stops talking as if he must choose his words very carefully. To avoid misunderstanding. To avoid unnecessary hurt?
Lincoln waits patiently, keeping his eyes on Albert’s face, even though he can sense that penis turning into a cock.
“I would say protective,” Albert says. “Because I want to protect you, but it’s more than that.”
Lincoln doesn’t like to think he needs protection, but the way Albert’s whole body just tensed, as if he’s on alert, and the way his fingers have tightened on Lincoln’s hip, and his eyes have darker and somehow hotter, makes Lincoln feel a little weak. Maybe he does need protection.
But not from Albert.
“Possessive,” Albert whispers. “I’m sorry. I know it’s wrong. But that’s what I feel. And then he says it again. “Possessive.”
Everything whirls around Lincoln for a moment. The intensity of Albert’s voice, quiet and restrained, is more powerful than a shot of scotch could ever be.
His first thought, selfish as it may be, is that he should invite Merrick over more often if it’s going to have this sort of effect on Albert.
His second thought is an indignant one. He belongs to no one. He will not be possessed.
The second thought is trampled by a third. The third thought wants Albert to pin him to the bed and fucking own him.
Lincoln suspects that the third thought is coming from his penis, which has suddenly become a cock.
Lincoln open his mouth to speak but all that comes out is a croak. He reaches for the glass and Albert’s fingers spread a little on his hips, gaining leverage, securing his grip. Lincoln’s sure that was unconscious on Albert’s part. The fruit drink is cold and sharp and makes his tongue tingle. He puts the glass back on the night table. As far from the bed as he can reach.
“Well.” Lincoln’s hand is cool from the glass. He places it on Albert’s chest and can feel Albert’s heart thudding beneath it, through the heavy muscle there. “If you are feeling possessive, then I’d say you should possess me.”
Albert coughs. “Lincoln…”
Lincoln smiles. “Go on. Possess. Take.” Lincoln thinks about what he’s really trying to say. “Prove it.”
And he’s on his back before he knows what hit him, with Albert on top, blacking out the light of the moon and the streetlight and the world. Albert is hard against his thigh, and Lincoln’s idle fantasy of a slow, night-long seduction is obliterated by sudden, overwhelming need.
There are many kinds of luxury. Right now, Lincoln is grateful for soundproofing, because this could get very loud.
“You,” Albert says, as if that’s a whole sentence. He drops his head to Lincoln’s shoulder and breathes raggedly.
Lincoln reaches up to run his hands over the hard surface of Albert’s back.
“You are not my possession,” Albert whispers. “You are my soul. You nourish my spirit. It was starving and you…” Albert buries his face against Lincoln’s neck.
Lincoln raises his legs up around Albert’s thighs and pulls him close, so they touch everywhere.
He knows he can’t possibly understand. He hasn’t lived enough years.
Albert’s arms go under him, and Lincoln’s legs fall down. Albert turns them over so Lincoln is on top, with Albert taking all Lincoln’s weight and making it his own.
“Lincoln, I don’t… I have no right…”
Lincoln rests his forehead against Albert’s and stares at him cross-eyed. “Silly Bear. You always do this. You always get yourself so upset because you think it’s wrong to love me too much.”
Lincoln kisses Albert’s lips, wanting to make him feel better but feeling terrible. Here Albert is, so full of emotion he’s overflowing, vulnerable and beautiful, and Lincoln is filled with the desire for sex. Lots of sex. Hard sex. Sex that will make him feel as deeply as Albert does.
Above all, he wishes he could feel so deeply, so helplessly. Maybe in a few more years, maybe with some experience, he’ll know what it is to have an empty spirit. Right now, he isn’t even sure he has a spirit. Maybe Merrick’s clones aren’t so perfect after all.
Maybe he won’t be able to feel his spirit until he’s had the sort of pain and heartbreak that made Albert feel empty. No - that is impossible. The only way that could happen is if he lost Albert. Unthinkable. Unacceptable.
