The Tickler
Title: The Tickler
Author: kmmerc
Pairing: FInch/Reese
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 700
John grows a mustache. Finch reacts.
The Tickler
It was Fusco who noticed it first, yelping “Hey, Magnum, PI” as Reese spun him around, pushing him against the brick wall of the alley just for fun. But Finch had noticed it from the start; John, two weeks before, returning from an exhausting case with his typical rough face. John showed up the next morning, perfectly groomed except for the bristles under his nose, an obvious smear of silver and black.
Finch was determined not to say anything, convinced that speaking up might actually encouraged John’s dubious choice. But John was silently campaigning for Finch’s downfall, stroking the patch of hair, eating croissants and potato chips and dabbing at the captured flakes with pink flashes of his tongue.
Finch could stay silent no more.
“John, why are you growing a moustache?” he asked, his icy tones hiding his frustrated attraction for the facial hair.
“Because I can,” laughed John, stroking it. Noticing Finch’s flushed complexion, he continued. “I had an uncle, an old Navy man with an incredible moustache. I asked him once, before I joined the Army, why he grew it. Uncle Dave slapped me on my back and said it was his ‘Pussy Tickler’.” John slid soundlessly next to Finch. “But you see, Harold, I’m not interesting in pussy. Wanna see what else it can tickle?” he asked, brushing his lips against Finch’s.
Any bit of hesitation Finch might have had was brushed aside by John’s mustache - so thick and wiry and soft - manly! He’d enjoyed kissing Grace but the sensation of John’s facial hair left no doubt that his truest desire was for a partner of the masculine persuasion. There was no doubt that he wasn’t kissing a woman now, unless, he thought with an internal laugh, that woman was a relative of the late Frieda Kahlo! He relaxed into John’s arms, melting. He helped John remove the waistcoat, tie and tailored shirt, while John attacked his neck, nipping and brushing, taking full advantage of the harsh stubble John brushed against his soft skin. Finch stepped back, reclining on the battered leather couch, his erection leaving no doubt in John’s mind that his attentions were well received.
Finch watched as John undressed down to his boxer briefs, his large, well-formed cock pressing blatantly against the thin fabric, a small damp spot advertising his excitement. Finch unbuckled his belt, allowing John to slide the fine woolen trousers down past his unfashionably broad hips and full, rounded cheeks.
“Oh, Harold,” moaned John, for Finch was quite as erect as John, his cock as long and perhaps thicker than the former op’s. He worked down his employer’s torso, finding stiff nipples in the forest of grey-brown hair.
If Finch had been overwhelmed before, well, now he felt about to blow! The sight of John licking and suckling against him, the vision of that black and silver fringe of stiff, silky hair and the pink of John’s tongue against his heretofore untouched nubbins changed something inside the quiet genius. No longer was he content in receiving John’s attentions, no more could he lie idly by as John pleasured him! Finch breathed deeply and stretched, his hand sliding between them to caress John’s own pink buttons of flesh! John gasped and bucked, lifting himself to moan loudly, encouragingly as Finch worked his hand further south, his fingertips brushing against John’s damp crown.
Spurred on, John carefully lifted himself off of Finch so that, kneeling, he could address Finch’s manhood, taking it to the root with one shuddering gulp. The mustache added an indescribably sensation as it tickled Finch’s shaft and scratched the tender, pink tip. The black and silver hairs grow shiny as John rubbed them against the leaking slit, glazing them with Finch’s essence. It was quite too much and Finch came, moaning John’s name as he clutched his partner, his hips thrusting into the brunet’s willing orifice. John swallowed, looking up to show Finch the pearly white dots decorating his magnificent mustache. Finch pulled John towards him, licking feverishly, tasting himself as John stroked his cock. One-two-three strokes were all it took for John to come, coating Finch’s belly and a bit of the leather beneath them.
Author: kmmerc
Pairing: FInch/Reese
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 700
John grows a mustache. Finch reacts.
The Tickler
It was Fusco who noticed it first, yelping “Hey, Magnum, PI” as Reese spun him around, pushing him against the brick wall of the alley just for fun. But Finch had noticed it from the start; John, two weeks before, returning from an exhausting case with his typical rough face. John showed up the next morning, perfectly groomed except for the bristles under his nose, an obvious smear of silver and black.
Finch was determined not to say anything, convinced that speaking up might actually encouraged John’s dubious choice. But John was silently campaigning for Finch’s downfall, stroking the patch of hair, eating croissants and potato chips and dabbing at the captured flakes with pink flashes of his tongue.
Finch could stay silent no more.
“John, why are you growing a moustache?” he asked, his icy tones hiding his frustrated attraction for the facial hair.
“Because I can,” laughed John, stroking it. Noticing Finch’s flushed complexion, he continued. “I had an uncle, an old Navy man with an incredible moustache. I asked him once, before I joined the Army, why he grew it. Uncle Dave slapped me on my back and said it was his ‘Pussy Tickler’.” John slid soundlessly next to Finch. “But you see, Harold, I’m not interesting in pussy. Wanna see what else it can tickle?” he asked, brushing his lips against Finch’s.
Any bit of hesitation Finch might have had was brushed aside by John’s mustache - so thick and wiry and soft - manly! He’d enjoyed kissing Grace but the sensation of John’s facial hair left no doubt that his truest desire was for a partner of the masculine persuasion. There was no doubt that he wasn’t kissing a woman now, unless, he thought with an internal laugh, that woman was a relative of the late Frieda Kahlo! He relaxed into John’s arms, melting. He helped John remove the waistcoat, tie and tailored shirt, while John attacked his neck, nipping and brushing, taking full advantage of the harsh stubble John brushed against his soft skin. Finch stepped back, reclining on the battered leather couch, his erection leaving no doubt in John’s mind that his attentions were well received.
Finch watched as John undressed down to his boxer briefs, his large, well-formed cock pressing blatantly against the thin fabric, a small damp spot advertising his excitement. Finch unbuckled his belt, allowing John to slide the fine woolen trousers down past his unfashionably broad hips and full, rounded cheeks.
“Oh, Harold,” moaned John, for Finch was quite as erect as John, his cock as long and perhaps thicker than the former op’s. He worked down his employer’s torso, finding stiff nipples in the forest of grey-brown hair.
If Finch had been overwhelmed before, well, now he felt about to blow! The sight of John licking and suckling against him, the vision of that black and silver fringe of stiff, silky hair and the pink of John’s tongue against his heretofore untouched nubbins changed something inside the quiet genius. No longer was he content in receiving John’s attentions, no more could he lie idly by as John pleasured him! Finch breathed deeply and stretched, his hand sliding between them to caress John’s own pink buttons of flesh! John gasped and bucked, lifting himself to moan loudly, encouragingly as Finch worked his hand further south, his fingertips brushing against John’s damp crown.
Spurred on, John carefully lifted himself off of Finch so that, kneeling, he could address Finch’s manhood, taking it to the root with one shuddering gulp. The mustache added an indescribably sensation as it tickled Finch’s shaft and scratched the tender, pink tip. The black and silver hairs grow shiny as John rubbed them against the leaking slit, glazing them with Finch’s essence. It was quite too much and Finch came, moaning John’s name as he clutched his partner, his hips thrusting into the brunet’s willing orifice. John swallowed, looking up to show Finch the pearly white dots decorating his magnificent mustache. Finch pulled John towards him, licking feverishly, tasting himself as John stroked his cock. One-two-three strokes were all it took for John to come, coating Finch’s belly and a bit of the leather beneath them.