Better Without Them
When you're a spy, asking the wrong kind of questions can get you killed. But asking the right kind of questions will get you laid. After years in the field, I'm an expert at asking the right questions.
"You work better without them?"
Sam's smile didn't lose one iota of sleaze. "Yeah, but you remember that, Mikey. I can tell from the look in your eye."
That was several years ago, before, in Alaska, when they were both on leave and had been horny and lonely. Michael's grows aroused remembering it, sensation singing through his veins like a fine aphrodisiac.
Sam watches him, his expression sardonic and yet watchful. He's testing the waters, seeing if Michael's really interested in what he's offering.
Michael doesn't say anything for a minute. Sam just sips his beer, his head resting against the wall, smirking.
And Michael just wants to wipe the smirk off of his face.
***
Grabbing a man by the collar of his wifebeater is never a good idea - the material tends to be too flimsy and rips right down the armhole...
Sam doesn't seem to mind when his tee-shirt rips, but the shock of it drops his mouth open, allowing Michael to kiss him. And when Michael starts kissing him, it doesn't take Sam very long to drop the beer and start kissing back. Michael can feel the mug sweat in his hair as Sam runs his fingers through it, the beer drizzling off the end of the couch and down into his loafers, but by then he's halfway into Sam's lap.
Sam breaks the kiss. "Woah. Are you sure you want..." Michael's hand reaches between them to fish Sam out of his boxers. He squeezes his friend's freed cock proprietarily, possessively; it's semi-hard but promisingly so. "Okaythen," Sam breathes, his eyes closing slowly. Then he reaches out for Michael to unbutton his shirt.
***
There are as many ways to give head as there are waves in the ocean. Slow, fast, sloppy, delicately - pick whatever works best for you. The key is to remember to maintain eye contact with your lover throughout the act. Losing eye contact means a loss of control.
The ripped wifebeater is off in a second, and Sam eagerly strips off Michael's shirt. He takes a moment to play his fingers over the ridges of his friend's abdominal muscles before pawing his belt open.
Sam pets Michael through the fly of his pants before twisting him around, lying his best friend flat on the couch. Sam's boxer shorts are off in the blink of an eye, and Michael's pants and boxers join them, shed and thrown over Sam's shoulder to the floor behind them.
He wrestles Sam playfully as they kiss and touch, the pace turning slightly less frantic. Michael rolls Sam over, biting and kissing the soft flesh of his shoulder and chest, licking each nipple briefly before slowly snaking his way downward.
The couch is too short to do what he wants, so Michael has to crawl off of Sam and kneel beside it. Sam props himself up on his elbows to pay witness to Michael's passion, struggling to keep his eyes open under his more youthful friend's passionate touch.
Michael surrounds Sam's cock with the warmth of his hand, tugging it briefly, just once. His palms are too dry for a handjob, the lube's next to his bed. His mouth's the most convenient option, and so he selects it.
Michael's tongue flicks out as he leans over Sam's lap. It slips over the length of him, balls to tip, tip to balls, then slow circles around the rim of the head. Sam tenses, his fingers digging into the couch cushions, and Michael responds with one more trip over the length of his cock.
Their eyes lock as Michael takes Sam's cock into his mouth. Inch by inch by hard, hot inch. Until he reaches the base, and Sam's pubic hair brushes his chin.
Sam's eyes are wide. His breath hisses out from the overwhelming delight of the contact. "Mike..." he chokes out.
Michael lets his lover's cock emerge slowly, easily, inch by inch, until it's free but for the head, glistening in the light. Then he lunges downward, engulfing it, sucking hard, half-choking, knowing the sensation would be exquisite for Sam.
As always, Michael gets his desired result as Sam writhes on the couch, his animate face showing everything, every little bit of ecstasy in his body.
"Jesus, Mike..." the words are guttural. His fingers lace through Michael's short hair. Michael keeps his gaze locked to Sam's, taking several more trips up and down his shaft, lubing the shaft well with his spit, paying extra attention to the head, flicking just over the tip.
Sam's toes curl; sweat drips down his torso, beads on the tip of his nose, glistening in his hair. He grabs Michael by his ears and tries to face-fuck him, but Michael's quick hands pin his wrists to the couch - he tries to lift his hips but Michael uses his weight to pin him. Sam lets out a guttural, frustrated moan, and Michael glories in the joy of his triumph.
