First weekend together, and at Michael's apartment·

That First Weekend

Randy: <We made the trip back to your apartment fairly quickly, and I noted with a bit of amusement that we never stopped touching each other, either. Your hand stroking or petting my thigh; my free hand touching whichever part of you was the handiest at the moment. Neither one of us made any real effort to *talk*; the quiet was easy, comfortable, with the radio on in the background. You didn't seem to mind the country station, nodding you head occasionally in time with the music, and I caught myself relaxing enough to sing softly with one of the songs. I didn't even notice it until I caught you grinning at me, and realized what I was doing. I winked at you and drawled 'darlin'', getting an even bigger grin from you.

I was a little taken aback when you directed me to the Marina Towers apartments; I guess for two reasons. It's hard to picture you living in an apartment--no matter how nice, and they are really nice apartments. I was there once, several years before, when a friend of a friend, and so on, had had their wedding reception there. Into the parking area--gated, security-guard access only--and into a parking space on the third level marked 'Penthouse'. Oh, man. I follow you, wondering what I've gotten myself into, and not caring much.>

Michael: <I pull the keycard from my pocket and give it a swipe through the lock, then punch in my number. A small beep, and then I turn the handle, opening the door to allow you to go in before me. You brush by me, and the heat of your body is tangible. Your scent trails after you, mixed with mine, and the unmistakable one of loving. It's addictive, and I want more of it. You stop in the foyer, and I close the door behind us, pocketing the card, and coming up close enough to you to press a kiss to the back of your neck.> Welcome to my home, Caro.

Randy: <its cool inside, but more of an artificial cool than the air outside. I shiver and press back against you, my body, my mind, all of me crying out for more of you, for all of you.> Thanks for inviting me, Michael. Looks pretty user-friendly in here. How long have you been here?

Michael: <I guess it is nice; I've scarcely noticed. The apartment is the epitome of California casual, all pastels and comfortable, overstuffed furniture. Erich picked it out for me, simply because of its proximity to the office. I spend so little actual time here; its simply someplace to sleep.> Five years, I think. More-or-less. <You lean against me, and my arm slides naturally around your waist, snugging you into my body. I press another kiss to the side of your neck, just beneath your ear.> Would you care for something to drink? I'm not certain about you, but I'm parched...

Randy: Orange juice, if you have it, or water's fine if you don't. <You let go, reluctantly, if I can judge from the slow way you pull you arm away, and head for the kitchen, right off the foyer. I wander over to the large window on the far wall, and look out> You've got a fantastic view of the bay, Michael. Or, you would if it was daylight and I could see anything.

Michael: Yes, it is quite lovely. I've sat and watched the sun set, and it is very peaceful. <I shed my jacket on one of the dining room chairs on the way to the kitchen. Looking down, I realize my shirt is mis-buttoned; no wonder Morrison, the security chief, looked at us askance when we came in. Rumpled, wrinkled, hair tossed about...we look debauched. I glance back at you. It's a decidedly good look for you; you're a completely sensual creature, comfortable with yourself, and I wish I had such ease. Your mouth is noticeably swollen, as is mine, and anyone just looking at you...at both of us, could not mistake what had occurred. I touch my own mouth, and smile, before turning to the refrigerator and pulling out the orange juice, then to the cabinet for two glasses. I am parched...coming twice, so close together, has drained me. Warmth sweeps over me at the memory of you pressed so closely in the most intimate of embraces, and I want to feel you against me again, naked, warm, willing, but in a soft bed, not the hardness of the truck. Though there is the sweet cachet of wild, impulsive sex outdoors...I move back to you, drawn again, and offer you the glass.>

Randy: Thanks. <I let my eyes roam over you as I take the glass, and chug down half of it almost before you've let go. You're standing there, watching me, an amused expression on your face and I grin, shrugging. I let my eyes wander further down, and my grin gets wider> We're a mess. You've mis-buttoned.

Michael: Well, yes, but you've gotten dirty. <I brush at a smudge of dirt, obvious against the light color of your sweater. I can feel your stomach muscles shiver a little in response to my touch, and I let my fingers linger, turning the casual touch into a caress.> Would you like to...get cleaned up a bit? <The thought of you naked, beneath the shower's spray, is a powerful one, and my voice deepens a little in response. Wordlessly, I take our now-empty glasses and set them on the table, next to my jacket before returning to stand close to you.>

Randy: Will you let me wash your -- back?

Michael: You may wash anything that needs washing. I'm sure I need to be thoroughly cleansed. Good personal hygiene is very important.

Randy: <I move a little closer and settle both of my hands on your ass, each index finger rubbing slowly up and down your cleft through your pants, teasing lightly. I lower my head to your neck and lick, lightly at first, then with broad, sure strokes, whispering in between them> I'll clean you up good, lover. We can start with this...I'll tongue-bathe you...get you ready for the next level. <I let my tongue slide slowly and sensuously over your neck and throat, darting and flickering over the hollow of your throat, and the pulse point just above it. My hands continue to knead your ass, fingers dipping and sliding.>

Michael: Ahh...<I tilt my head back to enjoy the warmth of your tongue stroking over my skin, and shiver in delight. Your hands kneading my ass, stroking sensitive skin between, are wonderful, and I push into the touch, only to have you press your groin hard against mine. I can feel your arousal beneath the snugness of your jeans, and it sends a jolt of heat through me.> Shower now, or shower later?

Randy: Now, I guess. We both stink to high heaven. Wanna strip out here, or in the bathroom?

Michael: <With a wicked grin, I give the sweater an indifferent toss, and reach to unbutton your jeans. You give me an answering grin, and in moments, we're both naked, clothing tossed in abandon over the immaculate floor of my apartment. Boots and shoes end up on chairs, beneath tables, one of my socks decorating a lampshade. Now I get to watch the sexy flow of muscles as you tug me in the general direction of my bath.>

Randy: You wouldn't be taking unfair advantage of my naked self to·ogle, or anything, would you? And am I going in the right direction? <I feel playful. Happy. Tired and dehydrated as shit; I think I could drink another gallon of juice--the one glass only made me more aware of how thirsty I am. But my belly and thighs are starting to itch, too, and I can't decide which is overpowering the other.>

Michael: Of course I'd be taking advantage--I'm a Pierson, and that's what we do best. <I take over the lead, and dance out of the way as you aim a slap at my bare bum. Laughing, I tug you through my bedroom, and into the huge, decadently-appointed bath that adjoins it. I can scarcely wait to get beneath the water--I'm messy, tired, and my muscles ache from the unaccustomed exercise.>

Randy: <It takes you just a minute or so to get towels out for us while I fiddle with the water controls, and I find myself thinking this is a very nice way to wrap up what's been a rather stressful two or three weeks. I haven't felt this relaxed or unwound in a long time--even before the series of experiments that consumed me recently. When we're both beneath the hot water I lean back against the shower wall and pull you close, my lips pressed against your ear.> Wanna see what you taste like under the water, darlin'. <I lick over your ear, then kiss across your neck to your mouth. Your lips are already open, waiting, and I can't stop the breathless laugh just before I kiss you. I'm glad to see its not just me who's obviously gone crazy here.>

Michael: So am I palatable?

Randy: You're delicious, actually. We'll have to try this again sometime when we're both not about to pass out from exhaustion, I think. <I want to go again; I probably could, once I rest for a few minutes. But I don't want the fast, frenzied coupling like we just had; when we make love again--or for the first time, since what we did on the beach a little while ago hardly counts as that--I want it in the bed, slow and easy. Or at least with a slow, easy build-up and no feeling of needing to rush.> You sure--about me staying the night?

Michael: <I move the sponge over your chest, and down your firm belly, nice slow circles that leave a mass of foamy bubbles in its wake. Down further, to gently wash your heavy genitals. I don't think it would take much to get you going again, but later, later.> Oh, yes, I'm very certain about that. <It's been forever since I've had anyone stay over, and I'm looking forward to waking up curled around you.>

Randy: Good. I'm--looking forward to waking up with you. Be nice to see what you look like in the daylight, Pierson. <You laugh and shift, letting me have better access to clean you. I make a face when I look up at you, crossing my eyes.> Sure, go on and laugh. How do I know you're not gonna scare me shitless, huh? Never can tell what a guy's gonna morph into when the sun hits him.

Michael: Promise you won't yell in terror when you see the gray hair and wrinkles, and we'll be just fine. <I step back out of the spray, then turn you gently so I can wash your back. You lean into the wall on your hands, spreading your legs for me. I like watching the soap run down the strong planes of your back, watching the water sheet off, glazing your skin. You're bigger, stronger, and I find that very attractive, very different from my own leanness. I make myself go more gently as I slip between the cheeks of your ass, cleaning away the signs of our passion. I know you must be tender--I wasn't gentle. I lean up and press my lips to the back of your neck.> Sore, Randy?

Randy: Not as sore as you'd probably think. I, uh, practice some. As far as yelling in terror·no promises, man. But----I gotta tell you, darlin', I didn't, um, feel any wrinkles anywhere·and I like gray hair.

Michael: <Practice? That sounds·interesting, and like something I might want to pursue at a later time. I appreciate an adventurous spirit, one to match my own.> Good--I'm glad you're not tender, because I really want to be inside you again in the morning.

Randy: <Funny, the way my stomach tightens up at the thought of 'in the morning'. Among other parts of me. I sigh and will it to go down, ignoring your raised eyebrow when we get out of the shower. You yelp once when I bend over and shake the excess water out of my hair, hitting you with some rather cool droplets. When I stand up straight again you have a towel in hand for me, and I take it gratefully. I forget sometimes how quickly it can cool off here, even in the summertime.> I have to say that's the best incentive I've had for getting up in the morning that I've had in a long time, Michael. Do I get breakfast in bed?

