Fic: Stamina (LoM, sequel to Fitness First)
Right, well, a little while ago I wrote the elfbert-inspired fic Fitness First. I got a lot of very positive feedback, for which ♥ to you all.
The most consistently recurring comment was that there was something of a slashy undertone between Gene and Sam. Good Lord, how can it be so? XD
I should explain. In my LoM-world, Gene and Sam are at it. As often as possible. So when I write a gen story, it's only because their shagging is not relevant to that particular narrative - they're still doing it behind the scenes.
Anyway, a few people suggested/requested/demanded a sequel, so here it is. If anyone is still in any doubt as to the nature of Sam and Gene's relationship, this should clarify matters! :D
(It's slash. Just in case I hadn't made that clear).
Shift over, Sam declined the general offer of the customary pint in the Arms, preferring to make his way back home. He stopped off briefly at the off licence, choosing a respectable-looking bottle of single malt. His mother had brought him up to make sure you had something in when you were expecting visitors. And he was expecting a visitor tonight.
He pottered aimlessly round the poky flat, flicking through the few channels on the television, picking up odds and ends left scattered around, washing up the breakfast things. Tried not to check the clock more than once every two minutes, but still jumped when he heard the expected pounding which, in the circumstances, was the equivalent of a polite tap. Taking a deep breath, he pulled open the door.
A pair of blazing green eyes bored into his own.
“Tyler.” There was a distinct edge to Gene’s tone.
“Hunt,” Sam responded in kind, his gaze calculatedly cool, assessing. He allowed his eyes to flicker down and back up, raking over the DCI with deliberate insolence, before turning away. “You’d better come in.”
Obediently enough, Gene followed Sam into the flat, the door slamming shut behind him. Sam poured two generous measures of the whisky, passing one across, and the two men shared a wordless moment of appreciation of the fine peaty taste, before Sam punctured the harmonious silence.
“So. Guv. Was there something you wanted?”
Gene took another gulp, set the glass carefully down.
“Funny you should ask, Tyler. I distinctly recall you raising a few questions about my physical abilities this morning. In front of my own team an’ all.”
“That’s right, now you come to mention it.” Sam smiled; a self-satisfied, angelically innocent beam designed purely to wind up the DCI. “I don’t recall seeing much evidence of the famous Hunt stamina when you were collapsed in a heap on the playing fields. Or am I forgetting something?”
Gene maintained his calm façade with admirable fortitude, acknowledging the hit with nothing more than a slight widening of the eyes.
“Does being a smug git come naturally to you, or do you have to practise?” His tone the very model of friendly enquiry. Sam’s grin widened.
“I do, actually. I fit it in between keeping fit enough to do my job properly, and pissing off overweight obnoxious senior officers.”
“Is that right?” Gene took a couple of steps forward, narrowing the gap between them, Sam’s smile faltering in the face of the menacing bulk of the obnoxious senior officer in question. Reaching out with one open hand, he delivered a light slap to Sam’s cheek before moving downwards to claim the forgotten whisky glass, placing it next to his own without breaking eye contact. Sam swallowed involuntarily, but held the gaze, breathing fast and shallow as the air between them seemed to fizz. Finally, Gene stepped back.
“You up for a small wager, Tyler?”
“A - a what?”
“A wager. A bet. Stakes to be decided after the event. Take it in turns, and whoever - lasts longest - wins. If you get my drift.”
Sam got the drift. Inside his head, bells started ringing and wild cheering broke out. With effort, he kept his expression cool, thoughtful, as he ostensibly pondered the proposition.
“Well?” Gene was not renowned for his patience.
“I suppose. Yeah, OK. You’re on.”
“Good. Oh, and I get first go.”
“Doesn’t that give me a bit of an advantage?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Gladys. Now shut up and strip.”
Startled by the sheer abruptness of the command, Sam’s gaze flew to Gene’s face, searching. Gene stared back, implacable. A pause, then Sam nodded, once, turning away instinctively as he began to deal with the buttons on his shirt.
“No good, Tyler.” Gene’s voice uncompromising despite its unexpected softness. “Turn round and face me. I want to see everything.” Sam complied, closing his eyes briefly as a hot surge of embarrassment and undeniable arousal washed through him to centre unerringly at his groin. Cheeks flaming, he fumbled the remaining buttons undone, shrugging out of his shirt, the rest of his clothes following it into an untidy heap on the floor.
