By Mickey M.
© August 2002
There's something about seeing Lance like this; Chris
isn't sure he'll ever NOT react to it. Laid out like a feast for him, limbs spread,
all four, making him look like Jesus on the cross, with his fingers grabbing
and pulling at the bedclothes, pleasure written in every taut line of his body.
"Can you take another?" He asks softly, not
wanting to break the silence. It's a strange silent-but-not thing, the only
sounds being Lance's moans and grunts, and the wet, slick sound of Chris'
fingers moving in and out. It's erotic in the extreme, and he doesn't want to
break that. Lance is rocking back against him, against the three fingers already
buried deep inside him.
"Yes...god, yes. Please, Chris--" He strains,
pushes up onto his knees, chest still flush against the bed. Chris is pretty
sure he's never seen anything as beautiful as this man, open and begging,
wanting anything he can -- will -- give him.
"Gotcha covered, baby." The bottle of lube is
half-full now; it was full when they started. He drizzles more onto his hand,
then his fingers, easing the first three out before tucking the fourth one in
with them.
Lance moans, a low, deep growl of sound, and pushes
backward, and Chris watches in fascination as he opens, taking all four fingers
to the third knuckle. Swallows them hungrily, greedily. Chris swallows and rubs himself through his
pants, aroused and aching just from watching. He wants to do so much more;
wants to crawl deep inside Lance, where his fingers are buried...crawl inside
and be sounded by the tight, so tight heat, be cradled and caressed by the
silky, slick walls holding onto his fingers.
"You're so sexy," he whispers, leaning in to
nuzzle the backs of Lance's legs. Long expanse of pale, pale flesh, with a
light dusting of hair, though not so much here, on the backs of his thighs. He
nips once, twice, then sucks where he bit, hearing the raw sound Lance makes, feeling
it vibrate through him and lodge in his gut. "Lance—fuck." He fucks
his fingers a little faster, twisting and wiggling them, rubbing upward over
that special spot, shuddering when Lance bucks backward.
"GOD, Chris—" The words are broken into harsh breaths,
and Chris sees Lance twisting the bedspread in his fists, fingers white and red
where he's clenching so hard. "For the love of—god, please, more,
please…"
"More? You sure?" He slows the thrusts, moving
his fingers gently, rubbing at the smooth walls.
"*Yes*. God." Lance hisses the words, then pumps
downward, humping the bed, only to push up and back against Chris' fingers.
"Chris, c'mon…."
"'Kay—hang on," Chris reaches for the lube
again, trying not to shake too badly. This is so hot. He's so hot. And
Lance…Christ, he's fucking on *fire*.
Chris stares at the long, clean line of his back, bowed where he was
rubbing backward, a faint sheen of sweat glistening against the pale skin. He
wants to—lick. Bite. Both. Wants to leave red marks up and down, to shine
against the whiteness.
And he wants to watch Lance's body open up further, to
take him inside and hold him there.
He slides his fingers out slowly, listening to the hoarse,
shivery words and sounds Lance mumbles. Nothing in particular, mostly noises,
but they wrap all around Chris, licking at his arousal, pushing it higher.
Lance is making those noises because of *him*. Because of what he, Chris, is
doing to him. And it it's so hot, turning him on so badly.
"C'mon, please—" Lance's hips are still moving
slowly, a gentle fucking motion, and his words are interspersed with gulps of
air, rendering his voice even deeper, huskier than usual. "Need it…so
hot…"
"Yeah. Fuck, you are." Chris smoothes his free
hand over the rounded curve of Lance's ass, then reaches for the lube. It's
slick and smooth on his fingers; makes them shine and glisten. He rubs them
together, drizzles more over Lance's ass, smoothing it into his skin briefly,
liking the shine. It makes him want to lean over and just—devour him.
He licks over the loosened, slick opening, making a face
at the taste of the lube, but. Lance. Quivering beneath Chris' tongue, begging
with his body. Wanting more. He licks once more, then pulls back to rub slick fingers
where his tongue has been, smiling when Lance whimpers.
"*Please*. Stop teasing, Chris—"
"Not teasing, dude." Chris settles a steadying
hand on one thigh, noting the muscles there are hard and tight, with a faint
tremor working through Lance's body into his hand. He rubs gently, then harder,
biting his lip when Lance pushes backward, meeting his touches, groaning
softly. Chris slides his fingers inside that incredible heat and shudders,
feels Lance shudder in tandem with him. "God, you should see this--*so*
fucking hot, Lance."
