Tango a Deux

hands on legs of a woman in underthings
Urgency

They’ve shared hotel rooms before. They shared this one, last night.

It’s late afternoon, and the conference-supplied bus ride back is excruciating for its lack of privacy. Dance rides on the window side, with Emma’s thigh pressing against his as if she’d squash him into the wall, pushing at him on the curves and grinning at him sometimes, with her lipstick all licked away, and they hold hands, ridiculously hot and sweaty. Emma’s hands are strong from handling books, and the hot precise feel of her fingers makes him flash on how it’s different, still bossy but tighter, than the way Drin’s hands always feel, pulling him close.

They catch little glances at each other in startled flashes. He keeps wanting to look down her shirt, which is silly, because he’s seen her in sports bras for two years now, but it’s different.

Emma’s hair smells absolutely like herself when the breeze lifted it across his face. He takes shallow, open-mouthed breaths, unable to get enough of it. He’s always loved how she smells when she’s wearing no perfume at all, when she’s just come out of the shower with little damp tendrils trickling down her neck, and she always swipes at it impatiently, too busy to stop to dry her hair properly. There’s a little sweaty shine like that on her neck, in the bus, and he dares lean in one steep curve and brush his cheek on it, as if the swaying of the bus had pushed him there.

It makes her gasp, as if he’d done something very personal indeed. She’s jumpy.

She walks so fast, crossing the lobby, that the group heading on their way out gets flustered, startled away and scattered, with Dance offering an apologetic smile in her wake.

Dance shuts the door and watches Emma turn on a heel and come back to him. He’s never seen her like this, never seen her eyes so blackly dilated, her mouth all closed, round and soft. He’s never seen Emma hesitate, unsure, looking at him.

But he knows what to do about it–he pulls her in.

“Oh, God, Dance,” Emma whispers from where she’s buried her face in his hair. Her arms hold him with harsh urgency.

Dance shifts his hold on her, learning all over again how to hold her, the angle that you take to embrace a woman top-to-bottom, without crushing her breasts. He’d imagined that a woman’s wider hips would enfold his, but her pubic bone is as hard and demanding as Drin’s. He strokes down her spine, feeling her back arch into his touch as his hand sweeps down, slips under her waistband once more to the satiny, firm flesh there. It’s all want, and nerves, and relief.

nude woman sitting silhouetted on end of bed
Back at the Room

“God, Dance, oh God.” Emma might not even know she’s saying it, over and over. Her body rides hard against his, rubbing him up and down; the weight of her breasts remains still, and that’s another thing he’ll need to get used to. He puts a hand to her head, offering the touch to guide her round so they can kiss again. Dance had wondered if he could tango with another partner, and how it would feel; and the answer is yes, and oh yes.

“Oh,” Dance says. “Oh.”

Then she pulls her head back, and blinks at him, and one of her hands is groping in her pockets. It’s a familiar posture, one that makes his eyes widen. The silly tearing sound of a condom packet has become an intense turn-on long since, and of course she feels the jolt through his body, and smiles. The knowledge is there in her eyes. You’re going to do this, and I’m going to like it.

Then he’s asking it, the phrase vivid from two days of waking up hard as a rock, breathing as quietly as he can in the same room while she sleeps; “Where do you want me, inside you?”

She’s laying under him, her belly jumping with her breath, that tight little ribcage tilting as her shoulders push down into the bed; “Front, just like your prostate, you’ll know when–” Her bare thighs rise up around him and he feels her heels at the small of his back, she’s folding herself around him and her legs are grabbing him into her like the bed under them, and the heat and welcome of her cunt are more than he’d even begun to imagine.

She doesn’t want him to be as careful as he was expecting. She’s as abrupt as Drin is sometimes, as demanding about touching him and kissing him back, making him meet her eyes and acknowledge what she’s doing, what she wants him to do, that she wants him, by God. Right there, right now.

It takes him three hours to figure out exactly how to get that little expiring moan to come out of her that he knows has to be there. She’s got the most incredible physical stamina for this, it’s not like her limits on hiking at all. She keeps rising up again, her climaxes are noisy and spectacular, but it’s more as if she’s stopped for a brief view at stations on a mountain railway. It’s not the total collapse that finishes off himself, or Drin, for a couple of hours, leaving them placid and peaceful and totally, utterly, relaxed.

She’s much more interested in him, in his responses, in what he looks like, than he expected. He gets to lay back and let her look at him, study him, as carefully as Drin has ever done. She likes looking at his penis, learning how it reacts, how it looks, how he arches his back when she touches him. Finally, laying between his thighs, studying how he’s put together, using gloves and lube with the careful scholar’s touch he was almost afraid of–God, it’s so intense for being so deliberate, the way she leans into him, runs her fingers all over him and into him–finally, she’s relaxed enough to start talking again. That’s a good sign. Emma not talking is worrying.

“I think I must have been a queer boy in a past life,” Emma says, licking him a little bit, and watching him gasp. “I just like boys. I like boys fucking boys. I like boy bits. I just don’t have any myself.”

Which is so strange, coming from a woman adorned with the most fabulous girly bits he’s ever seen.

She certainly reacts with the girly bits in a thoroughly convincing way.

woman prone partly nude, 'untitled', photo by better-than-history on Flickr
'untitled', photo by better-than-history on Flickr

He’s done his homework for months now, almost against his will, and it whispers suggestions as he learns his way through her responses, as he gets smacked for trying things that are too intense, as he gets startled himself by his own responses to her.

She has stomach muscles he never realized were there, there’s muscles inside her that grab him and feel like nothing on earth. He can feel her clench them down on his fingers, when he explores, wonderingly, wearing the gloves that she bought, if only because he cares to assuage her anxieties. She tells him about safe sex with a woman, with those serious eyes, and she does it so well that she makes him groan in protracted arousal.

Kissing his way down her, delighting in the taste of her, is nothing like the disturbing pictures of anatomy, the inner shock, some kind of nasty surprises, the cool disengagement that he was braced for, as a gay guy sadly realizing that yes, this is a girl and he doesn’t do girls. None of that happens.

It just seems right. She smells good. Of course this is how she ought to be. It’s a new taste to him, licking the folds and turns of her body, but it makes him want to roll in it and get it all over him. God, her armpits are so amazingly soft, he could just curl up between her thighs and breathe into all that springy, dense hair for weeks. Women smell so very different than men, and he wasn’t expecting to love that either– that her sweat, her juices call to him the way Drin’s do, is nothing short of miraculous.

He learns things that make her happy. She says so. She yells it. She yells rude things. She yells unladylike things. She means it.

She’s got a wicked tongue on her. It gets rapidly more wicked too, as he tells her things, as he can’t help but react when she swoops down on him, as she figures out that he’s got no resistance at all.

He learns some things that make him happy. He yells a bit too.

She says rude things about liking the taste of his semen, which she’s not supposed to be doing at all–what was the point of condoms if she’s– but then she is, and he’s letting her, dammit, Drin is going to be mad at him for that– and she teases him about how he thrashes when she goes after the vein on the underside of his cock, and it’s probably just as well for the sake of her jaws that she doesn’t ever need to deep-throat him. He’s long gone just from the sight of her familiar mouth opening up and pushing back his foreskin and licking him, taking him in.

“That’s a nice frenum,” she says, when she’s brought him, shouting, and she smiles, her lips glossed with semen. “Nice corona, too, of course. Aaaaaand look at this nice long corpus cavernosum–”

He shouldn’t be so surprised that she’s prepared for an extended siege, and he’s the castle. She’s bought toys, God only knows where, probably the same night she knew he was flying in, because he knows those weren’t in the luggage he helped her pack–and she knows how to use them.

She was aware that he might not react to girly parts, that it would take experimenting to learn what makes him happy. When he turns out to be blindingly, magnificently happy with her girly parts, indeed totally overcome and almost in tears he’s so relieved, that he’s totally prepared to worship girly parts as long as she’ll let him, then that’s when the researcher in Emma kicks in. She can’t bear to leave the toys untested. She’s got a willing experimental subject, and she knows what to do with those.

“Okay, I’m not queer, I’m just greedy,” he says, wryly, looking up at her reflection behind him in the bathroom. Her face is flushed, her lips determined, the upper slopes of her breasts bright pink with arousal. She’s not allowing him to kiss her nipples any more, she says they’re getting sore. He kisses around them instead. He’s careful. His hurt too, because she isn’t. Careful, that is. She figured out what it does to him, and took him to school on what you can do to a man’s nipples.

“Bend over,” she says. “That’s good. God, you have the most luscious butt muscles, I just want to chew on you. Just making sure I’ve got enough lube on this glove, trust me, I am not going to let you get rubbed raw down here, that would be a crime– okay, now tell me when I’ve got it.”

“Oh,” Dance says, eyes opening wide, and not for the first time.

“You know,” she says, panting a little with effort, “male anatomy is so odd. It’s so fabulous that you like this–“ and he gasps; “Oh there, there, oh–” and she grins.

“Gotcha,” she says, and takes him apart. Again.

He’s a little bleary-headed when he surfaces from that one, surprised to find how they’ve staggered onto the bed. She’s curled up across the small of his back, with one hand still cupped under him, stroking him gently, just because she likes touching his genitals. She seems to like reaching out and stroking him. She brushes her hands and her mouth on him whenever she’s in reach of him, just because she can, whether she’s aroused or not. His genitals can’t help wanting to give her things to do. Even now, it’s making him twitch, making him think about hardening up again, which ought to be totally impossible.

He lets himself lay there and breath for awhile, blinking. Her other hand is cupped around his ass, stroking his skin, squeezing a little, as if the muscle is like those ergonomic wrist rests with a gooey filling, and she just can’t resist tightening her fingers on it.

This is totally unfair of her, because she laid down the absolute law on squeezing her wiggly bits: No Jello Wiggler tricks. None. No blobbling or woogling or wibbling or shaking her bits. She says they embarrass her. She claims her butt is fat when it’s not, it’s just what it should be. She says it’s not right that it moves at all, it should be tight as a drum. This leftover fragment, this women’s-magazine distortion of reality, is fascinating to him. He points out, as gently as he can, that he’s got a fairly tight set of muscles, and his ass wiggles a little bit too, it’s what meat does–and that ends in her tackling him back onto the bed to find out.

So he turned it on her. He grinned, and he asked what he’s wanting to ask for a year.

“Show me,” he says, softly. “Show me how you like it yourself, I want to watch you come,” and just at hearing the words, she gives a huge loud groan that alarms him, shoving her knees wide, arching her butt almost off the bed, hands straining at him, grabbing bruises into his back. Girls can smack you around as badly as any guy, if they’re really coming hard. And they do it more often.

A lot more often.

He can’t think where women ever got the idea they should stop looking wiggly. He loves it on Emma. They’re perfectly gorgeous wiggly bits, but no. Millions of years of fascinated male genes want to watch her butt jiggle whenever she walks away into the bathroom, want to tighten their grip on that breast pooling with such hot weight across his back, but no.

No. She says girls don’t like to feel jostled. They don’t like feeling their wiggly bits shaking around so much. She told him she doesn’t even like getting joggled around in the bus, with her boobs bouncing around visibly in the open collar of her shirt, no matter how fascinating he finds it.

He’s known for two years now that breasts are heavy, that they get hot, that they’re a pain to carry around when they’re that big, and that brassieres are the invention of the devil, but also, sadly, that such stupid contraptions are the best that most women can manage. Now, there’s corsets of course, but not common. He spent quite some time learning about her breasts with his mouth. It’s nothing like what he expected. He’s not sure now what he was thinking. They move and they breathe and they loll like cats when they’re pleased.

She’s talked to him there from the bathroom, washing her face and her hands after he’s left her a mess. She’s told him about modern corsets, and gotten him hard as rock at the thought. She’d love to get one, a properly fitted corset that props up her damnable big blobby boobs in a nice tidy pile, it’ll take the weight off her shoulders for a change. Of course she hasn’t ordered one so far, because that’s going to be expensive, and she has better uses for that kind of money, but damn, there’s seamstresses these days on the Internet, making silk brocades into the most amazing confections with steel boning and–

He’s certain that the image of her skin pooling in a creamy pile atop an expensive silk relic of history deserves to be right up there with his bloody hateful much-cursed Locatelli.

He knows what that is going to do to poor Drin’s brain.

Hell, his brain is locked up, while other bits wave helplessly in the wind for attention.

He’s never thought of himself as a tits-and-ass type of guy. Never. But here he is, with her incredible legs tangled with his, and his brain can only come up with those weak fritzing noises. The legs came in for some mouth-time, too. They’re strong. He gets hard just kissing her thighs, and the shoes make her calves stand up in smooth curves as maddening as abstract art. He wants to howl at the moon.

“Okay, now you show me yours,” she demanded as soon as she’d caught her breath from that undeserved climax, rolling onto her knees, and shoving his knees wide with her own. He hadn’t learned anything about what she does to herself, and he wonders now if it’ll take a campaign of his own to find out. She’s stained bright pink from the shoulders down, irresistibly cute, as if he’s thrown a bucket of flesh-colored paint on her. If that isn’t proof of a climax that should have finished her off for at least twenty minutes, then all that homework was in vain. But her eyes are still dilated, her face intent on his body. Looking at his cock as nakedly as any queer man would do. Which is, by God, totally rigid with interest.

“Show me how you like to masturbate,” she says, caressing the word. “Show me how you stroke yourself.”

Dance laughs. “Just looking at you like that is going to do me for a couple of hours! Don’t make me–oh– oh don’t, no, easy, easy, no tickling, no, I’ll come–” and of course he does.

Oddly, that is what seems to finally satisfy her, and lets her lay back and be at rest, while their hands twine together.

Emma is humming a little, Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. She’s a deep enough alto that she’s off on the high notes. Dance smiles. He’s learned that he gets to wiggle her blobby bits quite a lot if he’s doing it with his mouth.

He likes doing that regardless of whether his poor abused little man is up to anything. He knows she likes being licked all over like an ice cream cone on a hot day. He can make her amazingly happy doing that.

Look, Drin, what I found out, he thinks, and grins against her skin.


Miles to Go

Emma the outrageous tourist
Emma makes an outrageous tourist

The guide says, “Is everybody ready? Is everybody hanging onto the hand of the person next to you? Okay, we’re turning out the lights, so you can experience what it is like in a cave without human interference. Hang on tight!”

Emma smiles at Dance. She has decided that she wants to stand facing him, each of her hands holding one of his, not sharing him with anybody in the rest of the group. She’s been feeling a bit possessive about him. He’s been getting odd looks from people. It might be partly because he doesn’t look like anybody else, he’s been careful to be his more subdued but still sparkly concertmaster self with people who come up to talk, and he’s clearly her friend, her boyfriend, something. All the Japanese tourists with the cameras kept wanting to catch him in shots with his arm around her, embarrassing their interpretors with demands to make sure it’s clear that she is taller than he is. Apparently they want pictures of her as one of those giant-thighed American beauty queens, or something, which annoys Dance.

The lights go out.

There are squeals from little kids, there is a general ahhhhh sound, there are sighs, and chuckles. After a moment the guide begins to talk, in the dark, and the dimmer on some of the lights gradually comes up at one side of the cave, illuminating the flowstones and stalagmites on display.

Emma is not dismayed by the later display additions that augment the original formations.

For one thing, this area is wheelchair accessible. It is on a shorter park trail that the disabled can take to see something of what it’s like in other, further areas underground, in locations where they will never be able to go for themselves. She approves of that chance. There are a lot of people leaning on canes or walkers on the group about the guide. It’s clear many of them are in pain, but they’re out there, seeing a cave in spite of everything, slow but determined.