Michael: I can promise a protein drink for the morning, I believe. <You make a face at the bad pun, and I laugh and wrap the towel around me. At the sink, I find a new toothbrush for you, and brush my own teeth as you dry off. As you brush your own, I wander back into the bedroom, and pull down the covers and plump the pillows for us. It will feel so good to slide in, but better to hold you close and soak up your warmth.>

Randy: <I take a quick detour back out to the kitchen and pull another glass out of the cabinet you'd taken them from earlier. Not like my apartment, with its hodge-podge assortment of plastic tumblers from this football game, or that pool place. You have a neatly ordered kitchen--and I laugh, because it's kind of nice. I drink down about three glasses of water standing in front of the sink before filling it once more and carrying it back into the bedroom. You're folding up your towel, and I stand in the doorway for a minute, silently admiring the view, before drawling in an exaggerated accent,> I think it's catchin', darlin'·this takin' advantage. You've got a nice ass yourself. <The bed looks--great. I think it would regardless, as tired as I am, but knowing I'm going to get to sleep curled up with you·Well, that only adds to the appeal.>

Michael: <I turn around, and grin. When you come within reach, I whip off your towel and fling it in the general direction of the bath. You offer me the glass, and as I drink it down, you slip into my bed with a deep, satisfied sigh. You look good in my bed, stretching cat-like before settling down into the covers. Setting the glass down on the bedside table, I slip down beside you, moving to curl around you.> Ahhh·very nice·.

Randy: God, yeah. <I shift onto my side and snug back against you, planting my ass firmly into your groin, and encouraging your arm to wrap around my waist. I thread the fingers of one hand through yours and squeeze lightly. I'm so tired suddenly that it's an effort to keep my eyes open, and after a minute I stop trying. You let go of my hand for a minute and reach above us to turn off the lamp, then settle yourself tightly against me, fingers twining again.> Thanks, for inviting me·this is nice· G'night, darlin'·

Michael: <I smile against the back of your neck. You fit well against me, and you're so warm. So alive; I can almost feel the hum of your life-energy pulsing, beckoning to me. I feel drawn to you, like a moth to flame. With a sigh, I let the tiredness wash over me, and give into it.> I'm glad you decided to stay, Randy. Truly glad.

Randy: Me, too. <I exhale, and smile when I feel you do the same thing at about the same time. You're warm against me, and it feels so--right--to be held again. I let your warmth wrap around me, and give in to the desire to drift off. I can hear your breathing slowing down behind me, and smile when you whisper something unintelligible against my neck.>

*********************************

Randy: <Something's hammering away at my subconscious, poking at me to wake up. I don't want to; I'm warm, and very comfortable. I have to go to the bathroom...that's what it is. My bladder's poking me. I shift a little, trying to wake up enough to roll out of bed, and feel a little disoriented when I finally crack my eye open. This isn't my apartment. This isn't my bed. I shift again and realize I'm hugging tightly on to ...you. Michael. Everything from last night comes flooding back and I feel a slow, lazy grin spread over my face as I remember where I am, and what transpired. I stroke my hand lightly over your forehead, pushing back a lock of hair that's fallen across it, and think about how good you made me feel last night -- not just physically, but all over. Like a balm on my soul. Meeting you yesterday was the best thing that's ever happened to me.

Okay, bathroom. I shift again, hoping I can get up without disturbing you, and sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, waking up enough to remember which door is the bathroom. I stretch, getting up, feeling very comfortable here. A large pool of sunlight is splashing over the carpet and I look for a clock wondering what time it is. What year it is. I haven't slept this well in...Christ. A long time. You roll over and mumble something I can't understand and I smile, thinking how beautiful you are. Time to move, before I have an accident I can't explain. By the time I get out of the bathroom you're lying there blinking, awake, but not fully. I settle myself on the bed next to you, propping up on one elbow, and give you a big grin.> Morning, darlin'. Sleep well?

Michael: <I blink, sleepily, my brain still fuzzy, not online yet. I'm warm, wrapped in sheets and a sense of contentment, of rightness. When your weight settles in, and your face appears above me, I have a moment's confusion; I can't reconcile being in bed and having someone with me, body warm and naked beside me. Then you smile, and it's like a sunrise. Yesterday comes back to me like an epiphany, and I feel myself smiling back, the lazy, smug smile of a man quite thoroughly loved and satisfied. I go into a full stretch, arms and legs all directions, arching upward. I'm a bit sore in various places; it's been so long since I've been with anyone, I've forgotten how certain muscles react. But its a good ache, and without a doubt, I'd like to feel it again.> Morning...<My voice is husky with sleep, and I clear my throat before trying again> Yes...wonderfully well, and I hope you slept well, too.

Randy: Best sleep I've had in ages. <I reach out for you, figuring I've gone nearly twelve hours without consciously touching you--and I'm in danger of withdrawal. My hand strokes down your chest and rubs your belly, then slides back up to curl gently around your neck, massaging the tight muscles there and in your shoulder. You've got the most beautiful, satisfied smile on your face...> You look like a cat that's been to cream, Michael. Kinda--smug. It looks good on you. Wanna make that look stay there for a while?

Michael: <I look like the cat that's been to cream? I should; the thought sends amusement and a little curl of excitement through me. And I'd like more. I feel my smile turn from contented to wicked in the space of an eyeblink as erotic possibilities flash through my mind. It's Saturday, still morning, if the light on the carpet is any indication, and though I have things to do, I decide to chuck them all out, and just...live.> Ah, Caro...that sounds like a distinct possibility...

Randy: More than distinct, darlin'. You made me a promise last night that you're not gonna break. Remember? That really great incentive to get me *up* this morning?

Michael: <I grin; I most certainly remember an offer of 'breakfast in bed.' It takes only a heartbeat to roll you beneath me and claim your mouth, my fingers twining through yours, holding you down as I taste you, thoroughly and completely. I love the soft sounds I hear coming from your throat, and I move against you, a slow, gentle rocking that makes my whole body come alive and sing with pleasure. I catch myself getting rougher, and rein myself in--slow, I want slow, and sweet.>

Randy: <I'm not sure where it came from, but a deep hunger for you spills over me, warming me all the way through. I shiver and open my mouth for your kisses; they're long, deep, almost drugging in their intensity. You're rocking against me, slowly, letting our bodies set the rhythm, and I shift so you're between my legs, and I can wrap mine around yours, pulling us closer together. I groan when you release my mouth; I think I could kiss you forever.> Feels good, Michael· I want you, darlin'. Again, and again, as often as you want it, babe...buried inside me, fucking me·

Michael: <Your low voice sends a shiver of anticipation through me, and I feel myself bloom into full arousal. I release my grip on your hands, and slide them over your shoulders, and down your chest. As I suck on the base of your throat, feeling your pulse pound against my tongue, I pinch the little buds of your nipples lightly between my fingers and thumbs, and you jerk hard against me, a breathy moan my reward. I slip my hands down over your belly, loving the feel of smooth, hairless skin, to encircle you as I lap at the hard pebble of your nipple. You're already hard, and I stroke you until your moans are almost continuous, until you start to get wet and slick for me. I twist out of the grip of your thighs, moving down to tongue the sweet little depression of your navel, feeling you squirm and wiggle beneath me.>

Randy: Jesus·ohgod, Michael· <You're teasing my navel, making shallow little fucking motions with your tongue, and I can feel the breath catching in my chest as I try to go with the sensations. Your mouth is hot and wet when you stop and suck for a moment, making me jerk like you just scalded me. Maybe you did. I want to touch you so bad it's nearly a physical ache, but because of the way we're lying, I can't, as long as you're on me like this. Nothing beyond stroking your hair and maybe your shoulders. I thread my fingers through your hair, not sure if I want to grip it to pull you back up to my mouth, or push you down to my cock. I keep thinking of how it would feel, your mouth on me, sucking me 'til I come, and just the thought is enough to make me throb harder against you.> Wanna taste you·want you to fuck me· Jesus, god, Michael· want it all·

Michael: <Oh, it feels good, almost indecently so, to have you rock against me, to feel your busy fingers stroking and caressing, sending little jolts down in an electrical buzz straight to my groin. I lick and suck the soft skin all around your cock and balls, avoiding the very place you want my mouth, giving myself wholly over to the sweetness of having you tightly against me. You smell clean and musky with arousal, and taste so good. It's so easy to lose myself in you, in the pleasure of your body, your response, to let everything else just slip away. Your hands move from my hair, back up to my shoulders, restless. Finally, I've had enough of teasing you, and wrapping my fingers around you, suck you in deeply, taking you as far in as I possibly can. I'm aware of the strangled sound that comes from you, but the taste, the silky feel of your skin against my tongue is all I care to acknowledge, and I give into the pleasure of sucking you for long moments. I love the way you move with me, shallow thrusts that I can control.

Eventually, I feel a curious prickling sensation on the back of my neck, and a sound penetrates my fogged senses. A sound that should not be here, in this room, with us. A sound of surprise. I pull away from your hard, red cock , and force myself to look up, blinking, trying to clear my head. What I see makes the blood chill in my veins. In the doorway, two figures, one middling height, with blond hair, the other, behind him, taller, with silver. It takes another second for that information to process, to realize that we're not alone, and yet another to figure out who they are. My eyes narrow, and before I realize it, the words are out of my mouth, growled in a voice deeper than normal.> What the fuck do you think you're doing here?

Randy: <I can't process anything, at first, beyond the fact that you've stopped sucking me, and you're growling at *someone*. Awareness penetrates after a moment, and some sort of primitive response to danger flares inside me. I shift upward, coming nearly off the bed when I see two men standing beside the door, one looking horribly embarrassed, the other glowering at us--at me. I don't have a clue who they are, or how they got here. I do know that you seem to know them--but can't make my brain work enough to process why someone else would have a key to your place. You're shaking against me, and I realize then just what exactly they saw--and I see red. It takes a great deal of effort to push that anger down to manageable levels, and I spend the time breathing against the skin of your throat.> Michael--what's going on?

Michael: <I can feel myself shake with rage. I push off of your body, snatching at the sheet to cover the both of us. Erich doesn't look shocked, more angry, his blue eyes snapping, his color high. Miles, behind him, simply looks embarrassed, and flees back into the living room. "I'd like a word with you, 'Sir,' at your convenience," Erich replies, his accent even heavier, almost too thick to understand clearly. He turns on his heel abruptly, and follows Miles. I take a deep breath, then fling myself out of bed, covers flying. I storm into the bath, grab my robe, and throw it over myself, belting it tightly. I'm angrier than I've been in years, and embarrassed---not of you, but for you, to be caught in such an intimate moment.> I work with them. One is my manservant, the other my assistant. I'll be back in just a moment, Randy.