"Feels like it…please…more." Lance wiggles his
ass and Chris groans, thrusts three fingers into him, then back out, increasing
the pace again until Lance is clenching and grabbing at the sheets once more.
When he's sweating and panting, Chris folds his thumb against his palm before
pressing inward again, slowly, but not too slowly. Make him hot, not hurt him.
Lance growls; it's a raw, hot sound that seems to Chris
like it's being pulled from his throat. He works his hand slowly, wiggling and
shifting it, working slowly inside the smooth, silky heat. It's hard to
concentrate, to remember to go slow, when he wants to slam inside, crawl up in
there, deep as he can go. Another raw sound, and Lance stiffens, breathes
ragged and deep, and Chris freezes in place, waiting 'til Lance relaxes again,
back still bowed, fingers scrabbling at the linens.
"Okay?"
"Yes. God. Don't *stop*, don't—" The last words
are practically howled, and Chris laughs, growls, something; his own type of raw
sound. More lube, and he's pressing deeper, harder, eyes slitted in
concentration, his cock about to bust out of his pants, he's so turned on.
"Not stopping, Christ, Lance." And he's not.
Lance snarls something at him, then whimpers, and it's the widest part of his
hand, and oh, god, he's opening for Chris' hand, taking it, and it's the
hottest thing he's ever seen, watching himself slide deeper inside. Lance is
bucking backward now, groaning, panting, working his hips into a fucking
rhythm. Chris shifts his hand slowly, opening it, then curling it into a fist,
pumping slowly, then faster, and Lance goes apeshit.
He doesn't want to go too hard, or fast, but Lance is
moving, shifting, fucking himself back and forth now, and Chris' hand is
curled, moving, and he's fucking *surrounded*, past his wrist, halfway to his
fucking elbow, by tight, slick heat that normally only his cock feels. And it's
different, but so damn hot, and he's rubbing himself through his pants,
stroking over the damp spot that's appeared, and he can't take his eyes off
Lance. Can't take his eyes off how sexy this is, how he's just wild, taking it,
wanting more, body slick and sheened with sweat, with lube, muscles straining.
He curls his fist tighter and moves his arm faster,
growling a little when Lance groans and arches back to meet him, loud, wet
sounds echoing all around them. He reaches around with his free hand and takes
Lance's dick in hand, strokes it slowly, then in the same rhythm he's fucking
him with, and Christ it's almost more than he can stand, fisting him and
jacking him.
Everything slows into slow motion, then freezes when Lance
shudders and stiffens, rocking up fully onto his hands and knees, head dropping
as a low, hoarse keening noise rolls up around them. Chris shakes and strokes
Lance faster, doing nothing more than that, and shifting his fist around, and
he's expecting it, but not ready, when Lance slams himself backward, coming hot
and sticky all over Chris' fingers, the tight, deep muscles Chris is stroking
tightening around his hand, wrist, arm, locking him deep inside. Lance is
rocking back and forth, swearing and groaning, his voice high and cracked, then
dropping to a thundering rumble. He's not saying anything, just noises, but
it's too much for Chris; he lets go of Lance's cock and rubs himself
frantically, not needing more than a stroke or two before he's shaking and
trembling, coming in his pants.
When he can breathe again, Chris turns his fist slowly and
eases outward, stopping three different times to stroke Lance's thighs and back
as he comes again and again, dry orgasms; his body so stimulated he's just
pushed over the edge by any movement.
"God." Lance gasps, still shaking, moaning when
Chris turns his hand, sliding out the way he went in: slowly, thumb tucked
under. "Just—god. I can't. Oh, god. Chris."
"Shhh." He leans in and drops a kiss at the base
of Lance's spine, muttering something soft and nonsensical as he slips his hand
completely out, reaching for a towel to wipe off on. Lance collapses on the
bed, shaking, and Chris doesn't know if he's laughing, crying, coming again,
what. "Lance. Lance."
"'M okay," he whispers, voice hoarse.
"Okay. Yes. I just—god." He shivers again and Chris shifts to pull
him into his arms, holding him tight and stroking his back while Lance
trembles, letting Lance know he's safe, right here.
Later, when he's rested, come down off the high, they can
talk. And Chris can tell Lance how hot it was…and how, if Lance wants it again,
he's so ready and willing.
For now, he'll just hold Lance. Because of everything,
that's the best.
~fin~