I Wanna Take You to a Gay Bar, PART 2pavonineApril 8 2009, 06:27:14 UTC
When he hesitates in removing the next button to lick at Jared’s skin underneath his shirt, Jared hisses. His hands cup Jensen’s ass, and Jensen momentarily rocks back and lets out a moan, playing it up a bit. He gets the response he wants-Jared’s eyes shine brilliantly in the multicolored light, and they laser in completely on Jensen.
Next button removed, same as the first. Jensen licks a longer line from that button up to Jared’s collarbone and bites the clavicle none too gently. Jared’s rutting lightly against his thigh, his hands still clamped firmly on Jensen’s ass. The rest of the buttons loosen in much the same way, with Jensen detouring Jared’s sweat-slick skin after each successful removal, with Jared working himself up in the hypercharged atmosphere.
Jared’s shirt hangs loose on his shoulders. Jensen takes in the sight, tan skin painted in a sheen of dance-sweat over fluttering muscle tone.
The sight’s virtually pornographic. Not that Jensen’s complaining. In fact. He slips his cell phone from his jeans pocket and flips it open.
“I want a picture,” he purrs into Jared’s ear, the heel of his hand grinding hard against Jared’s crotch. “I’m gonna take it home, print it out, and I’m going to jerk. off. to it all the goddamn time.” The point of his tongue swipes over the shell of Jared’s ear.
Jared ruts frenetically into Jensen’s hand.
“What, baby, gonna come like that? Out in the open, in a club in New York fucking City, with everyone,” he pauses to nip Jared’s earlobe, “everyone watching you? You gonna come for them? Or me?”
“God, Jen, you say shit like that-”
Jensen’s hand dips a little lower. He’s rewarded by Jared’s bitten-off groan. “You’re gonna come for me, Jare,” he says, quietly and he knows Jared heard him; Jared’s gone still, whines, “Jenny,” and the front of his jeans is noticeably damper.
Jensen seizes his chance: he snaps a picture of a post-orgasmic Jared, eyes hooded and hazy, lips forming a perfectly-pink O, shirt… “Jared, where’s your shirt?”
“My what?” Jared says, still under the influence. Then he regains focus, at least enough to ask, “Hey, Jensen, what happened to my shirt?”
Jensen shrugs, sheathing his cell phone in his back pocket. “Maybe it’s on the floor?”
They spend the next twenty minutes searching for a pale pink button-down. Failing that, Jensen says they should just go back to the hotel; even if they found it now, who knows what bodily fluids ended up on it. Jared’s dejected, he liked that shirt, but they leave anyway.
The next morning, Jensen swears a blue streak when he discovers his phone’s missing.
--
Jensen’s quick, but the thief is quicker. “Holy shit.”
Jared’s caught between mortification and preening, as he does look utterly sexual in the somewhat-blurry picture. And all the online comments from overly horny females (and quite a few guys) are doing nothing to temper his ego.
Jared’s taken away by a call from his agent, who’s livid but has probably gotten off to the picture anyway.
Next button removed, same as the first. Jensen licks a longer line from that button up to Jared’s collarbone and bites the clavicle none too gently. Jared’s rutting lightly against his thigh, his hands still clamped firmly on Jensen’s ass. The rest of the buttons loosen in much the same way, with Jensen detouring Jared’s sweat-slick skin after each successful removal, with Jared working himself up in the hypercharged atmosphere.
Jared’s shirt hangs loose on his shoulders. Jensen takes in the sight, tan skin painted in a sheen of dance-sweat over fluttering muscle tone.
The sight’s virtually pornographic. Not that Jensen’s complaining. In fact. He slips his cell phone from his jeans pocket and flips it open.
“I want a picture,” he purrs into Jared’s ear, the heel of his hand grinding hard against Jared’s crotch. “I’m gonna take it home, print it out, and I’m going to jerk. off. to it all the goddamn time.” The point of his tongue swipes over the shell of Jared’s ear.
Jared ruts frenetically into Jensen’s hand.
“What, baby, gonna come like that? Out in the open, in a club in New York fucking City, with everyone,” he pauses to nip Jared’s earlobe, “everyone watching you? You gonna come for them? Or me?”
“God, Jen, you say shit like that-”
Jensen’s hand dips a little lower. He’s rewarded by Jared’s bitten-off groan. “You’re gonna come for me, Jare,” he says, quietly and he knows Jared heard him; Jared’s gone still, whines, “Jenny,” and the front of his jeans is noticeably damper.
Jensen seizes his chance: he snaps a picture of a post-orgasmic Jared, eyes hooded and hazy, lips forming a perfectly-pink O, shirt… “Jared, where’s your shirt?”
“My what?” Jared says, still under the influence. Then he regains focus, at least enough to ask, “Hey, Jensen, what happened to my shirt?”
Jensen shrugs, sheathing his cell phone in his back pocket. “Maybe it’s on the floor?”
They spend the next twenty minutes searching for a pale pink button-down. Failing that, Jensen says they should just go back to the hotel; even if they found it now, who knows what bodily fluids ended up on it. Jared’s dejected, he liked that shirt, but they leave anyway.
The next morning, Jensen swears a blue streak when he discovers his phone’s missing.
--
Jensen’s quick, but the thief is quicker. “Holy shit.”
Jared’s caught between mortification and preening, as he does look utterly sexual in the somewhat-blurry picture. And all the online comments from overly horny females (and quite a few guys) are doing nothing to temper his ego.
Jared’s taken away by a call from his agent, who’s livid but has probably gotten off to the picture anyway.
And as for Jensen?
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