The additions to these displays are rather whimsically fake, probably done back sometime in the forties or so, judging by the general style of the reproduction. It’s always interesting to see what repeated and clearly artificial texture that some hopeful model-maker or plaster-cast-maker of years ago thought would will look convincing in dim light. In some displays, she’s seen what were clearly carpet-fragment blobbings used to add interest to concrete stalactites and stalagmites.

Say what you will about how it looks now, measured against the kind of careful special effects mastered for the unkind eye of the movie camera, these are not bad. One simply has to admire the effort they went to. She is looking at the work of a dedicated museum artist trying their very best, for the time period.

The guide talks, and the group moves to the next display, and the lights dim down considerably where they’re standing. At the next pool of light, the guide talks about safety rules for visiting outlying areas and other caves on their own.

“Was it carpet or bricks or wood planks this time?” Dance says, his eyes crinkling upward at the corners.

“Might have been a scrubbing pad of steel wool over some rough wood, I think,” Emma says, smiling back.

His hands feel warm. He looks at her in the dim light, tips his head a little to one side. “Real flowstone now?”

She nods, and points down a different passageway from that taken by the guide’s group. One of the startling things about the national parks is that they don’t try that hard to protect people from themselves. It’s not Disneyland. If you want to get lost in some distant branch, you’d better have told somebody ahead of time to come looking for you if you weren’t back by a certain time. Otherwise, nobody will ever know. At least, not for the next few years, until the next person has reason to go there.

There’s more lights on the side-branch, which have sensors. They come up automatically as Emma and Dance pass, and then go down again after some time. In front of the display of fluorescent lichen, Emma says, “It’ll take a little while for your eyes to adjust to see them,” and after the lights dim, Dance draws her arms forward around him. Emma leans forward into his back, resting her chin on his shoulder, cuddling into his warmth. Her hands brush down his chest and settle into his jacket pockets. She can feel the weight of his flashlight in one of them. Hers is in her own pocket, zipped up safely.

He murmurs some sound, and she answers, “I’m good. You good?”

“I’m good,” he says.

She leans forward a little more, and kisses the side of his face. “I’m really glad you came.”

He smiles. “So am I.”

Almost in his ear, Emma murmurs, “I think half the point of visiting cave displays is the bit where you get to wait in the dark with your sweetie, all cozy.”

“It’s a great excuse to hug your favorite person,” Dance agrees.

“Am I being obnoxious, girl-mauling you all day?” Emma says then, very softly.

He lifts one hand into his pocket, closes his warm hand over her wrist, draws her hand out, lifts it, and kisses the back of her hand. She feels his lips touch her skin. Then he brings up his other hand, and cups her cool fingers in his own warm ones. “No,” he says softly. “You’re fine. It’s me that has a problem.”

Emma feels herself grow very still. “Mmmm?” she says.

“You know, for a boy who likes boys, who says so all the time, it’s really weird to find out it’s not true. Not at all.” He speaks so carefully that, even though it’s soft and it doesn’t carry more than a few inches from her ears, it’s clear as a bell. “I’m just… I never met a girl who… who makes me feel like…this. So I sound like really bad… stories. You know, ‘I’m not queer after all!’ things. Stupid things.”

Emma is hugging him closely enough that she feels the changes in his breathing as he speaks. When he stops talking, his body is poised, tense, ready to move. Emma pulls her other hand out of his pocket, flattens both of them on his middle, and feels him draw in a deep breath.

Before he can say anything, Emma leans in and kisses his cheek again. Amused, she says, “You do know it’s not an on-off switch at all, it’s more like a dimmer switch on sexuality, right?”

“So if you say I’m a little on the dim side, I do not argue,” Dance says then, picking up her hands and holding them in his own.

She chuckles. “You can be a lot queer and a little bit girl-crazy if you want.”

“It’s very confusing,” he says.

“It’s all right,” she murmurs. “Look, can you see the lichens yet?”

“Yeah,” he says. They hear noisy feet running along, and people passing by, but they don’t come down the branch where she and Dance are standing. He says, quietly, “The lichens are wonderful.” After they’ve gone, and it’s quiet again, Emma wraps her arms around him more closely, and kisses his cheek again. He turns his head to make it easier for her to do this. He says, “Only, now– I think I’m not queer for men, either. Only one. Only one girl. I guess I like Emmas and Drins.”

She smiles. “Well, that works out then, because I like Dances. And Drins, too.”

“A lot?” Dance murmurs.

“Oh yeah,” Emma says. “I think he knows it, too.”

“Oh. Well, yes. I told him you– that you were asking about him, that you might be–” Dance says.

“Interested?” she murmurs. “Interested in Drin?”

“Yeah. And of course he’s… interested in you, a beautiful woman with a brain, and…”

“Umm, yeah,” she says. “You’re right. We… talked a little bit, a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh.” Dance doesn’t move, but he’s gone very still.

“You know what’s really funny?” she says. She draws in a deep breath of the odd, dusty, dry air of the cave. Up close, that is overlaid by the scent of Dance’s hair, the lavender odor of the shampoo he uses, the familiar smell of Dance’s sweat from the day’s traipsing about. At home he works out hard enough to sweat a lot, which means that today he hasn’t needed to make that much effort. She hasn’t made much of a dent in his capacity to hike. She can feel the strain in her own legs, exploring a couple of different sites. She does love to go through a museum or a park exhibit or an historical site thoroughly, mostly at speed, looking at every corridor and every branch, exclaiming over the weird things left in the back dusty corners. It made Dance smile at her poking around so consistently.

“What’s funny?” Dance asks, with a little catch in his voice.

She smiles. Drin told her bluntly last night, in an email of all things, that she could have him any day of the week she asked. He said he was a little concerned, though, because he knew Dance would be right there in her line of fire, too, should she be in the mood for that talented young gentleman instead. He asked her to be kind to the poor guy, whatever she decided to do about the both of them, and he was going to leave it in her capable hands.

She replied with a protest that Dance was queer, he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in her physical attributes, of whatever sort, and– and Drin calmly exploded that little theory to bits.

Drin told her if she left the bathroom door open to vent the shower steam, they kind of… both…reacted to it. They didn’t want to intrude on her privacy or anything, but it was quite a turn-on for him, and it was just as distracting to Dance, which nobody expected, least of Dance himself. So, erm, Dance might… not be quite as… calm as usual. She might not be able to go on taking Dance for granted, best buddies and galpal girlfriend, in the future. Which had made her wince a little bit.

He said other things too. A little sharp, in places. Maybe she knew she was having an impact on Dance and she just jerked on the poor guy’s chain, making sure she still had him.

She hadn’t been very happy at seeing that reflection in Drin’s emails.

Emma says, “Drin said that you happened to see too much of me hanging out of that blue silk dress of mine, a couple of times, and you got… a little upset with yourself for… reacting.”

“Yeah,” Dance says, at length. “Guess I was. Not exactly what we thought was in the specifications, is it? Sorry.”

“I’m not,” she says, laughing a little. “God, you two are the hottest pair of boys I’ve ever seen, just sitting around the house in your tee shirts, yelling at Wii games. I knew you were trying not to flag anything in my face. But trust me, I could eat up both of you without a spoon, and die happy. It’s just– it’s like it’s floating around in the air or something. Dance, I’m just fine with you ripping that damn blue dress right off me, okay?”

Dance turns his head and shoulders and looks at her. He can’t possibly be seeing anything, but he’s still looking at her. Then he lifts her hands and kisses her across her knuckles, gently, one hand and then the other, right where she’s skinned them crawling around. Then he says, softly. “Oh, I don’t want to rip the dress. That’s a fine dress. You can get more of those any time you like. I bet Drin will be happy to buy you more dresses like that.”

“This is supposed to be kinky, isn’t it?” she says.

“It feels pretty kinky to me to want to–”

“To want to do this?” Emma says, letting her hands slide down his jacket and onto his pants, sliding along that amazing belly of his, and back up again, and she can feel his ribs jerk still. “To feel like that?”

hands, light woman and dark man, photo by Christania
photo by Christania

His hands cradle hers gently, his fingers warm on hers. “If you want me to come right in my pants, yeah,” he says, amused at himself. “It doesn’t take that much, feeling like this.”

“Like you want to make out right here in the dark?” she breathes into his ear.

“With the screaming kids in the next cave branch and everything,” he says wryly.

“Well,” Emma says, “the guides are probably used to catching people making out right around here. It’s too handy.”

“You got somewhere better in mind?” Dance says, and there’s a husky note in his voice she’s only heard a few times, lately, when he’s been speaking with Drin.

She chuckles. “I’ve got maps, and I know how to use ’em,” she says.

“Now I know why you like caves so much,” he says.

“Only with the right person,” Emma says gravely. “With you. With both of you. I trust you two guys.”

“I take it you came prepared?” Dance says, amused and disbelieving.

Emma chuckles. “I am a librarian.”

He sighs. “Do we need to go back to the car and get the helmets?”

“Or back to the hotel.”

“Something to be said for soft beds.”

He turns, sliding in her hands, and then he’s kissing her on the mouth, silencing the words. He breathes into her cheek, and her neck, and then his hands are remembering that her pants are too loose at the waist and too tight across the butt. He’s got his hands down that gap at the back, amazingly hot. “God, you have such soft skin,” he gasps.

That’s when the passage light comes on, of course. There’s a group coming traipsing on a tour toward them. Emma blinks, and scowls. “You have to turn the lights off and wait about ten minutes if you want to see the glow from the lichens.”

Dance chuckles, turning away, as if he’s never had his hands near her. But he says, “We can call him tonight, let him know how it goes.”

With people passing by them, chattering among themselves, Emma stares at him.

Dance turns then, about ten feet from her, looks at her, and gives a little shrug. “I mean, I don’t know if I can make you happy, or if I’m just– or if it’s going to work for you, or anything. He’s involved.”

Emma blinks. “Yeah,” she says. “You’re right.”

Then Dance gives her a crooked little smile. “I’m sure gonna try my best.”

“As always,” she says and smiles back.

===

writers’ notes: This is part of a story begun off some prompts here and in doll photography, “Vita Ersatz.”


Massage for Emma

road loaf of bread, photo by ahintofhoney dot com
raspberry olive oil bread, photo by ahintofhoney dot com

Dinner was simple, exquisite, and abundant. Drin says so, sighing, and the cook dimples up in a broad smile. When Dance is done stacking up dirty dishes and willing to settle, Drin pulls out a chair for him, slides an arm over onto Dance’s shoulders, gives him a kiss. Dance leans into the support of Drin’s whole body. The shoulders relax under Drin’s touch.

“Man, that was so good,” Emma says then. “I’m stuffed.”

“Our Drin picks out great bread.” The soft words come through Dance’s back as a vibration. Then Dance puts out one arm and smooths his palm over Emma’s back. The way Dance’s muscles shift, somehow the touch has the satisfying feel of a harmonic ringing, a circuit loop joined, ramping up to full power.

“Good olives, and cheese, too,” Emma agrees, with a groan. She leans back into Dance’s hand. He rubs his palm across her upper back, gently.

Emma stiffens and gives a sudden stifled grunt.

Dance exclaims, and Drin asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, don’t mind me, it’s just the stupid back again,” she says, half-angrily.

“Easy, easy, we talk it down, your period coming makes you sore, yes?” Dance says, both hands steadying her.

“Oh hell, I’m not dragging you off for this silly spinal problem tonight, not when Drin has time off–” she cuts it off with a hiss of pain, clearly unable even to reach around and grab at her back.

“Whyever not?” Drin asks. “Yeah, take it easy, let Dance get that sorted out. I’m not going anywhere until my tum has had a chance to enjoy everything properly.”

“Stuffed like a teddybear,” Dance says, surprising them both. He shifts his chair around to get at Emma’s back more closely, and smiles impishly at their expressions. “Amalia’s words, yes?”

“Apt,” Emma says, smile twitching in one corner of her mouth.

“Do you want me to go in another room–” Drin offers, starting to shift his knees.

Emma does have the ability to reach out and clamp a cool, dry hand on Drin’s wrist. Her fingers tighten with each spasm. “No, don’t go. Talk me through it, distraction helps– Besides, hey, girl skin, nothing special, not like you’ve never– seen it before– gaaah, the timing, sorry–”

Drin helps her fingers lace with his. She grabs onto the support. “Easy now,” he repeats Dance’s phrase several times. When he speaks, the spasms in her back do seem to ease up.

“Drin talks, please, and we slide into it slowly,” Dance says.

“Is that okay with you?” Drin asks.

Emma gives a tight nod.

“What do you want me to talk about?”

“Haircuts,” Emma says, with a sharp look at Dance. “The man’s hair looks fabulous. How did you do it?”

“A very good stylist who’s used to jumpy clients,” Drin says, chuckling at the look on Dance’s face.

“Okay, we start with the hands,” Dance says, taking up one of Emma’s wrists. He gives her a stern look. “No jumping bean. No guilt on not looking at computer. Just sit and relax, yes?”

Emma growls. She never sits still during a frantic busy weekday evening, with schedules to sort. But her back is still visibly spasming, the muscles jerking in her torso like snakes writhing under the skin, and she grunts sometimes. Looking at that, Drin is pretty sure her pain threshold must be nearly as high as Dance’s, which is scary.

Dance takes Emma’s left arm, turning it back and forth, studying it, until she gives up and lets him carry the weight.

“Neither one of us were real sure about the orangy gold streaks in the hair, until it got done,” Drin says, in the low, relaxed, put-babies-to-sleep tone that should get those back muscles to calm down.

“The stylist was right. It sure picks up our Dance’s skintone nicely.” Emma shakes a forefinger at him. “Yes, I said our, and I meant it!”

Dance makes a wry face. “Am I pwned?”

“Absolutely!” Emma says fiercely, right along with Drin, who grins.

Dance rolls his eyes. “Oh, you should hear the stylist talk about our Drin’s hair, too. He scolds Drin on messing up the very beautiful silvery Drin hair with cheap shampoo. He shakes the finger at us, tells me I am the bad influence on Drin. He will school me if I let Drin go out looking like that. I tell him we were too busy making out to be careful of shampoo. He says we are doing unsafe hair, and shame on us.”

Emma starts to laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“He’s so fey he looks suburban, my dear,” Drin says.

Her back shakes out more laughter, between spasms.

“You should be afraid, you’re next,” Dance warns her.

“Oh really? And what could he do with all these damn red curls?”

“I fear to ask!” Drin chuckles. “Visions of sugarplums dance in my head–”

Emma looks surprised, and laughs again. “Oh, you heard me talking to Amalia about just getting a magenta dye job and whacking off a couple yards of these darn bedsprings.”

“No, no, it gets done right, you let our friend work on it,” Dance assures her.

“Our friend, huh? I guess your stylist really is that good at it.” Emma looks around at Drin.

Drin smiles. “How about some music on the cd player? What would you like, our Miss Emma?” He bends enough to meet her gaze, and says, “Right, how about that old Julian Bream recording Dance wanted to hear?”

Another growl, this time one of consent.

“Okay, Dance, do you need more oil?”

“Yes, the same bottle we put on the bread. Make our Emma smell like we should nibble her up.”

“Have a pillow,” Drin says, putting a throw pillow onto the table that’s been cleared in front of her, covering it with a kitchen towel, and sliding the bottle of extra virgin olive oil over next to Dance.

Emma sighs. Dance murmurs, and helps her tug off her cheap, nasty polyester blouse. She props her head on her other arm while Dance begins spreading oil lightly up the back of her forearm, and down her fingers.

“Easy, limp hand,” Dance says, supporting her forearm and shaking her hand gently to test it. “Good. Loose. We hold the weight, don’t worry. All taken care of.”

The woman has surprisingly athletic arms and hands, because she lifts and carries books all day long. Her shoulder blades stick up painfully under the straps of her brassiere. There are red marks on her skin, striping across the light dusting of tiny freckles.