Naked, already hard, he glanced back at the DCI, taking in with satisfaction the slightly flushed face, the darkened green eyes. “OK. What now?”
“Hmm. Lie down, on your back.” Sam clambered onto the bed, lay still.
“Good. Arms up.”
Gene began to undo his tie. Sam’s breath hitched and his cock gave an involuntary jump as he realised, suddenly, where this was leading. Bloody hell, at this rate he’d be lucky to last two minutes, never mind winning the bet.
With a thoroughness and dedication to detail that Sam would have died of joy to see him applying to police work, Gene fastened the tie around Sam’s wrists, attaching him securely to the head of the bed. Stood back, cupping his chin thoughtfully as his intent gaze swept over every exposed inch of goose-bumped flesh.
“You’re a tart, Tyler.” Gene’s tone was light, whimsical almost, and Sam bit his lip, cock twitching again in automatic response. “Look at you there, gagging for it. Know what I reckon?”
Sam shook his head, although he could probably have hazarded a pretty fair guess.
“I reckon I could win this bet without lifting a finger.”
Christ. And Sam wouldn’t have put money on him being wrong, either. Even now, he could feel a familiar warm ache beginning to build as his balls tightened in anticipation. He tasted the tang of blood, realised he’d bitten right through his lower lip. Come on - get a grip! Taking a deep breath, he concentrated on bringing himself under some sort of control. No way was he going to hand Gene this much satisfaction this early in the game.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Pleasingly, his voice came out steady. Gene nodded.
“Good lad. Right then, game on.”
Leaning close, careful not to make any bodily contact, Gene clasped his wrists over the soft cloth of the tie. “You’ll beg before I’m done, Sammy-boy.” The softest of whispers, breathed into Sam’s ear, rippling over his skin. Gene’s hands began a slow, meticulous journey, stroking the length of Sam’s arms, onto and across his chest, a finger circling one nipple, briefly teasing the other, dragging a gasp from Sam.
Steadily, inexorably downwards, smoothing over the taut abdomen, tracing the outline of the prominent muscles. Sam moaned, past the point of speech, struggling to string together a coherent thought. The hands continued their downward quest, moving firmly over Sam’s hips before a fingernail grazed lightly down the crease where thigh met groin and the whole thing was nearly over on the spot. Gene pulled back, allowing Sam a brief moment of respite, and for a second he hung, suspended at the very point of orgasm, forcing himself back from the brink.
“You all right?” Gene enquired, in tones of such solicitousness that Sam almost laughed.
“Fine. Thanks. Please, continue.”
And the exploration continued, down across sensitive thighs, Sam’s legs gently but firmly pulled apart, Gene’s hands skimming over knees and shins, intent apparently on mapping out every single inch of Sam. Even the soles of his feet were not spared, fingernails working with an exquisite sensitivity that fell just short of ticklishness.
“Hang on a mo.” Gene stood up, shrugging off his coat, and Sam realised for the first time that the other man was still fully clothed.
“That’s better. Right then, enough of this fannying about. I’ve got a bet to win, and you’ve already had…” Gene checked his watch “…eleven minutes. Knees up.”
“Sorry?”
“You will be, if you don’t do as you’re told. Knees. Now.”
Unable to resist a raise of eyebrows, Sam nevertheless bent his knees obediently, and Gene slipped a hand between the parted thighs, insinuating it between the mattress and Sam’s buttocks, a fingertip teasing at the puckered hole beneath, pushing in a scant couple of millimetres before stilling. With his free hand, he took hold of Sam’s now rigid erection, finding a steady up and down rhythm, stroking with increasing firmness until Sam threw his head back, giving himself over entirely to the heat coursing through him.
“Fuck, Gene…God…” Sam was aware he was rambling incoherently, but couldn’t find the will to stop. Gene, it seemed, could. Slowing to an unbearably gentle, tantalising rhythm, he pushed his finger further inside Sam, grazing lightly against the tender prostate. Sam nearly hit the roof.