Randy: <I nod dumbly, not sure what to say--if indeed, I'm supposed to say anything. Assistant? In your house? What's up with that? Karen has my pager number, my phone number; she's never had a key to my place, nor been in it. What sort of fella is this assistant of yours, that he thinks he can just come into your private space...? I realize my fists are clenching, I'm that angry. That brings a bark of laughter up--anger is actually a mild term for whatever it is I'm feeling right now. A lot of emotions--embarrassment, humiliation, confusion, anger. I give you one more quick kiss on the lips, then watch you stalk into the living room. I wait for a minute before getting out of bed, my body aching with unresolved sexual tension. I'm not aroused any longer, but the hunger that was roused isn't assuaged, either. I get out of bed when I realize I can hear you, and that I'm not real comfortable with that. There isn't anywhere to go, though, that I'm not going to hear, so I tuck the blanket and sheet around me and practice breathing slow and even, trying to clear my head.>

Michael: <I know it can't be good to be this angry, and I pause to take a deep breath and let it out before I open the bedroom door. The shock must have been as incredible for you as for me, but you didn't say a word, though I could feel you fairly vibrating with anger. I pull the door partially closed behind me to give you some privacy. Silence settles over the three of us. Miles is at the window, ostensibly looking out over the early morning, his back ramrod straight: I can see how red his ears are, even from here. Erich stands at the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, looking as aggressive as I feel. I strike a similar pose midway between the two of them, offering nothing.> And what the bloody fucking hell do you think you're doing, invading my privacy like this? <I seldom yell, and I don't now; I've always found a quiet voice to be much more threatening and effective.

Erich's head snaps up, and frowning, he takes up the challenge without delay. "What the hell were you thinking about, disappearing like that, turning off your pager? I couldn't find a trace of you--not a trace. Miles hadn't seen you. No one had seen you go. We searched the building. We searched the grounds. We came here, looking for you. Not a single clue as to where you had gone." He drew a deep breath, and I started to interrupt, but he rode over me like a German tank. "We searched *everywhere.* For God's sake, man, we thought you'd been kidnapped!" I shut my mouth with a snap, trying to work on control. I knew he was right; I knew now, in the cold light of day that was the logical assumption he would make. People in my position, with my responsibilities, simply do not disappear without reason. I took another deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly, torn between the fierce anger I still feel, the sense of humiliation at being caught in an intimate moment, and the sense that somehow, he is justified in his own anger.>

Randy: <I feel my anger edge up another notch; I can't help but hear. You didn't shut the door all the way, and even if I was deaf, I'd probably hear this assistant of yours. I can't imagine speaking to an employer that way. I can't imagine *Karen* speaking to *me* that way. She's been angry with me; happy, glad, upset...but she's never addressed me like this. I have to take a couple slow, deep breaths, pushing back again the urge to get up and *do* something. I'm still burning with all the emotions sparked by their appearance--and I know that's coloring my reactions. The man speaking--presumably your assistant--has a thick German accent, made thicker by his emotion. If I didn't know better, I'd say he sounded almost...jealous·like a man whose lover had been missing, not his employer. I'm sure I can't be reading that correctly. I shrug and get off the bed finally, to move about and look for my clothes, before I remember they're strewn around the living room.>

Michael: <No matter what the reasoning, I'm still angry, especially as I see our clothes and boots scattered about the room, thrown every which way.> So you come barging into my room without a thought I might have someone with me? You can see these clothes on the floor--rather impossible to miss, yes? Did you not stop one moment to think I might have company? Did you not think that I might want to live life like a normal man, and not in this·this insulated cocoon in which I'm caught? I *have* no opportunity to actually live without being under scrutiny every moment. And if I break away to steal one moment for myself, you have the guard out searching for me. This is no better than imprisonment. <I stop to take a deep breath. I realize I'm not addressing their worry, and the justification for it, but I don't give a damn right now. I'll deal with it later, when I'm not so angry. Erich looks unabashed, but the straight line of Miles' back is a bit slumped. I bite my tongue to keep from saying more, hurtful things that I know I'll regret.> Now that you know that I'm fine, I'd appreciate some time alone. <Erich takes a deep breath; he's still angry, his pale eyes still snapping, probably as much as my own. "You will get your privacy, Sir, now that we know you are safe." His eyes shift to the half-closed door. "You *are* safe, are you not?" Half a dozen angry retorts come to mind, but I force them back down. I just want them the fuck out of my apartment, out of my sight, and I bite off each word sharply as I speak.> I am quite safe. Leave now, and I shall see you Monday morning. I think we have much to discuss then.

Randy: <I'm torn between being angry for you, for us, and just pissed off in general. Who in the hell *is* this person? Okay--so you're a CEO. You are entitled to a life...and companionship... You're entitled to having a chance to have some quiet, private time without having to check in with someone. Jesus, he sounds like your keeper, rather than an employee. I have to forcibly unclench my fists, and concentrate on doing some stretching exercises instead, for something to do. I don't like this guy. I don't like the proprietary air he has about you, and what I hear in his voice, nor the way he's addressing you. By the time I tune in again, away from my anger, I can hear the chill in your voice. I'm not surprised to hear the door shut with perhaps more force than was necessary, and only then do I breathe a sigh of relief that they're gone.>

Michael: <I glare at the door for a long moment after Erich closes it, and thrust my hands in my robe pockets, working on regaining equilibrium. I have a reputation for fierce temper, but in truth, it's primarily that--a reputation, and I have little need to actually let it out. Striding to the window, stepping over discarded clothing, I stare out at the view of the Bay. I'm angry, yes, but within me is a tiny curl of guilt; yes, I worried them. Erich looked as if he'd been up all night, and Miles had dark circles beneath his brown eyes. Somewhere, there must be a happy medium where I can live like anyone else.>

Randy: <I wait for a minute or two after I hear the door close, then wrap a towel around my waist and step out cautiously from the bedroom. You're staring out the window with a very pensive look on your face. I can still see the tense set of your shoulders; the anger is very much in place, but not quite as pronounced. At least it's not crackling along you like before. I cover the space between bedroom and window quickly, and stand behind you, reaching up to rub your shoulders slowly, kneading away some of the tension. I wait for several minutes before saying anything, letting you relax under my hands. Then I keep my voice very quiet, easy going.> You all right, Michael? Anything I can do?

Michael: Yes, I'm fine, really. Just a bit...angry. Guilty. Embarrassed. Several things. None of which involves you. I'm just·sorry you were caught up in it like that.

Randy: Well· I have to say that it wasn't the most pleasant thing I've ever experienced·but I expect I'll live. No permanent damage done, y'know. But--it does involve me, darlin'. At least a little. <Damn. I guess I'm still upset, because the twang is out in full force. I sigh and wrap my arms tighter across your chest, bringing you closer.> How long's he worked for you?

Michael: Erich? Ten years. Miles? My entire life. Erich...is so entwined in my life that he scarcely feels like an employee. It's the same with Miles. He chose to come with me to America, to leave England behind. I know they feared the worst when they couldn't find me, but still yet, I feel sometimes as if I'm suffocating. And it's my own fault; I've allowed myself to be wrapped in all this protective cotton·.

Randy: <I turn you around and pull you close to me, wrapping my arms across your back, settling you against my chest. Your arms go around my waist, and for a moment we just stand there, holding each other. Erich. I taste the name in my mind and shake my head. More than an employee, yes. But probably not as much in your life as I suspect he'd like to be.> I think--the lines for Erich are more blurred for him than even for you, darlin'.

Michael: <The thought is a new one; I'd never thought of Erich in that manner. I turn the thought over in my mind, poking at it, examining it from several angles, but I can't reconcile it; I've never had any feelings like that toward him, and his actions, while sometimes a bit impetuous, have never been more than strictly formal with me. Haven't they? I shake my head. > I'm certain you're seeing things. But it doesn't matter, now. <The mood we'd had is broken, and I can still feel residual anger; I'd rather not take a chance on taking it out on you. Perhaps later·no, definitely later, I'll want to pick back up where we left off. I can feel my face warm a bit as I think back to the picture we must have presented; naked, with your legs spread wantonly, thrashing and moaning, with my head buried in your groin. I shake my head minutely, but the image lingers in my mind's eye.>

Randy: <I'm not so certain that I'm seeing things; I've heard that worried tone before, from a man who loved me, and that I cared for, but never could love. Now there's a shock; I hadn't thought of Brandon in ages. But it was the same sort of tone I'd heard him use when I'd stayed at the library for too long, or had stepped out while he was asleep. I shake my head and lean to press a kiss against your neck before shifting back just a fraction.> How 'bout we get somethin' to eat? Maybe--get outta here for a while, let things--settle. <Much as I wanted you earlier, I don't think I could pick it back up right now; the interruption was too abrupt, too embarrassing. I don't even want to think about what they saw or heard· No. I give you a shaky grin.> There's a bagel place not far from here that has the most incredible chocolate chip bagels. And jalapeno cream cheese that's out of this world. Or--I don't know. There's a great place across the bridge that does a buffet-type spread on the weekends?

Michael: Please, Randy, tell me you don't eat those two together...

Randy: <That was the tension release I needed. The horrified tone in your voice·the look on your face· I throw my head back and laugh, then squeeze you once before letting you go, and bending down to retrieve my jeans. It takes me a minute to get the laughter down to just occasional hiccups so I can reply.> No...No, man. I actually don't eat anything on the chocolate chip bagels--they're great just as they are. I eat the jalapeno stuff on plain or onion bagels. I have an idea, Michael. Let's get some bagels, and take 'em to my place--so I can get some clean clothes. No way I'm gonna be able to wear these again today.

Michael: Your clothes aren't very presentable, are they, Randy? Would you care to rummage around in my closet to see if there's anything you can wear? I'm thinner, but there might be something....

Randy: Can't hurt to try something on. Might find a pair of sweats in there that'll work. Got a spare pair of running shoes, too? I don't think boots're gonna go real well with ultra-casual.

Michael: Not unless you want to make Mr. Blackwell's list of the worst dressed, no. <I feel the grin stretch my mouth, and am glad; I think the worst of the anger is gone, behind me, and I'm a lot more relaxed. Good. I don't want to ruin our time together; I want to get to know you better, find out what makes you tick. I've always found people infinitely fascinating, and you are one of the more interesting specimens I've run across, a curious mixture of innocence and sexuality, of intellect and natural grace, unaffected and real. I step around you, placing a quick pat to your towel-clad ass.> I think we could probably manage a pair of trainers for you·with two pairs of socks, they might fit.

Randy: I don't think your feet are *that* much bigger than mine, Michael. In any case, its not gonna matter for the hour or so I'll have them on. <You open the other door in the bedroom and flip the light on inside the closet, then disappear into the depths for a moment. When you emerge you toss me two different pairs of sweat pants before disappearing again. The black ones don't fit, but the blue do, if a little tightly, and I like the heat I see in your eyes when you come back out wearing jeans, and check me over.> Like what you're seein', darlin'?

