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81 -How - He Gets It - 1,058 words - It doesn’t matter how much Lincoln tries to wrap his head around the idea, he just can’t imagine it. He’ll simply have to ask Albert about it
82 - If - 200 words - If Lincoln were a woman, Laurent could not run his fingers over ginger chest hairs, tiny hard little nipples and flat, firm pecs.
83 - And - 100 words - There are some things only two men can do.
84 - He - 100 words - He tries to keep it together, but every thing about her seems designed to make him fall apart.
85 - She - 100 words - She discovers he’s nothing like she thought (feared) he would be.
86 - Choices - Belly Laugh - 1,632 words - No matter what Lincoln says about wanting variety, he’s been quick to catch on to the concept of comfort food. And drink. And other things.
87 - Life - Part Of Him - 300 words - Laurent makes a fist, and then opens his hand wide to feel the scar tissue stretch. He can almost feel the skin crackle, but not quite.
88 - School - The Return of the Kilt - 1,139 words - “It’s the most consistently popular sexual fetish of the last fifty years,” Lincoln informs him smugly.
89 - Work - Fashion Victim - 870 words - “You like bright colours.” Laurent knows that. And he’s working the pink shirt for all it’s worth.
90 - Home - In Trade - 275 words - Lincoln leaned into his back, sliding his hands around Laurent’s waist and forward to splay across the tops of his leather clad thigh.
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He Gets It
It doesn’t matter how much Lincoln tries to wrap his head around the idea, he just can’t imagine it. He’ll simply have to ask Albert about it.
“Bear, what does a woman taste like?”
“What?” Albert sounds alarmingly alarmed. Lincoln thinks it sounds adorable.
“You know. A woman,” Lincoln says, unwilling to get any more specific. He doesn’t like to think about Albert with a specific woman. But Albert’s the only one around he can ask, since MacNeil went away on vacation.
“I know what a woman is.” Albert doesn’t sound too happy. Maybe it was a bad question.
But he wants to know. Damn his curiosity! “So. What does a woman taste like?”
Albert looks around the room as if he’s trapped. “Why do you want to know that?”
“I’m naturally curious.” It’s so true. Lincoln wants to know everything. Now.
Albert looks as alarmed as he sounded a few seconds ago. “You want to taste one?”
Ick, no. That would be… weird. But information is information. “No, I just want to know. When you lick her. Between her legs.” Lincoln can’t quite bring himself to say the words. Pussy or vagina or cunt or whatever. It’s too personal. It’ll make him think about a specific person. Like Talia. And then the next time he saw Talia, he’d be thinking about her… that would be a bad idea. He’s sure she would be able to tell. And she would either get mad at him or she would tease him. In front of Merrick. That would be terrible.
But he still wants to know. “What does it taste like?”
Albert scrunches up his face.
“You don’t like the taste?”
Albert unscrunches his face. “The taste is fine. It’s different with every woman. Some taste sweet, some taste sharp. Some aren’t so good.”
“But you said the taste is fine…”
“Yes, but… it’s like men. Everyone tastes different, and some taste better than others.”
Lincoln is definitely intrigued. “There are men who taste sweet?”
“It all depends on the man. What he eats, if he drinks, smokes… you taste sweet.”
“No, I don’t.” He doesn’t. He doesn’t think he tastes bad, but he’s tasted himself on Albert’s lips and skin, and he wouldn’t call it sweet. Not sweet like chocolate or ice cream or cake or a mango. Mmm, mango. Every time he thinks about mango he forgets what he’s doing. He has to concentrate on Albert’s lips to understand what Albert says next. But concentrating on Albert’s lips is distracting in its own way. Lincoln is hopeless at staying on topic sometimes.
“You taste sweet to me. But your taste would change if you changed your habits. Say, if you were to stop drinking coffee and scotch…”
Lincoln’s not too keen on that idea.
“…and stop eating red meat…”
Does bacon count as red meat?
“…you might taste different. Some might say better.”
Lincoln wonders if he should give that a go, if he’d taste better for Albert.
