I guess Wednesday is just a porny sort of day for me
So as I sat at my computer this morning and mulled over what to write (there is a part of me that still wants some angry Bernard/Lezak sex), I realized that for all my writing of swimmers, I still hadn't written pool smut!
What's that all about?
I decided to rectify the situation.
:: Aaron Peirsol/Ryan Lochte (w/ mention of Peirsol/Phelps [and Phelps/Lochte if you pay attention]), US Men's Swimming, NC17. Unbeta'ed.
08.20.2008 (7:44 AM)
"Practice Strokes"
The pool is nearly cold, nearly except for this one spot. One leg between his. Arms over broad shoulders and hanging onto the scratchy deck, feet tangled and toes an anchor to keep them from floating away.
When Ryan shivers he's sure it isn't for the temperature of the water-perfect for swimming and more than familiar to each of them-but for the wet trail that Aaron leaves behind him as his mouth traces collarbone to ear.
No one is around to see Ryan come apart as lips fold over his earlobe and a soft sound is breathed out of Aaron's nose.
The pool at the Colorado Springs training camp is quiet, covered in a low ceiling, more wood than concrete. Through wide windows are spruce trees, hiding together in clumps in the dark like close-sleeping giants.
They're supposed to be doing the backstroke. And they were, trading fastest laps by the light of the low-watt lamps hanging between rafters. They were until Aaron ducked under the lane line and tucked fingers into the waistband of Ryan's speedo as he was coming around for a turn.
The Floridian is so different from Phelps, as different as their hometowns are far apart.
Sex, for Michael, was a sprint, was enough to make a wake against the side of the pool, a choppy slush-slush-slush that had matched both their heartbeats.
But Ryan...
Ryan is a slow stretch of limbs-not tentative, not careful-only easy and unconcerned with the eventual outcome. Michael the racer and Michael the man are often one in the same-it isn't so with Ryan. Ryan smiles against Aaron's mouth and pushes his thigh up until smooth skin is sliding against smooth spandex and Aaron yields a moan. He can feel the smile shift into something lazily triumphant, a cock of lips that is Ryan's only swagger.
Aaron pushes back with his hips and his whole body, pinning Ryan to the wall. The water stings as he scrapes his knees. Ryan's quiet laugh rolls across the water like a skipped stone and tastes like chlorine when Aaron covers it with his mouth, licks it away with his tongue.
His cap is pulled off, it and goggles are lost to a watery grave, and fingers curl into and tug on the short hair across the back of his head. There's enough to grab and a fleeting wonder: Ryan can't do that to Michael.
They start to drift up, drift awkwardly horizontal, and both move by habit and instinct to keep themselves close as Aaron drops his arms inside Ryan's and thumbs his rival's speedo down over hips and thighs.
The treading has put them against the red of a lane line; the plastic rings bite high across Aaron's back but they stop drifting when Ryan grabs and catches the twine that anchors the rings, wall to wall. It anchors them, also, as his white trunks settle at bottom of the pool like a wavering reflection of the moon.
One of Aaron's feet is put down on the underwater shelf of the wall and Ryan uses their new security to reach one dripping hand up and pull off his cap. Aaron uses it to push down his own bathing suit; dark enough, it sinks without fanfare.
Then there is the heat of Ryan's body, the wet, strong lines of limbs and muscles fitting against his own. Underwater their cocks slide together with a maddening sort of half-friction that is never going be enough for either of them. Aaron pushes forward, grabbing to drag them to the wall where they started, to put Ryan's back against it and haul his leg up all in the same motion. Just two lanes down he'd had Michael's back pressed to him less than a handful of days ago, watched as knuckles around the edge of the pool turned white with tension.
It's not a comparison. Apples and oranges. Wolverines and Gators.
Fingers go lower, skimming over thigh muscles, across a strong ass, holding Ryan up against him and right... there-
The younger man makes a noise against his neck that short-circuits something in Aaron's brain. The sound is not quiet, it's not muffled, it's not anything that should be in this otherwise silent place. But it's a perfect companion to the way Ryan suddenly moves against his fingers-quick, off-guard and wanting. A sort of honest abandonment that was nowhere in the fast, hard lines of Michael.
In the cool water, Ryan's body is scalding. One finger, two, swallowed up and there is no rush for more, no impatient words or grasps of hands. Ryan just rocks down and then arches back, water tracing the muscles of his chest and arms as he bends between Aaron at the side of the pool. The drops are licked away, leaving goosebumps and tight, dark nipples.