“Jesus…” he gasped. “Please, Gene…please…”
“Told you, didn’t I?” Gene said, and Sam could hear the smirk in his voice as he hit the prostate again, more firmly this time, rubbing over and over the spot as he pumped Sam hard, three times, four, and Sam was lost. With a strangled inarticulate yell that was closer to a sob, he came, hard, splattering come over Gene’s shirt, the other man not relenting until every drop was wrung from him.
He was vaguely aware of Gene gently freeing his arms, taking off the soiled shirt, using it to wipe Sam clean. He lay, semi-conscious, an inane grin plastered onto his face, glorying in the haze of post-orgasmic euphoria. Gene checked his watch again.
“Seventeen minutes,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Not bad, Sammy-boy. Shall we call that half-time?”
Pulling himself up off the bed, Gene retrieved his coat, fishing out his cigarettes from a pocket and lighting up with a satisfied sigh.
“Call it what you like,” Sam said sleepily. “You’ve got no chance of lasting that long. Do you want to call it off now, save yourself the humiliation?”
“Cocky little sod,” Gene answered amiably, refilling the two glasses and coming back over to pass one to Sam. “The bet stands.”
Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, leaning forward to gaze earnestly at Gene. “Seriously, though, Gene. The fitness of the team is an issue that needs to be addressed properly. Yesterday was an embarrassment - we can’t afford to have criminals laughing at us.”
Gene glared sternly back over the rim of his glass. “Listen, Tyler. You get to call me Gene when I’m running my magnificently talented fingers all over your desperate little body. Or when we’re sharing a quiet pint together in a dark corner of the pub. But when you’re nagging, it’s Guv. That’s just proper respect.”
“Oh yeah? And how come you get to call me Gladys at work, then?”
“That’s cos you’re a girl. Now. I’ll let you in on a little secret, shall I? Know where Carter is now?”
Sam shook his head.
“I’ll tell you, then. He’s in the cells back at the nick. Ray brought him in this afternoon. You’ll never guess where he showed up.”
A pause. Sam waited patiently, sipping at the whisky, allowing Gene his moment of dramatic effect.
“In the pub, that’s where. Sitting on his jacksie knocking back a few, bragging to all his mates about how he’d given Manchester’s finest the slip. Didn’t half look a twat when Ray strolled over and lifted him.”
His tone grew thoughtful. “Funny, though. If you’d had your way on this fitness kick, Ray wouldn’t have been anywhere near a boozer during the hours of daylight. Too busy pounding his way round a running track or some such. Now, you’re the brainiac round here. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that an example of irony?”
“Yeah yeah. Very good.” Sam allowed his gaze to drift speculatively over Gene’s shirtless torso, bringing his eyes back up in time to catch, with extreme satisfaction, the sudden dilation of pupils as Gene registered the shift of mood. “Time for the second half?”
“Thought you’d never bloody ask.”
Both men downed the last of the whisky, abandoning the glasses on the floor. Gene stood up, fingers moving downwards to deal with his belt buckle. A hand clamped firmly over his wrist, preventing movement. “Hang on,” Sam said. “I’ll do that.”
Gene let his hands fall loosely to his sides, as Sam took over, undoing belt and fly efficiently before pulling trousers and pants down to ankle level.
“OK, sit down,” Sam said, giving Gene a light shove in the chest. Hobbled by the restricting effects of the trousers, Gene overbalanced, landing heavily on the mattress, cock swelling to half-hardness at the sight of a still-naked Sam moving in for the kill.
Ostentatiously, Sam looked at his watch. “OK. Seventeen minutes to beat, and your time starts now.”
He moved directly in front of Gene, leaning in close so that their faces were almost touching. “Ready?” he said softly. And gently brushed his tongue along the length of Gene’s lower lip.
Gene let out a breathy groan, his cock surging joyfully to full attention at the unexpected onslaught. “Oi. Devious underhanded bloody tricks like that don’t count.”
Sam pulled back slightly to meet Gene’s eyes, holding the look for a long moment, a silent declaration of intent. Relishing the almost imperceptible swallow as Gene got the message.
“Actually…” He pulled back further, kneeling down in front of Gene. “…I think you’ll find…” Lazily he swept his tongue along a thigh, starting just above the knee, stopping a breath away from the impressively full erection. “…They do.”
Without further preamble, he dropped his head, engulfing Gene’s swollen cock, sucking it to the back of his throat. Gene grunted, bucking sharply, and Sam pulled away to prevent himself from gagging, bringing his hands up to take firm hold of Gene’s hips.