“But I can’t imagine you tasting any better than you do. I love the way you taste. But there are a lot of variables.”
Too many to count, Lincoln thinks. But having only ever tasted one man, he has no clue as to the range of possibilities.
“Being in love might be the most important variable,” Albert says, and he puts his arm around Lincoln and pulls him close and Lincoln thinks that maybe Albert is right.
Ah, yes. He’s read about the placebo effect.
When Lincoln thinks about it more, he realises he has no interest in the wide range of possibilities. Especially not when he’s snuggled up close to Albert like this. And his curiosity about women isn’t all that burning. After all, he’s seen pictures. It looks… complicated.
Besides, if he had a woman he wouldn’t have Albert - that would not be cool.
Albert looks disturbed. Worried. Lines across his forehead. A bit of a frown. Whenever Albert frowns, Lincoln gets an urge to kiss the frown away. “Oh, Bear,” Lincoln says, trying to sound seductive.
Albert looks at him warily.
“I’m only curious. It’s not a serious interest.”
Albert looks away. Lincoln sits on his lap, since that usually makes Albert relax a bit.
Albert sighs. “I know a few women.”
Lincoln nuzzles Albert’s tensed neck. Women?
“The type,” Albert continues, not sounding enthusiastic in the least, “that might be cooperative.”
Cooperative with what? All Lincoln wants to do is fuck Albert. And be fucked by Albert. And suck Albert. And be sucked… he doesn’t need any women for that. “You think I want you to find a woman?”
Albert has sad eyes. “It wouldn’t be fair of me to stop you from trying. These women wouldn’t expect anything from you. They’re not the type who would fall in love with you.”
“Am I unlovable?”
“Not at all. You’re very lovable. But these women, they wouldn’t fall in love with someone just because they slept with him.”
Is that why Lincoln fell in love with Albert? Or does Albert think that’s why? That would be terrible. Lincoln knows, deep down, that he would have fallen in love with Albert no matter what. It wasn’t just a sex thing. Was it? No, it was much more. Otherwise, he would want to have sex with just anyone, and he doesn’t. At all. “I fell in love with you, and I didn’t even know what that was.”
Albert stares at him hard. “I wouldn’t have expected to fall in love with you either, but I did. And now that I think of it, forget it. I don’t want them to get anywhere near you.”
Lincoln bites Albert’s shoulder so Albert will pay attention to him. “Bear, I do not want any women. I only wanted you to tell me about it. Like when you told me about sex.”
Albert looks confused.
“And like when you told me about seeing Talia and Merrick together.”
Albert’s eyebrows go way high up on his forehead. And he rubs his thigh.
Good. Now he gets it!
Lincoln twists and straddles Albert’s thighs. “So, tell me what it’s like to make love to a woman.”
“It’s… nothing compared to making love to you,” Albert growls as his hands settle on Lincoln’s waist and pull him very close.
Oh, yeah.
He gets it now.
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If…
The only way to describe what it is like to make love to a woman is to compare.
If Lincoln were a woman, Laurent could not run his fingers over ginger chest hairs, tiny hard little nipples and flat, firm pecs.
If Lincoln were a woman, Laurent could not lick across his jaw and feel the prickles of a day’s worth of growth.
If Lincoln were a woman, Laurent doubts he could lie on top and let so much of his weight press down, and Lincoln’s squirming wouldn’t be nearly so delectable.
If Lincoln were a woman, his cock would not press into Laurent’s hip and leak against his skin.
If Lincoln were a woman, Laurent would not be able to kneel on top and slowly work a hard, eager cock into his ass.
Laurent would not be full of cock.
Laurent’s cock would not be stroked from the inside and the outside at the same time.
Laurent would not feel the hot gush of Lincoln’s come deep inside, the wild pulsing of Lincoln’s cock, the strength of Lincoln’s arms wrapped around Laurent’s back.
The moan of satisfaction wouldn’t be nearly so deep.
For either of them.
That’s the difference.
