(no subject)
For the June Bug challenge, and also Happy Birthday to my ♥ brother!
(Will post this more officially when I get home from work: shit! I'm late as it is, just trying to format this thing right here.)
This is trickC, and of no redeeming value whatever.
All the Girls
“Her,” JC says, and wow, jeez, big tits. “Sure,” Chris says, and JC nods with a touch of smugness and smiles at her across the room, and for a second she has that deer in the headlights look, big eyes and open mouth and that silky, shiny hair Chris likes, blonde, but then JC licks his lips and his eyes start to glaze over and he gets that dick-stupid look Chris loves, so Chris grabs him by the shirt-front and drags him through the crowd, down the hall and over to the elevators, away.
Back in the suite, JC says, “Aw,” and Chris shakes his head. “Your mouth is still moving and your clothes are still on,” he says, frowning. “Why is that?”
JC smiles, tilting his head. “I just thought...” he says, and his smile grows wider when Chris rolls his eyes, and he pulls his t-shirt up over his head, but once off he keeps it wound around his hands, holding on. “I mean, I know how you like...”
“What do I fucking like,” Chris says roughly, and yanks the t-shirt out JC’s hands, and there it is again, that look, and suddenly Chris is desperate to fuck. “Your clothes,” he says, pulling off his own shirt and fumbling with his belt buckle. “C’mon, JC,” and JC picks at the knot at his waist and pulls the cord, so slowly that Chris can feel every inch along his spine, can feel it in his balls when the knot tugs loose. “Fuck,” Chris breathes, and JC’s looking at him through his lashes, fucker, and holding his ridiculous shiny harem pants up at the waist.
“I thought you might like to fuck her tits,” JC says, shrugging slightly. In a flash, Chris can see it: crouching over her, her red nails pressed into the pale globes, holding them in place as his dick slides between, pops out, tight, and her open mouth, waiting for it... yeah... yeah fuck, but JC’s shoulders are a little tense, and his fingers are clenched around the waistband of the billowy pants.
“Rather watch you do it.”
Bingo. JC shudders and closes his eyes, his breathing suddenly loud in the quiet room. “Watch you rub your dick on her face,” Chris says experimentally, and JC moans and loosens his grasp and the pants fall down around his feet. He’s, fuck, Chris loves it, such a fucking slut, stiff and red and bobbing in the air, ready to rock, commando in the stupid harem pants like some twisted Harlequin Romance mashup: Soldiers and Sailors, maybe. Pirates and Sheiks. He’s going crazy. Aching hard, going to fuck JC so hard, fuck him through the wall. Kiss him, and not stop.
But before he can clear his head enough to fucking do it, JC kicks the pants aside and stalks over. Chris watches him, feeling like he’s the deer in the headlights now; any minute he’s going to grab JC and force him to his knees, show him, but then JC takes him down hard with some kind of Ninja move -- Ninjas and Nerds, Chris thinks, on the edge of hysteria -- and tugs his pants and shorts out of the way and swallows him down.
He doesn’t even try to muffle his loud pleasure noises, because it’s right there, sweet and nasty and JC’s mouth is so hot and wet and his tongue -- Chris sinks his hands into JC’s silky hair and gives it up, driving hard into JC’s mouth until his head explodes and his heart stops.
When he comes to, sweet fire still zinging down his spine and through his thighs and ass, his cock still hard and no way this is over, no way, JC is crouching over him, jerking it and moaning, panting, shuddering hard, watching him. “Do it,” Chris says, and JC drops his head like he’s been struck: curves in on himself, taut and gleaming with sweat, and shoots all over Chris’s chest and face.
It’s... god, it’s fucking the hottest thing Chris has ever seen. He waits for JC to recover, watching him heave for breath like he just ran a marathon, and idly rubs the come over his skin, slick, round and round.
Sometime later, much later, just as Chris is drowsing off, face pressed against JC’s neck, unable to breathe, really, but so comfortable, JC whispers something. Do you miss it, sounds like -- and before Chris can catch himself he laughs out loud.