Michael: <My bad mood is lifting, and I smile back at your rakish grin. Rakish is a good look for you, as well as tumbled and mussed, and thrashing in passion. I like all the looks I've seen so far, and look forward to seeing more of them this weekend. > Verra bonnie, lad. Verra. <If pressed, I can affect a Scottish burr that would make my paternal grandmother quite proud. You laugh, but look vaguely pleased. Though itâs a shame to cover such a lovely body, I toss you the old, stretched out sweatshirt I use when grooming horses in the stable; it should fit. I pull on a dark green sweater, then finger-comb my hair into place.>

Randy: <It takes me just a minute to pull the sweatshirt on, and another to hit the bathroom to comb my hair out and brush my teeth quickly. My stomach is rumbling now, voicing its displeasure at my having been awake for so long with nothing to eat. I blink when I realize this is the first morning in memory that hasn't required a pot or three of coffee to get me going, and reflect that adrenaline is a pretty good substitute. I eye myself critically in the mirror; at least the sweatpants aren't too tight--I don't want to give a free show to all of San Francisco, and no way am I putting the boxers back on--they're as nasty as my jeans. I head back into the bedroom.> I'm 'bout ready, Michael. You want me to drive--since I know where we're going?

Michael: <While you'd been in the bath, I'd found socks and trainers for the both of us, and put mine on. I give yours a toss next to the wingchair beside the bed.> Almost ready, yes. Why don't you drive, as your truck is here? Seems the most logical way to go, and we're coming back here again, anyway. If that is what you'd like to do, I mean.

Randy: I'd love to stay, darlin'. <I'm not sure if I imagined it because I want it to be there, or if that look of relief actually crossed your face, but I saw something there, at any rate. Admittedly I haven't known you for very long, but you don't seem like you're used to checking on things like that. But then--why would you be? I know I tend to run my little corner of the world like I'm king·and your corner is bigger than mine. I grin at that analogy, then stand up, tilting my head to the side.> I'll just pack an extra change of stuff when we stop at my place then. All weekend?

Michael: <It's been a long time since I've bothered to ask anyone to stay longer than the night, and it feels odd. But I'm glad you brought it up; I wasn't certain I'd have asked, no matter how much pleasure we'd shared together.> All weekend sounds like a plan. I didn't want to assume too much, too quickly. And I think I can promise no more interruptions for the remainder of the weekend. <I toss you a gym bag to pack your dirty clothes into. I'm making an attempt to keep some distance between us, as I'm getting that itchy feeling in my hands, wanting to touch again. It just doesn't feel quite right at the moment, but I know without a doubt it will again.>

Randy: I don't think 'all weekend' is an assumption·just something we both want. <I grin and stuff my clothes into the bag, then shove the boots in on top of everything. We're going to my place now, and I'm running through the place in my mind, hoping it at least looks picked up. I'm glad we're going to stop to get bagels; I know I don't have anything in the cupboards; if we're lucky I still have juice in the fridge.> I'm ready. Lead on, get us past the rent-a-cops downstairs, huh?

Michael: <I make an ushering motion, and let you precede me into the main room. I'm certain things will be straightened up again by the time we return. At the main door, I pause, then lean in close, very close. Your eyes widen and darken as I place my hand on your chest, just above your heart, and bend to kiss you. Soft and sweet, tasting of toothpaste. It's quick, and before you can truly begin to respond, I pull back with a little smile, and open the door for us, stepping out into the hall.>

Randy: You're a tease, Pierson. <I'm grinning though, so you know I'm teasing. Your kisses could easily become addictive--if they're not already. I think about the men I've kissed in my life, and without doing a total catalogue, I figure I'm putting you right at the top of the list for best. Not a bad place for you to land, after just one night together. It's a long ride down the elevator; funny, how I hadn't noticed last night the time it took, but I guess when you're talking the penthouse apartment in a 30-story building, its going to take a while. I'm glad there's a different security guard at the station this morning; the one last night had given us a distinctly disapproving glance. Not that I care much, or think that you do, for that matter--but its still not my favorite thing to start a day off with. And I've had entirely enough disapproval for one day.>

Michael: <I remember the trip up to my apartment last night; it had been remarkably hard to keep my hands to myself, until I reminded myself of all the security cameras about. I'd nodded in the direction of each of them for your benefit, and you'd been quick enough to pick up on what I was telling you. Not that I think any of the security people would be foolish enough to do anything with any of the tapes they have, but still, no sense in giving anyone any ammunition. I can imagine how tempting it might be to have something that the tabloids would pay dearly to obtain, but everyone on the staff has been screened, and their loyalty is assured. I've stayed out of the spotlight for a very long time, and have no desire to have my personal life splattered across the pages of some low-life paper. It would be like a repeat of this morning, magnified by millions, and I feel my neck muscles tighten in reaction. By the time that thought passes through my mind, I'm watching you toss the bag into the back, and then climbing into the spacious cab, stretching out my legs with a sigh.>

Randy: <Munch-a-Bagel actually isn't far from your apartment, and you wait in the truck while I run in and get a dozen bagels, cream cheese and lox. It takes a bit longer to navigate through the traffic on Market street, toward the Oakland bridge, but it's also a welcome chance to talk. Your fingers aren't clutching at the armrest quite as tightly this morning as they did last night, and I grin at the memory. I reach out and touch your thigh, squeezing lightly, laughing a little when you startle.> Relax, darlin', I said I wouldn't kill you, and I meant it. You can trust me--no marks on my driving record. How long have you been here--America?

Michael: I don't drive that much, myself, so I should be accustomed to riding, though I'll admit Miles is somewhat more·subdued·in his driving style than you are. I've been in America for perhaps fifteen years, traveling about, looking after various holdings. I like this part of the country, though; it's generally warm enough for me, and so very interesting and colorful. New Orleans was very hot, humid, sticky. Seattle was much more like England--very temperate. New York huge, impersonal, much too crowded. I decided to settle here, though New York was much more the logical choice. I felt...pulled here. I'm very glad, too.

Randy: I'm glad, too. <The traffic is heavy here, too; a lot of people heading out of the city for the weekend, probably. I glance sideways to see the sailboats that are dotting the bay, and smile. The truck goes pretty much on autopilot as we edge up to the bridge. I've driven this route every day for the last several years, and could do it with my eyes closed--though I'm not going to say that aloud. You'd probably take me literally, so far as driving goes. It's not far and won't take us long; I'm actually very close to you, distance-wise. I love the view from here. Not as spectacular, maybe, as the Golden Gate, but very nice. > I like New England. I did my undergrad work there, at MIT. I kind of miss Massachusetts sometimes...very pretty in the fall. But I love California. It's been home for me for...almost fourteen years, I guess.

Michael: < Most your age are still working on a doctorate, yet I know you've had your Ph.D. for awhile, now. I seem to recall something about hearing your name before, but it's at the back of my mind, and won't come forward. I realize suddenly I know *nothing* about you, other than you have a doctorate, and that you work for the company in research. We'd chatted idly, some, but it was so general, that I can't really say it was a fair exchange of information. It's a sobering thought.> How long have you been Dr. Taylor, and how long have you worked for the company? <Had I access to the laptop, I'd have looked up your file, and as underhanded as it seems, I'd not have hesitated; the need to know is ingrained from years I spent at my father's side, being groomed for the position I now occupy.>

Randy: <Damn. I feel my ears get warm. I hate this--talking about myself. I'd rather be the one asking you a thousand questions. I haven't ever quite figured out why I don't like it so much, but it's pretty irrelevant now; you've asked me.> I got...well, its actually Dr, Dr. Taylor, and I got them both in 1989. I graduated under the dual doctorate program that Stanford offers, and I've been with the company for about eight years now. I started out in bio-engineering, but I've been head of research and development for the last four.

Michael: <Years of hiding thoughts from others serves me well; I manage not to gape. So young to have accomplished so much. Brilliant. Genius-level brilliance, no less.> That doesn't leave much time for living outside books and the lab, does it?

Randy: <I sigh and tighten my fingers on the steering wheel. As proud as I am of my accomplishments, they're a little embarrassing, too. Especially when people do the math and start figuring how old I was when I did a lot of them. I shake my head, keeping my eyes on the road; we're nearly off the bridge, then its just ten minutes up the Eastshore Freeway.> It didn't, no. But at the time--I didn't care. I lost my family when I was 13, so there didn't seem to be much else to care about; I was, frankly, glad to have my studying to keep me occupied. Mrs. Franklin, my foster-mother, thought it was weird; she thought it was even weirder when I graduated high school two years later. She kept shaking her head, giving me strange looks. I filed for emancipation when I was 16, because I figured if I was old enough to go to college and be responsible for all that, I damn well was old enough to be responsible for myself. College was interesting.

Michael: I can't even imagine what it would be like to lose my entire family...I'm so sorry, Caro...I lost my father about four years ago, in an automobile crash. <I stretch out my hand to cover your thigh, squeezing gently. I wish I'd never brought it up now; there's a shadow in those bright eyes that hadn't been there before, and I'm afraid I'm the one who put it there. I never want to be the source of your grief, or to bring back unhappy memories.>

Randy: S'okay, Michael. It's been nearly 18 years now; it doesn't really hurt, anymore...just kind of makes me sad. Sometimes, when I think about all I've done...all I've accomplished...I'll think about my folks, and wish they were here to see it, y'know? Mrs. Franklin was nice enough, if a little freaked-out, and the Riesen's--the ones with the beach? I went to school with their son, they kind of adopted me--but they weren't my Mom and Dad. A lot of people treated me--different, I guess, because of my intelligence. My folks never did, and I think sometimes I miss that more than anything. I'm just *Randy*, y'know? Dr. Taylor--he's a whole different guy.

Michael: There's no *just* about you, Randy. Not at all. Nothing ordinary, nothing plain. <Unbidden, my fingers reach out, and run down your cheek. I feel warmth bloom within me, and its odd, but very nice.> You're remarkable---and I'm talking about you, not Dr. Taylor. You're special. Don't ever forget that. Very...special.

Randy: Thanks. That's--nice to hear. <It seems to me its been a while since either of us--given the hesitancy in your voice, and the same I hear in mine--have reached out to anyone. I shift, feeling a little awkward then, and gesture with my head at the apartment complex just head, then turn onto Azure Court> Home sweet home.