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And…
And he wouldn’t come so hard from the friction of his cock rubbing against a firm, furry belly, and from the heady smell of a man who has just come, and from the rasp of stubble on his shoulder, and from the steady pulse of cock buried deep inside, and from the tickle of balls sliding across tender skin, and from the slight scratch of leg hair against his bare ass when legs bend up and push him further inside, and the strong grip of very male hands on his biceps.
There are some things only two men can do.
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He
He has it in him to be an independent individual. He thinks he should be in control of himself at all times. He tries to keep it together, but every thing about her seems designed to make him fall apart. He loves everything about her. Her skin (soft and pale), her hair (silky and dark), her legs (lean and strong), her hands (firm and demanding), her voice (husky and exotic), her eyes (sharp and deep), her pussy (wet and delicious.)
He especially loves the way she holds him down until the world spins faster.
That he can’t get enough of.
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She
She discovers he’s nothing like she thought (feared) he would be. When they are together, she is in control, even when she’s out of control. He’s scared of hurting her (as if he could) so he’s always pliable. She can push him into position, hold him still, prod and rearrange, force and tug until he conforms. He wants everything she has to give, and he always wants more but he never makes demands.
He does ask.
He asks nicely.
Seductive bastard.
But then she holds him down and sits on his face, and he gets hard again just from that.
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Belly Laugh
Lemon meringue pie. Apple strudel. Caramel pudding. Mangos.
Mangos. Tough to walk past those without getting an erection.
It’s Laurent’s job to bring home dessert, and he’s been asked to bring home something Lincoln has never tried before. It’s possible Lincoln has tried lots of things Laurent wasn’t there for, so he can’t know for sure, but Lincoln asked him to pick up something they’ve never had together.
Lincoln has become worried about stagnation. He spent all of yesterday, while Laurent was out of town, watching some stupid daytime talk show marathon about keeping the spark alive in relationships. He thinks things could get boring between them.
“It’s not a sex thing,” Lincoln insisted that afternoon on the phone. “It’s shared life events. Things become routine. Rote. You need to add new things, experience constant change and new experiences.”
Laurent thinks it sounds like a pile of crap. He’d be happy to eat the same damn things, drink the same damn stuff, do the same damn things every night, as long as it was with Lincoln. Who cares if the sex is always fresh? Which it always is.
Rice pudding? On second thought, that’s not something Laurent wants to introduce to Lincoln – he might actually like it and then Laurent would be stuck eating it all the time. Reminds him too much of the porridge he used to have to eat when he was a kid. That people find comfort in rice pudding has always baffled Laurent, but he had a different upbringing than most people in this part of the world.
No matter what Lincoln says about wanting variety, he’s been quick to catch on to the concept of comfort food. And drink. And other things.
He hasn’t done comfort sex, but he has done comfort cuddling. More like snuggling. Laurent didn’t mind it at all, actually. He’d like it if Lincoln burrowed against him like that every night for a while. It wouldn’t have to lead to sex. Not every time.
Too many choices. Cherry pie. Marble cake. Cheesecake. Hmm, cheesecake. New York style? Cherry? Chocolate? Double chocolate walnut crunch? Pumpkin caramel… what the hell? That’s not cheesecake!
Ah, chocolate mousse. Perfect. Lincoln loves chocolate. It’s got an interesting mouth feel. It’s cool and sweet and delicious.
Lincoln shakes his head when Laurent arrives with the mousse. “No way.”
Laurent is flabbergasted. “Why not?”
“Just look at it! Chocolate and creamy; it’ll make a mess.”
“You don’t have to end up wearing it, Lincoln.”
“I know, I don’t have to, but I can see the future - it’ll be way too hard to clean up.”
Laurent puts the mousse in the fridge so it won’t melt and make a mess without any sex being involved at all. “Lincoln, it’s delicious and creamy and you’ll love it. It’s fluffy, and you wanted something new. Besides, if we get carried away, MacNeil can handle it. She got the mango juice off the chair legs, didn’t she? And she figured out how to get the spaghetti sauce stains out of the white tile grout.”