“No rush. Guv. Still got sixteen minutes to go yet.”
He returned his attention to the job at hand, grazing his teeth over the head of Gene’s cock, swirling his tongue around and along the shaft. Pulling it all the way into his mouth, before drawing back to suck on the tip like a lollipop, teasing out the first few drops of precome with a questing tongue.
Under his forearms, he felt shudders rippling through Gene’s thighs as his muscles began to spasm. Above his head, rough panting and gasping, harsh guttural sounds that may have included his own name. Sam brought his hand across to rest gently at the base of Gene’s cock, and moved up a gear or two, taking Gene as far back into his throat as he could manage, licking and sucking with increasing speed until he felt the tightening of balls under his hand, the quiver and tautening of muscles that signalled an imminent orgasm.
“Sam, it…I…God…I’m gonna…”
Holding back until the last possible moment, Sam gripped tightly round the base of the shaft, halting Gene’s climax in its tracks. The sound that emerged from Gene was indescribable, and Sam revelled in the knowledge that he could evoke something so utterly primal. Long seconds passed, until Sam deemed it safe to relax his grip, and Gene more or less regained the power of speech.
“What the...?”
Sam rubbed the pad of his thumb gently, absent-mindedly, across overheated velvet skin, gazing up into Gene’s shell-shocked face with a smile of pure evil.
“Oh yeah. I might have forgotten to mention earlier. I concede.”
“Er…sorry?”
“I concede. Bet’s yours. You win.”
His hand started to rove more purposefully, and he turned his head downwards again, his murmured words just loud enough for Gene to catch.
“Seventeen minutes is nothing compared to what I’ve got planned for you.”
“Oh you little bastard. You’ll pay for…” Gene sank backwards onto the bed, the words catching in his throat as Sam got to work in earnest.
And he was remorseless, combining hands, tongue and teeth with shattering skill, bringing Gene to the very edge time and again, before pulling him back, unerring in his instinct for the precise moment beyond which the game would be over. Deaf to Gene’s moans, curses, and in the end outright pleas, it was only when the sounds diminished to ragged uncontrolled breathing and the occasional choked sob that Sam finally relented. His mouth slipping up and down the engorged erection, hand mirroring the rhythm further down, he felt again Gene’s approaching climax, speeding up this time until the other man’s hips bucked powerfully upwards and orgasm, so long denied, finally claimed him.
Sam swallowed and swallowed, suckling softly until the last drops were consumed and he felt Gene grow still, heard his breathing subside. Then he stood, moving across the small room to retrieve his shirt and underpants from the floor, putting them on before pouring a refill of scotch for the pair of them. Impulsively, he shook out a cigarette from the pack and lit it, enjoying the guilty pleasure of the inhaled smoke before holding cigarette and glass out in Gene’s direction.
“Thought you might want these.”
Gene gazed up at him blearily from the bed, propped himself up on one elbow.
“I’ve said it before, Tyler. You’re a devious little bastard.”
He stood up shakily, pulling up his trousers and fastening them before accepting the proffered gifts and taking a deep drag of much-needed nicotine.
“For the record. How long was that then?”
Sam glanced at his watch. “Twenty nine minutes, as good as. But - you’re not going to hold me to the bet, are you? I threw it. That doesn’t count.”
Gene sat back down, grinning at Sam with ominous smugness, raising his glass in a parody of a toast. “Actually, Sammy-boy. I think you’ll find…it does.”
EPILOGUE:
The following morning saw one of the steady downpours that Manchester was famous for at this, and indeed any other, time of year. A solitary old man braved the inclemency of the weather, hunched against the elements, selflessly allowing his ageing Labrador the opportunity to frolic and splash in the swampy mud of the playing fields.
Given the conditions and the early hour, he was fully expecting to have the fields to himself. Certainly he had not anticipated the sight of a trio of grown men, huddled together under hoods and umbrellas, whooping and catcalling as a fourth man, unfashionably short hair sodden and dripping, pounded around and around the perimeter, sporting a Didsbury Greys T-shirt and an alarmingly short pair of shorts.
Shaking his head in righteous disgust at their antics, the old man called his dog to heel, turning back for the short walk home. Things certainly were never like this in his day. Sometimes he wondered what society was coming to. Honestly, he had a good mind to call the police.