Maybe – preferably – he can’t feel his spirit because it is already filled. With Albert. And he knows Albert will never let it get hungry. And having never known hunger, his spirit feels free to crave sex.
Could anyone ask for a better spiritual life?
Albert is not in any pain right now. He’s feeling deeply, and that must be a good thing, but Lincoln still feels a bit guilty about his shallow spirit. Lincoln is also able to feel every inch of Albert beneath him, every detail.
“Bear?”
“Yes, Lincoln?”
Interesting. When Albert is in this sort of emotional state he doesn’t even notice when Lincoln calls him that. That’s the best thing Lincoln has learned all night.
“I’m sorry if I’m shallow, or not being sensitive enough to your feelings.”
“Shh, Lincoln. You are perfect. Always perfect.”
“I’m glad you feel that way, Bear, because I want something.”
“Anything.”
“Badly.”
“It’s yours.”
“Oh, good.” Lincoln slides down Albert’s torso and uses his knees to push Albert’s thighs apart. “Because I really want to fuck you. Right now.”
Albert groans, in a good way, and lifts his thighs, knees bent, offering himself to Lincoln.
Lincoln wastes no time accepting the offer. He uses lube on his fingers, but just enough to prevent injury. He can tell that Albert needs it hard, maybe even a little painful, wants to feel his muscles stretch, feel the burn from the suddenness of it, from the thickness of Lincoln’s cock forcing him open.
Albert says something in the language Lincoln doesn’t understand although the meaning is as clear as day.
Lincoln pushes deeper inside.
“Yours,” Albert says. Completely open to Lincoln.
Lincoln rocks his hips from side to side, finding a firmer seat.
“Mine,” Albert says. Completely surrounding Lincoln.
Lincoln can only moan, because he’s feeling this somewhere, not in his cock. Not in his balls. It’s inside. It’s a flame bursting through his chest. It’s a frenzy, a storm, a million explosions set off one at a time but all at once.
It’s his spirit. He does have a spirit, and he can feel it, and it belongs to him but Albert possesses it.
“Bear.”
“Yes.”
“I have a spirit.”
‘Everyone has a spirit.”
“But I can feel mine.”
“What does it feel like?”
Lincoln moves his hips again. He pulls out. It feels great on his cock, but the feeling deep inside doesn’t change at all.
“It feels… full.”
Albert lets out a long breath. “I feel it too.” And then his breath stops and his fingers tighten on Lincoln’s biceps. “Lincoln.”
“Yes?”
“You stopped fucking me.”
“Yes.” Lincoln slides back inside. Albert gasps a little. It must burn. Must burn good. “Can I just stay inside you for a little while? It feels so right.”
Albert moves his thigh and his cock presses up into Lincoln’s stomach. “Ahhhh. I don’t know. I… want to get fucked.”
“You will. I just want…” He wants to concentrate on the fullness of his spirit. Lincoln moves again, moves his hips in a little circle, feels Albert shudder from it.
His spirit feels as full as ever.
Maybe he can have the full spirit and the sex at the same time.
What a fucking luxury. He can have it all. And not only that, but having it all includes having Albert.
Lincoln starts to fuck. He fucks hard. It burns. It burns him, it burns Albert, it probably burns the sheets. The air crackles around them and everything is lit up brilliantly. Albert’s legs go around him and Lincoln might be suffocating from it, or maybe his spirit is so full it’s pushing the air out of his lungs, and the only way to breathe again is to come, inside Albert.
But Albert is still hard. And he’s almost wailing from it. His back arches and Lincoln has to hold onto slippery shoulders to keep from being bucked off. Albert has his legs spread wide now, and when Lincoln pulls out of him he groans. Lincoln puts his hands under the small of Albert’s back, which isn’t very small at all so Lincoln figures it was named incorrectly by someone who never put their hands under Albert Laurent’s back, and applies enough pressure to maintain that beautiful arch so that Albert’s cock is offered to Lincoln at the most perfect angle Lincoln can imagine.