“MacNeil’s on vacation so I can’t risk making any messes I won’t be able to clean up myself.”
Since when did MacNeil go on vacation? Laurent looked at the dinner Lincoln was setting out on the table. Meat and potatoes, green beans. Nothing exotic to tempt the senses. Were they going to consume like monks until MacNeil’s return? What happened to new experiences?
“Where did she go?”
“A beach.”
“Which beach?”
“Somewhere warm and secluded. I don’t know. There’s a redhead involved.”
Mmm. Warm, secluded beach with a redhead. A little exposure to the sun would lighten Lincoln’s hair, but it would also bring out the red tones. Nice.
Wait a second. Laurent’s paranoia about clones and clone groupies and nefarious deeds kicks in. “What redhead? How did MacNeil meet the redhead?”
“Relax,” Lincoln sighed. “MacNeil is in love, not stupid. She had Talia check her out. She’s harmless. Some graphic designer. MacNeil says they’re going to make beautiful patterns in the sand.”
Laurent’s sure they will. But he’s not happy about it because it’s left Lincoln alone and worried about imaginary stagnation and not only is MacNeil not here to clean up any physical messes, she isn’t here to tell him he’s all flustered about nothing. MacNeil would tell him to snap out of it. She would say, and Laurent knew this because he accidentally heard her say it once, “You’ve got this big, beautiful hunk of man and he adores you. Stop worrying!”
Laurent wants to tell Lincoln that, but he can hardly call himself beautiful, and even thinking the word hunk makes him uncomfortable.
It’s ridiculous. And there’s no reason at all that the chocolate mousse will make a mess. Except that Laurent, unlike Lincoln, has tried it before, and knows for a fact that it would slide over Lincoln’s skin and leave a layer of rich, sweet… not that Laurent has ever smeared chocolate mousse over anyone’s body. But if he were to smear it across someone’s body, Lincoln’s body would be his first choice.
Dinner is not exciting. It is fuel. Laurent is sure that’s not what Lincoln intended. Laurent studies Lincoln. He is tense to the point of being miserable. Why does he have to fret so much? It isn’t fair that Lincoln should be so tense just because MacNeil is off getting untense with some redheaded hussy.
They will simply have to not make a mess. And if they do, Laurent will clean it up. He’s cleaned up lots of things in the past, things much more tenacious than chocolate mousse, he’s sure. How hard could it be?
He gets up and retrieves the mousse from the fridge.
“No, no, no,” Lincoln says. “We have no self-control and we both know it!”
“Lincoln, sit and be quiet.”
Lincoln shuts his mouth.
“Close your eyes.”
Lincoln closes his eyes. And then he opens one just a bit, and Laurent makes a mock harsh tsk-tsk noise and Lincoln squeezes his eyes shut as if this is going to hurt.
Laurent picks up a dessert spoon. “Just try it. I want you to experience something new. Something special. You’re going to really like this.”
Lincoln’s eyes unscrunch when the mousse touches his lips. He opens his mouth and makes a little moan.
“See? It’s good and there’s no mess at all.”
Not yet. But Laurent has the container of mousse in his hand, and there isn’t much of it, only two servings it claims on the label, but it would spread over a lot of area if someone decided it would taste better being licked off skin.
“It makes the top of my mouth… it’s tingly. What is that?”
“Egg whites, I think.” Laurent is lying. It’s not egg whites at all; it’s the urge to kiss. Well, that’s what Laurent is feeling. And he hasn’t even had any of the mousse. He puts more mousse in Lincoln’s mouth. Lincoln moans again.
“Mm, it’s good. I want to share it.”
Good idea. Laurent scoops more into Lincoln’s mouth and then leans down and covers Lincoln’s mouth with his.
It is a particularly fluffy, smooth mousse. It does make the roof of Laurent’s mouth tingle. But not nearly as much as Lincoln’s tongue on the roof of his mouth.