The most consistently recurring comment was that there was something of a slashy undertone between Gene and Sam. Good Lord, how can it be so? XD
I should explain. In my LoM-world, Gene and Sam are at it. As often as possible. So when I write a gen story, it's only because their shagging is not relevant to that particular narrative - they're still doing it behind the scenes.
Anyway, a few people suggested/requested/demanded a sequel, so here it is. If anyone is still in any doubt as to the nature of Sam and Gene's relationship, this should clarify matters! :D
(It's slash. Just in case I hadn't made that clear).
Shift over, Sam declined the general offer of the customary pint in the Arms, preferring to make his way back home. He stopped off briefly at the off licence, choosing a respectable-looking bottle of single malt. His mother had brought him up to make sure you had something in when you were expecting visitors. And he was expecting a visitor tonight.
He pottered aimlessly round the poky flat, flicking through the few channels on the television, picking up odds and ends left scattered around, washing up the breakfast things. Tried not to check the clock more than once every two minutes, but still jumped when he heard the expected pounding which, in the circumstances, was the equivalent of a polite tap. Taking a deep breath, he pulled open the door.
A pair of blazing green eyes bored into his own.
“Tyler.” There was a distinct edge to Gene’s tone.
“Hunt,” Sam responded in kind, his gaze calculatedly cool, assessing. He allowed his eyes to flicker down and back up, raking over the DCI with deliberate insolence, before turning away. “You’d better come in.”
Obediently enough, Gene followed Sam into the flat, the door slamming shut behind him. Sam poured two generous measures of the whisky, passing one across, and the two men shared a wordless moment of appreciation of the fine peaty taste, before Sam punctured the harmonious silence.
“So. Guv. Was there something you wanted?”
Gene took another gulp, set the glass carefully down.
“Funny you should ask, Tyler. I distinctly recall you raising a few questions about my physical abilities this morning. In front of my own team an’ all.”
“That’s right, now you come to mention it.” Sam smiled; a self-satisfied, angelically innocent beam designed purely to wind up the DCI. “I don’t recall seeing much evidence of the famous Hunt stamina when you were collapsed in a heap on the playing fields. Or am I forgetting something?”
Gene maintained his calm façade with admirable fortitude, acknowledging the hit with nothing more than a slight widening of the eyes.
“Does being a smug git come naturally to you, or do you have to practise?” His tone the very model of friendly enquiry. Sam’s grin widened.
“I do, actually. I fit it in between keeping fit enough to do my job properly, and pissing off overweight obnoxious senior officers.”
“Is that right?” Gene took a couple of steps forward, narrowing the gap between them, Sam’s smile faltering in the face of the menacing bulk of the obnoxious senior officer in question. Reaching out with one open hand, he delivered a light slap to Sam’s cheek before moving downwards to claim the forgotten whisky glass, placing it next to his own without breaking eye contact. Sam swallowed involuntarily, but held the gaze, breathing fast and shallow as the air between them seemed to fizz. Finally, Gene stepped back.
“You up for a small wager, Tyler?”
“A - a what?”
“A wager. A bet. Stakes to be decided after the event. Take it in turns, and whoever - lasts longest - wins. If you get my drift.”
Sam got the drift. Inside his head, bells started ringing and wild cheering broke out. With effort, he kept his expression cool, thoughtful, as he ostensibly pondered the proposition.
“Well?” Gene was not renowned for his patience.
“I suppose. Yeah, OK. You’re on.”
“Good. Oh, and I get first go.”
“Doesn’t that give me a bit of an advantage?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Gladys. Now shut up and strip.”
Startled by the sheer abruptness of the command, Sam’s gaze flew to Gene’s face, searching. Gene stared back, implacable. A pause, then Sam nodded, once, turning away instinctively as he began to deal with the buttons on his shirt.
“No good, Tyler.” Gene’s voice uncompromising despite its unexpected softness. “Turn round and face me. I want to see everything.” Sam complied, closing his eyes briefly as a hot surge of embarrassment and undeniable arousal washed through him to centre unerringly at his groin. Cheeks flaming, he fumbled the remaining buttons undone, shrugging out of his shirt, the rest of his clothes following it into an untidy heap on the floor.