Then for a moment he's arched back, held up by the water and his elbows on the deck and Aaron pushes closer, pulls a leg higher, and sinks himself into grasping muscles. The first shove is a bully, the give is slow and Ryan's forehead creases as his lips part, finally silent.
He should stop. Wait. Watch the creases smooth away first but he doesn't. Aaron rocks his hips, a too-sharp jerk of muscles, and Ryan's back scrapes against the pool lip. A small sound falls out of his slack lips before his mouth snaps closed and his fingers dig into Aaron's shoulders. Lines fan out from the corners of closed eyes and his chin comes up with a sort of determination that makes Aaron feel like a bastard.
So he stops. Waits. It is hot, and close: a wonderful sort of unbearable.
His mouth skims along the tan curve under Ryan's chin and now he can taste salt under the pool water. Aaron doesn't mind that to-the-quick fingernails have scraped across his shoulders and left shallow weals that will show tomorrow.
Right now tomorrow is a world away.
He bites the taught skin across Ryan's pulse and the other swimmer shivers, sighs. His chin falls and their mouths stumble together a moment before their bodies, Ryan relaxing enough to finish the full slide ass to hips.
Aaron breathes out; Ryan breathes in.
There is no wake. No slush of water like the heartbeat of the pool.
Ryan leans forward, curling toward, over, Aaron, and his body becomes a comma against the lighter skin of the other man. Becomes the arch of a swimmer off the block though there is none of the urgency, none of the surge of a race begun.
A quiet insistency, an unwillingness to rush and miss out on something. Ryan sets the pace and it is a slow ride until they're both panting and half-blind with the need to come. Then-only then, when he is willing to admit defeat-does Aaron take one hand off the wall to reach between them.
One touch, five fingers and a wet slip of hand around heated flesh.
Ryan comes with a jerk and a gasp. That easy. Too easy. The water is suddenly a little warmer and it's as much the quiet, breathy moan against his ear as it is the flutter of internal muscles that have Aaron throbbing himself dry just a moment afterward.
That easy.
He grabs at his breath and slips away to leave Ryan to find his feet, leaves Ryan leaning against the wall looking flushed and slighty broken and tempting enough, still, to make Aaron's empty balls ache.
It would be impossible to compare Ryan and Michael. Aaron doesn't try. Only strokes forward to bring he and Ryan back together, to catch the lazy smile that stretches Ryan's mouth under closed eyes, and hopes that between all of them that he's not the one who can't compare.
What's that all about?
I decided to rectify the situation.
:: Aaron Peirsol/Ryan Lochte (w/ mention of Peirsol/Phelps [and Phelps/Lochte if you pay attention]), US Men's Swimming, NC17. Unbeta'ed.
08.20.2008 (7:44 AM)
"Practice Strokes"
The pool is nearly cold, nearly except for this one spot. One leg between his. Arms over broad shoulders and hanging onto the scratchy deck, feet tangled and toes an anchor to keep them from floating away.
When Ryan shivers he's sure it isn't for the temperature of the water-perfect for swimming and more than familiar to each of them-but for the wet trail that Aaron leaves behind him as his mouth traces collarbone to ear.
No one is around to see Ryan come apart as lips fold over his earlobe and a soft sound is breathed out of Aaron's nose.
The pool at the Colorado Springs training camp is quiet, covered in a low ceiling, more wood than concrete. Through wide windows are spruce trees, hiding together in clumps in the dark like close-sleeping giants.
They're supposed to be doing the backstroke. And they were, trading fastest laps by the light of the low-watt lamps hanging between rafters. They were until Aaron ducked under the lane line and tucked fingers into the waistband of Ryan's speedo as he was coming around for a turn.
The Floridian is so different from Phelps, as different as their hometowns are far apart.
Sex, for Michael, was a sprint, was enough to make a wake against the side of the pool, a choppy slush-slush-slush that had matched both their heartbeats.
But Ryan...
Ryan is a slow stretch of limbs-not tentative, not careful-only easy and unconcerned with the eventual outcome. Michael the racer and Michael the man are often one in the same-it isn't so with Ryan. Ryan smiles against Aaron's mouth and pushes his thigh up until smooth skin is sliding against smooth spandex and Aaron yields a moan. He can feel the smile shift into something lazily triumphant, a cock of lips that is Ryan's only swagger.
Aaron pushes back with his hips and his whole body, pinning Ryan to the wall. The water stings as he scrapes his knees. Ryan's quiet laugh rolls across the water like a skipped stone and tastes like chlorine when Aaron covers it with his mouth, licks it away with his tongue.