Drin yanks his gaze away from the soft skin, and marches himself away to the living room. He puts on the remastered music, adjusts the volume, and crosses back to sprawl in a kitchen chair nearby. He lifts his eyebrows in question, indicates her back where the marks are, and Dance holds up three fingers and shakes his head in silent reply. Drin nods and relaxes.

“I feel really silly,” Emma complains.

“You look beautiful,” Dance says firmly, with his fingers stroking light trails of oil up her bicep. “Now, I look silly.”

Emma grunts. “Doubt that.”

“Oh hush,” Dance says, laying down her forearm on the table next to the pillow, and smoothing oil onto her other wrist.

“Drin, I want a second opinion.” Her head bobs up a degree. She’s still fighting it, as bad as a little kid who doesn’t want to go to bed and miss any of the fun.

“Oh, I’m hopelessly biased in favor,” Drin murmurs, in those same low tones that put kids to sleep and make adults relax.

Dance smiles as his fingers slide up Emma’s trapezius muscles into her neck, just letting her feel that first touch. He asks her, “Do you both think our adding rosemary on the roasted cheese bread, like tonight, might be too much for Metro guests?”

“I liked it,” Emma says. “And the sage on the sourdough bread, and that garlic-gruyere spread, too. Ooh yum.”

“It’s a carb test tonight,” Drin singsongs the words to a Broadway melody, grinning.

“Cheese test tonight too,” Emma agrees.

“The bay leaf was a little too harsh, I think?” Dance says.

“It’s okay if you’re in the groove from the others, but not as a surprise on your first bite,” Emma says. “Put it later in the lineup when you lay out the table.”

“Hmm,” he says, and he lays down her other hand, and he’s spreading oil across her upper shoulders, between the shoulder straps.

“Oh, Christ, do I hate this damn harness,” Emma says, annoyed, starting to move.

“Easy, easy, we’ll unhook it, give us a minute–”

“I’ll get you a clean towel,” Drin says quietly. When he returns, between them they’ve got the back hooks undone, and Emma has her arms untangled from the shoulder straps. She holds up the front of the bra modestly when she sits up enough to accept the hand towel. But she’s happy to get the towel draped over her chest instead. Dance sets the brassiere aside, keeping his gaze on Emma as she moves. She leans down gratefully into the pillow, turning her head to one side.

Then Dance nods at Drin, gravely. He indicates her hair to Drin. Drin scoots his chair closer and sweeps the curls out of the way of Dance’s hands. Strokes it aside so Dance can reach up her neck. Then Drin is just slowly stroking the curls aside, because it feels nice. It’s working too; the side of her face relaxes under his touch.

Dance points a little finger at his own temple, along his jaw, and nods at Emma in signal. Drin strokes her face with the lightest touch of fingertips. Drin picks up oil on the tips of his fingers, and begins swirling light circles into the base of Emma’s skull, sliding up from her neck muscles, pausing during the other man’s pushes, so she feels that in between the deeper muscle manipulations that Dance is performing. Sometimes Dance gives deep pushes onto her trunk muscles. He murmurs each time, warning them both what he’s doing. “Hard push here, it will slide onto that knot, it will push the knot–yes, it will push along that knot–”

Dance rides out one snakey struggling knot, and then suddenly her back unkinks, the vertebrae visibly stretch wider apart. The right side of her pelvis gives a funny little clunking noise, and drops a good quarter inch in place. “Yes,” Dance murmurs, a deep satisfied grunt.

Emma gives a sigh of very nearly orgasmic relief. Drin keeps his finger tips moving, very gently. He feels her whole body stretch out, lengthening, easing, loosening.

“That was quick!” Emma says, gasping the words.

“It was,” Dance says, looking up at Drin with a smile. “Relaxing the two spots at once, magic!”

“Takes both of you, huh?” Emma says.

“We are beginning to think so,” Dance agrees.

Emma just groans. “I could sleep.”

“Best thing for you,” Drin murmurs.

“Hot shower first, then slide into warm bed, very careful,” Dance agrees. “You might be stiff into the morning, too, call us if you need help, yes? No kinking up that hip again.”

She groans again as Drin draws his fingertips out of her hair. He pats her shoulder lightly. “I’ll just get that shower going.”

“Your turn tomorrow night, right?” Emma says, turning her head enough to look up at him.

Drin sighs. Of course Dance has found the gimpy stiff bits on Drin’s body, the scar tissue from burns, the shortened tendons, the odd places that lack adequate lymphatic drainage and swell like a sunovabitch when he’s been working on the computer for twelve hours straight.

There will be stretchings and massages done before such tissues swell, with fierce boyfriend glaring, warning comments about ergonomics, and crisp Metro-style lectures on not allowing work to damage his health. There will be ticklings, if he’s not careful. “I promised, yeah,” Drin says.

“It will feel good, it will not hurt like you say physical therapy did, or I am not doing it right,” Dance says firmly, holding up his oiled hands.

Drin looks at the gleaming hands. Of course his imagination starts reminding him what those skilled fingers are capable of doing to him, and he gives another sigh. “Hot shower coming up for our Miss Emma,” he says, and grins at her. God, she looks wonderful in tousled curls with a towel folded over her breasts. He says so, too, right before he heads down the hallway. She tells Dance tartly to swat his boyfriend for her, and Dance just laughs, washing off his hands at the kitchen sink.

Drin fetches her ratty old favorite warm bathrobe and hangs it up in the bathroom for her. When he closes the bathroom door after her, Drin gives a long sigh. Then he returns to the kitchen to hug his boyfriend very tight.

Dance says, “More, yes, like that. So good on my ribs! Ahhh!” and there’s little crackling nosies as Dance leans back against his grip, twisting and pushing bones against Drin’s arms. He leans into Drin with a happy sigh, sliding his warm hands up Drin’s back, up under the shirt.

“That’s the first time she’s let me watch you,” Drin murmurs into his lover’s hair.

“Yes. I don’t know why she’s shy about some things and not others,” Dance agrees.

“And you’re very turned on, too.”

blue-eyed woman in dark shower
Stretching and Hot Water

Dance kisses him. “It does that, she has these beautiful sleek muscles, mmm,” he says, nuzzling his way into Drin’s collar, and kissing his neck. “I like what my hands feel, yes? Like wanting you when I massage you. When we– when I stop using the hands, all this energy boiling around, it goes down there on me.”

Drin’s hands rub gently downward along the slopes of Dance’s buttock muscles. “There?”

“Yes, and there–”

Drin’s hands shift around, and Dance sighs happily. Drin murmurs, “And there?”

“Mmmm,” Dance agrees, unbuttoning Drin’s shirt and kissing everything he can reach, without being particular about it. “You– you are all hard too–”

“I love watching you two, you’re both so damn cute together,” Drin says. In Dance’s ear, he murmurs, “It’s sexy as hell, the way you run your hands all over Em, and she’s just fine with you touching her. Because you earned it, that trust. It’s really beautiful, I love seeing it. Just because I’m such a horndawg, I’d love to see what you could do if it was okay to touch her tummy, and her breasts–can’t help it–”

Dance’s breath catches. “Yes.”

“Yes, you want to do that?”

Dance says, “She is okay with that right now. But I– it makes me– I get too excited, I want to–”

“It makes you want this too much?”

“Yes, like that,” Dance says, arching into Drin’s hand. “Oh, oh, Drin, I wanted to–I want you all day so bad–”

“Yeah,” Drin whispers, and takes the mouth turned up urgently toward him. Then he pulls back, panting, before the shudders in Dance’s body get serious, before the boy goes off like a rocket right there in his arms. They’re totally stuffed from eating dinner. It shouldn’t even be possible to want to use those gut muscles to shove his prick in somewhere warm and happy and slick. But it wants Dance, badly.

Dance writhes in his arms, making a sharp, disappointed noise.

Drin chuckles. “Why don’t we go do something with all that energy while Em’s busy in the shower?”

Dance’s body slackens a bit. “We could, but I should be working, and you should be working–”

“With this distracting both of us?” Drin’s hand knows exactly what to do with Dance’s excess energy.

Dance arches again, with a gasp. “Well, yes– but you like to make me come twice, and then I take too long, getting noisy–”

“Oh, I can figure out some way of keeping you quiet,” Drin says, walking them both into their bedroom, and closing the door behind him. “Maybe keep your mouth full, huh? Hand me the cock ring, I’m gonna need it with you pulling like a freight train– oh man, Dance, easy, easy there, I’m gonna lose it too soon– ”

Drin is always charmed and surprised by all the different kinds of urgency Dance brings to sex. It seems to surprise him as much as Drin. At times the driving force seems to be to get at every square inch of his lover, licking and biting and tasting and mauling Drin as if he can’t get enough of Drin’s skin in his mouth. He has a very big mouth, when he wants to. Other times he just wants to hug Drin until both their bodies creak and joints crackle. He won’t even give up clutching tight while Drin attempts to figure out what might satisfy his hunger for affection. Or he wants to get his mouth on Drin’s and just crawl inside Drin’s kisses and stay there, trying out everything he can invent, for hours.

Dance is not low maintenance, in these states.

Tonight, Drin realizes that he’s made love to Dance before in a similarly odd mood. Drin just didn’t know his boy was coming off one of those high-octane massages. It suddenly makes more sense that Dance would turn into a fuck-crazy top with a need to insert tab A into every slot B in Drin’s body, and when it’s really bad, plunging hungrily into all of Drin’s inventive capacities with toys, too. Drin knows now what the boy wants, as clearly as if he’s shouting it, and Drin is happy to figure out what will give him some peace.

Months of walking and swimming with Dance, and stretching so he has far more flexibility in his hamstrings, are another big help. He smiles as he sprawls out on his back, pulls his knees apart, and says, “Oh, I’m ready. But I’m gonna go all fem here and make you talk while you’re doing me. Tell me things. Tell me what you want it to feel like.”

It really doesn’t take much to steer the panted words around to Emma and her fabulous anatomy, and what she might need if Dance was making love to her. Things like talking to her, checking what she wants him to do with his hands, how she likes her breasts rubbed and kissed.

man's nude back
stretch

“Yeah, there,” Drin groans. His nipples used to be just neutral points on his chest, nothing special; since Dance started kissing his way all over Drin’s chest, playing with his chest hair and worshipping Drin’s nipples with his mouth, they have heated up into new erogenous zones. He’s never heard of anybody developing new hot spots that can bring them off in five minutes, fully clothed behind a hastily closed closet door, but Dance has done that to him.

“Oh, now. Yeah. Fuck me, Dance.” He doesn’t last any time at all, the way Dance has him expertly triangulated. He’s done, while Dance is still moaning in frustration, a wild-eyed satyr with a prick up hard against his leg. But Drin has toys, and the will to take his time and use those interesting new insights in how to satiate Dance to slack boneless relaxation.

He thinks it’s a nice look on Dance. He approves of his own abilities to reduce the boy to a puddle of cum and a yawn.

Some time later, he walks as softly as he can up the hall to the bathroom, one arm resting on his lover’s sweaty shoulder. They both pause by Emma’s open door. She’s curled up under her blankets, out like a light, long eyelashes completely at rest. At her cheek there’s a fluff of reddish curls showing. Her ratty bathrobe is hung up to dry on the usual hook next to the door. Dance takes a deep sniff of it, sighs it out, nods in satisfaction at Drin, and walks up the hall with that relaxed swing to his stride which says he’s nice and loose after a workout of the best possible sort.

Drin pauses a moment to sniff the robe too, and understands dimly what Dance must be picking up; it smells of soap and shampoo and clean woman, like a promise of domestic order restored. Wonderful, how reassuring that is.

In the shower, Dance murmurs, “She’s good now, she’ll sleep through, and maybe the muscles will stay loose tomorrow when her period makes her hurt. She’ll be sore, but we hope no knots.” He stands still for Drin. Drin wets down his beautiful musician’s newly-cut hair. Then Dance says, “I wasn’t sure you’d be okay with– me– going on with– massages like that–yes, you said it is good, but–”

Drin smiles. “You worried I’d be jealous of you spending time on helping Emma instead of paying attention to me?”

Dance nods.

Drin shakes his head. “You and Emma belong together. It’s a gift. It’s a total gift, far as I’m concerned. Whatever Em wants from me, whatever she wants me to do for you, we’ll talk about it, and it’ll get worked on, do not worry.”

Dance looks down and away sharply.

Drin’s hand asks Dance to tilt his head up as he starts lathering shampoo in the man’s hair, and of course he sees the eyes squint shut, and tears, absurdly, start to run down his lover’s face. He rinses water through Dance’s hair, cups both hands around the elegant skull, and kisses him breathless all over again. Drags him out of the shower stall, stands him up against the tiled wall, and kneels down in front of him on a pile of towels, to get at him better. When he pulls his mouth off Dance’s cock, he talks. He talks about some of the same things he said to Dance in the bedroom.

red-headed woman laying back in green dress
green dress

He’s found out that he can bring Dance off hard and fast just retelling his own bisexual fantasies. No, not just another gay boy, not when Dance is hissing and groaning and thrusting up harder into his hip or his hand or his mouth, the way Dance reacts when he talks about the soft perfumed hollows under the lace panties, the swing of her breasts, the swagger of her hips striding along, the curve of her belly. He’s pretty sure Emma’s got plenty of ideas of her own, too.

He whispers across Dance’s rigid prick, his breath making the skin shiver. “I just like to think how it’d feel, rubbing my ass under you, feel you fucking me. Dream that I’ve got my cock sliding down into Emma, feeling those soft womanhips move so sweet under me, oh man. Or I’m leaning in holding her back, fucking her up the ass, while you’re giving this sweet prick to her in front. Holding her up when she comes with both of us in there rubbing together. Feeling those boobs come down heavy in my hands, you know? Bi-boy here, dreaming about getting royally fucked by both of you. Turns me on.”

“But surely after– after all that– I’m not going to–” Dance gasps, wobbling a bit. His knees are almost buckling. “Oh, oh Drin–”

“Oh yes, I think you could,” Drin chuckles, standing up, pinning him back harder into the wall with his shoulders, grinding their hips together. “I think you’re about ready.”

“Oh. Oh.”

Cargasm

Dance sits quietly in the passenger seat while Drin negotiates the garage and the gate and some busy streets. He’s listening to the music Drin put on, eyes half shut, soaking it all in without moving at all. He apparently has a good imagination too, because the erection in his loose pants has not let up in the slightest, and he’s not touching it. Perhaps he’s afraid he’ll go off in his boxers if he handles it.

When Drin pulls over into a quiet stretch of residential streets and turns the engine off, Dance is blinking up at the windows. “They can go totally dark?”

“Indeed they do, with the right setting. Better living through science, man. Layer of electrically-responsive coating. Well, not totally opaque. Just gray enough to stay legal.”

Dance’s eyes look all black too. He says,”What did our Drin plan now?”

Drin smiles. “Whatever will make you feel really good.”

Dance is on him so fast he’s still smiling as the man’s mouth invades his. Dance gives an eager moan and drags Drin’s hand into the magically loose boxers and sweatpants. There isn’t even a chance to ask him anything before he’s gone off in Drin’s hand, with that gasp going down into Drin’s lungs: “Oh.”

The sound of his orgasms is becoming pleasantly familiar to Drin. He lays Dance’s slumping body back into the car seat, kisses him soundly, and smiles.

“Good, now you’ll be able to enjoy your lunch.” Drin starts to pick up the ignition keys. “Tissues in the glove box–”

“Oh no,” Dance says, putting his hand on Drin’s wrist. “Not so easy. We get to make Drin come too!”

“It won’t take that much–” Drin says, and then he gasps. The zipper on his jeans doesn’t catch on anything at all, because Dance is careful and slow and watchful, grinning as Drin’s cock practically leaps into his rough fingers. The hot raspy skin of Dance’s fingers feels like nothing at all that he’d ever imagined. “My God man–” and he’s gasping out his orgasm loudly, falling sidewise into Dance’s shoulder. “My God!”