Naked, already hard, he glanced back at the DCI, taking in with satisfaction the slightly flushed face, the darkened green eyes. “OK. What now?”
“Hmm. Lie down, on your back.” Sam clambered onto the bed, lay still.
“Good. Arms up.”
Gene began to undo his tie. Sam’s breath hitched and his cock gave an involuntary jump as he realised, suddenly, where this was leading. Bloody hell, at this rate he’d be lucky to last two minutes, never mind winning the bet.
With a thoroughness and dedication to detail that Sam would have died of joy to see him applying to police work, Gene fastened the tie around Sam’s wrists, attaching him securely to the head of the bed. Stood back, cupping his chin thoughtfully as his intent gaze swept over every exposed inch of goose-bumped flesh.
“You’re a tart, Tyler.” Gene’s tone was light, whimsical almost, and Sam bit his lip, cock twitching again in automatic response. “Look at you there, gagging for it. Know what I reckon?”
Sam shook his head, although he could probably have hazarded a pretty fair guess.
“I reckon I could win this bet without lifting a finger.”
Christ. And Sam wouldn’t have put money on him being wrong, either. Even now, he could feel a familiar warm ache beginning to build as his balls tightened in anticipation. He tasted the tang of blood, realised he’d bitten right through his lower lip. Come on - get a grip! Taking a deep breath, he concentrated on bringing himself under some sort of control. No way was he going to hand Gene this much satisfaction this early in the game.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Pleasingly, his voice came out steady. Gene nodded.
“Good lad. Right then, game on.”
Leaning close, careful not to make any bodily contact, Gene clasped his wrists over the soft cloth of the tie. “You’ll beg before I’m done, Sammy-boy.” The softest of whispers, breathed into Sam’s ear, rippling over his skin. Gene’s hands began a slow, meticulous journey, stroking the length of Sam’s arms, onto and across his chest, a finger circling one nipple, briefly teasing the other, dragging a gasp from Sam.
Steadily, inexorably downwards, smoothing over the taut abdomen, tracing the outline of the prominent muscles. Sam moaned, past the point of speech, struggling to string together a coherent thought. The hands continued their downward quest, moving firmly over Sam’s hips before a fingernail grazed lightly down the crease where thigh met groin and the whole thing was nearly over on the spot. Gene pulled back, allowing Sam a brief moment of respite, and for a second he hung, suspended at the very point of orgasm, forcing himself back from the brink.
“You all right?” Gene enquired, in tones of such solicitousness that Sam almost laughed.
“Fine. Thanks. Please, continue.”
And the exploration continued, down across sensitive thighs, Sam’s legs gently but firmly pulled apart, Gene’s hands skimming over knees and shins, intent apparently on mapping out every single inch of Sam. Even the soles of his feet were not spared, fingernails working with an exquisite sensitivity that fell just short of ticklishness.
“Hang on a mo.” Gene stood up, shrugging off his coat, and Sam realised for the first time that the other man was still fully clothed.
“That’s better. Right then, enough of this fannying about. I’ve got a bet to win, and you’ve already had…” Gene checked his watch “…eleven minutes. Knees up.”
“Sorry?”
“You will be, if you don’t do as you’re told. Knees. Now.”
Unable to resist a raise of eyebrows, Sam nevertheless bent his knees obediently, and Gene slipped a hand between the parted thighs, insinuating it between the mattress and Sam’s buttocks, a fingertip teasing at the puckered hole beneath, pushing in a scant couple of millimetres before stilling. With his free hand, he took hold of Sam’s now rigid erection, finding a steady up and down rhythm, stroking with increasing firmness until Sam threw his head back, giving himself over entirely to the heat coursing through him.
“Fuck, Gene…God…” Sam was aware he was rambling incoherently, but couldn’t find the will to stop. Gene, it seemed, could. Slowing to an unbearably gentle, tantalising rhythm, he pushed his finger further inside Sam, grazing lightly against the tender prostate. Sam nearly hit the roof.
“Jesus…” he gasped. “Please, Gene…please…”
“Told you, didn’t I?” Gene said, and Sam could hear the smirk in his voice as he hit the prostate again, more firmly this time, rubbing over and over the spot as he pumped Sam hard, three times, four, and Sam was lost. With a strangled inarticulate yell that was closer to a sob, he came, hard, splattering come over Gene’s shirt, the other man not relenting until every drop was wrung from him.