It’s hard and smooth and slightly bitter tasting and the only thing Lincoln wants in his mouth. Lincoln remembers the first time he ever did this, and how new and wonderful it was, and it’s just as new and wonderful now. He opens his mouth as wide as his can and slides his lips down the shaft. Albert’s moans get louder, as Lincoln suspected they might. It he can get his tongue up the side of Albert’s cock to the head, maybe he can make him – yes!
Albert twists violently and says Lincoln’s name. Really loud. And Lincoln relaxes his mouth so Albert’s come can flow into his mouth. It might be part of Albert’s spirit, overflowing, making Lincolns overflow as well. Lincoln can’t tell. Lincoln can only feel.
Albert rocks on the bed as if he can’t contain himself. Lincoln rocks with him, arms curled around Albert’s thighs. Very comforting, this rocking is. Very soothing. He could almost drift off to sleep like this, with Albert’s softening penis in his mouth and Albert’s strong thighs keeping him safe.
“Lincoln.”
Lincoln lets the penis slip from his mouth. He nuzzles Albert’s belly and sighs. “Bear?”
“Come up here. I need you.”
Mm. Needs him. Lincoln drags his body up and collapses across Albert’s chest. He could spend the whole night here, on top of Albert. But it wouldn’t be comfortable for Albert. He’s big, but not that big. Lincoln lifts his head and gives Albert’s cheek a lazy lick.
“I found my spirit,” he tells Albert.
Albert makes a low, warm sound.
“It was full of you.”
“No, Lincoln. Your spirit is full of you. I only feed it.”
Lincoln licks his lips and then sighs.
“Must you take everything so literally?”
“I am a clone,” Lincoln points out with a little giggle. Maybe more of a smirk.
“Fascinating creatures, clones are,” Albert says. “I can think of one in particular who requires very close study. A lifetime of study might do it.”
Lincoln is so glad that Albert seems to be over his bout of insecurity.
It was Merrick’s fault. Ever since Merrick showed up, Albert’s been sensitive about the clone issue.
And ever since Merrick showed up, Lincoln has been getting even more spectacular sex than usual.
For a creepy, nasty, untrustworthy clone who can’t play cards for shit, Merrick sure does bring good things to Lincoln.
“I learned that bad things sometimes lead to good things and I am very lucky for all I have,” Lincoln says. But he still has a bit of trouble with the logic behind left and right bowers.
Ah, who cares? Euchre is just a stupid game. This is real life. Luxury.
Same
Lincoln studies his face in the mirror. Everything looks the same. Funny. He’d thought he’d look like a new person after last night, after finding and feeling his spirit. So strongly.
But he looks like the same Lincoln.
Albert is stretched out diagonally across the bed. All six foot four of him.
Albert doesn’t look any different either. Same long lines and thick muscles and lush skin. Same curve of his hip making the sheet slip so there’s a promising shadow in front.
Lincoln woke up starved, desperate for breakfast, craving sustenance.
Instead, he watches Albert sleep.
Who needs breakfast?
Lazy
“Merrick called. He wants to take us out for lunch.”
Laurent rolls over, sheets catching around naked hips. “I don’t even want to get out of bed today.”
“I know,” Lincoln sits on the bed. “I told him you had to work.”
Laurent is being lazy. A well-earned lazy, but lazy nonetheless. Lincoln is fully clothed, has been up for over an hour, and working on a design for a new hoverbike. It would be rude of Laurent to interrupt Lincoln’s industriousness.
Or not. After all, it was Lincoln’s idea to jump on the bed and kiss Laurent so thoroughly.
Last
They could stay like this. There’s no need to get up. It’s Sunday afternoon. The day is warm, with a sharp breeze from the ocean and no pressing appointments. The sheets are fresh, changed just half an hour ago, and they lie on the crisp, cotton, their only contact a few languid strokes on a flank, or the skitter of fingertips over a lax deltoid. There’s no real reason to get up.