Lincoln is breathless when Laurent pulls away. “You could never be boring,” Laurent tells him. “And you don’t need to worry. But new experiences are good for a relationship, so why don’t you take the rest of this dessert and we’ll not make a mess with the food for a change. Put it in the fridge for later. Then we can spend a little time making sure we’ve tasted all the mousse out of each other’s mouths. And then—”
Laurent stops abruptly when the cold mousse hits his chest through the open neck of his shirt. It drips down his skin, raising goose bumps as it goes. It’s only about a tablespoon, but it’s spreading fast. Laurent whips his shirt off so it won’t soak into the fabric. “I thought you were worried about a mess.”
Lincoln grins. “I am. I’ll just have to make sure I lick it all up before it gets on the furniture.”
Good compromise.
As it turns out, having chocolate mousse licked off his chest is not only a new experience, it’s very stimulating. And it leads not at all to boredom or stagnation. It leads to Lincoln’s mouth moving down to his belly and making him laugh. Belly laugh. Laurent squirms in his chair as Lincoln kneels between his legs, relentlessly licking. He tries to push Lincoln’s mouth away, but his hands won’t cooperate. They grab Lincoln’s hair instead.
“St… stop… please.”
Lincoln sucks with a flourish and his lips make an obscene and ridiculous noise when they detach from Laurent’s skin. “I didn’t know you were ticklish!” Lincoln exclaims happily.
“I’m not!” Laurent protests. “It must have something to do with the texture of the mousse!” He’s out of breath and his stomach muscles actually ache a bit from all the contractions and he should be indignant, he should be upset about Lincoln making him so helpless, but he’s not. He’s incredibly aroused.
New experiences. You can’t beat them.
“I wonder if I’m ticklish anywhere else,” Laurent muses.
Lincoln picks up the mousse. “We could experiment.”
Laurent looks around. Anywhere they experiment with chocolate mousse there will be a mess. Damn. “Kitchen floor,” he says. “That’s the easiest to clean.” Not the most comfortable, but this won’t take long. After all, there isn’t that much mousse left. As soon as Lincoln’s finished experimenting, they can move somewhere more comfortable.
Ah, it’s good to have so many choices, Laurent thinks.
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Part of Him
Laurent makes a fist, and then opens his hand wide to feel the scar tissue stretch. He can almost feel the skin crackle, but not quite. That would be ridiculous. The brand is decades old and fully healed. The shape is distorted because his relatively small boy hands grew into his great, big man hands. Of course it has changed. But it will never go away. It is part of him.
He lifts Lincoln’s hand carefully so as not to wake him. He turns it over and runs his finger over the mark on Lincoln’s wrist. Lincoln’s brand is as different from Laurent’s brand as a carefully designed tattoo would be. The serial number stands out neatly, crisply. Laurent does not know what was used to make such a distinct brand. He knows his mark was made with a crudely bent iron heated by the fire in an oil drum. He might even be able to still smell burnt flesh, and hear his screams and his brother’s.
He shuffles closer to Lincoln and inhales deeply. He can smell the soap they used in the shower. Lincoln’s shampoo. Toothpaste. Sweat. Musk. And semen.
This is part of him now, too.
Laurent slides his fingers between Lincoln’s and presses their palms together. It soothes the ache. He presses his wrist against Lincoln’s wrist, and that soothes some of the anger he feels about how Lincoln has been treated.
Lincoln stirs, and suddenly Laurent is staring into sleepy grey eyes.
“Is your hand bothering you?” Lincoln asks in a sleephusky voice. He squeezes with his fingers, and even the anger goes away.
This is his life.
It is full of love. Comfort. Excitement. Joy. Contentment. Sweat. Musk. And semen.
There isn’t a lot of room for the past.
“Not any more,” Laurent says.
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The Return of the Kilt
“It wasn’t enough to meet me in that bar wearing the kilt?”
“You loved it in the bar. You loved the kilt. And you loved it in the truck after the bar.” Lincoln pats the hood of the truck confidently.
“So. What is this?”
Lincoln leans against the grille and displays his legs to their best advantage. “It’s the Japanese schoolgirl look.”