Michael: <I pull my eyes from you, and look around. It's a beautiful apartment building, in a very choice neighborhood. Charming; not the fortress I call home. Friendly-looking, comfortable. You pull into a parking space marked with a number, and we get out and enter. It seems odd not to go through security clearances; I like it. In the elevator, I lean in close to you, and kiss the back of your neck, sliding an arm around your waist and squeezing before releasing you. For some reason, you seem just a shade nervous; I'm not certain whether its because you feel a little uncomfortable at revealing so much of yourself, or because we're going to your place. Possibly both. I don't think it's because of me; you shift automatically to press closer to me with a sidewise glance and smile before pulling away just as the door opens and deposits us on your floor.>

Randy: <The elevator stops on the fifth floor of the five-story building, and I lead you down the hall to #522. I have the most incredible urge to fidget, and I'm not sure where it came from. I unlock the door and push it open for you, hoping that I'd tidied up before leaving for work yesterday morning. I've spent so little time here lately, from extra hours at the lab, that I can't honestly remember when I last *cleaned* it. It's a fair-sized apartment; nothing spectacular, but not bad for a two-bedroom. I've converted the second one into a study/office, and it opens right off the main living space. I wonder what you'll think. I haven't had anyone here in...God, have I ever had anyone here? I can't recall; certainly not in the last four years, which is how long I've had this place. I push the door closed and stand there, looking around, trying to see it through new eyes.> Not quite the view yours has, but not bad. I can still see the sail boats out my windows.

Michael: That's very important, isn't it? <I set the bag of bagels and cream cheese onto the dining room table then wander forward, to look out the window. I can see the sailboats, drifting out there on the blue, blue water, colorful sails bellied in the breeze, gliding along as if they're sliding on glass.> You like to sail, Randy?

Randy: I don't think you even want to get me started on that right now, Michael--we'd be here 'til sunset next week. Yes, it's very important to me. I love to sail. I grew up doing it--my dad taught me. It's always been something... Out on the ocean, I'm *alive*. I'm a part of the cycle, part of nature...part of the waves. It's like harnessing and holding onto pure adrenaline, whether coasting smoothly or riding out tides and waves. It's just... it's incredible. Beautiful.

Michael: <You speak of it with such reverence, such passion, I can't help but be moved. The love you have for it shines clearly from you, driving away the shadow from your eyes, bringing back the sparkle. If only for that, I love it, myself. I watch your face, the movement of your hands, the way your whole body responds to your description. I feel myself smile in reaction, enjoying your happiness.> Take me with you, some time, Caro?

Randy: I'd like that a lot, darlin'. <I hadn't meant the words to come out so forcefully, with so much emotion behind them, but the truth is, I want to share it with you. Sailing is my passion, my love, and I want to see your face when the water sprays over us, when the wind blows across us, and the sun warms us. I feel my mouth quirk upward.> I definitely would like to take you, Michael. I think you'd enjoy it.

Michael: I'd love to go with you, to see it with you. <I lift my hand and smooth over your forearm, following it up strong biceps to broad shoulder. That, and swimming, then, accounts in some part for the strength, the power I can feel rippling beneath your skin.> The next time you want to go, let me know, and I'll go with you--if you don't mind taking a confirmed landlubber along. And if I fall overboard---well, at least I can swim.

Randy: I don't think you need to worry about fallin' overboard, Michael. It's a pretty good-sized boat. Just don't lean over the side, and we'll be good to go. You want juice, or coffee? It won't take long to make some.

Michael: I've never cared that much for coffee--I suppose the love of tea is inbred in me. <A quick smile flashes across your face as you slice four bagels into plates.> Juice is fine. Did you pick this place because you simply liked it, or for proximity to work?

Randy: A little of both, I guess. <I hand you a plate with two bagels, and set the cheese and lox on the counter, close at hand. You set an orange on my plate at the same time I set the glasses and bottle of juice down. I grin at you; we work pretty well in the kitchen together.> I wanted, actually, to be on the other side of the bridge, because the traffic is a bitch during rush-hour, but I couldn't find anything I liked over there, in the price-range I wanted to stay in. I guess this place just--felt right. I don't know. I like it, it's comfortable, and it suits my needs. There's a shopping center just down the road, and access to the marina is only a couple of miles away. And the traffic is a *little* better over here. Not a lot, but a little bit.

Michael: <I hadn't realized how hungry I was until you set the plate before me. Before I realize it, the bagels are gone, and I'm working on sectioning the orange and eating it. I feel relaxed with you, and it surprises me, as I'm usually very wary of people. But you seem to want nothing of me beyond my company. That pleases me enormously. It isn't until you look up at me and then away, self-consciously for the second or third time that I realize I'm studying you, much as I'd study an exotic specimen. Perhaps you are. I shrug, a barely perceptible lift of one shoulder, and busy myself licking the sticky orange juice from my fingers.>

Randy: How often do you go to the shareholder parties, Michael? I've been to·well, not a bunch, but more than I'd have gone to on my own·I don't remember ever seeing you there.

Michael: As few as possible, honestly. I stay at them for a very short time, just long enough that people see me, and then I'm generally gone within an hour. I can usually plead work-related difficulties--Erich has become very good at making excuses for me. I'm most visible at charity functions, that sort of thing, though I try to keep that to a minimum, also--I'm quite shy of the limelight, actually. That was never something I truly enjoyed.

Randy: Bad as it sounds, I just don't go. Crandall used to ride me about it a lot; 'as the head of R&D, you need to be visible'. He and I had it out one night when I reminded him that he isn't *really* my boss; when push comes to shove, I've got just as much position as he has--mine's just not administrative. I can find better things to do with my time, always. But last night·<I let my voice trail off as I remember how close I came to not going--and how glad I was afterward that I had. I look over at you, taking in how good you look, sitting there on my barstool, at my kitchen counter.> Well, let's just say that for the first time in my life, I'm glad I went to the damn party.

Michael: I'm very glad you did, too. Otherwise·I'd not be sitting here enjoying your company. <I'm not certain what our plans are for the rest of the weekend, beyond the obvious, but just sitting here talking with you, is remarkably pleasant. I seldom get much of a chance to get out, and when I do, my activities tend to be much the same, with little variation. Until I broke out of my little shell and went with you to 'play hooky', I hadn't realized just how insular I am, how cushioned from the outside world. I'd like to explore a little, now that Erich and I have come to an understanding about the remainder of the weekend, and I'd like for you to be my guide.> What would you like to do, Randy? As the saying goes, the world is now your oyster·.

Randy: Well, that's a rather appealing offer. The world, huh? We could go for a drive--maybe go hiking? I know some good hiking trails not too far from here·we could go back to the Riesen's and go swimming, spend the day lying on the beach like a couple of slugs· I'd like to take you sailing this weekend, but she's in dry-dock right now--I had to order some new sails, after mine got ripped in that last bad windstorm we had. But, we could go up the coast a ways, and rent a boat too--there isn't much I couldn't sail. What sounds good to you?

Michael: <I think of the cabin I have in the mountains up north; I think you'd like that--hiking, swimming, fishing, if that's your pleasure--all in utter privacy. But it's quite a distance, and its probably too late to go for the entire weekend. Something closer to home, then.> I'd like to go hiking. I'm not that much given to sleeping on the hard ground, but I do like to get away to enjoy the woods. A day trip, nothing too strenuous, just something simple. Or, if you'd like more sophisticated pleasures, I have box seats at the symphony. I simply enjoy the company·what we do isn't relevant other than the enjoyment you derive from it.

Randy: Well, the symphony sounds good, maybe for an evening thing some time. It's a beautiful day, though, and I don't know about you, but I've been stuck inside a lab for the most part for the last three weeks. Let's go hiking·maybe eat somewhere along the coast on the way back·then find some *other* kinds of activities to indulge in. I'm gonna change real quick and grab some clothes. I'll be right back.

Michael: <I sit there for a moment after you disappear. The clock on the microwave reads a little after ten, much earlier than I'd thought. For a long moment, I wrestle with myself. A part of me would like nothing better than to go back to your bedroom, and see if you'd like a tumble, and the other, admittedly smaller part of me, wants to wait, to spend the day with you, and enjoy your company without the pressure of sex. I shrug, and rest my chin on my hand as I wait for you to come back. It was so much simpler when I didn't care that much for my bedpartners·we both knew what we were there for, and it was little less than a business arrangement. This·well, I'm not quite sure what this is, sure only that I like you, and don't want to do something really stupid. The indecision I feel is something new, and it makes me a little uncomfortable.>

Randy: <I pack a duffel bag quickly; a couple of changes of underwear and socks, the things I might need between now and whenever we decide this weekend is over; tomorrow evening, probably. While I'm changing clothes I stop and wonder what in the hell I'm doing right now. What was I thinking with last night? A little bit late for that sort of thought, now though--when last night's actions were, conceivably, enough to kill me. Damage done·but I still don't know squat about you--other than you have eyes that seem to sort of suck me into a kind of trance, and that you have a lunatic working for you who thinks your private life is his business.

Yes, I know you're who you say you are; I could hardly have worked for your business for eight years and not at least have seen a picture of you. You've changed, I think, since when I first came on board. I remember now, that picture of you--thinner, not quite so intense-looking. But it remains that I don't know anything about you--and I've always prided myself on being at least a *reasonably* practical kind of guy. So, why am I doing this? Because--there's something there, between us, I think. I can feel it, when I'm not trying to. I don't know what I'd call it--it feels almost like an electrical current, sometimes. And I'm curious. I miss having someone to do things with, to talk to·and I want to see if you turn out to be that someone. I shrug at myself and zip up the bag. I've dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, with a pullover sweatshirt, and running shoes of my own. Ready to go--for whatever will happen· I hope.>

Michael: <I watch you emerge from your bedroom, slightly flushed, and I wish like hell I'd asked if you wanted that tumble. It would've been good, I know, and I don't think you'd have objected much. Nobility and good intentions are pains in the ass. I'm not certain what expression was on my face at the moment, because you look at me curiously. I straighten, steadfastly ignoring the ache in my groin, and make my mouth smile at you.> I hope you have some of the easier trails in mind·I don't have my hiking boots with me. I know the more strenuous trails, but then, I'm a snob who always bypasses the easy ones.