Until Lincoln sits up abruptly, clutching his stomach. “I skipped breakfast and lunch,” he says, panicked tone in his voice.
Damn. Laurent knew this couldn’t last until dinner.
Good Enough to Eat
Lincoln stares wide-eyed at the blob of sauce dripping slowly down the front curve of Albert’s shoulder. His eyes flit over to a shred of soggy cabbage that clings to his collarbone. And down to the single strand of noodle that lies across his chest, ending in a curl that almost but not quite circles a nipple.
Honestly, he’d had no idea that the container would explode like that. The lid had been stuck and Lincoln had wrestled with it valiantly until it popped open and the food simply flew out.
Onto Albert’s chest.
And it looks really good. Good enough to eat.
Why shouldn’t it? It's leftover Chinese food. It keeps in the fridge for ages, and is only a couple of days old. Sure, the cabbage would be pretty limp by now, but it would taste fine and still be perfectly nutritious. Or as nutritious as take out food ever gets.
Albert glances down at the entrée adorning his chest. There is a slice of bamboo shoot that’s slithered down and is resting on the waistband of his pants. The pants aren’t done up. Albert never bothers to do them up all the way unless there are other people around. So he came downstairs wearing nothing but the pants with the button undone and the zipper a little undone, but they stay up because Albert has that shape to his ass and his hips.
And he looks really good with the food shining on his skin. The trail left by the bamboo shoot glistens on his abs.
He looks… not upset. Bemused. He probably didn’t expect to be showered with chow mein like that.
“You look good enough to eat,” Lincoln says, and even his almost-four year old ears recognise it as a terrible joke, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.
Albert grins at him. Oh, that smile. Albert has such a beautiful smile. And such a beautiful body, as he lifts himself onto the counter with a flash of bulging triceps and lowers himself with surprising grace to the granite slab.
Somehow he managed to get the carton of food out of Lincoln’s hand without Lincoln even noticing. He dumps the remainder on himself, between his pecs and his navel. Where he isn’t quite so ticklish, Lincoln notices.
“Bon appetite,” Albert says.
French. It must be hardwired into the human brain, clone or not, that French is a romantic language, because Lincoln was never told it was so yet every single time Albert speaks French it makes Lincoln hard.
That, and the fact that he’s expected to eat the leftover chow mein off Albert’s skin.
Lincoln falls on his meal. He takes his time, no hands required, licking the noodles and vegetables off Albert’s skin, cleaning the slimy sauce with his tongue, nibbling here and there. Albert stays perfectly still, except for when Lincoln nips at his skin. All playful. All in good fun.
Lincoln traces the sauce down to the bamboo shoot, which is satisfyingly crunchy, and then licks back and forth where the pants end and naked Albert begins.
Albert’s cock is peeking out at him. It’s hard and is lying on Albert’s stomach, pointing at up at Albert’s navel, pushing the zipper open, trying to get to Lincoln’s tongue. It looks better than the food. It'll taste better, too. Lincoln knows this from experience.
Lincoln slides his hands to Albert’s hips, and Albert obligingly lifts them off the counter so Lincoln can slide the pants down.
There’s no chow mein down here. Only Albert, smooth belly, hard cock and the taste of sex. Lincoln wastes no time in swallowing this much larger morsel. Albert’s back arches and his freshly-licked skin stretches over muscle. Albert’s hands grip the edges of the counter. His feet scramble for purchase, and he ends up with his heels on the edge of the counter, his legs bent, pelvis raised so Lincoln hardly has to bend over at all. His whole body goes rigid when he comes and Lincoln swallows every drop.
Albert slams back to the counter. His breath comes in harsh gasps.
Lincoln licks in a lazy fashion.
Albert makes a sound something like an ‘oh’.
Lincoln nuzzles and laughs and repeats a somewhat naughty version of a joke he heard in a movie last week. “You know, it’s Chinese food, so I’m going to be hungry again in an hour or so…”
Puddle
Laurent has to hold Lincoln down on the counter. Lincoln tends to squirm. Especially when the cold ice cream first touches his skin. He giggles when Laurent nibbles and then he sighs when Laurent’s lips finally connect with his rigid cock. Which does not get the chance to stay rigid for long.