His cap is pulled off, it and goggles are lost to a watery grave, and fingers curl into and tug on the short hair across the back of his head. There's enough to grab and a fleeting wonder: Ryan can't do that to Michael.
They start to drift up, drift awkwardly horizontal, and both move by habit and instinct to keep themselves close as Aaron drops his arms inside Ryan's and thumbs his rival's speedo down over hips and thighs.
The treading has put them against the red of a lane line; the plastic rings bite high across Aaron's back but they stop drifting when Ryan grabs and catches the twine that anchors the rings, wall to wall. It anchors them, also, as his white trunks settle at bottom of the pool like a wavering reflection of the moon.
One of Aaron's feet is put down on the underwater shelf of the wall and Ryan uses their new security to reach one dripping hand up and pull off his cap. Aaron uses it to push down his own bathing suit; dark enough, it sinks without fanfare.
Then there is the heat of Ryan's body, the wet, strong lines of limbs and muscles fitting against his own. Underwater their cocks slide together with a maddening sort of half-friction that is never going be enough for either of them. Aaron pushes forward, grabbing to drag them to the wall where they started, to put Ryan's back against it and haul his leg up all in the same motion. Just two lanes down he'd had Michael's back pressed to him less than a handful of days ago, watched as knuckles around the edge of the pool turned white with tension.
It's not a comparison. Apples and oranges. Wolverines and Gators.
Fingers go lower, skimming over thigh muscles, across a strong ass, holding Ryan up against him and right... there-
The younger man makes a noise against his neck that short-circuits something in Aaron's brain. The sound is not quiet, it's not muffled, it's not anything that should be in this otherwise silent place. But it's a perfect companion to the way Ryan suddenly moves against his fingers-quick, off-guard and wanting. A sort of honest abandonment that was nowhere in the fast, hard lines of Michael.
In the cool water, Ryan's body is scalding. One finger, two, swallowed up and there is no rush for more, no impatient words or grasps of hands. Ryan just rocks down and then arches back, water tracing the muscles of his chest and arms as he bends between Aaron at the side of the pool. The drops are licked away, leaving goosebumps and tight, dark nipples.
Then for a moment he's arched back, held up by the water and his elbows on the deck and Aaron pushes closer, pulls a leg higher, and sinks himself into grasping muscles. The first shove is a bully, the give is slow and Ryan's forehead creases as his lips part, finally silent.
He should stop. Wait. Watch the creases smooth away first but he doesn't. Aaron rocks his hips, a too-sharp jerk of muscles, and Ryan's back scrapes against the pool lip. A small sound falls out of his slack lips before his mouth snaps closed and his fingers dig into Aaron's shoulders. Lines fan out from the corners of closed eyes and his chin comes up with a sort of determination that makes Aaron feel like a bastard.
So he stops. Waits. It is hot, and close: a wonderful sort of unbearable.
His mouth skims along the tan curve under Ryan's chin and now he can taste salt under the pool water. Aaron doesn't mind that to-the-quick fingernails have scraped across his shoulders and left shallow weals that will show tomorrow.
Right now tomorrow is a world away.
He bites the taught skin across Ryan's pulse and the other swimmer shivers, sighs. His chin falls and their mouths stumble together a moment before their bodies, Ryan relaxing enough to finish the full slide ass to hips.
Aaron breathes out; Ryan breathes in.
There is no wake. No slush of water like the heartbeat of the pool.
Ryan leans forward, curling toward, over, Aaron, and his body becomes a comma against the lighter skin of the other man. Becomes the arch of a swimmer off the block though there is none of the urgency, none of the surge of a race begun.
A quiet insistency, an unwillingness to rush and miss out on something. Ryan sets the pace and it is a slow ride until they're both panting and half-blind with the need to come. Then-only then, when he is willing to admit defeat-does Aaron take one hand off the wall to reach between them.
One touch, five fingers and a wet slip of hand around heated flesh.
Ryan comes with a jerk and a gasp. That easy. Too easy. The water is suddenly a little warmer and it's as much the quiet, breathy moan against his ear as it is the flutter of internal muscles that have Aaron throbbing himself dry just a moment afterward.
That easy.
He grabs at his breath and slips away to leave Ryan to find his feet, leaves Ryan leaning against the wall looking flushed and slighty broken and tempting enough, still, to make Aaron's empty balls ache.
It would be impossible to compare Ryan and Michael. Aaron doesn't try. Only strokes forward to bring he and Ryan back together, to catch the lazy smile that stretches Ryan's mouth under closed eyes, and hopes that between all of them that he's not the one who can't compare.