down, leaving Crick completely exposed to the air.
Deacon propped himself up on his elbows and took a moment to appreciate that sweet stretch of flesh. Crick’s body was so long and so lean, such a pretty color of pale brown, with hardly a blemish or a freckle anywhere except his shoulders, which burned almost every year.
Deacon met Crick’s eyes, a limpid, helpless brown, and reached out a rough-callused finger towards his erection, watching as those eyes grew enormous, anticipating, wanting—so hungry Deacon had a moment of doubt that he could feed all that hunger, and then he was so hungry himself, he thought that maybe he could.
Deacon’s finger found that beauty mark, almost lightning-shaped, and he grunted in satisfaction and then again as Crick arched up toward that single touch, begging. But Deacon knew a little something about this from his own hands on his flesh, and he kept up that one finger, stroking the underside of Crick’s cock, investigating the tenderness of testicles and the fur in between, skating playfully across the slickened head and torturously across that delicate, shiver-inducing little stretched cord of flesh that once attached the foreskin.
Crick groaned when he did that, so he did that again.
And again.
Crick started to plead with him, gibbering, begging, “Please, Deacon, please, please, please, pleasepleaseplease,”and Deacon, who was used to having no words at all when Crick talked all over the place, loved that he didn’t even have words for what he wanted. Deacon didn’t need words to know what Crick wanted, and when a half-spasm of pre-come spurted across Crick’s stomach, Deacon raised his head and engulfed that beautiful, swollen cock with his mouth, taking it as far back into his throat as he possibly could and holding it there as Crick lost control with a strangled “Auuughhhhh.” It was sweet and bitter and thick, and Deacon swallowed and swallowed and swallowed.
Not all of it, though. He couldn’t. When he looked up at Crick to smile wickedly into those brown eyes, he was very aware that Crick’s come was dripping down his chin.
“Now that that’s over with,” he panted, “we can take things a little slower.”
Crick pushed up on his elbows and stared at him stupidly. “Slower?” Deacon smiled, and he knew it was a dreamy, devious sort of smile.
“Crick, the things I’ve got planned to do to you… I don’t want to rush them.”
Crick groaned and flopped down backwards. “I thought I was seducing you!”
Deacon popped Crick’s cock into his mouth for a playful clean up and then started investigating the inside of Crick’s thighs with his lips, teeth, and tongue.
“Nope,” he muttered, positioning himself between Crick’s spread thighs. He pushed at Crick’s knees then, and Crick’s body was spread out in front of him. Some of the come had dripped down the crease of Crick’s body and was there, at Crick’s opening, waiting to be played with.
Using that one wicked finger, Deacon obliged.
“Ahh… God… Deacon… I didn’t know you’d done this before.” Crick’s voice cracked as that finger slipped inside him and circled, stretching so gently, Crick could barely feel any resistance.
Deacon pushed himself up to peer at the boy he’d loved forever and make sure this point was clear. “I haven’t,” he said, nodding earnestly. “I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing.” He ducked his head then and pushed his tongue where his finger had just been, liking the keening groan Crick made so much that he pushed it even farther.
“Could… have… ah, God, Deacon you’re killing me… fooled me…
fuck!”
Deacon had gone back to using his fingers again, and that was when he found that little walnut-sized swelling right there inside. He rubbed it again, and Crick’s body arched and flailed, and Crick all but sobbed.
Deacon grinned. Good. He had a plan now. Licking carefully, using as much saliva as he could, he coated two
Deacon propped himself up on his elbows and took a moment to appreciate that sweet stretch of flesh. Crick’s body was so long and so lean, such a pretty color of pale brown, with hardly a blemish or a freckle anywhere except his shoulders, which burned almost every year.
Deacon met Crick’s eyes, a limpid, helpless brown, and reached out a rough-callused finger towards his erection, watching as those eyes grew enormous, anticipating, wanting—so hungry Deacon had a moment of doubt that he could feed all that hunger, and then he was so hungry himself, he thought that maybe he could.
Deacon’s finger found that beauty mark, almost lightning-shaped, and he grunted in satisfaction and then again as Crick arched up toward that single touch, begging. But Deacon knew a little something about this from his own hands on his flesh, and he kept up that one finger, stroking the underside of Crick’s cock, investigating the tenderness of testicles and the fur in between, skating playfully across the slickened head and torturously across that delicate, shiver-inducing little stretched cord of flesh that once attached the foreskin.
Crick groaned when he did that, so he did that again.
And again.
Crick started to plead with him, gibbering, begging, “Please, Deacon, please, please, please, pleasepleaseplease,”and Deacon, who was used to having no words at all when Crick talked all over the place, loved that he didn’t even have words for what he wanted. Deacon didn’t need words to know what Crick wanted, and when a half-spasm of pre-come spurted across Crick’s stomach, Deacon raised his head and engulfed that beautiful, swollen cock with his mouth, taking it as far back into his throat as he possibly could and holding it there as Crick lost control with a strangled “Auuughhhhh.” It was sweet and bitter and thick, and Deacon swallowed and swallowed and swallowed.
Not all of it, though. He couldn’t. When he looked up at Crick to smile wickedly into those brown eyes, he was very aware that Crick’s come was dripping down his chin.
“Now that that’s over with,” he panted, “we can take things a little slower.”
Crick pushed up on his elbows and stared at him stupidly. “Slower?” Deacon smiled, and he knew it was a dreamy, devious sort of smile.
“Crick, the things I’ve got planned to do to you… I don’t want to rush them.”
Crick groaned and flopped down backwards. “I thought I was seducing you!”
Deacon popped Crick’s cock into his mouth for a playful clean up and then started investigating the inside of Crick’s thighs with his lips, teeth, and tongue.
“Nope,” he muttered, positioning himself between Crick’s spread thighs. He pushed at Crick’s knees then, and Crick’s body was spread out in front of him. Some of the come had dripped down the crease of Crick’s body and was there, at Crick’s opening, waiting to be played with.
Using that one wicked finger, Deacon obliged.
“Ahh… God… Deacon… I didn’t know you’d done this before.” Crick’s voice cracked as that finger slipped inside him and circled, stretching so gently, Crick could barely feel any resistance.
Deacon pushed himself up to peer at the boy he’d loved forever and make sure this point was clear. “I haven’t,” he said, nodding earnestly. “I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing.” He ducked his head then and pushed his tongue where his finger had just been, liking the keening groan Crick made so much that he pushed it even farther.
“Could… have… ah, God, Deacon you’re killing me… fooled me…
fuck!”
Deacon had gone back to using his fingers again, and that was when he found that little walnut-sized swelling right there inside. He rubbed it again, and Crick’s body arched and flailed, and Crick all but sobbed.
Deacon grinned. Good. He had a plan now. Licking carefully, using as much saliva as he could, he coated two
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