Laurent drinks with gusto and licks his way back up to Lincoln’s navel, where the ice cream has melted into a tiny, sweet puddle, which Laurent slurps up. Greedily.
Lincoln rolls to his side and slides off the counter.
“Your turn,” he says. “I want my dessert now.”
Mango
Lincoln Six Echo leans against the door of the fridge innocently, or as innocently as Lincoln can when he is stark naked. Which is not, Laurent has to admit (after all they’ve done over the past few months) terribly innocent.
Laurent concentrates on slicing the mango, making neat cuts that sever skin from pulp and flesh from pit.
Lincoln must be wondering why he’s taking so long, making such small pieces, and not using a cutting board. If he does, he shows no sign. He simply leans, casually, and watches Laurent’s hands. His eyes flick down to Laurent’s hip, his long thigh, the bulk of his penis resting against it. Quiet for now. Laurent can feel Lincoln’s gaze. Maybe not quiet for long.
“The ice cream wasn’t enough?” Lincoln finally asks.
Laurent licks his lips, imagining that the taste of the ice cream survived the kissing and that blowjob. He makes the final cut and gathers the mango skin, tossing it in the recycling bin. He rinses the knife and wipes it dry. Puts it away. “Mango is the perfect way to end any meal,” he says. He turns and holds out a bite-sized morsel.
Lincoln accepts it and closes his eyes when he bites into it. “Mmm.”
The mango is ideal. It has been sitting on the counter for three days, ripening to perfection. By morning, the flesh would be too soft to slice precisely, the juice’s sweetness verging on sickly, the tartness dulled. Tonight, it is perfect.
“That’s amazing,” Lincoln says as soon as he swallows. “I’ve never tasted mango like that before.”
“I’ve been saving it for you.” Laurent plucks another piece from the counter and holds it out for Lincoln. He holds it just shy of Lincoln’s mouth, because he wants to watch Lincoln lean forward, reach out with his lips.
Perfection indeed.
Lincoln licks Laurent’s fingers as he takes the slice of fruit. Sucks the tips. Looks down to see the response from Laurent’s penis. Not very subtle, but subtlety is not what Laurent loves so much about Lincoln.
Now Lincoln grabs the next slice, but he doesn’t offer it to Laurent’s mouth; he presses it against Laurent’s chest and slides it down to his belly.
This is one of the things Laurent does love so much about Lincoln. He is such a fast learner. And oh so adventurous. Tongue follows the trails of sticky mango juice and Lincoln is on his knees tracing circles around Laurent’s navel. Not quite what Laurent had in mind.
He reaches down and pulls Lincoln to his feet. “I think,” he says, “I need you higher up than that.” He lifts Lincoln onto the counter, which he somehow ‘forgot’ to wipe after spending all that time slicing the mango, making sure the juices spread across the granite.
Lincoln looks as if he might howl with indignation but it turns to a purr when his ass slides on the juices. “So this is what you had in mind when you said it was time for the real dessert.”
“Mango flavoured Lincoln, my very favourite treat,” Laurent murmurs and swipes a slice of fruit across Lincoln’s lips.
Lincoln takes it with his teeth and then leans forward and pushes it into Laurent’s mouth. Tart, sweet mango rubs across his tongue and is replaced by Lincoln’s hot tongue. Lincoln’s legs spread and wrap around Laurent’s waist. He’s rocking on the counter, side to side, and it takes Laurent a second or two to realize what he’s doing.
He’s making sure he is thoroughly coated in mango juice.
Laurent moans around Lincoln’s tongue and the grin is impossible to ignore. “You’re a naughty boy,” Laurent says after the kiss ends. “Very dirty.”
Lincoln lifts his legs until it’s obvious he’s pressing down against the counter as far as possible. “Maybe you should make me clean.”