“Better?” Dance asks softly, and kisses his ear.

“Oh God yes,” Drin gasps.

“Tissues?” Dance says solemnly, and he can feel the laughter shaking Dance’s chest.

“Guess we better–” Drin agrees, laughing too at how absurd things are. “Come right down to it, sex is so– well, sometimes I just feel so ridiculous.”

Dance makes a growly happy noise somewhere in his diaphragm. “Sex is about not caring if we are looking very stupid?”

“Mmm,” Drin says, kissing the man’s neck and shoulder just because he can. By all rights, it ought to make Dance ticklish; but he stretches into it with a crackling joint noise. Muscular cables go sliding looser under Drin’s touch. “Do you want to get silly with me?”

“Very,” Dance purrs, eyes half-shut. “We are not telling everything to Robert.”

“Oh God,” Drin laughs harder. “I mean, ten seconds, and you’ve got me–”

“we–I– keep dreaming, this hardness for Drin goes lasting hours and hours, but no. Sorry. You are too sexy, my Drin. This touching me, too much hot, we– I– I go off like this kid, I get so excited.”

“The better to make out with you again as soon as I can, right?”

Dance agrees, nuzzling into the hair behind Drin’s ear with a kiss. “Oh, we hope so!”

Drin slides an arm around the powerful shoulders, down the musician’s back, and gets a hand down onto the upper slope of those buttocks. He pets the incredibly hot skin. “Now for the serious business. Are they gonna quiz you to death?”

“Oh yes. We are sorry, Miss Amalia asks this morning how it went this weekend. Oh, so we are just starting to laugh. She smacked the bow on us! No matter what outrageous things she said, me– I couldn’t help it, just grining like the fool. Already we are feeling guilty in advance. We fear maybe we are… indiscreet. There may be bragging about…” he grins, and butt muscles wiggle under Drin’s hand, “…sexy car seats.”

“Good, then the sooper sekrit car conquest plan has worked perfectly,” Drin says, grinning back at him. “You tell ’em whatever you’re comfortable saying, let me know so I don’t get too indiscreet. Engerman has been hounding me for days whether I was ever gonna break down and ask you for a date. Said I was getting careless. Warned me that you’d catch me starin’ at your butt like some disgusting old letch.”

Dance laughs. “Or catch us–me–staring at our Drin’s butt first.”

“You are too quick! Gimme a chance to catch you doing that? I’ll love it.”

“Oh, bad me, so people see it and carry tales to your work and your family?” Dance looks at him solemnly, stroking the back of his hand along the flow of Drin’s beard as if it feels good.

Drin shrugs. “No problem. I’ve got nobody else who needs to worry about it.”

Dance gives him a tighter hug. “Even in all Drin’s large family?”

“They can spout off all they like, it can’t hit me in the wallet. I’m careful on that. All they can do is hurt my feelings,” Drin says.

He gets another kiss on the ear for that. In some ways, Dance is very predictable.

“Some of my family will be very happy for me, being so lucky for meeting you,” Drin assures him.

Dance sighs. “Wanting you so bad all morning, we should wear a belt to stop it getting hard– how do we say–”

“A chastity belt?” Drin laughs. “That sounds even sexier than having you naked on the back seat right there.”

“I want you to fuck my naked ass on your back seat,” Dance says, choosing each word slowly. “A lot. With the asbestos dick.”

Drin draws in a choked breath, laughing. Dance apparently can’t help saying things that turn him on. That turn both of them on. “Do you want to fuck me in my car too?”

The answer to that one is wordless, and totally obvious.

Drin kisses him on the ear, on the neck, pushes up the loose sweatshirt, kisses the man’s nipples until Dance is gasping. He draws back, teasing with a fingertip, and murmurs, “You want to take me? You like that too? You could take me when I’m all naked back there. Or you could fuck me when I’m wearing my leather jockstrap. After I wore it all day, so you can smell where I’ve been jacking off when it just gets too much for me.”

Dance groans, chest arching up, and Drin devotes some more time to nibbling his way along the man’s body.

“Fuck me against the shower wall at the gym,” Drin murmurs into the man’s ear, ruthlessly, and gets a needy sound. “Lay me down on the sofa at your place when we have hours and hours to go slow–or I bend you over on the couch arm at my place. You could fuck me all over, yell out as loud as you like, at my place. Have I told you how much I want to suck you off and then fuck your naked ass on my leather couch? I think it’s extra nice when a guy likes pitching and catching both, more fun for everybody.”

“And then on the floor, sucking each other, trying things Drin knows–find out what we both like best–” Dance sighs out.

“As long as you need,” Drin promises. “I could take you home and kiss you all over like this– and then I’m rubbing your cock and putting lube on your ass when you’re lying back on that nice sturdy kitchen table I’ve got–get your knees up onto my shoulders–”

Dance sighs, hips thrusting. “See? Wanting big slow screwing all day, so poor Drin, you are never getting lunch this way.”

“I’d rather eat you up,” Drin growls into his beautiful musician’s chest, and gets more soft needy sounds. “Oh well, maybe another day,” Drin says, grinning, and slides his hand into the boxers again.

His other hand gets the catch of the glove box open, which for once actually holds gloves. Latex ones. And lube. Then he pulls down Dance’s sweatpants down the beautiful legs, with every assistance from Dance, and he manages to get some gloved fingers inside him this time before the man’s cock spasms in his grip.

There is nothing more amazing than looking at Dance’s belly muscles rising and falling hard with his breathing, knees sprawled out awkwardly with his ankles trapped in his clothes. Drin is holding his palm cupped under the man’s balls as they loosen and finally come down in the sac, totally relaxed, while Drin’s fingers are still penetrating him quite deeply. Dance makes the obvious offer, too. “Is our Drin wanting to take us now when–”

Drin smiles. “Shh, not now, I’m fine, just relax,” and he leans in and nuzzles Dance’s neck and face and hair, ready to draw back if he’s making the other man’s skin get twitchy.

But it just seems to make him relax further. Dance turns his head into Drin’s chest, and sighs, and the last trace of tension eases in his neck muscles.

“That’s good,” Drin murmurs. “I’m drawing back my hand. Very easy, very relaxed.”

Dance smiles a little. “Feels good, not hurting one bit.”

“Well, I worried maybe I was too rough on you yesterday, maybe I was in too much hurry. I want to give you time to recover from that, maybe three days.”

“It’s a date,” Dance says, smiling wider, and his eyes have gone wide and dark again. Amazing. “So does Drin– do you– want me to learn how to– to fuck you the way you like best?”

Drin chuckles. “And second-best, and third best, and so on. I’m looking forward to that.”

“Us, oh wow, we will not last,” Dance says.

“Well, neither do I, obviously,” Drin chuckles. “Anyway, are you hungry, now we’ve got your little man calmed down for awhile? Are you feeling like some lunch now?”

“You guessed we would be wanting our Drin to grab our little man very tight–”

Drin smiles. “Hell, I did too! That’s why I picked out this spot. I figured it’d be a shame to take you to a good lunch so distracted you can’t even think about the food.”

“Planning,” Dance says solemnly.

“Right,” Drin agrees.

“But we are not being properly dressed for fancy lunch–”

Drin grins at him. “I’ll say. Looks terrific to me. Just drizzle some barbecue sauce along your tum, and start licking.”

“Mmm,” Dance says, and amazingly, his cock stirs.

Drin pulls his hand free of the man’s ass and pulls off the latex glove, yanks it inside out, puts it neatly in the trash bag behind the passenger seat. “There’s a water bottle in the glove box, have some of that right away,” he suggests, shifting around and zipping himself back into his clothes. “When you guys get going at rehearsals, I know you don’t drink enough water.”

Dance watches him, and sighs when the shirt is pulled back down over Drin’s ribs. “Liking so much seeing you naked. Looking at freckles, so amazing.”

Drin laughs, and caresses the long muscles in Dance’s thigh. “I’m going to lighten the window tint when the ignition comes on. You can stay like that and I’ll certainly enjoy the view–”

There’s a flurry of movement, and then Dance is sitting in his seat belt looking ridiculously wrapped up, sweaty, exactly like he’s been working out. He is drinking the water, too.

Drin turns on the ignition, the windows lighten electronically, and he looks over at his beautiful rumpled musician.

Chen Kun messy hair
Rumpled

Dance gives a wicked smile and pulls down the front of his pants and boxers. His cock springs alert against his belly. “Silly little man,” he says to it, and then looks slantwise at Drin with those dark eyes glinting in amusement.

Drin draws in a sharp breath. “God, you’re amazing.”

Dance looks down at himself ruefully. “Or very silly and very young. We never– really, I’m not like this–we mean, we never used to be–”

“Oh, it’s very nice. I doubt I’ll ever get tired of seeing that,” Drin grins at him. “You think it’ll come again this time, if I give it a hand?”

“If it’s your hand, Drin–give me the hand, oh yes,” Dance says. His hand flails out, grasps Drin’s shirt. “Oh. Oh yes.”

The car rumbles under them for a neglected moment as Drin leans over and kisses him thoroughly. For once it’s not about urgency in his own body, especially not with the steering wheel digging into his gut. It’s about exploring Dance’s body properly. It is reflecting Dance’s passion back at him, exploring what makes him rock and cry out, feeling Dance’s body arch up into his weight. “Oh.”

“Good,” Drin breathes at last, kissing the other man’s mouth as the hot body melts down into Drin’s embrace, muscles loosening.

Nocturne appassionato

man's hands unbuttoning white dress shirt
hands

Dance is unbuttoning Drin’s jacket, then his own. Much as Drin likes watching those deft hands at work, he stills Dance’s fingers and sets his own to the buttons of Dance’s shirt, learning that it’s silk. It’s cheap silk, but it’s new. He knows Dance spent more than he could afford, making that extra effort. Drin works the shell disks free on Dance’s shirt while his own buttons are being undone with pickpocket speed; a warm hand slides under Drin’s shirt and pushes up, before Drin has finished his own task.

“Mmm,” Dance breathes it out. He has a small, secretive smile, his fingers carding through the hair on Drin’s chest as he waits.When Drin has got the musician’s shirt undone, Dance tugs Drin’s soft shirt up and off his arms. Dance pulls the older man’s shirt free, and puts his nose in it, and sniffs it, smiling, before he shakes it out and sets it aside in a neat flat pile on an old, battered dresser.

Drin watches this, and then slides the younger man’s sleeves down arms that play violin for eight hours a day, and dig in his garden in his free time. There’s the heavy shoulders like a cape, and the flat smooth planes of chest muscles, and the gorgeous tight belly. “Wow, he says involuntarily.

Dance lifts his wrists outward, offering himself for a moment. “Not so skinny now,” he says, smiling up at Drin. Then he rests his hands up on Drin’s shoulders, slides his palms lightly down Drin’s arms, pausing to take his hands. “So big,” he murmurs, looking up again. Then he’s kneeling, moving so fast Drin’s reaching hand just brushes his hair. Damn, he’s fast.

Fingers touch Drin’s belt, open the expensive buckle with a slight fumbling of unfamiliarity, and then Dance’s hands rest on his waistband. The man is watching Drin… appear. He is breathing fast, and he leans in close and takes a deep inhaling breath, almost a gasp, at Drin’s belly. “Your smell, this is wonderful.”

“Yours too,” Drin replies. He’s always liked watching Dance after performances, seeing the body loosen in the stiff suits, with that trickle of sweat, get a whiff of the herby smell of him.  Yes, something Drin has noticed, even obsessed about, but it’s so strong now with the added musk of semen. Not what Drin expected.  Not ordinary gym-sock guy sweat, not the scent of rosin from his instrument, not the food they ate, and not one of the cheap colognes that other Metro musicians indulge in. It makes Drin want to pull him close and howl at the moon. The whole room smells of him now, something like fresh-cut redwood, leaf mold, acorn mast. It feels odd, liberating, to let Dance watch him take a deep sniff of that crumpled silk shirt. The scent lingering in the shirt has a sharp resinous bite, earthy as pine knots burning.

Dance looks up. “Is smell important for you too?”

“Very,” Drin agrees, because if it’s important to Dance then it’s become important to him. He reaches down and touches the top of the brown shoulder, and suddenly his arms are full of a muscled body, and he closes his grip on it. He walks them both to the bed, feeling his trousers fall away as he goes. He kicks them off while their bodies are already falling to the mattress, Dance’s soft laugh whooshing out of him at the impact. Drin lifts and twists himself so that he can flip Dance’s fly open without giving up much contact. Age and skill do have some uses.

But he has to kneel up to tug the pants away from the most beautiful pair of legs he’s ever seen. Dance laughs a little again, breathlessly, shifts his feet and kicks off his shoes and reveals feet just like his hands, feet that work hard, feet with the calluses of somebody who fights barefoot in a dojo, just as he talked about. But Drin doesn’t get those boxers yanked down those legs before Dance is pulling him over. The musician’s rough hands slide around him and the harsh touch sets him off. Drin sprawls out hungrily all over the smaller man, breathing in deep harsh gasps.

Dance is lying under him and his very skin seems to be gulping in the solid weight of Drin’s body just as greedily. His hands slide around Drin’s shoulders, up his chest, around his ribs. When he reaches a hand up, Drin has to forestall him. It’s Drin’s turn, first, to explore, and he puts his hand over Dance’s wrist, pushing it to the mattress. Then he feels his way along the man’s body, listening to the man’s sounds, the little wordless cries. He lowers his head to nuzzle in to one of those great strong thighs, breathing gently across the black straight hair dusted scantily across the outer blades of Dance’s muscles, taking in the scent of him. It’s just Dance, that piney odor. Then he opens his mouth and drops a dry, soft kiss on the femoral artery pulsing in Dance’s skin. The muscles harden, and he feels the man’s diaphragm rise in a harsh cry. “Oh!” Dance gasps, and his back arches upward.

Drin feels sweat prickle on his own forehead, run down his spine.

He moves down to the knee, admiring how it’s picked up some working scars, some dings from that same dojo, and brushes his palm lightly down the calf muscle as he kisses the inner curve of Dance’s leg. The calf muscle strains tight, clearly trying to behave itself for him, and he smiles up the amazing length of man laid out on top of the bed, gasping softly. “Hush, it’s all right,” he murmurs, into the long smooth strap of muscle tensed over the man’s shin bone. Some of that exertion clearly goes into a swimming pool and mileage on the pavement, he’s not just bulking up knots in the weight room or the dojo.

Drin puts one knee between the other man’s legs, just the one knee, without either straddling Dance’s body or pushing his legs apart too far, because he doesn’t want it to feel threatening. He puts his palms flat on the outside of Dance’s thighs, and he strokes his hands lightly down the man’s legs, stroking gently with the fur, however minimal, and not against it.

The beautiful torso tightens up and the ribs arch up and the belly closes down into diamond-shaped panes, and the hips tilt sharply upward.

Drin pauses for some deep breaths. Oh, the smell of him! He’s not going to last two minutes once he gets that man’s cock out of those boxers.

All– all of this. All wrapped up, hidden away, unseen until now, and all because he, Drin, noticed the promise, and wanted to find out what that sparkle meant.

Rather than get hasty about things, he shifts his knee away from Dance’s legs–he thinks, wryly, at least he knows not to overdo a new training prompt–and he sits down on the edge of the bed next to Dance. “Are you ticklish now?”

Dance shakes his head, flinging hair along the bed, and reaches out.

Drin grips the flailing hand, presses it lightly to the bed, strokes fingertips up the man’s forearm. “Easy,” he murmurs, and watches the arm muscles. “That’s good. Let me touch you awhile, give you time to relax.” He twists around and brushes his hand along Dance’s skin lightly, letting Dance get used to being touched. Dance is not used to it. The sounds he make would show that. It’s true, he’s not ticklish. But the jerks of his skin, the jumping untrusting muscles, the startle reactions, are intense.

