Destination, Wedding!
Page 18
“Is that all you’ve got?” he taunted Virgil, his strong hands now leaving claw marks on Virgil’s muscular ass as he pulled him into ever harder penetration. “I thought you were going to fuck me.”
Virgil made answer by pushing Michael’s face into the pillow and thrusting more savagely into him than he had previously. His powerful buttocks striated as the muscles beneath the pale, smooth skin drove his cock forward again and again, impaling Michael viciously. Michael released his grip on Virgil’s straining ass, and he flailed wildly, seeking a handhold to keep from being pounded flat by the animal force on top of him.
“Unless I miss my guess,” Bryce murmured to Nestor, “we’ll see the first beads of sweat grace those lovely, lovely buttocks right about… now.” As if he had summoned it by his incantation, Virgil’s flesh began to glisten and shine in the glare of the motel room’s lamplight. “Ah, right on time. Boy knows how to work it.”
Spurred on by Bryce’s appreciation, Virgil began jackhammering Michael with rapid, deep strokes. Michael’s voice could be heard screaming into the pillow, though the particulars of his discourse were unintelligible. This machine-gun fucking continued for several astonishing minutes, during which time Bryce and Nestor simply gaped in wonder as they watched. Finally, whether through an exercise of mercy or mere exhaustion, Virgil pulled back and detached himself from the panting form below him.
“Roll over, motherfucker,” he grunted, short of breath.
Michael complied without a word, flipping himself over with surprising agility. He raised his legs, surrendering himself silently, entirely. A crooked grin broke across Virgil’s face as he looked down at the accommodation Michael offered him. This time he didn’t spit angrily, but rather let a long strand of saliva drizzle down from his mouth onto his cock, still sheathed in the condom Bryce had applied earlier. It was hard enough to burrow slowly into Michael’s ass without Virgil even having to put his hand on it. As his cock entered, he laid himself down onto Michael, and they lay eye-to-eye as their hips found each other. Michael wrapped his arms around Virgil and held him tight as he thrust gently, swiveling his hips in random, sensuous gyrations. Michael lifted his head and used his tongue to trace the outline of Virgil’s lips. Virgil groaned and kissed Michael passionately as his hips and buttocks continued their slow dance of thrusts and twists.
Finally Virgil broke their long kiss. “I want to feel you come,” he whispered huskily. He reached down and gripped Michael’s hard cock. Precum, the product of Virgil’s brutal battering of Michael’s prostate, pooled on his lean lower belly. Virgil spread the slick liquid all over Michael’s cock and began to stroke in earnest. “I want to feel you squeeze me when you come.”
“Oh, fuck,” Michael grunted. He tipped his head back, eyebrows raised in incipient ecstasy. “I’m so close.”
“Come for me, come for me,” Virgil chanted, stroking and thrusting in a coordinated assault on Michael’s body, front and rear.
Michael’s body went rigid and then began to twitch all over. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fucking fuck!” he called in time with the increasing cadence of Virgil’s thrusts and strokes.
“It’s starting,” Virgil said, wonder in his voice. “I can feel you twitch inside. You’re so fucking tight!”
The two men writhed together, beyond words, for a long moment. Then a mutual gasping, squealing ecstasy overtook them. Their motions became spastic as orgasm locked them in its iron grip. Michael screamed as if he were ejaculating fire; Virgil grunted as if his cock were being severed by the tight ring of Michael’s ass.
Then… silence.
Neither man moved for several seconds before they both took a deep, heaving breath. Their lips found each other, and they kissed slowly, gently, as if the crisis had passed and they had all the time in the world to luxuriate in its afterglow. Their sweat-glazed bodies relaxed, and they rolled onto their sides and embraced, nuzzling tenderly, beyond the need for words.
“I think they’re warmed up nicely,” Bryce whispered into Nestor’s ear. “Shall we?”
Nestor nodded, and they stood, bubbles clinging to their lean bodies. They dried off using the rather rough motel towels—“Ooh, drying and exfoliating in one step!”—and stepped lightly over to the bed. The mirrored wall showed the contrast between the two pairs of men: Virgil and Michael solidly built with farmers’ tans, while the elegant city boys were free of sinew and muscle. Bryce was a statue in white marble, ready to be worshiped by Greek philosophers; Nestor’s smooth skin was the color of a sweet, hot mocha. They approached the weary men who sprawled, entangled, on the bed.
They each knelt on one side of the two men, and with light fingertips traced arabesques on their glistening skin. Bryce brought a finger to his mouth to sample the salty essence he found on Virgil’s strong back. Nestor began to massage Michael’s exhausted body, paying special attention to his lightly furred cheeks that had been rent so wide.
“Mmmm,” groaned Virgil. “You have amazing hands.”
Bryce, were he capable of blushing, would certainly have done so.