Albert crosses his arms over his chest and makes his chin jut, which makes Lincoln want to kiss him even more.
“It’s the most consistently popular sexual fetish of the last fifty years,” Lincoln informs him smugly.
“I’m going to take your computer away from you,” Albert threatens.
“What’s wrong with it?” Lincoln asks. He’s got the kilt, a little longer than the Japanese school kilt but it’s a kilt, and he’s got the white socks and a shirt with a sort of square collar. It’s not perfect, but it’s close.
“Japanese school girls do not wear army boots,” Albert tells him.
“They do in some of the pictures I found,” Lincoln says.
“And they do not wear black leather jackets.”
“They do in some of the pictures I—”
“Not with fringe.”
Lincoln spreads his arms so the fringe waves in an artistic fashion.
“I’m not taking you out like that.” Albert is wearing what Talia calls his do-not-fuck-with-me face.
“But you said we were going to get dressed up and go out for drinks! This is dressed up.”
“Lincoln!” Albert loses his do-not-fuck-with-me face and gains his you-have-just-fucked-with-me-and-I’m-not-amused face.
Lincoln folds his hands neatly over his lap, right where his sporran would be if he was wearing a sporran, which he isn’t because no one wore anything remotely like a sporran in any of the Japanese school girl pictures he saw. “You think I’ll draw too much attention.”
Albert nods.
“You think people will think I’m not cool.”
Albert shakes his head.
“You think people will think you’re not cool.”
Albert shakes his head again. “No, they’ll think I’m a complete idiot.”
What?
“They’ll say ‘Look at that stupid guy out in public with the guy in the kilt and the army boots.’”
That hurt.
“They’ll think, ‘If I had a guy who looked like that I would not be out in public with him.”
Lincoln’s face grows red.
Albert moves close so Lincoln has to arch back a bit over the hood of the truck. “They’ll think “that guy should be kept at home.’”
Lincoln bites his lip.
“Kept at home so no one can see him.”
Albert bites Lincoln’s lip.
“Kept at home and spread over the hood of the truck with his kilt pushed up.”
Albert pushes Lincoln’s kilt up.
“And his legs spread.”
Albert nudges Lincoln’s legs apart with his knee.
“And with the garage door closed so no one else can see.”
Albert hits the button on the remote in Lincoln’s pocket and the door closes until there’s almost no light in the garage except what filters in through the half-open door to the house.
The last thing anyone on the outside would have seen was Albert lifting Lincoln’s bare ass up onto the hood while he purred “I wouldn’t want anyone to see me fucking you on the truck.”
Lincoln doesn’t really care what anyone can see, but he’s willing to respect Albert’s desire for privacy if it means Albert will keep rubbing against him like that.
Albert moans against Lincoln’s shoulder and unzips his pants. “Spread your legs for me, Lincoln. I’m going to get you ready for fucking.”
Lincoln digs into the inner breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out lube.
“I was going to lick you,” Albert says.
“In the garage?” Lincoln squeals.
“In the asshole,” Albert growls. “Never mind. Give me the lube.” He wets his hand and slides it over his hard cock. Lincoln wriggles his ass so it hangs off the truck. He feels as if he might slide off, but then two fingers slide into him and that’s all he can feel. Albert hooks one leg over his shoulder. Now Lincoln is secure.
Or as secure as you can get when you’re lying on a truck with your kilt pushed up to your waist waiting for a very large, somewhat agitated man to—
“Fuck!”
Albert grunts and pushes his cock the rest of the way in. “That’s for teasing.”
“I wasn’t teasing. Fuck!”
“You don’t even realize… oh, god, Lincoln. You’re so…”
Lincoln lets his head fall back with a metallic clunk. “So full,” he grunts.
And then it’s just plain grunting.
Lincoln knew all along that the kilt would make Albert want him. He figured it might make Albert want to fuck him. He’d doubted they would actually make it out in public. But being fucked on the hood of the truck was beyond his imaginings. Albert loves this truck. It’s kept as clean and buffed and smooth as Albert’s fingernails.