"Mikey, if...fuck...I...gonna..." Michael pulls Sam's dick free of his throat so quickly that Sam bucks upward and lets out a shout of dismay.
"Not in my mouth," Michael says.
Sam's frown suddenly turns into huge grin.
****
As much as I wish it were one, sweat isn't an efficient lubricant. Vegetable oil and whipped cream melt into gooey messes, and if it's not labeled for internal use, it shouldn't be used for internal use, no matter how romantic. Spit will work in a pinch, but it dries out quickly. If you want the job done right, nothing does it as well as a marketed-for-your-personal-use-bottle of KY or Wet3.
By the time Sam comes back with the lube, Michael's perched himself over the arm of the couch, his ass in the air and his chin on his elbows. Sam's laughing at the label.
"Strawberry flavored, Mikey?" Sam asks. "Kinky."
Michael winces, deciding not to tell him that he bought it for another lover. "Sam, you can taste it later." He flexes his ass deliberately, allowing Sam to see his achingly empty hole.
"Right." Sam nearly trips over himself as he leans over Michael, dribbling a stream of it over the seam of his ass and down to his hole. Sam teases around the circumference of Michael's opening before introducing two fingers.
Bit by bit.
Michael lets out a soft grunt, still in control of himself. The sensation of being filled felt wonderful after such a long abstinence. "More," he mumbles, not quite willing to show Sam how much he wanted this.
"D'you say something?" He glances over his shoulder to see Sam watching his own fingers slip into Michael's ass.
"Nuh...no," he starts rocking his hips at a much faster speed than Sam's hand maintained.
Sam responded by doubling his own speed. "Shit..." Sam hisses, pulling his fingers out, pausing to lube his chock. "You were made to be fucked," Sam says against his neck. "Born for it."
"Then fuck me," Michael says.
"Keep saying it," Sam says, reaching down to insert himself.
"Fuck me fuck me fuck me," Michael chants, his eyes closed, feeling Sam's sweat slither down his spine as it drips from his forehead, his chest, and then the hard, warm pressure of his cock invading a rarely-used entrance.
"YES," Sam replies, his forehead against the back of Michael's head. With his right hand on his friend's hip Sam slowly pulls backward and bucks forward. The rhythm starts out smooth, rapidly gaining a violent jounce that pounds Michael's chin into the couch.
Sam's staying power is remarkable - Michael manages to lose track of time and the surrounding world as Sam does his magic, grinding against his prostate on every downstroke, reaching around to jerk his cock with lubed fingers.
Sam bites Michael's neck. "Don't you come, don't you come. Gonna swallow it, gonna drink it for you..."
The combined blows of Sam's words, body and touch makes Michael reel - he seizes Sam's hand and pulls it away from his aching cock and reaches back for Sam's pounding hips, trying to get him to move faster.
Move faster is exactly what Sam does. "Gonna blow," Sam growls into Michael's ear, jackhammering his hips against Michael's, causing his friend's mouth to fall open in a silent scream. Sam grunts Michael's name as, with one final buck, he comes. The sudden flood of heat that caresses the interior of his hot hot ass make Michael grunt in a combination of relief oddly combined with heightened desire.
Sam pulls out and rolls Michael onto his back, diving toward his lap. "Now you," he says.
When you're in an all-win situation, there's no shame in just sitting back and reaping the rewards. The difference between being caught off guard and enjoying the hell out of what's happening to you is awareness. Orgasms heighten the senses, and they're also good for the brain - my advice is to have as many as you can...
Michael's been waiting for too many minutes for an orgasm, and Sam only has to wiggle his tongue once, suck just so hard, before Michael loses it completely and jets into his mouth. The pleasure nearly makes him faint as it rolls from the top of his head to the tip of his dick.
"Mmm," Sam hums deliberately, swallowing the thickness of Michael's cream, bobbing for more. Eventually it's too much, and Michael shoves Sam's head away.
Sam lies against Michael's thigh, panting for air, smiling into his skin. "Goddamn, Mikey. You're one hell of a fuck."
"You too," Michael responds. He's too tired for much of a conversation.
Sam closes his eyes, relaxing against Michael's body. "So am I better without them?"
Did I mention that it doesn't take a spy to ask a great question?
Michael grins. "Definitely, Sam."