He was vaguely aware of Gene gently freeing his arms, taking off the soiled shirt, using it to wipe Sam clean. He lay, semi-conscious, an inane grin plastered onto his face, glorying in the haze of post-orgasmic euphoria. Gene checked his watch again.
“Seventeen minutes,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Not bad, Sammy-boy. Shall we call that half-time?”
Pulling himself up off the bed, Gene retrieved his coat, fishing out his cigarettes from a pocket and lighting up with a satisfied sigh.
“Call it what you like,” Sam said sleepily. “You’ve got no chance of lasting that long. Do you want to call it off now, save yourself the humiliation?”
“Cocky little sod,” Gene answered amiably, refilling the two glasses and coming back over to pass one to Sam. “The bet stands.”
Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, leaning forward to gaze earnestly at Gene. “Seriously, though, Gene. The fitness of the team is an issue that needs to be addressed properly. Yesterday was an embarrassment - we can’t afford to have criminals laughing at us.”
Gene glared sternly back over the rim of his glass. “Listen, Tyler. You get to call me Gene when I’m running my magnificently talented fingers all over your desperate little body. Or when we’re sharing a quiet pint together in a dark corner of the pub. But when you’re nagging, it’s Guv. That’s just proper respect.”
“Oh yeah? And how come you get to call me Gladys at work, then?”
“That’s cos you’re a girl. Now. I’ll let you in on a little secret, shall I? Know where Carter is now?”
Sam shook his head.
“I’ll tell you, then. He’s in the cells back at the nick. Ray brought him in this afternoon. You’ll never guess where he showed up.”
A pause. Sam waited patiently, sipping at the whisky, allowing Gene his moment of dramatic effect.
“In the pub, that’s where. Sitting on his jacksie knocking back a few, bragging to all his mates about how he’d given Manchester’s finest the slip. Didn’t half look a twat when Ray strolled over and lifted him.”
His tone grew thoughtful. “Funny, though. If you’d had your way on this fitness kick, Ray wouldn’t have been anywhere near a boozer during the hours of daylight. Too busy pounding his way round a running track or some such. Now, you’re the brainiac round here. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that an example of irony?”
“Yeah yeah. Very good.” Sam allowed his gaze to drift speculatively over Gene’s shirtless torso, bringing his eyes back up in time to catch, with extreme satisfaction, the sudden dilation of pupils as Gene registered the shift of mood. “Time for the second half?”
“Thought you’d never bloody ask.”
Both men downed the last of the whisky, abandoning the glasses on the floor. Gene stood up, fingers moving downwards to deal with his belt buckle. A hand clamped firmly over his wrist, preventing movement. “Hang on,” Sam said. “I’ll do that.”
Gene let his hands fall loosely to his sides, as Sam took over, undoing belt and fly efficiently before pulling trousers and pants down to ankle level.
“OK, sit down,” Sam said, giving Gene a light shove in the chest. Hobbled by the restricting effects of the trousers, Gene overbalanced, landing heavily on the mattress, cock swelling to half-hardness at the sight of a still-naked Sam moving in for the kill.
Ostentatiously, Sam looked at his watch. “OK. Seventeen minutes to beat, and your time starts now.”
He moved directly in front of Gene, leaning in close so that their faces were almost touching. “Ready?” he said softly. And gently brushed his tongue along the length of Gene’s lower lip.
Gene let out a breathy groan, his cock surging joyfully to full attention at the unexpected onslaught. “Oi. Devious underhanded bloody tricks like that don’t count.”
Sam pulled back slightly to meet Gene’s eyes, holding the look for a long moment, a silent declaration of intent. Relishing the almost imperceptible swallow as Gene got the message.
“Actually…” He pulled back further, kneeling down in front of Gene. “…I think you’ll find…” Lazily he swept his tongue along a thigh, starting just above the knee, stopping a breath away from the impressively full erection. “…They do.”
Without further preamble, he dropped his head, engulfing Gene’s swollen cock, sucking it to the back of his throat. Gene grunted, bucking sharply, and Sam pulled away to prevent himself from gagging, bringing his hands up to take firm hold of Gene’s hips.