Albert’s fingernails are raking up the back of Lincoln’s thigh. Their smoothness prevents them from breaking skin but they’re going to leave marks.
Lincoln needs Albert to come. NOW. Lincoln’s not ready to come, but that doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care about that. He needs Albert coming in him, moaning his name, thrashing over him, losing it.
“Fuck me hard,” Lincoln whispers. “Come on, come on, fill me, Bear.”
Albert groans.
“Come inside me, Bear. I need you to come.”
Albert is fighting it.
“I’m gonna come later when I’m inside you,” Lincoln urges him.
Albert flattens out, crushing Lincoln to the metal. He pushes in hard and bites the collar of Lincoln’s jacket. Everything is hot and slick and hard inside. Albert moans Lincoln’s name and loses it.
Lincoln holds tight and hopes they don’t slide down. He knows Albert would catch him before he hit the concrete floor, but the grille might hurt. Or rip his precious kilt.
Albert is breathing in gulps of air. “Lincoln, are you trying to kill me?” he is finally able to ask.
Lincoln grins. That was more intense than it’s been in a while. He’s enjoyed this last few weeks of slower, more luxurious lovemaking. He’s loved all the exploring and playfulness and tenderness and contentment. It’s been very satisfying. But he felt the need to shake things up a bit.
Kilts really do make for an exciting date.
Albert straightens up and pulls out gently. He runs his fingers over Lincoln’s hard cock.
“Not yet,” Lincoln says. He can wait. He wants to wait until Albert is ready to go again. Besides, with all this contentment he hasn’t had that pleasure of an aching cock for a long time. He wants it to build up some more so he can savor it. So he can really need it. So he can lose it completely. “Aren’t we going out for drinks?”
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Fashion Victim
Lincoln is perched on the edge of the truck waiting for Laurent. Laurent made him get changed and then Laurent noticed the come stain on his shirt and he had to go get changed, so Lincoln is waiting. He’s got jeans on – nice, snug jeans with a black belt – and a plain grey shirt that somehow brings out the blue in his eyes and a leather jacket with no fringe at all. He looks like any other guy going out for a drink except for the erection.
The erection has not gone away or dissipated one bit. Laurent can tell that Lincoln is enjoying it very much. It’s not the kind of erection that hurts, it just wants. It’s exciting Lincoln, but not enough.
Laurent watches Lincoln for a second before he steps into the garage.
Lincoln’s mouth falls open.
“Ready to go?” Laurent asks innocently.
Lincoln shakes his head.
Laurent chuckles. “What’s wrong, Lincoln?”
Lincoln shuts his mouth. Then he opens it again. “We can’t go out. Not with you dressed like that.”
“Twenty minutes ago you wanted to go out wearing a kilt. I, on the other hand, am fully clothed,” Laurent points out. Almost. He’s not wearing any underwear. But he’s not going to tell Lincoln that just yet. He’s going to wait until they’re at the bar.
“Your shirt,” Lincoln says.
Laurent waits patiently.
“It’s… pink.”
“You like bright colours.” Laurent knows that. And he’s working the pink shirt for all it’s worth.
“But it’s pink. Hot pink.”
Laurent nods.
“It’s…”
“You think it’s too bright?” Lincoln has been trying to get Laurent into brighter colours since day one.
“I think it’s beautiful.”
Laurent knew he would.
“Too beautiful.”
Laurent chuckles some more.
“I want to fuck you.”
“But I thought we were going out?”
“No, I have to fuck you. Right now.”
“Lincoln, you’re not tall enough to fuck me on the hood of my truck.”
“So bend over.”
“Lincoln, you’re not tall enough to fuck me standing up.”
“And that’s not fair!” Lincoln cries. He also launches himself off the hood of the truck. He plasters himself against Laurent’s body and rubs his face over Laurent’s shoulder. “It’s silk,” he whispers.
Laurent is never going to get to the bar tonight. They might not get out of the garage. But then, he planned it that way, didn’t he?