“He’s nothing compared to my guy,” Michael replied, his voice laboring under the weight of such pleasure. “Fuck….” He leaned back and looked up at Nestor, who beamed down at him. Michael reached up, wrapped a hand around Nestor’s neck, and pulled him down. Michael kissed him with a gentle sweetness that was nothing like the athletic mauling he had exchanged with Virgil.
Bryce and Virgil watched the other two make out for a bit; then they looked at each other and exchanged a sly smile. But instead of kissing Virgil, Bryce leaned down and took his flaccid penis into his mouth. Virgil jumped and squirmed, laughing.
“Whoa there, boy—I need some time to recover. Busting this guy open put a bit of a strain on the old fella.”
Bryce smiled up at Virgil and winked. He did not, however, let go. He gently slid up and down Virgil’s soft but still sizable cock, easily swooping all the way down to the base when he felt like it.
Virgil’s head lolled back. “Oh fuck,” he groaned through gritted teeth. “I can’t… I can’t….”
Bryce let Virgil’s cock slip out from between his lips. “Yes, you can, darling.” He got right back to work.
Nestor seemed to take inspiration from Bryce’s industrious dedication to duty, and he swooped down upon Michael’s similarly soft-but-lengthy cock. And Michael, perhaps seeing how ineffectual Virgil’s objection had been, made none on his own behalf. He simply stretched out luxuriantly and exchanged a smile of deep satisfaction with Virgil.
“I can’t believe I’m startin’ to get boned up already,” Virgil said in a husky whisper. “After fucking you half to death, I figured I’d be done for the night.”
“I believe in you, darling,” Bryce said once he had pulled Virgil’s growing cock from his lips. “Erections are self-fulfilling prophecies, and I forecast great things for you.” He kissed the tip of Virgil’s manhood delicately. “And for me, of course.”
“Fuck,” Virgil groaned, throwing his head back in surrender to Bryce’s abiding belief.
“Now, Nestor,” Bryce said, between long lollypop licks, “isn’t this better than flying?”
“Is about the journey,” Nestor agreed with a tickling nip at the tip of Michael’s cock.
“I am so glad to hear you say that,” Bryce replied, beaming while his strong-but-elegant fist made vigorous transits from the base of Virgil’s erection to the tip and back again. “Though I think I’m going to reach the end of my journey before you reach yours,”
Nestor cocked a skeptical eyebrow. He made no answer but doubled the pace of his stroking. As Michael writhed under the onslaught, Nestor lifted his mouth off for just a moment. “Is on, bitch,” he said sweetly. He spat a huge glob of slippery saliva on Michael’s cock and clenched it in both hands, throttling it with a vigor that made its owner clench up in surprise.
“Aw, shit,” Michael yelped, looking down his heaving torso in shock. “Take it easy there, okay?”
“Ooh, I applaud your effort, darling, but there’s simply no chance you’ll get there before I do.” Bryce’s voice was courtly, but his eyes glinted with purpose. Under the pretense of daubing at the corner of his mouth, he slipped his middle finger between his lips, wetting it thoroughly. He brought his hand down into the dark, hot recesses under Virgil’s balls. With instincts honed over the years, his fingertip instantly found Virgil’s tight pucker.
“Whoa there,” Virgil shouted, legs stiffening. “Nothing goes up there, you hear me? Nothing—”
“Oh, but, darling, it’s already in.” Bryce smiled sweetly. “I’m honestly a little insulted you think I’d barge into your delicate orifice like some kind of sex-crazed trucker.”
“I’ve never had anything up there,” Virgil protested, the indignation in his voice softening.
“Then you’ve never felt this,” Bryce said, and with a twist of his wrist he changed Virgil’s life. He dipped his head back down, taking in the cock that surged even more stiffly before him.
“Oh… oh… oh, fuck!” Virgil tore at the sheets and kicked his legs ineffectually, as if he could battle the pleasure that Bryce’s finger brought him with its sinuous invasion.
Bryce winked victoriously at Nestor. But the battle was not nearly over, as Nestor released his grip on Michael’s cock and brought his hands down to the large balls that bounced there. He gripped them expertly, his fingertips dancing over them; then, without warning, he cinched his fist around Michael’s scrotum and pulled down. The effect was electric. Michael seized up, a strangled wail gurgling in his throat.
Startled by Nestor’s dedication, Bryce thrust his finger into Virgil with renewed vigor, sending him into even greater seizures of ecstasy.
It was a dead heat. The men lying supine writhed and shouted, while the lithe demons besetting them gave no ground. The room was filled with the sound of deep grunting and wild suction as Virgil and Michael fell into a rhythm of thrusting abandon.
“Almost there, motherfucker,” Virgil taunted Michael as his legs stiffened with impending orgasm. “We’re gonna kick your ass.”