Randy: <What were you thinking about just now? You had the oddest expression on your face. I nod, wondering if you're having second thoughts.> I don't generally do the harder trails if I'm just going out for the day--too much chance to rush, and I hate to rush. <Your eyes are dark right now; they look almost like thunderclouds just before the storm breaks: black, roiling, intense. I wonder what you'd do--if anything--if I said fuck it, let's strip down and do some exercise here. I don't want to spend the whole weekend like rabbits in heat though--I want to spend some time with you, get to know you. I step a little closer and I can see your nostrils flare. I swear my fingers are drawn to you; I don't even realize I've touched you, until you turn your face toward that touch.>

Michael: <Your hand on my cheek is very warm, and I can feel the calluses against my skin. For a moment, I close my eyes and lean into your palm, savoring your touch; it's unbearably exciting, and my body leaps with the pleasure of it. Very sweet, indeed. My own hand goes to your chest, and it's all I can do not to curl my fingers in the material and pull you against my body. I can feel a quick tremor go through you, and your eyes widen. Very carefully, trying to keep from touching you any more than necessary, I lean in and give you a quick, soft kiss.> Ready, Caro?

Randy: <More than you could believe, I'll bet. God, I can't believe that one little touch, one little kiss could have me ready to just blow off other plans and spend the afternoon merrily fucking. Or maybe I can--there's something about the attraction between us·something very charged. I wonder what you'd do if I leaned in and kissed you. Kissed you the way I *want* to kiss you--devouring you. You haven't moved very far back yet, in spite of your words. I shudder once at the heat glittering in your eyes, and manage to speak; I'd thought my vocal chords were frozen.> I--yeah. And darlin'--keep those thoughts close by.

Michael: <I let my hand skim down, fingers curling over the lump so prominent in the front of your jeans. I give a gentle squeeze, and your whole body jerks hard. Reluctantly, I pull back my hand, and smile, more wolfishly than friendly.> I'll be certain to keep those thoughts *very* close by today.

Randy: <Okay. So, am I thirty, or eighteen? At the moment, I couldn't have said truthfully. My body seems to think eighteen. I laugh, shakily, and withdraw into my own personal space; I think if I touched you right now, we'd both ignite. I can see your arousal; your cock is tenting against the jeans you're wearing, just like mine. So close--and no chance for interruption here. I shake my head roughly and back up one more step, reaching for the bag I'd dropped.> Good--'cause they're not gonna be far from my mind, either. Let's get going·<before we can't.>

Michael: <I *really* hate nobility, when my body is screeching at me to pay attention to it. Still, I'm supposed to be an adult, supposed to be in control of my baser instincts. I give a mental snort at that. I know *exactly* which head has always been in control, and it's not the uppermost one. Well, I've always been one for new experiences, and self-denial is definitely a new experience. I turn on my heel and go to the apartment door, opening it for you, swearing mentally in all the languages I know.>

Randy: <I wonder if you're feeling as frustrated as I am right now. I don't know you all that well, but I'd be willing to bet big money you are. It's become kind of like an elusive thing--we both know we want it, and we both don't want the other to think that's all we want. And it's not--well, not completely. I can't help but remember, as I'm turning the truck off of the main road and into the entrance of the park, just how good it was this morning--and how much better it had held the promise of being·until what's-his-name showed up. Neither one of us said much in the truck·giving ourselves a chance to relax, to loosen up a little bit. I've gone hiking in this park quite a bit in the past; the trails, while not very challenging, are fun, and itâs a very beautiful area to hike in. We didn't bring anything in the way of equipment or food, or even water, so I know we're not going to stay a long time, which is fine. I just wanted to get out and do *something* with you. I park the truck in the area closer to the main trail, then shut it off and turn toward you.> Have you done a lot of hiking here, or in England?

Michael: <I stir out of my reverie; I'd not paid much attention to where you were going, only noting you'd taken a northeasterly direction, and that I didn't need to fear for my life, as I usually did. Until we end up in the visitors' parking, and specifically asked a question of me, I'd been content to sit there, let you drive and hum to yourself, and drift a little. The first few miles had been devoted to getting myself back under control, and after that, to simply looking out the window at the passing scenery. Perhaps not the most scintillating of companions, but I didn't feel uncomfortable with the quiet, for some reason--unusual.> Yes, rather a lot. I've always been very active, very sports-oriented, though not organized team sports. Riding, running, swimming, archery--my brothers and I all did our fair share of target shooting.

Randy: Archery. Huh--bet that'd be a lot of fun to try. I've done some riding, but I'm not very good at it. The friend who taught me--or tried to teach me, kept saying 'you have to feel the horse moving, move with it', stuff like that. I never could quite get it. Eh, whatever. <This trail is the easiest one we could do, and its actually peaceful and quiet here right now. Another few hours and every young couple with children on the east side of the bridges will be out here, letting their kids run off steam. I'm glad to have it and you pretty much to myself right now. > I didn't do a lot of sports growing up, other than sailing and swimming--and both of those were pretty much put on hold while I was in college. Too much pressure to get as much done as quickly as possible. I managed to squeeze in some swimming·but sailing· Well, the first thing I did as soon as I could afford it, and was settled, was to start looking for a boat.

Michael: <The trail is wide enough for us to both walk comfortably side by side. I can hear the rustle of the wind in the leaves, the sounds of birds and other small wildlife, the sounds of our trainers on the soft chipped-wood path. I can feel myself relaxing, soaking in the calmness of nature, and the ease of your companionship. I slip my hands into my jeans pockets, ambling slowly, without much more ambition than to put one foot before the other.> And you evidently found one, as its in dry-dock at the moment. Are you able to take her out very much?

Randy: The one in dry-dock right now isn't my first--that one was a little bitty thing that was a great starter, but not what I wanted to have, ultimately. It was all I could afford at the time, though. I've had the one I have now for about·geez, about six years, I guess. And work schedules permitting, I go out as often as I can--generally at least three weekends out of the month, and during the week, if I have time. I take two weeks every summer and go--I've gone as far south as southern Mexico--and itâs the most relaxing two weeks of each year.

Michael: <We pause at a fork in the path, and I arbitrarily choose the left hand trail before answering.> Sailing is simply one thing I've never taken the opportunity to do. Did some sculling at University, but rowing a scull is far different than sailing a boat. I'm not sure exactly why I never tried it, other than I seemed to have so many other·interests·that there simply wasn't time. And then after I graduated, and went into the family business, there was less time to try out new things--I scarcely had time for the old hobbies. I do keep active, simply because I can't imagine not, but sometimes, its difficult to fit in everything.

Randy: <What an interesting emphasis you put on some of those words. Makes me wonder what sort of interests and hobbies you have. This is a lot nicer, and different from what I'd envisioned when I suggested hiking--what we're doing is no more than taking a long, leisurely walk·and itâs the best thing I think I've done in a while. I look over at you; it's very easy to see that you make an effort to fit in physical exercise, because you're in great shape. As if I hadn't figured *that* out last night· I shake my head, then let my eyes sweep up and down you once more, before shifting uneasily again. Too much of that and I'm going to lose the tenuous control I've managed to regain in the last hour.> The family business is a lot bigger now than it used to be, isn't it. I can remember several changes and additions, and splits within the departments in the time I've been with it.

Michael: Yes, well. I've been devoting a lot of time to setting up a new aspect of the business--a foundation devoted to pure research·for orphan diseases, genetic anomalies, genetic research in general. Pharmaceuticals have made the business, and now, its time to give a bit back. This has been in the works for·ah, five years or so, but just now beginning to gel into reality. It was my father's idea originally, and became mine after he died. A legacy, of sorts.

Randy: That's a tremendous legacy, Michael. Are you going to work it in conjunction with university research centers, or will it be separate·will the funds come from Pierson Pharmaceuticals solely, or are you planning on inviting other corporations and companies to donate--like with charity fund-raisers and benefits? Man, you'll be doing· God, what a plan. Five years, huh? Y'all've been keepin' it pretty quiet, haven't you. I'm not totally in with office gossip, but I know if something this big was being passed around, I'd have heard about it.

Michael: <Well, evidently I've hit upon something very important to you--the last time I saw you so·lit from within was when you were talking about sailing. You've stopped in the middle of the trail, so I do, also. Your hands had come out of your pockets, sketching excited little patterns in the air as you'd spoken.> It's not been a secret, specifically--just not well-publicized. We've had a few of those posh charity benefits for it, some fundraising, but the primary cost is from the pocketbook of Pharmaceuticals. Other companies aren't really interested in the orphan disease and drug market·the need is too small, too specific, for it to be profitable, so most don't bother. I have time, I have capital, and the need is there, so its time to give back. I've been extraordinarily fortunate in my life, and my parents were both strong proponents of charity, of returning good to those who'd been good to you. Believe me, we had to fight boards of directors·what's the expression·tooth and nail·for this. I've listened to *years* of naysayers, of pessimists, of those who don't want to take the risks, to outlay the funding. That's why most of this has been out of the family pocket, and why it's taken so long to get rolling. The only thing that finally swayed them was an argument of what good publicity this would make, the tremendous amount of goodwill this will engender. And of course, the promise of profit in the Pharmaceutical branch, should something prove able to turn a profit. So much for altruism, but if it gets the dream built·.

Randy: <My frown matches yours for a moment.> I suppose the board of directors have to consider the financial well-being of the parent, main company--nothing would last for long, without that. But·Jesus, Michael. Something like this is· <I pause, trying to order my thoughts into something that's going to resemble coherency. Most independent research I've come across in my career has been at university level, and funded by the government--but itâs a vast undertaking for a private company.> So much time and energy and research is being devoted to finding a cure--or at least a control--for AIDS and HIV that I think a lot of the research world has forgotten that there are a lot of things out there that we still don't know about genetics, about diseases· It's only been a generation-span of time since the DNA molecule broken down and decoded· What you're proposing could, given time, really make a change in the medical, genetic, and yeah, the pharmaceutical world. I'll back down a little bit here·I don't want to launch into words that are going to sound like a foreign language. But man, you've got·my complete respect and admiration for what you're planning here. Itâs the best thing I can imagine happening to the research world.