Laurent has created a monster. There is no way he’ll be able to keep up. Lincoln is only three years old - he has infinite energy. Laurent has years of wear and tear on his body. Sooner or later, it will give out.
Not tonight, though. Tonight his body is behaving more than adequately. He flips Lincoln over, bends him over the counter so his ass shines up at Laurent, sweet and glistening.
So Laurent is going to have to be more creative when he wants to surprise Lincoln. Lincoln figures everything out so quickly. It’s too late for surprise now, so Laurent decides to make up for that by being very, very thorough instead. He takes his time, licking from the tops of Lincoln’s thighs up to his waist, and around Lincoln’s ass.
Lincoln squirms on the counter and whimpers a bit. His cock is pressed up against the cabinet. That can’t be comfortable. Laurent needs to take his time with the thoroughness, and it won’t do to have Lincoln uncomfortable, so he moves Lincoln over to the table. Lincoln whines when he’s peeled off the counter, and sighs when he settles on the table.
At first there was a wooden bowl with a few peanuts in it on the table. There was a deck of cards. There was a napkin, and a magazine and a piece of paper with the sketch of a tandem hover bike on it.
Not anymore. Laurent lifted the edge of the table until everything was dumped on the floor. The height is perfect. Lincoln’s cock is trapped between the smooth table top and his stomach. His ass is turned up, still shining with the mango juice, and he has to spread his legs a bit. Enough. Perfectly.
Laurent kneels on the floor. His knees will hurt in the morning. That’s hardly a concern right now. He runs his fingers over the sticky skin, slides them out to skate along the gentle indents at the sides, and then around to trace the full swell at the bottom, out and up and all around. The shape. It’s the shape. It was created, Laurent is convinced, for him and him alone, because it’s the most perfectly shaped ass in the world.
It takes the slightest pressure to pull those perfect ass cheeks apart and gaze at the most perfect asshole he’s ever seen. Laurent’s never been this enamoured of an orifice before. And, to be honest, objectively, it probably doesn’t look all that different from any other asshole he’s ever seen, but he’s never stared at an asshole this closely, this intimately, before. And when he looks at it, he can sense it heating up and wanting him.
Lincoln wriggles so everything looks and feels even better. “Al-beaaaaaaaaaaaaar,” he whines.
“Shh, Lincoln,” Laurent whispers. “I’m… contemplating.”
“Contemplating what?” Lincoln starts to rise off the table.
Laurent pushes him back down, grips his hips and holds him still.
“The mango is drying,” Lincoln whines.
Mmm. That might be a bit uncomfortable. Laurent should do something to help. Get that sticking, drying, tightening juice off Lincoln’s soft skin. Replace it with harmless saliva. He starts to lick again, slowly, thoroughly. The ass cheeks quiver under his tongue, the legs shift impatiently, the arms, which Laurent can see out of the corner of his eye when he licks across the top of Lincoln’s ass, have reached out and are gripping the far edge of the table with some degree of desperation.
Laurent licks down the centre and Lincoln sighs.
Wow. Lincoln really did spread the mango juice everywhere. Laurent laps at the sweet tart salty sour mango-and-Lincoln flavour with enthusiasm. Quick darts of his tongue. The texture of soft skin and hair and little tight folds of skin.
One leg rises up onto the table and Lincoln is utterly spread open for him. And he’s panting. Begging. “Oh, Bear, fuck me, please. Fuck me with your tongue.”
What happened to sweet, innocent Lincoln who wanted to do the ‘tongue thing’ and was surprised by what sex entailed?
Not surprised anymore. And, Laurent is please to note, not put off in the least. Laurent slides his tongue down to Lincoln’s balls, back up again, around the little hole, then inside the hole, not so little, opening under the tip of his tongue. Laurent reaches behind and gropes across the counter for a second. Ah, yes, the mango slices he’d pushed across the counter while Lincoln slithered over to the table. One slips out of his fingers and lands on the floor. He secures a hold on the next slice and slides it up Lincoln’s thigh, across his perineum. Rubs the slick, soft pulp over Lincoln’s asshole.
