just from having Crick’s cock in his mouth, Crick guessed. “Fast. First I’m going to make you come, and then I’m going to fuck you, and then you’re going to come some more—”
“Oh damn!” Deacon sucked one of Crick’s balls into his mouth, licked around it, enjoying the hell out of it while pumping Crick with the other hand. “Oh hell… that’s a plan… Jesus, Deacon, stop playing with my balls and suck me, will ya?”
Deacon did, chuckling around Crick’s cockhead as he went deep throat again, and Crick’s whole body shivered, spasmed, and his vision went black and he came. Deacon pulled away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned up at Crick with such innocent evil that Crick whimpered, wanting more, wanting it suddenly, wanting it now!
“You ready for part two?” Deacon asked, and Crick nodded.
“Bed?”
“God, yes. Help me up.”
Crick had to take off his boots and his jeans first, or he would have tripped and fallen on his face on the way to the bedroom, and it felt more naked being naked in the living room of the nearly empty house than it felt in the shower or even in their bed. But make it to the bedroom they did, Deacon carrying Crick’s clothes, which he dumped in a muddle on the floor instead of in the hamper, and then stripped at record speed. He blushed a little and dove for the covers, even though it was still quite warm, both outside and in. After Crick ditched his shirt, he slid in next to him.
And was promptly mauled in the best of ways.
Deacon felt him up everywhere—his shoulders, his chest, his hips. Their mouths met, and Deacon stroked the side of Crick’s neck, and for a moment he kept his hand there, his palm resting gently on Crick’s pulse, and Crick was comforted, was gentled. Deacon would take care of him. Deacon did take care of him, every day. Crick worried about Deacon’s health and fussed about the secret, damaged parts only Crick knew, but Deacon, by God, took care of Crick and always would.
Crick rested his game hand on Deacon’s hip, and Deacon held still while Crick thrust up against him. Oh yes ! Something about having the soft skin of Deacon’s cock and the hardness inside up against him made this one of the most erotic acts Crick knew.
Deacon moved his hand from Crick’s neck and reached down to grab them both together, the almost delirious friction and pressure enough to make Crick bury his face in the hollow of Deacon’s neck and shoulders.
“I could totally come just from this,” he panted. “If you want to do your thing, do it now!”
Deacon chuckled and nuzzled Crick’s ear. “My thing?”
“The thing!” Crick muttered, and now, of all times, hewas feeling shy . Crick didn’t getshy. He hadn’t been born with the shyness gene. But even after seven years of Deacon knowing his body, the things he felt when they were together still made him tremble.
Deacon had a dash of predator in him when they were in bed. “The thing?” he asked, still holding their cocks together, still thrusting his hips. “The thing where I lick you and stretch you and fuck you? That thing?” He was whispering into Crick’s ear, his lips brushing the sensitive hollow, and Crick wanted to roll over and spread his cheeks, just from the sound of that deep, sweet voice in the whorls of his ear. The grip and slide of Deacon’s hand and cock against his own didn’t make that need go away.
“Ye-ess!” Crick’s voice pitched pleadingly, and Deacon’s weight and his hand disappeared, and Crick rolled over and raised his ass, giving his bad arm a stern caution to be steady for this, he had needs. Deacon pressed the flat of his hand against his back gently, and Crick allowed himself to fall, completely vulnerable, ass sticking up in the air, his head on a pillow and his arms around it.
The cool of the damp cloth was not entirely unexpected—they worked hard and got sweaty and it seemed just courtesy to allow yourself to be freshened
“Oh damn!” Deacon sucked one of Crick’s balls into his mouth, licked around it, enjoying the hell out of it while pumping Crick with the other hand. “Oh hell… that’s a plan… Jesus, Deacon, stop playing with my balls and suck me, will ya?”
Deacon did, chuckling around Crick’s cockhead as he went deep throat again, and Crick’s whole body shivered, spasmed, and his vision went black and he came. Deacon pulled away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned up at Crick with such innocent evil that Crick whimpered, wanting more, wanting it suddenly, wanting it now!
“You ready for part two?” Deacon asked, and Crick nodded.
“Bed?”
“God, yes. Help me up.”
Crick had to take off his boots and his jeans first, or he would have tripped and fallen on his face on the way to the bedroom, and it felt more naked being naked in the living room of the nearly empty house than it felt in the shower or even in their bed. But make it to the bedroom they did, Deacon carrying Crick’s clothes, which he dumped in a muddle on the floor instead of in the hamper, and then stripped at record speed. He blushed a little and dove for the covers, even though it was still quite warm, both outside and in. After Crick ditched his shirt, he slid in next to him.
And was promptly mauled in the best of ways.
Deacon felt him up everywhere—his shoulders, his chest, his hips. Their mouths met, and Deacon stroked the side of Crick’s neck, and for a moment he kept his hand there, his palm resting gently on Crick’s pulse, and Crick was comforted, was gentled. Deacon would take care of him. Deacon did take care of him, every day. Crick worried about Deacon’s health and fussed about the secret, damaged parts only Crick knew, but Deacon, by God, took care of Crick and always would.
Crick rested his game hand on Deacon’s hip, and Deacon held still while Crick thrust up against him. Oh yes ! Something about having the soft skin of Deacon’s cock and the hardness inside up against him made this one of the most erotic acts Crick knew.
Deacon moved his hand from Crick’s neck and reached down to grab them both together, the almost delirious friction and pressure enough to make Crick bury his face in the hollow of Deacon’s neck and shoulders.
“I could totally come just from this,” he panted. “If you want to do your thing, do it now!”
Deacon chuckled and nuzzled Crick’s ear. “My thing?”
“The thing!” Crick muttered, and now, of all times, hewas feeling shy . Crick didn’t getshy. He hadn’t been born with the shyness gene. But even after seven years of Deacon knowing his body, the things he felt when they were together still made him tremble.
Deacon had a dash of predator in him when they were in bed. “The thing?” he asked, still holding their cocks together, still thrusting his hips. “The thing where I lick you and stretch you and fuck you? That thing?” He was whispering into Crick’s ear, his lips brushing the sensitive hollow, and Crick wanted to roll over and spread his cheeks, just from the sound of that deep, sweet voice in the whorls of his ear. The grip and slide of Deacon’s hand and cock against his own didn’t make that need go away.
“Ye-ess!” Crick’s voice pitched pleadingly, and Deacon’s weight and his hand disappeared, and Crick rolled over and raised his ass, giving his bad arm a stern caution to be steady for this, he had needs. Deacon pressed the flat of his hand against his back gently, and Crick allowed himself to fall, completely vulnerable, ass sticking up in the air, his head on a pillow and his arms around it.
The cool of the damp cloth was not entirely unexpected—they worked hard and got sweaty and it seemed just courtesy to allow yourself to be freshened
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