As much as Drin can spread the stimulus out he does, letting his hand stay flat and firm and trustworthy, but still Dance is gasping and twitching. Drin can imagine from those sounds just how strange it feels to Dance, how starved for touch he must be. He’s careful at first, as too much contact has irritated past lovers. Not this man. He doesn’t know why Dance would keep his distance from other people for so long, and then suddenly decide that Drin is his person, in exactly the same way as some complete stranger of a stray cat he finds sitting on the doorstep, yowling that they’re home, it’s time for food now, and by the way, they want petting. A lot of petting.

Drin feels his hands settling into a pattern of touching Dance, reassuring, admiring, learning him. It’s trance-like, brushing his fingertips over all that beautiful skin. With his hands he looks at Dance’s chest, at his belly, at the arms, at the powerfully muscled neck, and then, with the lightest touch of his fingertips, his face, along under Dance’s neck into his hair, and gently onto his temples, and his forehead. Dance blinks and looks up at him, lips open and bright red with arousal, his eyes almost all pupil. Drin smiles at him, at the wild impatience throttled down and still thrumming through the man’s body. He leans down and then, at last, kisses Dance the way he’s wanted to kiss Dance all night.

Dance doesn’t know how to kiss.

While Dance is totally occupied with diving in and learning the shape of Drin’s lips and his tongue and most of his teeth, Drin starts working on teaching him the difference between fucking the back of Drin’s tonsils with a tongue that could probably reach halfway down Drin’s throat, and instead trying a nice calm minuet with the other person’s tongue tip. Or a brisk forceful bit of tango. Dance is a quick study. He gets the tango right away.

He’s just never done it before.

By the time Drin has finished kissing him, deciding that he needs to breath for a few minutes, he’s already had Dance flopping and pushing and shoving at him like a landed fish, they’ve rolled over three times across the bed, and the other man’s boxer shorts, which are pushing into Drin’s thigh, are soaked through, and not from Drin. Drin has his own damp problems.

“Now that,” Drin says, flat on his back by now, looking up, and breathing hard, “is what a kiss is supposed to be like.”

Dance is up on his elbows, staring down into Drin’s eyes, and he’s not breathing quite as hard, but the intensity is all there. “Kissing you,” he says.

Drin is breathing too hard to smile that wide. He lets his hands come up and rest on those amazing cheekbones. “Messy,” he agrees solemnly.

Dance leans down into him, bringing Drin’s hands with him, and Dance kisses Drin on the mouth. He figures out the minuet, too. Then Dance does with his mouth what Drin did to him with his hands. He kisses Drin’s face, and along his cheeks, closing his eyes and licking the skin, tasting him in the most extraordinary way, and then he kisses his way down Drin’s beard, down along his neck–with every assistance from Drin to get at whatever he wants to look at or lick or touch–and then he shifts down onto Drin’s chest. He spends time there, making sure Drin knows he likes it there. Drin is groaning, hips jerking, by the time Dance has left Drin’s nipples behind, they’re so sensitized and even sore. He licks his way down Drin, not caring if he looks absurd doing it, breathing in Drin’s skin, almost biting his way down the fur on Drin’s belly. When he reaches Drin’s shorts, he’s panting.

Drin reaches down and cups Dance’s chin. “Breathe now,” he says, tugging very gently, and Dance lifts his head away and follows the suggestion to come back up the bed, and lie down on his side next to Drin. “Easy,” Drin says to him, with his face about five inches away from the huge aroused pupils.

Dance puts up his hand, rests it on Drin’s jaw, strokes the stiff hair of his beard as if the texture fascinates him, looking at it. Then he looks at Drin’s chest, stroking the different tracts of hair into their normal order and direction, petting Drin’s body with his fingertips. It calms him, he’s not so wildly overstimulated. Drin lies on his side, facing Dance, and rests his arm across Dance’s waist, and he doesn’t get that wild jumpy reaction any more. He strokes Dance’s back a little, gently, and when he slides his hand under the band of the boxer shorts, Dance just sighs a little, eyes drooping half shut.

As Drin’s hand moves along under the shorts, stroking the hot, sweaty hip–and it’s a wonderful hip, indeed a Christmas gift of a pelvic crest–Dance rolls slightly away onto his back, making it easier to get to his belly, offering himself. He makes almost no sound at all when Drin’s touch finally makes him arch up, mouth open, and he gives the expiring sigh of another orgasm, one that’s been delayed long enough that it must actually hurt a little. His hand stutters along Drin’s belly, not even getting inside Drin’s shorts, and that’s more than enough to finish off the older man with a gasp that feels like it’s rattling his back molars.

“Ahhh hah aah hah,” Drin breathes noisily, unable to be any more quiet, and then he feels Dance’s hands on him, petting his chest and his neck anxiously.

Drin captures one of the hands, hugs it to him in reassurance. Once he can breathe again, he kisses the palm, deliberately and carefully, with purpose. He turns it over and kisses the back of the hand, across the knuckles, along the backs of Dance’s fingers, and then his fingertips.

This appears to be too much for Dance. He shifts his weight and throws himself across Drin, nudging his nose into Drin’s shoulder, flinging his arm tight around Drin’s waist and one leg wide across Drin’s legs, the powerful calf muscle pressing hard into Drin’s shins.

“It’s all right,” Drin says, lifting an arm that aches already, and stroking his fingers through the younger man’s hair, combing it back from his face. “It’s going to be good, Dance. I promise you.”

Dance gives a little groan. Our Drin is kissing only, kissing, how does our Drin do this– and I come three times,” he says into Drin’s chest.

“Three times? Is that all?” Drin says, hearing the bleary amusement in his own voice. “Gotta work on that. You’re overdue, young man. You got orgasms to make up for. Years of ’em, judging by the look of you. And I’m going to enjoy wringing some decent yelling showstopping whoppers out of you, by God. I am going to love that. If I live through it.”

Dance gives a little puff of laughter into Drin’s chest. “Us either.”

light and shadows cast by lamp
light and shadows

“Two years before that flower bloomed for you, huh?” Drin says then.

Dance sighs. “Well, three if we count how long it took to try rooting cuttings of it, too,” he says.

“Do you think you can give me a few days–I mean, spare time, not messing with your rehearsals–to see if you like me?”

Dance gives another puff of laughter. “Drin,” he says, and for the first time he sounds tired, losing bits of his hard-won English, as if it’s been a long stressful day for him too, “Our Drin, we are so liking you now. We– I know our roomate will like–Drin–like you– like you a lot. Please stay for cooking breakfast, so happy if our Drin is staying tonight. Being so happy if our Drin is to stay. Making our Drin comfortable, yes trying hard. A few days, wow, that’s not just– not just–not me liking you. That will be–me– making all happy kinds of assumptions.”

“Will you help me pick out dish towels?” Drin says then, smiling.

“No,” Dance says, and that smile is rising in his eyes,”we have towels, we give you plenty! We– I mean I will–yes, I will pick out belts with our Drin so– so I don’t take so long to unzip the Drin pants for kissing. I will like doing that.”

Drin laughs then.

Doing It

“You know what you want, do you?” Drin says behind him. Dance turns in his arms and looks up. He can’t stop smiling, his cheeks hurt from it. He’ll let his face relax, and then the sight of the freckled arms, Drin’s graying hair all awry, red-and-white beard shimmering in the light as its wearer shovels omelet into his mouth– and he’s smiling all over again.

Emma burst out with her most raucous and vulgar laugh, threw her napkin at Dance, and announced she’d be out of the house for the rest of the day running errands like a silly chook molting feathers, and they could find some way to effing make it up to her later.

“Oh, yeah, we do, we want everything.” What joy, to say this to someone! “Rubbing, sucking, and fucking.”

“Which do you want first?” Drin’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “You don’t want to hurt me, too much all at once.” Dance doesn’t want to hurt him, he’s so much older, too thin for his big frame, and last night he seemed so breathless and fragile. But then, Dance was pretty breathless too, last night.

“Maybe all just fine with us, not caring all that much,” Dance says now, elated at his own rudeness. “If our Drin can’t keep up–”

Drin starts walking, pushing Dance ahead of him down the hall and straight into the bed, and Dance doesn’t even think to hold back the whimper of need. He dives to the mattress, pushing his face into the pillows, and grabs big handfuls of the sheet. He lifts his hips so that Drin can yank his sweats off, lifts more, getting his butt up there so there’s no possible way Drin can mistake his meaning. Drin’s big bony hands stroke heavily up his back, pushing the sweatshirt in a bunch up his neck.

“No question as to what’s first on the menu,” Drin says huskily. “Take this off, lover.”

Dance scrabbles at the back of his neck until he can shove the tight neckhole over his head, flings the fabric away. He looks back, at the man who will release him from this anticipatory state, and finds him rummaging in the inner pocket of the dress jacket he flung aside. “We– I am– safe, we have never– I have never been with anyone else,” he says.

Drin rips the top off of the foil packet. “I have, though,” he says. Dance is mesmerized, watching Drin’s hands lifting his own cock, the shining latex as it rolls over the ruddy flesh. “I’m nearly certain that I’m disease free, but there is no way on earth I’d endanger you.” He pops a small packet, and lets the lube run into his hand. That’s all Dance sees, because Drin has laid a gentle hand between his shoulderblades, and Dance gets to flatten his chest to the mattress, blindfold himself in the bedclothes, and raise his ass as high, spread his legs wide, as far apart as he’s ever wanted. He wants a hand stroking his tight-stretched buttocks, he wants to hear Drin groan behind him, the slick touch of a lubed finger running around his hole. He keens, high and inaudible as another man touches him. Inside.

“More,” Dance says, “Fast, just– real fast.”

“Fine,” Drin makes the word into a harsh sound and Dance’s yell is strangled in his throat at the gorgeous burn and stretch, sending prickles everywhere, the red heat running up his spine, god

“Again!” He hears himself gasping. “Again, do me now –”

“Oh, God.” Drin groans. “Oh goddamn, Dance shut up, I’ll never last–”

Someone else’s fingers pulling out, and the heat of someone else’s thighs against his own as Drin gets into position, the weight of him there, and this feels…

More pressure, Drin’s penis is a lot bigger than his fingers were. Dance already knows how to push out, which pulls in, and he can feel every bit of that cock sliding into his body, and Dance is doing it. He’s getting fucked. A man is pushing into him and pulling out, and has dropped all of his weight onto Dance’s grateful back, and Dance tightens his butt muscles hard, grabbing down on Drin’s cock as it moves, and Drin is making a noise in Dance’s ear that might make him want to cry except that there’s too much sensation going on, not only his cock, his burning hole and his ringing prostate, but his ribcage, and the soles of his feet–

“Ah fuck,” Drin gasps. “Sorry, sorry–”

Dance reaches back to grab Drin’s hip, won’t let him get away. The fullness is enough, really. It’s Drin. Dance rolls his hips. Drin grunts, his cock getting jerked around like that, but he presses up tight against Dance’s ass, staying hard inside him. Hitting there. That deep spot.

Drin’s hand flattens on his hip, grips him steady, and then it comes sliding around, gripping tight, finding the rhythm for him.

“Oh. Oh!

He feels wet kisses on his shoulders and neck. Dance slowly lowers his body, revelling in this, being pressed between his lover and the mattress. All that solid body, this man’s weight, just where he’s wanted it, for years.

“My God.” Drin stirs, lifts his hips just slightly, and he slides to the side. Dance watches the way those capable hands strip the condom off and tie it. Dance takes it to lob it into the little can, pleased when his aim is right, and rolls to face his lover. His.

“I thought I’d last longer, but…” His hazel eyes shine into Dance’s, a smile playing in the corners of his mouth. “This old man’s going down for the count. We’ll try again later, I promise.”

Dance snuggles in, tucking his face into the freckled shoulder. “Are we– am I being too much for you?”

“You are…” The susurrus of breath stills for a moment. “More than I ever hoped for.” Hands stroking his hair grip tight for a moment, tug at him.

“Our Drin smells so good,” Dance says, in a dazed bliss. He licks Drin’s collarbone, up the rough beard along his throat, up softer skin over a thumping artery. Buries his nose behind Drin’s ear, panting. Kisses him on the cheek, and blinks, still breathing hard. “We– I– don’t want to be too much for you, really.”

Drin puts up his big hand, grips Dance’s jaw, looks at him. Looks at his face, looks in his eyes, looks up at the part of his hair, looks at his ears. “C’mere,” he says, and pulls him in. Kisses Dance on the ear. Breathes into it, tickling. Kisses him on the jaw, just in front of his ear. On the end of the brow. Breathes on his temple, and kisses his hair. And then, very lightly, just a brush, on his mouth. “Dance,” he says. “You get to be too much, I’ll tell you. Trust me, I’ll tell you. You will hear me complain when that thick cock of yours makes me rip the sheets to shred and then walk funny for a week–” and he grins. “I’ll let you know all about it, lover. I am not proud.”

It’s a fight to get breath. “Our Drin would– you want–” He sounds silly, his accent out of all control. “Wanting– me to– fuck you.”

“Hell yeah,” Drin says, chuckling softly into Dance’s ear. “Oh hell yeah.”

Deep breaths. Harder, even than workouts in the dojo. He smiles then. Fantasies crowd up demanding to be shared. “We will just have to fuck without sheets. Bend over the end of the bed. On the couch in the living room. In the shower– well, maybe not in there, it’s too small–” which makes Drin chuckle down so low in his chest that it vibrates.

“You might be surprised,” Drin murmurs. “Flexible as you are, get your knees up over my hips– well, no, that’s still me entering you–”

“Yes please more of that too,” Dance mumbles into his lover’s chest. Dance kisses the man’s ribs, rolls his face into the furry chest. Breathing into it.

“On the couch over at my place, at night, with all the city lights,” Drin says.

“Can we suck cock there, with the lights, too? And make out in the fancy leather car on the way over there? And–”

Drin chuckles. “Pick you up after a concert. Start getting you out of that tux, get my hand down those pants on the way, stop and get you into the back seat, and find out what we’re in the mood for. It’s a date, lover.”

Dance gives a little whimper of surprise. “We– never– not like this–”

“Oh yeah you are.” Drin’s hand slides up, firm and quick and expert. Exploring the length of him, rolling back his foreskin, and sliding a thumb across the head of his penis. Drin rolls up onto an elbow, breathes on it.

Dance groans, arching his hips into it.

“Gimme your hands.”

“What?” He doesn’t even wonder, he just gets them up to be examined.

“Will you look at these calluses? Amazing. No, I’ll take good care of you. Don’t worry.” Drin lowers his head. Brushes his beard on Dance’s chest.

Starts kissing his hands. Licks the soft skin between the fingers, the inside of a wrist, the veins on the back of his hands.

Dance gives the first hoarse yell of surprise when cool breath sweeps over his wet forearms, the next at a heated tongue in his armpit.

Oh, but Drin isn’t done with him by a very long way.

Auditions And Other Insecurities

Good lord, Emma thinks on her way up the path, he’s done it, got himself a daddy. She has a few guesses from the calm, understated, low-key, and incredibly expensive car that is still there blocking the driveway. This morning in the dark she crept past it sideways, trying not to set off any alarms. She’s pretty sure who, out of her short-list– a very short list– of approved men, won the prize. But she wonders if she is going to regret this, if her machinations will end up turning her out of Dance’s life. Moneyed men can be quite selfish, after all.

She opens the bathroom door quickly so as not to give it a chance to squeak. The room feels like a swamp, and through the pebbled glass door she can tell that Dance and the tall greying man Drin are getting along splendidly– The hint of entwined limbs through the pebbled glass is so damned hot, and she would like to see more. She lays the new toothbrush in its package on the counter, where he’ll be sure to find it.