“No rush. Guv. Still got sixteen minutes to go yet.”
He returned his attention to the job at hand, grazing his teeth over the head of Gene’s cock, swirling his tongue around and along the shaft. Pulling it all the way into his mouth, before drawing back to suck on the tip like a lollipop, teasing out the first few drops of precome with a questing tongue.
Under his forearms, he felt shudders rippling through Gene’s thighs as his muscles began to spasm. Above his head, rough panting and gasping, harsh guttural sounds that may have included his own name. Sam brought his hand across to rest gently at the base of Gene’s cock, and moved up a gear or two, taking Gene as far back into his throat as he could manage, licking and sucking with increasing speed until he felt the tightening of balls under his hand, the quiver and tautening of muscles that signalled an imminent orgasm.
“Sam, it…I…God…I’m gonna…”
Holding back until the last possible moment, Sam gripped tightly round the base of the shaft, halting Gene’s climax in its tracks. The sound that emerged from Gene was indescribable, and Sam revelled in the knowledge that he could evoke something so utterly primal. Long seconds passed, until Sam deemed it safe to relax his grip, and Gene more or less regained the power of speech.
“What the...?”
Sam rubbed the pad of his thumb gently, absent-mindedly, across overheated velvet skin, gazing up into Gene’s shell-shocked face with a smile of pure evil.
“Oh yeah. I might have forgotten to mention earlier. I concede.”
“Er…sorry?”
“I concede. Bet’s yours. You win.”
His hand started to rove more purposefully, and he turned his head downwards again, his murmured words just loud enough for Gene to catch.
“Seventeen minutes is nothing compared to what I’ve got planned for you.”
“Oh you little bastard. You’ll pay for…” Gene sank backwards onto the bed, the words catching in his throat as Sam got to work in earnest.
And he was remorseless, combining hands, tongue and teeth with shattering skill, bringing Gene to the very edge time and again, before pulling him back, unerring in his instinct for the precise moment beyond which the game would be over. Deaf to Gene’s moans, curses, and in the end outright pleas, it was only when the sounds diminished to ragged uncontrolled breathing and the occasional choked sob that Sam finally relented. His mouth slipping up and down the engorged erection, hand mirroring the rhythm further down, he felt again Gene’s approaching climax, speeding up this time until the other man’s hips bucked powerfully upwards and orgasm, so long denied, finally claimed him.
Sam swallowed and swallowed, suckling softly until the last drops were consumed and he felt Gene grow still, heard his breathing subside. Then he stood, moving across the small room to retrieve his shirt and underpants from the floor, putting them on before pouring a refill of scotch for the pair of them. Impulsively, he shook out a cigarette from the pack and lit it, enjoying the guilty pleasure of the inhaled smoke before holding cigarette and glass out in Gene’s direction.
“Thought you might want these.”
Gene gazed up at him blearily from the bed, propped himself up on one elbow.
“I’ve said it before, Tyler. You’re a devious little bastard.”
He stood up shakily, pulling up his trousers and fastening them before accepting the proffered gifts and taking a deep drag of much-needed nicotine.
“For the record. How long was that then?”
Sam glanced at his watch. “Twenty nine minutes, as good as. But - you’re not going to hold me to the bet, are you? I threw it. That doesn’t count.”
Gene sat back down, grinning at Sam with ominous smugness, raising his glass in a parody of a toast. “Actually, Sammy-boy. I think you’ll find…it does.”
EPILOGUE:
The following morning saw one of the steady downpours that Manchester was famous for at this, and indeed any other, time of year. A solitary old man braved the inclemency of the weather, hunched against the elements, selflessly allowing his ageing Labrador the opportunity to frolic and splash in the swampy mud of the playing fields.
Given the conditions and the early hour, he was fully expecting to have the fields to himself. Certainly he had not anticipated the sight of a trio of grown men, huddled together under hoods and umbrellas, whooping and catcalling as a fourth man, unfashionably short hair sodden and dripping, pounded around and around the perimeter, sporting a Didsbury Greys T-shirt and an alarmingly short pair of shorts.
Shaking his head in righteous disgust at their antics, the old man called his dog to heel, turning back for the short walk home. Things certainly were never like this in his day. Sometimes he wondered what society was coming to. Honestly, he had a good mind to call the police.