Lincoln is rubbing his hands over Laurent’s back, over the bright hot pink silk shirt. “Pink and brown are the fashion colours for the season,” he babbles. “Latest trend. Get these black pants off! I want just pink and brown.”
The wall of the garage is cold against Laurent’s bare ass, but Lincoln’s hands are hot all over him and under his shirt, and his mouth is hot too, where it sucks the skin of Laurent’s neck and murmurs against him. “Bed, bed, bed.”
“Back of the truck,” Laurent suggests.
Lincoln shakes his head stubbornly. There’s got to be a reason for that, so Laurent somehow manages to get his feet out of his pants so he can walk backwards, with Lincoln pressed against him, into the house, through the kitchen and the living room, up the stairs – not easy to navigate backwards while being so distracted but he didn’t do all that special forces training in hyper awareness for nothing – and finally, finally onto the bed, where Lincoln rolls him facedown and crawls up his body, straddling his thighs.
He’s going to get fucked. That’s for sure.
But first, Lincoln is sliding the silk all over his back and the top of his ass, and then sliding his hands all over his ass, and then spreading his legs to kneel between them.
Ah. The bed of the truck would be too hard on Lincoln’s knees. Good thinking. On the bed, Lincoln can take his time, good and long, and thorough…
“Fuck!”
“Mmmmmmmm,” Lincoln murmurs as he slides a finger inside with excruciating care. And another. And a third. Stopping for more lube in between.
Laurent can do nothing but grip the pillow under his head and beg for cock. Finally, Lincoln shoves a couple of pillows under Laurent’s hips and nudges at Laurent’s opening with his cock. Laurent pushes back. Lincoln pushes in. Laurent shoves back. Lincoln grabs Laurent’s hips to steady him. Laurent will not be steadied.
Lincoln pushes the shirt up over Laurent’s head. The whole world is blinding pink and he’s getting fucked. Slow at first, building up tempo, slowing again, stopping so Lincoln can curl over him and lick his back, hands kneading the muscles of his ass, teeth grazing, speeding up again, resting for another minute of two, the exact opposite of the way Laurent fucked Lincoln in the garage.
Who knew that adding a little colour to one’s wardrobe could produce an effect this dazzling?
Lincoln’s thrusts grow erratic and he’s breathing hard. Laurent lets go of the pillow, stretches his arms out and flexes all the muscles in his back and his thighs and his ass.
That does Lincoln in. He comes hard and helpless, and throws himself down on Laurent’s brown back, face buried in the pink.
Laurent is not shocked to realize that he came too.
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In Trade
Albert Laurent adjusted the strap of his helmet while Lincoln Six Echo straddled the bike behind him. Laurent gunned the engine. Lincoln leaned into his back, sliding his hands around Laurent’s waist and forward to splay across the tops of his leather clad thigh.
“Twenty says they don’t even make it out of the driveway.”
“You’re on.”
They wait.
Lincoln’s fingers flex. The motor revs. He must have said something to Laurent. The sound of the motor dies. Lincoln slips off his helmet and hops off the back of the bike. Laurent follows him to the house. Closely. By the time Lincoln is opening the door with his retina scan, Laurent is plastered against his back, helmet dangling from his fingers, tongue out and in Lincoln’s left ear.
Talia passes the binoculars to Merrick. “Told you. They’re home for the night. Again.”
Merrick focuses in time to see the two of them tumble through the door.
“Pay up,” Talia orders.
“I don’t have any cash.”
“You bet when you don’t have money?”
“You know I don’t have money. Where would I get money? You watch me 24 hours a day. I have no job. You know I don’t have any money. You won’t let me –”
Talia slaps her hand over Merrick’s mouth. She tosses the binoculars in the glove box.
“Get in the back seat, Zero Alpha.”
“Back seat?” Merrick asks.
Talia leers. “I’ll have to take it out in trade.”
Merrick has no idea what that particular idiom means, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to like it because as he climbs over the back of the seat Talia is unbuttoning her blouse.
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Next: 91-100 Island100
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