A quick check of Dance’s room; the thoroughly rumpled little bed and the heavy and unmistakable scent of semen tell an eloquent story. Drin has a formal suit folded up there; not the thing for eating brekkie in. Emma rummages her drawers, and finds a more-or-less gender-free teeshirt, knowing exactly what Dance has in his sadly limited wardrobe. His gray sweats are all too small for a man the size of Drin. Who knew she wore so many bright colors? She tugs the knot out of the hem, lays it on Dance’s bed, and then finds the evidence of two seriously abused pairs of boxers. “Oh, god,” she finds herself muttering under her breath. Somewhere, she’s got something– ugly and really too big for him, but she can’t imagine Drin wanting to put those wet, smelly things back on.

She doesn’t want to leave the room. The big man wears some sort of faint cologne, it goes straight to her hindbrain and waves little flags. Shut up, she tells the flags.

She compromises by carrying soiled things out with her, to drop in the washer. There’s slime on her fingertips, and she brings them to her face. To smell. All right, to taste, and she promises herself that neither man will ever know she’s done that, invaded their privacy that way.

Well, it has been awhile, hasn’t it? that sardonic little voice in the back of her head remarks. The one that’s always getting her in trouble at boring meetings.

Then she barricades herself in her own room, which does lock, shucks her clothing, and thrusts her fingers into herself with singleminded intensity and a violence that would probably shock either man if they saw her, muffling her helpless gulping cries in a pillow. It takes her several minutes before her limbs return to her command and she can roll onto her back afterwards.

She hears the right kinds of noises from the kitchen, chopping sounds, Dance’s whistling. If she’s incredibly lucky, she thinks, she’ll hear these familiar sounds for a long time to come. The sounds of Dance cooking has come to mean home to her, and she’d hate to give it up. She gets her arse off the bed, and hunts down something else to wear– anything, dear heavens, that is not a business ensemble.

Sneakered and shorts-clad, she pads into the kitchen and finds Drin chopping onions and asparagus stems, dressed in wrinkly dress pants and a girl’s sleep-shirt and a rather dazed expression on his face. He’s listening to Dance whistling a cantata between his front teeth, doing all the twirls and harmonies, while cooking bacon.

“Hello, thanks for the loaner,” Drin says, and smiles at her. He puts down the knife, washes his hands, dries them, and turns back to her with his hand extended.

“Oh, love, you don’t need to be formal here,” she says, and throws both arms around him, and squeezes him tight. “My God, man, you’re an armful, and no mistake,” and then she realizes she’d better get her boobs off him before she has an orgasm just from the smell of him, and she hurries off to Dance, dropping a kiss on his cheek. “You’re a prince and I’ll gladly have your babies if you’ll feed me some of that.”

“I don’t want any babies by you,” Dance says right back, in her own accent. “They’d murder me in my sleep for letting you get knocked up. Very Greek.”

“Oh hush, you’re so rude,” she says, and smacks him on the butt. “Have you fed this man anything, or did you let him starve to death all this time?”

“Oh, we are chaining him up in the dungeon for learning all his wicked ways,” Dance says gravely, taking the bacon out of the pan. She steals a piece, dodging back and giggling, but he still smacks her on the wrist, as always. “Starving our Drin, of course, what do you think?”

“I think you’re looking particularly wet about the ears,” Emma says.

“Well, that’s because we are,” and he smacks her wrist again.

Oh God, she’s forgotten how effing blindingly blunt Dance is. Give him repartee, and he’ll run for the hills with it, laughing the whole way.

Drin holds out the bowl of chopped onions. He says, “Am I a prince too?”

“Oh no, love,” she says gravely, looking up at his crinkled eyes, “You’re a king, there’s no doubt about that, not when you’ve got a jawline that could stop a landtrain.”

“Flattery, ” Drin says, smiling at her as she takes the bowl. God, he must have secretaries dropping like flies behind him when he uses that rumbly deep tone of voice.

“Oh, we have quite a good product line of that, if you’d like,” she says, “I spent all morning trotting that out, like I was showing off some kind of livestock. Fund-raising, you know.”

“More like ugly clothes,” Dance says. “In strange colors.”

She puts on a silly voice, saying, “And over here, we have our spring line of ankle-breaking shoes with nine-inch heels for all your fetish needs–” She snorts and bangs the bowl down by Dance’s hand.

“You had fetishwear?” Drin says, plaintively. “You had ankle-breaking shoes and you never told us?”

Good lord, Emma notes to herself, it’s going mighty fast. ‘Us’, already? The rumpled sheets flash across her mind and she banishes it before he sees it too, right there in her face. She snorts again. “I don’t need to lose any more of the Symphony’s patrons by giving the ancient guys heart attacks, they wouldn’t thank me for that, love.”

“Or from broken legs on the rude tennis ladies,” Dance says dryly, and he gives a little shimmy with his hips. He has no idea how astonishing that looks. She knows that. An apprehensive look at Drin says he’s seen it. Damn, he’s fast. He knows Dance has no idea what that does to a person’s libido. “Very fast-moving, some of those ladies, when they want to grab a piece off your bottom.” He makes such a pained face it gets Drin laughing. “Watch out, our Drin. You know our Miss Jocelyn? Oh, she has the tennis hand, she is wicked fast.”

Drin holds up a stalk of celery and fences the air vigorously. “Back, woman! I say! Back! I shall battle you, I shall fight you for him on the beaches, on the roads, on the–” until Dance is giggling.

Emma rolls her eyes, and starts chewing on a stem of celery stolen from Drin’s chopping board. At one point she and Amalia got worried by negative remarks from the Ladies’ Senior Auxiliary ringleader, but something has certainly changed. Drin’s approval might be plenty. She props herself on the counter near him, trying to persuade herself to stay further away, and failing. She lists off events, trying to remind herself which particular set of patrons have to be dragged by the scruff to show up, listing off which ones have to be called by herself and which ones by Dance.

She tells herself it’s like doing multiplication tables, to calm down.

It’s not bloody working.

Not when Drin is gazing quizzically at her like that, with the knife whirring through the celery, and he isn’t even looking at it.

Dance is still whistling. He’s looking positively sleek, like he’s been… never mind what he’s been. He nods now and then as she speaks, shifting the asparagus into the hot pan, with sizzling noises. “The Simons said they’d be out of the country through March,” he says.

“God rot them for it. Anybody I forgot?” she asks.

Drin nods gravely, putting his knife down on the block.

“Well, who?” she demands, with her eyes very wide.

“Me.” He folds his arms. “I’m very demanding. Personal attention. I’m going to be hogging your Concertmaster like the egotist I am.” And he puts up that beard in the air and he gives a big, theatrical sniff.

Dance is staring at him, mouth open, and then both he and Emma are laughing, and Emma is smacking the man’s arm with her celery stick. She shakes it at him. “You’re shameless.”

Drin smiles wryly. “Probably a good thing, seeing how busy Dance is.”

Emma looks up at him, arms folded tight around herself, worried. Goddammit, he’s sharp enough to cut himself. No apologies, no embarrassment, no doubts. He knows how important she is to Dance, and he knows who he has to talk to about Dance.

Drin puts up his hand, palm flat. “I solemnly swear, I am not going to wreck his rehearsal schedules or his bookings or his–”

“Oh, he can do that without any help from us, just having our bloody second cellist wander in an hour late,” Emma says. She puts on a silly face. “Hey dooods, did I miiiissss anything?”

Drin looks at Dance, and starts snickering. Clearly, information has been passed about Robert, the Metro’s silly chook-headed second cellist.

Emma glares at Dance. “You gossipped, didn’t you?” she says. She sighs. “Of course you did. A cross to bear like Robert, who wouldn’t be yelling at the sky, saying, ‘My God, my Gaaawd, why hast Thou foresaaaaken me?'”

“I take it you know the gentleman rather well,” Drin says, plucking the last celery stick right out of her hand, as comfortable in this kitchen as if he already owns the place, and both of them with it, and he washes it under the tap. It’s sort of hot, in a maddening upper-class way. Assumptions. He’s careful with things, though. He’s not going to be a careless Squire, if anybody was wondering. “It sounds positively Biblical.”

Dance growls something about biblical-style punishments. He points at Drin. “Hey, here is our own Charlton Heston with the magic waving, can’t we do something with stone about the cheeky little brat? Do the lightning thing, crack-boom, all that?”

Ouch, Emma thinks, wincing. Don’t tell an older guy he looks like Heston. Bad form. Dance just isn’t used to honey-coating things for a sugar-daddy, and of course it shows.

But Drin smiles. He gets it. He bloody well absolutely knows that he’s got himself a total infant at all this, and he’s charmed. He doesn’t mind the odd thump or three from somebody who doesn’t even know they’re being clumsy. They have no right at all to be so lucky. Nobody else on her list would ever have got that. Nobody.

She can feel tears well up in her eyes. Emma draws in a deep, apprehensive breath, and feels a streak of pain shoot up her pelvis, light up her back like a hot coal. Well, dammit, she’s not getting any backrubs from Dance tonight. Not if she’s got anything to say about it. She presses her fists on the small of her back, and those bloody stupid loud noises come out of her spine. A little savagely, she growls, “You figure something out, you just let me know, I’ll be happy to arrange the venue for it.”

“I am not Charlton Heston,” Drin says, chopping celery, and putting on a silly pompous face. “I am not into monkeys, thank you. Or chariot races, either.”

Of course he’s doing Heston so clearly that it makes both of them crack up.

Dance nods at her to fetch a plate, and he flips the pan to roll out the first omelet, still chuckling. She hasn’t heard Dance laugh this much for months. Bloody hell, Emma thinks, if I’d known the man could be so funny, I’d have snapped him up for Dance a year ago. Well, maybe. Drin is choosy. She’s seen him watching Dance for awhile, observing, wandering through, the same as he watches a lot of the other performers.

He makes them laugh through breakfast. He actually gets her to sing him the verses he’s forgot to a couple different Gilbert and Sullivan outrages. And he bloody well gives the cat more than four shrimp, she knows that for sure.

More than once, she’s caught his measuring gaze on her, and each time he smiles directly into her eyes.

Good God of Mercy, he’s not just a nice bear of a sugar daddy looking for something pretty to bring him his slippers at night, she tells herself, blinking. He’s not adverse to letting her know she’s just as interesting as Dance. And he’s not just being polite. Those borrowed boxers make sure she knows that. But thinking about that is one way to head right back to drifting off with visions of those sheets in Dance’s room, and she’s not going to lose her grip in a conversation that moves as far and as fast as this one does.

“Swimming,” she says firmly. “Some easy workout in the pool and then you should soak in the hot tub, it really helps.” She meets his gaze, and then she looks at Dance, and then she looks at Drin again. She can almost see the smoke coming out of his ears, poor thing. Well, she knows what Dance looks like, swimming, and Drin seems to have quite a good imagination. It still won’t match the real thing. She can imagine it too. She smiles at Drin. While she’s putting the sheets in the washer.

Em's bare tum
Emma and her tum having happy thoughts

Running Water

The morning begins hideously early. He didn’t sleep, of course. It’s not a hardship, laying for a scant few hours in Dance’s bed, with the man breathing those long, slow, sleep rhythms into his chest, their legs tangled warmly together. God, the sweetness of finally holding his musician. Drin just blinks quietly in the dark, not wanting to miss any of it. Wouldn’t do to doze off into a bad dream now–there’s good reason he understood exactly why Dance might crawl under a bench to get a nap. But he is tired enough to drop into a sort of a staring daze.When Dance moves, Drin blinks to full alertness, and he turns carefully in arms that are awfully hard and awfully hot and a body that is crowding him in the ridiculously tight space of Dance’s bed. There isn’t even an alarm clock. The body next to his tightens up, climbs gently over him, gives him a kiss on the beard, and then Dance is getting dressed in droopy old sweats, covering up all that gorgeous muscle until he looks as sloppy as a ballet dancer in the dim night light by the doorway. “Sleep,” he whispers, and then he’s gone, and the door is shut.

But of course he can’t sleep, blinking into the dim light. He looks around and up at the things in Dance’s room, and feels as if he’s been invited into a girl’s house. He knows what that means. Of course Dance will be interested in poking round Drin’s place, opening all the closets and looking at his clothes and sniffing the soap with delight, he knows that already. But it doesn’t mean the same thing as coming into this house, into this crowded room.

He is looking up into a nautilus shell built up by his beautiful musician; the furniture accommodates Dance as closely as a pair of old shoes. Low shelves will knock Drin silly if he is careless when he turns around. He is in a very private place, and he knows he must be gentle with the person who has allowed him to be here. It’s an extraordinary thing to think about such a powerfully built man.

Music lives on cheap board shelves above the bed.

Drin hasn’t asked about the furious blue scribbles raked across so many of the copies, or the bits taped together, or the papers clearly crumpled up in frustration or rage or something, and flattened again. He may ask it, just to hear the other man talk, and watch him gesture excitedly with those hands, but he has no real need to, it’s so plain. This is Dance taking off his real clothes. This is Dance about as naked as a musician’s soul can be, outside of live performance.

Drin takes in a deep, tired breath, and lets it out. Well, Dance knows that his performances, his art, has been weighed by harsh judges and found desirable. It’s clear from the wretched struggle archived in this room that he fights hard to earn it. It’s all here, hanging out of the folders. Here he is, a lifetime of effort. This is what people want from him.

Nobody ever asks him to kiss them, nobody intrudes on all that dignified presence to hug him. He still appears to be a little bewildered by it. Dance doesn’t even know what there is out there to like, in the palette of flavors, he’s just given his bedroom and his music to Drin, along with his body, with the implicit trust that Drin will help him find out. It’s rather a huge burden, Drin thinks, staring up at the ceiling. When he sits up, gingerly, he realizes he’s going to wake up stiff for the next three days.

His musician, he thinks wryly, is going to have to take out some of the bends that he put into Drin, if he wants the older man to keep up with him. Drin grimaces. It’s going to be painfully, horribly good for him, if he does it right. Drin is going to build some muscle himself if he spends as much effort on Dance as the younger man deserves from him. Drin stretches, carefully, slowly, and puts his dress trousers and wifebeater on in the dim light.

When he ventures down the hall, looking at things, he finds the house empty. The roommate has already left for work, before it’s even got light, and apparently Dance has gone for an early morning run, judging by the towel thrown across a chair back. There is a set of dishes set ready by the stove, there are pans, a measuring cup ready.

There is a package of something thawing on the kitchen counter, the cat yowling in a tiny little imperative voice, and a note.

“D, Tell the bearded guy with the nice cologne he can only feed the cat four shrimp from his omelet. E.”

Drin leans on the counter, looking at it in dire amusement. He knows the handwriting.

Not just any librarian. Not just any of the many Emmas who work at some branch library in the city. Oh no. Dance’s roommate is fondly known around the Symphony as, “The Emma of Doom.” As in, “You Better Update Emma or She’ll Have Your Guts for Garters” Doom. She’s a reference collection expert at the main archives, but she also runs the coordinating committee which schedules mutual charity events at the main library, and many of the branches, with the Symphony. He’s heard that she’s a demon on string quartets who sort of fail to notify anybody they’ve got the flu and don’t show up for a dinner event with tickets and people in fancy clothes. He’s actually seen the Concertmaster show up in a dark turtleneck shirt and slacks, with three buddies likewise, and they just quietly take over somebody’s neglected duties as if they’d planned for it all along. He suspects Emma was the one who planned for it. Dance looks terrific in a dark turtleneck.

And even better out of it, says that part of his brain which is happily obsessed with the feel of warm skin moving against him. He tries harder to focus on the note, instead of his instant hard-on.

Funny that he’s never realized they were roommates.