The end.
(Will post this more officially when I get home from work: shit! I'm late as it is, just trying to format this thing right here.)
This is trickC, and of no redeeming value whatever.
All the Girls
“Her,” JC says, and wow, jeez, big tits. “Sure,” Chris says, and JC nods with a touch of smugness and smiles at her across the room, and for a second she has that deer in the headlights look, big eyes and open mouth and that silky, shiny hair Chris likes, blonde, but then JC licks his lips and his eyes start to glaze over and he gets that dick-stupid look Chris loves, so Chris grabs him by the shirt-front and drags him through the crowd, down the hall and over to the elevators, away.
Back in the suite, JC says, “Aw,” and Chris shakes his head. “Your mouth is still moving and your clothes are still on,” he says, frowning. “Why is that?”
JC smiles, tilting his head. “I just thought...” he says, and his smile grows wider when Chris rolls his eyes, and he pulls his t-shirt up over his head, but once off he keeps it wound around his hands, holding on. “I mean, I know how you like...”
“What do I fucking like,” Chris says roughly, and yanks the t-shirt out JC’s hands, and there it is again, that look, and suddenly Chris is desperate to fuck. “Your clothes,” he says, pulling off his own shirt and fumbling with his belt buckle. “C’mon, JC,” and JC picks at the knot at his waist and pulls the cord, so slowly that Chris can feel every inch along his spine, can feel it in his balls when the knot tugs loose. “Fuck,” Chris breathes, and JC’s looking at him through his lashes, fucker, and holding his ridiculous shiny harem pants up at the waist.
“I thought you might like to fuck her tits,” JC says, shrugging slightly. In a flash, Chris can see it: crouching over her, her red nails pressed into the pale globes, holding them in place as his dick slides between, pops out, tight, and her open mouth, waiting for it... yeah... yeah fuck, but JC’s shoulders are a little tense, and his fingers are clenched around the waistband of the billowy pants.
“Rather watch you do it.”
Bingo. JC shudders and closes his eyes, his breathing suddenly loud in the quiet room. “Watch you rub your dick on her face,” Chris says experimentally, and JC moans and loosens his grasp and the pants fall down around his feet. He’s, fuck, Chris loves it, such a fucking slut, stiff and red and bobbing in the air, ready to rock, commando in the stupid harem pants like some twisted Harlequin Romance mashup: Soldiers and Sailors, maybe. Pirates and Sheiks. He’s going crazy. Aching hard, going to fuck JC so hard, fuck him through the wall. Kiss him, and not stop.
But before he can clear his head enough to fucking do it, JC kicks the pants aside and stalks over. Chris watches him, feeling like he’s the deer in the headlights now; any minute he’s going to grab JC and force him to his knees, show him, but then JC takes him down hard with some kind of Ninja move -- Ninjas and Nerds, Chris thinks, on the edge of hysteria -- and tugs his pants and shorts out of the way and swallows him down.
He doesn’t even try to muffle his loud pleasure noises, because it’s right there, sweet and nasty and JC’s mouth is so hot and wet and his tongue -- Chris sinks his hands into JC’s silky hair and gives it up, driving hard into JC’s mouth until his head explodes and his heart stops.
When he comes to, sweet fire still zinging down his spine and through his thighs and ass, his cock still hard and no way this is over, no way, JC is crouching over him, jerking it and moaning, panting, shuddering hard, watching him. “Do it,” Chris says, and JC drops his head like he’s been struck: curves in on himself, taut and gleaming with sweat, and shoots all over Chris’s chest and face.
It’s... god, it’s fucking the hottest thing Chris has ever seen. He waits for JC to recover, watching him heave for breath like he just ran a marathon, and idly rubs the come over his skin, slick, round and round.
Sometime later, much later, just as Chris is drowsing off, face pressed against JC’s neck, unable to breathe, really, but so comfortable, JC whispers something. Do you miss it, sounds like -- and before Chris can catch himself he laughs out loud.
The end.