Michael: I'm pleased that you're so enthusiastic about this--I've spent so many years fighting everyone about it, including some of my own family, that its such a·relief to actually hear someone say something in my favor. That's perhaps one reason you've not heard much about it·it's caused so much internal strife that we've kept it quiet because of possible decline in shares and stocks. Research is a very shaky field, and not one of the most popular with shareholders. Even *I* must bow before their collected power·I still have the majority, but they have enough power that I must listen to them·no matter how bitter I find that sometimes. <Sometime or another we'd started walking again, and the left-hand path had curved back to the main path, and we were at the entrance again. I'd never even noticed the exercise, so caught up in conversation with you. I stand blinking at the wash of sun, so bright after the dimness of the path.>

Randy: <My mind is still whirling at all you've told me, and itâs a major surprise to find that we're nearly back to the truck. A quick check of my watch shows that we were walking and talking for nearly two hours--I can't believe how quickly the time passed.> It sucks when you know you're right about something, and you know that the something you're right about can only benefit people--and the world in general--in the long run, but you have to fight for that·or worse, back down because collectively *they* have more power than you. Do you have any idea when you're going on-line with this? Do you just have the basics hammered out, or do you know where you're going to locate it--will you have separate research facilities for different areas, or one big compound for the whole thing·how far along in the development is this?

Michael: We've hammered out the basics, gotten matching government funding, and I've done all the ass-kissing possible for this stage of development. I've pulled in favor after favor·done everything but marry the king's homely daughter to get what I want. We'll be doing the ground-breaking next month, and that's when the media circus will really start. <I pause, watching the scenery slip by, a green blur. I'm not certain where you're going, and I don't suppose it really matters, though my stomach is reminding me heartily that its been awhile since breakfast.> It will be separate from the main campus, and in connection with Berkeley, though I initially balked at University involvement·too ridden with politics. But one must make compromises to get what is needed.

Randy: <I head the truck out of town, and toward the San Rafael bridge. There's a very nice seafood place over there, and even if its not a conventional lunch or dinner time right now, I'm starved, and I'm betting you're probably hungry, too. I have no idea, though I could guess, the level of restaurant you're used to dining at, so this will probably be like the taco-shack last night--but hey, new experiences are good for the soul.> You're probably right about the media--they do seem to love to sink their teeth into the jugular of anyone's business. <I pause for a minute to change lanes, noticing that you grab the armrest again for a moment. I bite my lip to hide my grin and decide I'm going to make a conscious effort to tone it down before I scare you away completely.> The university involvement might be a pain in the ass, but it'll probably turn out to work in your favor--there's a lot of independent researchers working with the university labs, who would jump at the chance to get onboard a project like this. I have a couple of friends from when I was doing some of my post-doctoral work who've since gotten in with major companies, but I remember them bitching a lot about that when we were doing our projects--how they would have liked the stability of a major company, but with the freedom for more-or-less independent research.

Michael: <You turn us off the main highway, onto the back roads.> I'm truly hoping I've not made a deal with the devil, in involving the government and the university, but I could see no other way to take this. Besides, the devil already has my soul, for various and sundry other reasons.

Randy: Oh, he has, huh? Well--looks like I might have to make a deal with him, myself, then. I kinda like your company. <I add my own grin, then turn into the small parking area for the Crab House. It's not much to look at, but they have the best crab legs, and fish and chips, that I've had anywhere. Except possibly the Gulf area. > Well, I doubt you've made a deal with the devil as far as the project goes, Michael. It sounds like you've gone with the best options available to get it underway·and as one who has a deep interest and investment in the field of research, and genetics in particular, I think its fantastic. I can't wait 'til I hear that you've got the building underway--'cause that's going to be a major mile-stone.

Michael: <The place is dimly-lit, and smells of seafood and beer, and only the generous would describe the décor as rustic. I can hear a jukebox with country music twanging in the background, and follow you as you thread through irregularly-placed tables to get us a booth toward the back, facing the ocean. If nothing else, you're expanding my concepts of eating-out--I can't possibly imagine bringing Nicole here--she'd have my head for it. But the taco place was very good, so I think I can trust your judgment on this one. And as no one would ever expect to see me here, I feel freer. When you slide into the booth, I restrain myself from patting your very fine ass, but it's a close call. I settle into the seat opposite you, grinning.> Yes, it will be, and I can't tell you how much I'm anticipating it, media or not.

Randy: You get to cut the ribbon, when they start? Lindy--how're you doing? Haven't seen you in a while. <She heads over, giving me a wink and you an appraising look. "Your fault, sugar. You're the one who hasn't been in here in a while." She turns to you. "Hiya, handsome. Whatcha want to drink?">

Michael: <For a moment, I'd felt like an entrée in a restaurant, and she'd not had a meal in a week. But then I smile back at her. > Iced tea would be fine, thank you. <Her eyes round a bit after I've spoken, and her attitude becomes a little more obvious; her body language takes a decidedly interested turn. Sorry, not my type, I think·at the moment, that type is sitting directly across from me, grinning like a madman at the exchange.>

Randy: I'll have tea, too, Lindy--and a basket of crabcakes. Bring a menu back too, would you, please? <She grins and winks at me, then mutters something about all the best ones being taken and I roll my eyes. If wishes were horses. When she's gone to the back of the store I give you an apologetic grin.> I forget sometimes that she comes on like that--she gave up on me a long time ago, and she's fun to just flirt with now--because she knows that's all I'm going to do. But other guys that she hasn't seen before· Well, anyway. Hope you're not scared away from lunch now. <You're looking at me with the most·interesting? Unreadable?·expression on your face. I have a feeling that Lindy didn't even faze you·and wonder what it would take to make those incredible eyes go from cool gray to hot black again. Nothing I can do here·but later·definitely later.> Um·not to beat a dead horse, but do you have any idea how long before you actually have the foundation up and running?

Michael: <Lindy brushes against my arm deliberately as she brings the tea, and I move unobtrusively away, though I give her a smile of thanks. In my *much* younger days, I might have encouraged her, or actually taken her up on her offer, but not now. Now, I'm focusing exclusively upon you, and anyone else is an unwelcome intrusion.> Hmm. The buildings should be up within a year and a half--two, if problems arise, and I've learned to be generous with estimates, as the unexpected always shows up. Operations should begin at that time. Within a year, we should begin looking for staff. <I stir my tea, thoughtful. You've been very curious about the whole project, and while it may be simple interest, or curiosity, a little voice in the back of my brain wonders if its not possibly something else.>

Randy: <I nod, then smile at Lindy when she brings the basket of crabcakes and hushpuppies out. She drops a menu in front of you, leaning in a little further this time, and I shake my head fondly. She's a sweet thing, but so obvious it isn't even funny. How long have I been coming here? A long time. I wonder how old she is now, if she's ever going to leave this place and try to find her way in the real world. On second thought, she's probably better off here--I'm not so sure she could handle the real world. You're frowning a little, but I can't decide if its at the menu, or thoughts about your project, or what. I order the crab legs I generally get, and listen to you finally pick the same. Lindy takes the menu and sashays away; I think she finally got the message you're not going to pursue her interest. I wonder if you ever have any time when you don't have to think about what's going on with some aspect of your business--then decide we're probably very much alike in that respect, because its seldom that I completely forget about my work.> Sounds like a good time-table·I guess. I wouldn't know, myself, about getting something like that up and running--but I'm really glad to hear you're doing it. Did you want to do anything tonight, or just take it easy--maybe rent a movie, or something?

Michael: <You're smiling at me, with that powerful combination of sweetness and seduction, and any thoughts I might have over possible motives fly out the window. My body takes a definite interest, and I shift a little in my seat.> The 'or something' option sounds very interesting, to be quite honest.

Randy: <Oh, man. That was it. Not hot black yet, but definitely a darker gray·almost stormy. You shift again, and I reach one foot out and rub your calf, grinning, enjoying the tightening sensation in my gut.> Yeah, it does, doesn't it. And its amazing, the things you can fit under 'or something'. <My grin turns more wicked, and I glance around, glad its nearly deserted in here, before sliding my foot up a little further.> I think 'fuck ourselves senseless' comes under that heading, actually.

Michael: Unless you want me to fuck you right here on this table in front of Lindy, I'd move your foot away, Caro.

Randy: <For a half a second I consider *not* moving my foot, just to see if you'd actually do it. What a spark that sends through me--talk about a rush! But your eyes look deadly serious, so I shift, pulling my foot away. > Voyeuristic-related activities have a certain appeal·but I think I'd like to have some *serious* privacy for the next little while. I'd like you all to myself, with no one watching, listening, nothing. Phone off the hook, door bolted and chained, blinds down. Whatever it takes, darlin'. Just you and me and the bed for a while.

Michael: Most definitely--I think that's a plan I can live with. I think, after we eat, that I'll not complain about the speed limits you break on the way back to my place. <Just for wickedness, and to show you two can play at that game, I toe off one of my trainers, and slip my socked foot up your calf, up your thigh. It's a benefit to have such long legs at a time like this; just looking at me, I don't appear to have moved. But the look on your face is priceless.> Open your legs, Caro.

Randy: <I lean back against the booth and shift my legs apart, feeling like I've been dropped into a pit of liquid heat. You've got the most wicked look on your face, glittering in your eyes. I'm glad we've ordered, but have a feeling that food is going to come at the most inopportune time. Or if I am. I arch one eyebrow.> You gonna just tease, or follow all the way through, darlin'?

Michael: <My toes find the burgeoning erection beneath your jeans, and I begin rubbing the ball of my foot against it, slowly. You shift abruptly, a sexy little wriggle.> You're a scientist·you like research·consider this a scientific experiment. How long can I stimulate you before you either beg me to stop, or come in your jeans? Can you eat your meal? If not, can you come without a sound? I'm all in favor of experiments, aren't you?

Randy: <Even my eyes and hair feel hot, never mind regions considerably further south. What the hell was I thinking, wearing these jeans? Well, I grabbed the first pair I came to, that's what. I narrow my eyes at you, knowing you look calm, but not so sure that's how you're really feeling. You can't hide what's reflected back at me, and I swear I've never seen eyes that hot before. Volcanic lava has nothing on you right now. I shift again, turning a little in my seat, and pushing myself against your foot. Your eyes widen in surprise for a moment, then narrow in speculation, and the grin that appears is·ferocious. It sends chills and shivers all through me, contrasting nicely with the heat that's oozing over me.> Research·is a good thing·yes. I don't know·if I can come without making any noise·but if you keep on· ·we're probably gonna find out.