He’s seen Emma at some of the recent events, too, smiling and shaking hands with people, flashes of amusement on her face as she directs people carrying things, and tells patrons where they’ll be sitting, and all the time looking horribly, incredibly, competent. She’s gorgeous. He’s seen her talk to Dance, the musician nodding gravely and taking notes, with his hair falling over one eye, and Emma gesturing with her hands. There was no trace whatever of possessiveness about Emma’s posture toward Dance, only the level respect of a person who knows Dance will follow through on her requests.

Now there is a woman, no matter what sort of cheap polyester dress she’s wearing, and yet somehow you totally forget what the bod looks like when you hear the brain pouring out of her mouth in fountains and fountains of terrifying intelligence.

He never dreamt of approaching so much powerfully busy organizing force. He’d be volunteered for everything in sight before he got past an hour around her.

No wonder nobody ever gets near Dance.

A lesser man would realize what’s happened, put his jacket on, get out his car keys, and flee like the wind before either of them come home. He’s pretty sure that’s what usually happens, probably before Dance ever knows anybody has been looking at him. Drin is certain now that he’s been where no man has ever been before, that nobody else has ever got past that cool appraising wit sparkling in Emma’s eyes, nobody’s ever had the fortitude–or the folly–to get near the quiet Concertmaster putting his scores in folders and keeping his instruments on those cheap shelves.

Emma doesn’t dress like a woman who gets kissed a lot either. She dresses like a woman who knows what the rules are for charity events, and she shows up for them with her makeup on straight and tries to keep her bloody mouth under control so the intelligence billowing out of her head won’t frighten anybody.

He’s got no idea why this makes him angry at people. It’s a strange, complex emotion. He’s not angry at Emma, not at all. Emma is what she is, in the same way that Dance is so distinctly what he is, and neither of them will ever be anything like conventional, or normal. They’re both so far off the bell curve that they’ve long since stopped bothering to apologize for it.

But he’s angry. Angry on their behalf, or something. Angry that nobody ever taught Dance to kiss, before.

He pauses in the hall, the inoffensive scent on her clothes coming faintly from the open door of her room.

He’s got other ideas on what perfume she ought to have, dammit. He can smell it precisely in his mind, although he’s uncertain of the name. He could probably track it down on his laptop, out in his car. Timing such a gift will be tricky, though. She’s very proud.

He looks at that open door, frowning. She wouldn’t leave it like that if she didn’t want him to see her things. And yet, these old doors don’t lock. She couldn’t stop him from poking around the house, going through the medicine cabinet, looking at labels, at will. She knows he could. She left her bedroom door open for the cat to come and go, he knows that as clearly as if she’s said it to him, and she frankly doesn’t care to apologize for her cheap everyday clothes and her limited gala wardrobe and her ratty terrycloth robe hanging on the hook where he can see it. Oh, she knows exactly who Dance brought home.

He’s struck by the image of her wearing that thing, saying the kind of things that she does, and he thinks his knees are going to give way.

One of them is a lot to take in. The pair of them, dear God in Her Heaven, he can feel his brain gently frying, making those silly bacon noises.

Pull yourself together, man, he thinks in panic. You have a little bit of time, here, you’d better stop freaking out and get moving.

Drin goes into the living room to survey the books. He takes a deep breath, turns on the light, and starts looking over Emma the roommate’s collection of books. He knows he’s going to need to keep his wits about him. Emma is going to be much, much tougher to cope with than Dance, and his beautiful sweaty musician is going to be enough of a handful as it is.

The cat twines around his ankles, and he leans down to pet it. “You’re only getting four shrimp,” he says to the cat. “You got that, right?” Then he groans when he straightens up, putting his hands on his lower back. Bending is a mistake.

He’s still standing like that, staring blankly at the books, when he hears the front door open, and steps thump along the bare floorboards.

Dance comes into the living room doorway with his hair all sticky and spiky with sweat, the towel around his neck. He glances up at Drin and the smile that opens his face wide is such simple pleasure that Drin just lifts his arms wide, waiting, and hugs the athlete to him, and kisses his forehead, while his ribs are getting painfully crushed in. “Yah, easy there,” he murmurs, and Dance relents, and kisses him back on the cheek, chastely. Drin puts up his hand, touches Dance’s jaw, and leans into him.

Dance remembers how to tango just fine. He’s got a few ideas of his own, too, straightforward ones about maneuvering them both into the bathroom and the old, tiled shower stall. This time, Drin has no choice about how much he gets to see, how quickly. Dance is miraculous and golden under the glaze of running water, his penis curving up from the fine, feathery hair. Drin is reaching for that, when he finds himself thrust under the water, the heat working on his grateful back, and those violinist’s hands going after the knots in his shoulder blades. Amazing, how strong Dance’s fingers are.

Dance kisses Drin where the water is not running so hard, his arms hovering at Drin’s back, his hips to one side of Drin’s. Drin shakes water out of his face, making growly noises to get Dance to laugh. When Drin gasps and looks at him, he sees such naked intent admiration, so much focused attention, that Drin loses his breath all over again.

Dance smiles back all across his face. “Such a great big roaring bear. A water bear.”

“You like that?” Drin says.

Dance rolls his eyes upward, closes them, and sighs, smiling, and then he’s leaning his chest into Drin’s, smiling upward, and hugging Drin. “OH yeeeees,” he says, and he kisses Drin, a big sloppy kiss full of tongue that straggles away onto Drin’s jaw and his neck and his chest and licking along his collarbones. “Yeeessss,” Dance says, into Drin’s shoulder.

“That’s good,” Drin says. “Can I wash your hair? I love your hair.”

Dance blinks at him. “Is this where we say, how weird, that our Drin likes us?”

“Yeah. And where I say, hell yeah I like you, you’re gorgeous, and you say, Oh no I don’t believe it, and then I try to convince you that I really really like Body Part Number One, and of course I also love Body Part Number Two, and that’s how we don’t make it out of the shower for another… well… however long.”

Dance smiles at him. “Shampoo,” he says, and holds up a plastic tube of something cheap and nasty.

“Right,” Drin says, looking at something that was designed to wash horses, no kidding. He knows Dance sees him resolving to buy them some goddamn decent soap and shampoo. He knows this. So he just skips discussing it, and starts lathering the shorter man’s hair, running his fingers over the elegant bones of Dance’s skull, feeling the scalp move and flex as he strokes it, massaging it, until Dance sighs, head fallen back limp in his grip, head rolling loosely as he handles the man. “Okay, eyes shut,” he says, rinsing water through the ranks of hair.

back of man with black hair showering
More Mysteries

When Dance’s arm cables around Drin’s shoulder, Drin waits, not sure what to expect. Dance turns his hips, stepping in close against Drin’s back, and then he leans his cheek on Drin’s spine.

Drin braces his hands on the tiles, then his elbows, and turns his head a little, expecting demands. He’s perfectly willing to meet those demands, coming from Dance.

There’s no demand. Just the weight of Dance’s head, the long curve of his torso leaning into Drin’s back, with the warm water pouring over both of them. It makes his back loosen and ease and then he’s feeling the curve of Dance’s cock pressing gently against the back of his thigh, not expecting anything, just touching him, as if that’s as much as Dance has ever asked for.

Drin has never been with a man who seemed so oblivious to the main event — as if fucking is a lesser enjoyment. Drin even suspects that the boy is up hard so much that it’s become a habit to ignore it. For a man so young, so physical, a man who ejaculated three times in one night, that seems odd, or problematic, or at least a puzzle that Drin wants to unlock. Right now, it seems best to wait it out and ignore the aching desire his own body feels. Because that face makes porn fireworks go banging in his head. Those shoulders make him want to drill the boy through a mattress, and those legs make him want to spread his own wide and beg. But Dance himself– all of Dance; the body, the queer-virginity, the oddity, the genius, the fragility– whatever it is that makes Drin need to be the most important thing in the man’s universe– is not so easily pinpointed.

Still, there’s room for compromise; “C’mere.”

“Don’t want to hurt our Drin,” Dance says, even as he obeys, and that brings Drin up short.

“Is that– oh God, I never meant–” Drin reaches out to the hard bar of soap, rubs lather from it, hands it to Dance. Then he takes Dance’s soapy hand, brings it up to himself, puts it on his testicles. He reaches out and puts both his soapy hands up between Dance’s legs, onto Dance’s balls, stroking the wet hair there, stroking the inside of Dance’s thighs, feeling the cords tense as steel cables. He feels the tremors shaking through Dance’s body already. He gets the soap onto the man’s penis, strokes his foreskin back off the head, slippery hands sliding everywhere, and then Dance is gasping into Drin’s shoulder, pushing him backward into the tiles, and somehow managing to avoid carrying Drin back into the faucets. Now there, Drin thinks dimly in some back part of his mind, is a considerate lover.

Water pours down Dance’s neck and chest as he groans, and he climaxes in a single thrust into Drin’s hands, all the muscles standing up hard in his face. His hands spasm on Drin’s cock, gripping hard enough to give Drin a passing pang of alarm, and instantly easing off, stroking Drin in a quick reassurance that he does remember not to get too wild. That’s enough to set off the outraged nerves in Drin’s groin, and he’s astonished to find himself falling into Dance’s support, needing it, and being held up, getting braced up with swift force. Drin hangs there limp, leaning into Dance’s shoulder, feeling the shorter man’s strength.

Oh,” Drin says, gasping down to slower breaths. “Oh. Oh.”

Dance’s hand moves gently on him, petting his groin, stroking his hip, soothing him, as if he knows what the extremity of muscle spasms that hard can do to the rest of a guy. “Yeah,” Dance says, breathing it into Drin’s neck. “Yeah.”

Drin groans. He is in such deep buckets of need he’ll never crawl out again. Hell, one night, some minimal attention, and Dance has got him eating out of that violinist’s hand. Out of those sinew-heavy, calloused fingers. Drin sighs again. He could suck on those amazing fingers for an hour or two, and think it was time well-spent. At this point, he could probably make Dance orgasm a couple of times at it, just doing that.

“Is Drin feeling tired?” Dance asks gravely.

Drin shakes his head, leans into him, kisses his cheek, and then his mouth, and then his hand slides down onto Dance’s spine, and then– and then Dance says “Breakfast,” and shuts the water off.

“You’re afraid you’ll hurt me?” Drin asks, towelling his chest.

“We could,” Dance mumbles. “Say if we get too rough, okay?”

“That’s not why… I don’t want to scare you, that’s all.”

Dance’s face goes blank, causing Drin to rewind his last words. “Ah hell,” he begins, but one of those sunrise smiles is beginning, full of pleasure and a wry amusement. “I meant– I know you’re not used to…”

“Drin must be kidding?” Dance demands. “Being a virgin is not same as ignorant, oh no. We find pictures! We know what we want. What I want!” His towel flies in the direction of the shower rod, a hand pulls open a drawer for some of the niceties, and Drin’s mouth goes completely dry, his heart starts speeding up, at the casual, aggressive, irresistible stance Dance takes, displaying himself for Drin’s delectation as if he’s done this every day of his life.

“Come on man, scare me,” Dance says, and the words are low, and sweet, and demanding; “I dare you.”

The staring match is interrupted by the sound of a slamming door and quick tapping of high heels somewhere in the house.

“Honey, I’m home!” a woman calls out, in a Australian accent.

Set The Timer First

bare torso man veiled in white
Emerging Needs

Emma has to work late, and then she will get groceries.

Dance does his usual two hours of afternoon practice, drilling through the latest changes that are driving him and the rest of the section insane.

Then he goes for a run that is briefer than normal, returning early to the house.

He washes his hands in the kitchen, sets out the thawed chicken to marinate in a bowl in the fridge, preps vegetables and puts them back in the fridge.

He has precisely–he sets the alarm on the kitchen clock–two hours. He takes a thoughtful, exploratory shower, dries his hair carelessly, and and then takes himself off to bed, closing the bedroom door to keep the cat out. He sets out the little sample bottle of lube and the condoms and spreads out towels on the bed. Then he lays down on the towels and looks at the ceiling, feeling stupid. The erection standing rigid just off his thigh seems foolish, but it isn’t going away, either. It isn’t going to go away, two hours hence, when Emma gets home, unless he does something about it.

It didn’t seem like such a silly idea when he was standing in the elevator with Drin, listening to the man laugh, feeling one of those big hands touch him–it’s not a smack, like Emma’s. It’s a flat-palmed deliberate touch, no mistake about it, a touch that sweeps up Dance’s shoulderblade and drags along his neck and over onto his collarbone, feeling him. Looking down at Dance, smiling, with that hand touching him.

Gerard Butler torso, pulling up shirt
under that shirt

Dance has, by now, seen the shirt pulled away out of the man’s pants, carelessly. The freckles go down the man’s broad pale back into his pants.  They must certainly go all the way up Drin’s legs. They do go up onto the back of his neck, Dance couldn’t help noticing that. The man is spotted all in all sizes and types of coppery markings, spotted like a leopard, and Dance wants desperately to see all of them. Does he have freckles on his belly? On his inner thighs too? On his balls? Oh, he will certainly have that scent of man, too, in all that gingery curly hair. That maddening trace of musky cock, that –yes.

Dance gives a little sigh, and pulls back the foreskin on his impatient penis, and rolls onto his side. He reaches into a nearby drawer, and rolls a condom onto the first and only sex toy he’s ever bought. It wasn’t cheap, and he couldn’t really afford it. He couldn’t really afford the time to take the busses across town to the soft-spoken, matter-of-fact little place he learned about on the Internet, to look at their merchandise and ask questions he’d never thought he would need to ask anyone, and to buy this lump of heavy, cool, silicone. He knew not to get the biggest, not for his first one. Gloves from the nearby drawer, too, as they taught him, for his hands. He doesn’t want to damage his player’s calluses, and he might as well get used to it anyway, sheathing his rough hands for the sake of anybody else he may one day hold in his arms. Lube on the fingers, then twisting around, pulling one knee forward.

God, his butt is huge, it’s a blob of muscle that takes a job to reach around and get at his ass properly. More lube, and then he’s got two fingers sliding in. It’s very slick and warm and easy–ridiculously easy, relaxed, lucky him not to have hemorrhoids to worry about just now, when his ass is demanding this kind of treatment. What is all the fuss about, anyway? It’s just an ass, apparently it likes getting rubbed too, just like any other part of his skin.

He grunts, pulls himself into a tighter curl, and then shifts his other hand down between his thighs, switching hands for the job. It gets better leverage, and it feels nice, but he’s still thinking that a good pull on his balls would get him off sooner than this. He’s not finding the prostate, if he even has one that notices if you poke it.

They gave him diagrams. He curls the tips of his fingers forward, groping inside himself, angling the touch toward his navel, and he tries to be careful about it so his nails don’t poke holes in the latex gloves.

One of his knuckles hits the tip of his backbone, from the inside. He arches his back, gasping, until his arm is straining down his belly, with little white shivers of ice trickling down his back and his legs. He’s not sure he likes that. And it’s not what they were talking about in the shop. Carefully, he shifts his hand so he won’t hit that again.

He strokes down the upper side, reaching deeper, feeling a tickle startling.

Ahhhh! and his eyes fly open.

It’s there. It’s just deeper than he thought it was, he’s going to have to work harder for it. He’s not going to get serviced up that way, as they say, by men of short tools.

He gasps for a few moments, hair falling in his eyes. Then he rolls onto his belly, gets the dildo, gets his arm back there, and pushes himself up into the cone of the tool. It stretches his anus more than his fingers did, and he flashes on a powerful desire to feel heat, sweat, weight coming onto him, to feel the other man’s presence there, to hear him talking, feel him give wet hot kisses on his back and his neck, not just cool air, while the cone of the man’s dick is penetrating him. Feel strong arms wrap around his chest.

Sex is about fantasy, they told him gently. Sex is about the organ between your ears. Sex, he thinks, irritably, is about looking totally and utterly, wildly, absurd. He could imagine what Drin would say, if he ever made such a remark to the man. He can hear it, vividly, like a tickle in his head. And the laugh.