“Ah! Bear!” Lincoln yelps. “Too much!”
“Tongue would be better?” Laurent asks, keeping his voice calm even though his cock is starting to tremble with need.
Lincoln jerks backward and Laurent’s fingers unconsciously push part of the mango inside. “Tongue… cock… inside… oh, Bear, please.”
It’s not the begging. He’s pushed Lincoln to the point of begging before. It’s not nudity. They’re nude all the time. It’s not Lincoln’s body, his ass and his legs and his cock – if it were that, Laurent would feel like this all the time.
It must be the mango, slipping inside Lincoln along side Laurent’s finger.
Laurent growls. Really growls. He’s so hungry. So fucking hungry. He lunges forward and sucks the mango into his mouth, pulls his finger out, licks across the furrows, kisses ferociously.
Mango is not sufficient lube. Not for penetration.
He heaves up to his feet and grabs the rest of the slices, scooping up the juice in his palm. He smears it all between those luscious cheeks and rests his cock along the crack of Lincoln’s ass.
“Ooooooooh,” Lincoln wails. “I want you inside me.”
“Later,” Laurent grunts and starts to slide his cock up and down the slippery crack. The slimy fruit keeps him from sticking, and it heats up even better than lube. He yanks Lincoln’s leg off the table and pushes his thighs together so the crevice is deeper, tighter, more lush. Pieces of mango are slipping around his cock, between Lincoln’s cheeks, onto the floor, over the table. The squishing sound and the hot, sweet smell is intoxicating. As is the flex of Lincoln’s back muscles as he grips the edge of the table and stretches across it. Buffet style.
Laurent grabs Lincoln’s shoulders and lowers himself over Lincoln’s back. Mango juice squelches between them. Lincoln slides a bit on the table, tenses his muscles to regain stability, causing the muscles of his ass to get firmer, to squeeze Laurent’s half-buried cock – half-buried lengthwise. Laurent licks the nearest skin, Lincoln’s shoulder, and tastes Lincoln and sweat. He tucks his chins and gets a taste of mango. He can still taste the mango he pulled out of Lincoln’s body.
Mango has always been his favourite dessert. And he’ll never be able to eat it again without wanting this.
He thrusts up, hard and cries out. Come spurts onto Lincoln’s back, and Lincoln almost sobs.
Laurent holds perfectly still as the orgasm ricochets throughout his body. Everything seems to tense and relax and pulse and throb at once. He shudders and comes back to the moment. Lincoln is stretched out under him, taut with unfulfilled need.
“Just give me…” Laurent gasps. “One minute…”
He hopes Lincoln can last one more minute. He needs the time to regain control of his limbs, to slide down and hastily slurp up the come and the mango and the sex from Lincoln’s back. He keeps sliding down and buries his face between Lincoln’s cheeks, seeking that perfect little hole. Lincoln puts both knees up on the table this time. He’s spread wide and rocking his ass back onto Laurent’s face. Laurent reaches up and fondles the drawn-up balls, slips his fingers around the hot shaft.
“Yes, please, oh, finish your dessert,” Lincoln groans.
It’s really easy to flip Lincoln over when he’s folded in two like that. Laurent keeps Lincoln’s legs spread wide and pushed up, so he can lick from asshole to tip of cock without pausing, and then he swallows Lincoln’s cock.
“Fingers, please!” Lincoln howls.
Two fingers slide inside Lincoln easily, and Laurent strokes roughly, unable to keep himself from thrusting hard. He opens his mouth all the way and takes Lincoln in his throat, burying his nose in mango-gelled hair.
“Bear!”
Lincoln comes hard, and copiously, and so deliciously. The perfect compliment for the sweet tartness of the mango, the slight sourness of his ass, the salty of his skin.
The only taste missing is bitter. And that suits Laurent just fine.
Next: 61-70 Island100
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