Michael: Tease me, Caro, and you'll find out that I always carry through. I have a very highly-developed appetite for the risky. <I lean back a little. You're flushed, and I can see a fine sheen of sweat over your forehead. Beneath the denim, you're as hard as iron, and I can feel the small, helpless rocking motions of your pelvis. I know I shouldn't torment you, but I like seeing you hot like this, and I've waited·for what seems an eternity. One of your hands grips the edge of the table, and the knuckles stand out lividly against your skin. You didn't have to obey me; you could have told me to get my foot back, even as I told you. But you didn't, and that willingness, that obedience to my request, is intriguing. I'm so intent on you that only the basket of food landing on the table before me makes me aware of Lindy's presence once more. I withdraw abruptly, and watch you struggle for control again.>

Randy: <I can't decide whether to be grateful for Lindy bringing our food, or pissed as hell at the abrupt cessation. Twice in one day isn't going to go a long way toward making me a happy person--though I'm not so sure I'm ready to put on a public show here. On a deserted beach in the dark is one thing; in a well-lit, if somewhat sparsely populated restaurant is something else altogether. If I'm honest, there's an appeal there. Following your request, doing this in public, the thrill of possible discovery. But I was dead-on serious when I said I want the next round to be just you and me, in private, no interruptions. I give Lindy a smile that I hope is sincere, and look down at food that doesn't hold as much appeal right now as it did a little while ago, before hormones and sex drive took over. You've got the wickedest smile on your face, and I feel an answering one--accompanied by a hot flush moving over my cheeks and ears--spread over mine. When Lindy's out of hearing distance, I hiss quietly,> You're a cock-tease, Pierson· just remember, paybacks are a bitch.

Michael: Oh, no, Randy. I'm not a tease·I deliver. Think of that as merely·an appetizer for the main course. I'd not want you to lose interest, you understand. < I drop a wink, and set to my food with an appetite--the sooner we finish, the sooner we can be on the road and back to my place, where I can proceed to show you that teasing is not the only thing I can do to your cock.>

Randy: If you think I'm losing interest, then we've got a problem, man. I haven't stopped being interested since-- Well, never mind. <I grin, the heat in my cheeks subsiding a little bit. No lack of sexual heat, just the worst of the flush fading from my skin. The main course sounds like it could be something to last all afternoon and night, if we're given our druthers, and I rather like the idea of doing what I'd said earlier--fucking ourselves senseless. My dick likes the idea too, and throbs again at the thought. I make myself pick up my fork; the sooner we eat, the sooner we can go--and there's nothing else I want right now, other than to get back to your place and get naked, as fast as possible.>

************************

Michael: <As I'd thought, it was a wild ride back home. It hadn't helped that I'd pinned you to the side of your truck and kissed you until we both couldn't breathe, and could scarcely think. It hadn't helped that I'd found it almost impossible to keep my hands from roaming over you as you drove. Only when we pulled into the drive of my apartment building did I recapture a sense of decorum, and that was only because I knew we'd be scrutinized carefully. I was very grateful for the length of the oversized sweater I wore; it helped to conceal the erection I knew was clearly outlined against the tight denim. My nipples were almost as hard, and the sweater rubbed against them in a most wonderful way. It seemed as if it took forever to get back to my floor. I could feel heat practically pouring from you; you were hot enough to burn me, I think, and your eyes were black with need. I'd been primed since this morning, and as needy as I felt, I was afraid I'd not last long. As I ran the keycard through the lock, I turned to murmur softly,> Best remember what it feels like to walk·tomorrow, you'll not be able to do so·.

Randy: I hope that's a promise you're gonna keep, darlin'. <Jesus, my body nearly took off on its own with that one. Your voice feels like velvet scraping over me, and my skin is so sensitive from arousal right now, that just the promise of a touch makes me ache. I broke nearly every speed limit on the books on the trip back here; your hands stroking my cock and nipples, thighs and chest helped add to the heightened sense of urgency, of need. We behaved ourselves--barely--in the elevator, and now here we are, stepping into the cool, dim interior of your apartment. I wait, almost, until the door is closed, then launch myself against you, my mouth hungry for another taste of yours, my hands aching to touch you. My turn to pin you, and I lever my hands in between us, crawling up under your sweater to pinch and pull on them. They're hard, tiny little erections to match the one throbbing against me from behind your jeans, and I groan into your mouth as I grind my body against yours. When I can make myself do it, I break the kiss to whisper hoarsely into your ear,>I don't wanna walk tomorrow, darlin'. Want you to fuck me so hard I can still feel it next week. Want this, hot and throbbing inside me, Michael. The sooner the better·

Michael: <I'd been carrying your overnight bag, and I let it fall to the floor with a thump to match the one my body makes as I hit the door. God, yes, this is what I wanted--to feel you straining against me, hard, muscular, aggressive, hands and mouth everywhere, almost overwhelming. It's like being caught in an electrical storm; I can almost feel the sparks of energy arcing between us--I tingle wherever you touch me, and damn, if you're not trying to touch everywhere, at once. Though you obviously prefer being the bottom, you're not passive, and I like that. I've never cared for passive partners·I always appreciated someone who could bring passion to my bed, and you're like fire, hot and devouring. Your fingers clench in my sweater, and haul me halfway across the room, your mouth never leaving mine. I seize control back, and push your hands off me to strip you of your sweatshirt; I catch a whiff of your sweat, the woods, and it makes me hungrier for you. I can see your nipples peaked beneath the thin T-shirt, and give them a quick pinch, grinning ferally at your growl.>

Randy: Fuck, it feels good to touch you... wanted to do this all day·touch *this*· I want to touch you, Michael. Lick you, taste you, eat you·all of you. <It takes only a moment to get you to raise your arms, and to yank the sweater up and over your head, baring you to the waist. I dip my head and lick from your neck to your chest, then down to one erect nub, circling it with my tongue before latching on and sucking it into my mouth.>

Michael: <I give a strangled cry as you suck at me; it sends a bolt of electricity straight to my groin, and I jerk, and throb fiercely. I thread my fingers through your hair to hold you there; it feels wonderful, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning. It does no good; the sound escapes me anyway, and I give into it, closing my eyes and savoring the steady pulling suction, the occasional scrape of teeth.> Randy...Caro...bed...let me take you to bed...I want to feel you naked next to me...

Randy: Soon, darlin'. Naked, together in bed...yes. But I want to taste you, Michael. Head to toe, all cracks and crevices. <I rub my fingers harder against your cleft and smile against your breast when you give a quiet moan. I lap furiously at your hardened tit, flicking it with my tongue over and over again, the sweetest lashing known. My cock is throbbing against my jeans, and I can't wait to free it, to stroke it while you fuck me, but I'm not giving in to that yet. I want to savor tasting you; my mouth is watering at the thought of it. I bite down very gently on the tiny, throbbing nub and shiver when you groan for me, your fingers tightening in my hair.>

Michael: God, yes...<I shudder, hard. I want your touch, I want *you*, and it's strong enough to drive thought out of my mind. I release my grip in your hair, and drop both hands to fumble at my jeans, making soft, frustrated sounds as I struggle to get them undone. I sigh with relief as I jerk them open, and give a little shimmy to peel them down, kicking off shoes, stripping off socks, then out of the jeans and the boxers, leaving me naked before you, my hardened cock thrusting out at you, needy.> Do it. All yours...

Randy: Oh, man, Michael...<I slide myself down to kneel before you, letting my hands caress your belly, your thighs, your ass. I look up at you; your eyes are hot with hunger, dark with need, and I can feel myself burning inside just as hotly. I stroke over your cock slowly, not lingering, just caressing, then reach to cup your balls. My tongue paints a trail over your abdomen, down into the bush around your cock, then over the shaft, up and around the head. I slide your foreskin back and slip my mouth over you, taking you deep on one stroke, before letting you slide back out. I probe at the tiny, leaking slit with my tongue tip before releasing you; the flavor is darkly erotic and stirs a terrible hunger in me. I rock back on my heels and lick my lips, my voice smoky with arousal.> You're delicious, darlin'. Had the appetizer·now's the *meal*.

Michael: <I'm almost dizzy, and shaking with hunger. I can't ever remember being this aroused by the simplest of touches; my breath catches in my throat in a sob as my blood goes molten. I can't think, only feel hunger for you, for the touch of your hand, for the warm wetness of your mouth, for the brush of your hard body against mine; it's voracious, overwhelming. I find my hands clenched in your soft dark hair, and I make myself release you, swaying before I can broaden my stance to try and keep my unsteady balance. I lick suddenly dry lips, and swallow hard.> Touch me..

Randy: Sit down, darlin'. I'm gonna make you feel something so good, you'll never forget it.

Michael: <I take the two steps backwards beneath your urging, and sink into one of the overstuffed armchairs flanking the window, the smooth upholstery cool against my burning skin. I stare at you, your dark eyes promising untold pleasures, and open my legs, looping one over the armrest. I run my fingers through the soft hair on my chest, pausing to circle aching, hard nipples, before continuing down the arrow of hair to my throbbing, aching erection, which was growing slick with want. I stroke gently, almost afraid to touch myself, afraid I'll lose control, and reach down to cup my balls in the other hand.> Don't brag about it...let me see if you can live up to a promise like that...

Randy: <I flash you a hot, hot grin that speaks volumes for what I think of my ability to live up to that promise, and lean forward toward you, nipping, licking and sucking at the tender skin on the insides of your thighs. Your legs quiver when I move toward the top, inside, and I smile against your flesh as I slide my hands under you, cupping and spreading slightly, encouraging you with soft noises to shift forward for me a little. I run my nose slowly along the crease between your leg and body, breathing in deeply the thick, musky, sweaty scent of you here. It's like being immersed in a pool of your scent; surrounded and cocooned. I lap eagerly at the skin, wanting to taste this scent. My fingers dip into your cleft, rubbing lightly, one trailing through the slickness of the sweat pooling there. I shift against my pants, my erection enormous and aching for freedom.>

Michael: <My breathing goes uneven, ragged, and my heart pounds a rapid tattoo. I can't believe how exciting it is to see you kneeling between my legs, feel the brush of your tongue and the scrape of your teeth, the inquisitive fingers tracing so teasingly along tender skin, tracing erotic designs on my flesh. I shift a little, and sling my other leg over the other armrest, opening myself completely for you, spreading myself wide.> Unbutton your pants, open them up. I want to see you, too.

Randy: <I let go of you with one hand and reach down to yank at the top button. The button-holes are worn, and give without a fight, already strained from trying to keep closed around my erection. I fist myself slowly as my tongue contin