Well then, let’s get stupid.

I am telling myself that the freckled guy with the belly laugh wants to put his cock up my ass, and I really–really–want him to do me. Up against a wall, take me from behind with my ass in the air, look him right in the face while he’s fucking me on my back with my knees spread out like a girl– I want to feel his beard brushing down me, all over my chest–

And what does this cock look like?

What does it feel like?

Feel this coming in on you, fucking you?

It’s not the same. Already he’s certain that the whole experience is nothing like this. It’s just more like… a reminder, what it might be like.

The tool slides in and out easily, and it comes out of his body feeling hot.

“Ahh,” he pants into the towel, and pushes it into himself, angling the tip of it forward. “There, do me there,” he hears himself moan, as if anybody else could hear him. He’s never needed to do this before.

What the hell is the matter with him now?

Wake up hard as rock in the morning, quick jerkoff in the shower, get on with the job. Maybe a finger penetrating now and then. He’s never even gone hunting for some anonymous blowjob. Why would he bother?

Nothing like this pitiful craving to have that–yes, that, right there–fucking him.

He’s hissing and jerking in place, struggling to get it to hit him in the right spot, when he is finally able to slide his other messy hand down and rub his cock properly, stroke himself to climax into the towel.

“Aaaghh,” he groans, and the shudders hold him for a long time, longer than hand jobs ever do. It almost hurts, down in his belly muscles, to pull the dildo out of himself.

His shoulders ache a bit as he starts moving around to get cleaned up. Open the window, let the room air out, so he doesn’t wipe out the whole place with the odor of semen. Wash the dildo in hot soapy water, dry it, put it away.

Another shower, asking himself if it’s worth the aches. His anus feels tender, as if he got a little rough on himself toward the end.

Put the towels in the washer with plenty of other laundry, so nobody has to be embarrassed. Think about looking Drin in the face, next day, with so rude a secret in his mind.

Yeah, he admits, tiredly. Worth it.

nude man partly behind gauze curtain
Need

Not for every day, certainly. But to keep the wild thing from getting completely out of hand with the guy who has freckles on his freckles?

He probably needs to order another bottle of lube, online.

He’s going to go through this one pretty quick.

What Money Can Buy

The city’s lights are laid out in waves, heaving over the small hills and splashing down into the lowlands. Drin never gets tired of standing out on his balcony in the cool updraft from the ravines and canyons, gazing at the streets flung out in strings like old Christmas tree lights, half the little bulbs missing. You can tell it grew up from cow trails, and there’s too much history there to argue with. One thing he loves about this town, they can’t be bothered to mow down their old neighborhoods to build new sewer lines. Gotta love a civilization that puts in extra power transformers to support light-up Santas, glowing green reindeer, and ugly Shirley Temple dolls that rotate, in a climate needs no ice scrapers.

Somebody has put a creche at the base of a palm tree. The inflatable Wisemen wear tourist sombreros and serapes. A red sari is wrapped in a Pakistani style around Mary. Joseph has been wearing a pie-pan halo and strings of Mardi Gras beads. This morning he was given a purple fake grass hula skirt. Drin suspects there will be other contributions. The trumpeting Angel has deflated and flopped back on the lawn just like a corpse, but not a human one. Disturbing.

Behind him, the dimly lit house invites him back into the comfort of the leather sofa, but Drin knows he’ll go, instead, to his desk and the tyranny of the glowing computer screen and the slow data compile that he’s running tonight. As if watching would make it go any faster.

There is a compromise, though. Drin fetches his laptop and a glass of bourbon and opens the sliding door and lets himself sink into the sofa’s upholstery. For a moment, he just lays there, letting the weight of the laptop rest on his chest.

The dry wind smells of sage. It purls up over the edge of the balcony, ruffling over his toe joints, chilling his feet until the freckles practically glow. It gets a little cool up here at night for sandals.

glassed balcony 2-story apt
Bi-Level Lux Bach Pad with Balcony, Good Party Place

The money he just sent off to the Metro’s recruitment fund could have bought him a couple of nice pairs of custom boots. Must be either winter or middle age creeping up, he’s been feeling a hankering for something plain and perfectly fit and old school. Last year, he would have indulged himself. Now, why bother?  He hasn’t worn boots since he was in the military, and he didn’t miss taking those things off forever.

Hell, he can wear sandals like he’s at the beach the whole year, if he wants. Get tan lines among his freckles. And he doesn’t have to sleep with a gun under his head, no pillows in sight. He can have all the damn pillows he wants. Hell, he could have all the booty he wants, propped up on those pillows, waggling around waiting for him, begging to pleasure him properly.

That felt like the weirdest thing about being a civilian: He could have all the tail he wanted, as much as he wanted, procured via skill, cleverness, kindness, or money. Until he just didn’t want any more. Until he started noticing how unhappy his own eyes were. Until safe sex wasn’t about sex anymore, just about safety.

His cell phone dropped down to work numbers and online brokers and a couple of gyms. Pathetic, as he told Engerman.

Next day, those first Metro tickets were sitting on his desk. Thank God for Engerman.

Only one of the Metro’s numbers will answer if he calls this late. He could call that one, and be welcome. But he won’t keep the Concertmaster from the thick stack of scores he was carrying out tonight for edits. The First Cellist, Amalia, grabbed a big chunk of them away from Dance, too. Technically, each musician is supposed to make their own notes.  However, too many of the strings are overwhelmed by Maestro Young’s fits of perfectionism, and the first chairs are getting stubborn about standards.  The limited hours from their semi-retired Librarian are chewed up already. On top of that, various business managers have refused the Metro’s offers because of Young; apparently word has gone round.

Annoyed, Drin flips open the laptop, riffles through the files and websites stacked up waiting for him. Rates are down, big surprise, and there’s promotions all over, emails begging for people to buy their stuff. Things are still oozing down the initial slide from Black Tuesday months ago.

Christ, sit tight on decent stuff, and you may be ruler of the world in a month, he thinks. What is the matter with these fools? No, no, and no. He always hears The Gambler in his head while he’s dicing on stocks, it gives him a nice time limit so he doesn’t go off into OCD-land and blink awake nine hours later with his portfolio acting like it’s on crack.

Buy now, while the market is scratching itself on the bottom like a boat scraping on a sand-bar.

Shut up, he tells himself. Do the homework, and don’t get impulsive.

Stable is good. Long term is good. That one he marked ten days ago as a possible buy, that was just a dead-cat bounce, as he thought it might be. Now it reeks. He’ll wait, take another look in a few weeks. He closes out of personal accounts and opens work-related ones. Looks at recent aerospace stock slides that Bud Innes thought might reward more in-depth research.

He finds the company websites are all security-heavy and disinclined to divulge ordinary public information online. The ties to Bud’s sort of business are not obvious, and Drin has never heard of them as suppliers or customers, but with some digging on custom-built inventory, it’s there. Somebody doesn’t want to admit to nested connections that are already a matter of public record. Well, there’s ways around that too. Pay for copies of public records from the secretaries of their respective states.

It slows things down, of course, and Bud Innes will note that just as implacably if he decides to engineer another hostile takeover of a competitor. He praises Drin’s instincts for finding these sitting duck companies for him to shoot down. Bud’s elegant pink-shirted exterior is totally deceptive — he enjoys shutting down Board meetings, racking through their inventory for parts, selling everything he can’t use, and ripping the competent employees over onto his own payrolls. He’s tough on the losers.

He’s been talking to Drin about how best to manage that, how to look like a sorrowful daddy instead of a hatchet-man. It looks as if he might start assigning Drin to that sort of work. Or he might be testing how far Drin would go, what his loyalties are, what kind of cruelties Drin will sit still for.

Not much, as it happens. Plant-closing interviews creep him out. It’s not his area of expertise, he’s in no mood to learn it, and by now Bud knows it. Which might be a mistake. Bud Innes wants something, but it’s not throwing a signal which Drin recognizes. Well, Bud Innes can go on wanting whatever it is, or he can explain himself. Maybe eventually Drin will learn what it is–oh charming, another learning experience. If Bud is trying to groom some kind of protege out of such untidy material as Drin, things could get much worse. Then Bud would push him right to the edge of quitting, just to find out where it is.

Hell, if core honesty got punished, there’s no point in his sticking with Bud’s company. There’s always somewhere for an auditor to work, even if it’s not for quite so much money. He’s always worked. No shortage of other places to go, even in a recession.

Drin flips away from all of that. Metro Symphony, gotta love it. His favorite for dull, stodgy, dimly hopeful, unchanging content. The website creaks like a Victorian corset. He mutes the sound to avoid the punishment of the endless midi-style waltz. It’s embarrassing when Engerman shows it proudly to people at work.

singer actor Chen Kun from movie
sidelit portrait

The web mistress’s idea of color balance means the Metro’s people of color all look like silhouettes. Dance manages to look positively saturnine on the website, when the actual shot in the paper files has him laughing. But he’s never in focus. Has anybody ever taken a decent picture of him? Get those cheekbones lit properly. A decent photographer might capture that chilly academic amusement; a great one would catch lots of other things. It only costs patience, and a little money.

But Dance with his sardonic gaze must have a pretty astonishing tolerance for drippy old-school schmaltz and sentimentality after all, probably better remember that about the man. Just look at their repertoire, and the way it’s laid out on the website. Drin shudders.

Bud’s been pushing for changes, but the Metro’s admin folks wouldn’t know visuals if it came up and bit ’em–which it is, failing to keep up with the times as they are. Bud provided jazzy expensive shots of Robert and Valerie horsing around prettily, which will get people popping in happily to see more. But no, the webmistress primmed her mouth when Drin asked her if she got those new pictures up.

She hasn’t done anything about the horrible music either–Bud said he thought Geocities was banned under the Geneva Convention. Of course Bud can snap his fingers and get very sharp web designers free, but she’s still scrambling with excuses. She doesn’t want to post things that might induce people to regard their musicians in a trivial light.

He looks up away from the stupid pictures and sighs. Trivial light, for crissake. What do these poor benighted musicians think they’re selling if not romance, the sweet fools?

Most of the Metro’s people are so purely auditory they can’t even recognize faces, only voices.

Don’t leave notes for them, Dance told him gravely. You have to speak to them if you want them to remember. Dance joked that he could streak naked through that bunch, they wouldn’t notice unless he yelled.

So why is Dance always covered up in those thrift-store sweat suits during practices? He’s never complained of being cold. His hands are always hot. Hell, make him shed a few layers for a Metro shoot. Get snaps of that body, too, that no one ever gets to see. Hints of it, yes– the reflexes when someone barrels around a corner into him, the precise balance, all that comes out of the dojo he’s mentioned. The deeply cut abs when his crappy gray sweatshirt rides up for a moment. An equally sculpted shin, before Dance tugs his sweatpants back down his legs.

Those frayed waistbands that peer out when he reties his shoes? Those belong to old, soft boxers that don’t tame a hard-on in the least. So it’s not just your typical first-chair tighty whitey Concertmaster control freak under that rumpled surface. It’d be fun to see what a tailor would make of that ass, with decent design. Stop traffic, probably.

Over the past weeks, while Drin has been circling, and while Dance has been turning to face him like prey towards the predator, the once-impassive face has taken on so many subtleties that Drin now wonders… something. Is it all in his mind, or something… Numbers go spiralling down in the back of his mind. Enough, enough.

See Drin in his much-envied near-penthouse apartment on the coast, with the view. See Drin wearing sandals late in the year. See Drin surfing the Internet on his laptop on the balcony of his enviable apartment while admiring the amazingly beautiful view. See Drin check out the specs for tricking out his bloody expensive car, tune it up just that hair-thin degree better.

See Drin think about how it feels to fuck somebody in the leather seats of his amazingly sexy car. See Drin think about sucking off somebody spread out on his buttery soft leather sofa in his amazing enviable apartment.

fawn-colored leather couch cushions
Needs Company

See Drin not want anybody he could have tonight.

See Drin wave his hands absurdly in the air, figuring out a sequence of magician’s movements he could get away with, because he hasn’t really touched anything yet. See Drin reduced to figuring out how he can pull off silly magic sleight-of-hand tricks just to cop a feel while he’s running the wallet back into the man’s loose dress pants. Christ, that will deserve every feel he could give it. Just thinking about turning that trick turns him on. A hell of a lot of fun, but so very, very frustrating, on a night like this one.

“PPRETT Y BOYS ALL ASIA” says the the inbox. Damn, Drin thinks, one pretty asian boy would be enough. Dance would be enough. He’s not PPRETT Y, but he grows on you.

Drin grins and aims a sarcastic barb at himself: Why are you even fucking pretending?

He’s let himself become completely smitten with an tough-ass little violinist out of nowhere. A miserably overworked tough little violinist who’s not sleeping enough, too busy doing scores for repeated changes for Maestro Young to be able to think clearly, dammit.

“Korean twink” Drin idly taps into the search field. Oh sure, pretty boys a-plenty, a whole nation of pretty boys. Funny though, none of them look anything like Dance. Could it be the current standards of beauty? Christ, they all look like young Paul McCartney. All these guys are full-cheeked, mostly pale, and offer full and lushly pink mouths like American high school jocks, in fact– nothing approaching the other-worldly look that Dance displays.

Although– yeah, there are a few sculpted bodies, looking like they’re double-muscled, like a gene-eng Angus bull, and, oh yeah. That’s nice. Put Dance’s head on that neck, and just maybe–yeah, Dance has an ass like that, fantastic deep glutes topping thighs like a horse’s, the ladder of his spine reaching up to that pair of shoulders– oh fuck, oh yeah. Fucking perfect. The head turning, with those eyes looking up, relaxed, dark.

So many things no website will give him.  The man’s brushy sharp smell when he’s sweating after performances, that odd scent which lingers in the scrap of jacket lining sitting safely in a plastic bag, up on a closet shelf.

That shuddering little shrug that Drin has felt when he pats the guy on the back– Drin wants that, wants it, wants to be the cause of it. That amazing tight little shiver he gave last night, standing up taller under Drin’s hand, and looking up into Drin’s eyes without sliding away, without blinking, without lowering his eyelids in his usual way.

Astonishing, how far the man’s pupils changed, looking up at him. He’s never seen dark eyes change so visibly in such instant reaction. It can’t be the first time, dammit. He’s just been too slow, he never caught it happening before.

If Drin had known about that two weeks ago, he’d have arranged something like a new-piece celebration dinner for all the first chairs or something, he’d have acted on it a lot sooner.

Those eyes looking at him, dialing wide open. And then Dance gave that wry, self-deprecating little smile of his. Well, funny how that went straight to the libido. Christ, he’s not pulling away, either, is he?

Drin scrabbles his belt open and pushes his slacks down with shaking hands, scraping himself with the zipper, cold air shooting up under his balls and making him gasp. His cock flips out already turning red, already showing a single drop from the slit. He spits on his palm, slides rough over the head, flicks his fingernail against the tendon just once– Careful with your teeth, Dance– he wants that hot tongue sliding right there, and at the same time his hands are sliding over a pair of sharp hip bones, and his mouth engulfs Dance down to the root. It’s pushing at his tongue, shoving down his throat, because there’s plenty to share.

furry tum in unzipped jeans
unzipped

Get him hard and hot and breathing heavy and then that tight body is rolling over, making the offer, wanting it, presenting himself as much as any man possibly can. Darker flesh of his crack and perineum pointing to that tight brown ring, and Drin’s touching him there, freckles sliding inside him, loving their way into him, his other hand stroking down that taut belly, gripping the base of the man’s cock–

Drin feels the pulses coming, long and slow and hard, as if it’s been months since he’s fucked anyone, and then he’s got a handful of warm wet, and he’s blinking at the stars whirling around his head.