In response, Michael’s eyes rolled up into his head and his pelvis snapped into manic motion, battering Nestor’s welcoming throat. “Fuck….” he wailed, voice weak and reedy as if choked by pleasure.
As the rules of this game dictated, Bryce and Nestor each pulled the cock out of their mouths and pounded away at them, knuckles white with the hardest work the two of them had ever done in their lives. Their eyes locked, the fierce competitors crashed toward the finish line.
Bryce was so intent on winning, in fact, that the first surge escaped his notice completely until semen suddenly filled his nostril. He startled back but didn’t lose a stroke, the sting softened by the knowledge that he had won. But not by much—a quick glance over at Nestor showed a near photo finish as Michael ejaculated wildly, scattering cum all over the bed as Nestor pulled and squeezed.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the recumbent men chanted, their unison seeming nearly as practiced as that of Bryce and Nestor. They looked into each other’s eyes as they came, their expressions of surprised pleasure mirrored in each other.
Bryce and Nestor were nothing if not thorough, and they yanked and licked and kissed until the last drops emerged and the members in their hands began to soften. Nestor leaned over and kissed Bryce on the cheek, leaving a pearly lipstick print. Bryce accepted the gesture with a regal nod.
“You ran a good race, dear,” he said generously. “I’m sure you’ll come even closer to winning the second heat.”
Nestor looked down at the sweat-drenched and panting men. “They tired,” he said.
Bryce glanced from Virgil to Michael and back again. “You know, you may be right. Let’s get them some water and let them rest for five minutes or so. They deserve that. And then round two!”
“Round two?” Virgil whimpered.
“Five minutes?” Michael moaned.
“That’s the spirit,” cheered Bryce. “Nestor love, I’ll get the water, you get the condoms.”
It was just four and a half minutes later when Bryce and Nestor climbed atop their respective mounts and began gently to ride, cowgirl style, toward bliss.
Chapter Six
Tuesday
A day in Paris
“OH GOD, I was snoring, wasn’t I? I am so sorry. It happens when I get overtired.”
Kerry stood on the balcony of their suite in a bright white hotel robe, blinking into the Parisian noon.
Brandt looked up at her from the chaise lounge where he had dragged a pillow and a blanket in the wee hours of the morning when he could stand it no longer. He couldn’t sleep in hell, so he came out here. Where he didn’t sleep much either.
“No, not at all. I just… I guess I have trouble sleeping in strange rooms or something. I needed some fresh air. I guess.” He stood and gathered up the bedding, wadding it into a huge ungainly ball that he didn’t know what to do with.
She smiled and took it from him. “Here, let me,” she said. “You look like you didn’t sleep very well, which I simply cannot imagine given how comfortable this wrought-iron patio furniture looks.” She shook her head and stepped back into the suite.
“Fuck,” he groaned, then followed her in.
She stood next to a side table, pouring steaming coffee into a pristine white cup, which she handed him. “Here. You’ll feel more human in seconds—these guys know coffee.”
He sipped, and it was indeed good.
Gabriel would love this.
Fuck.
Gabriel.
He blinked hard and then noticed she was staring at him.
“I know what’s going on,” she said quietly, her voice serious.
If his heart intended to ever beat again, it gave absolutely no sign. He took an awkward step to the side, trying to regain his balance.
“I am so sorry.” She set down her own coffee cup and stepped over to him, took his hand in hers. “But I promise you this. He will never know. Not from me.”
“Wha-what?”
“I’ve never met him, but I cannot imagine Gabriel would be happy knowing about it. So if he asks me, I’m going to tell him you never had a moment of doubt. You can tell him whatever you want when you’re ready. That’s your call.”
“Doubt?” It was the only word Brandt could force himself to say. His head was spinning; his knees were ready to buckle.
“That we’d get there for your wedding. I guarantee you he’s spending all his time hoping you’re okay and that you’re just crushing this Amazing Race thing we’re doing, striding mightily across continents to get to him. Just let him believe that until after the ceremony, okay? He’ll feel awful if he glided across the Atlantic in first class and you… well, you slept on balconies because you were punishing yourself for things out of your control.” She smiled, clearly intent on bucking up his spirits.
Out of his control. She had that right.
“Thanks,” he said, whipping up his best effort at a smile to match hers. “I’m so glad you understand.”
She smiled more broadly and patted him on the shoulder. “There ya go, chief. Now, in my effort to impress room service with my Frenchy skills, I may have accidentally ordered a dozen croissants—sorry, not sorry—so eat up and then let’s hit the musées, mmm-kay?” She tossed him a pastry and took a huge bite of another as she walked to the bathroom, humming a song she probably remembered from high school French class.
Yep, this is hell.
He took a bite, washed it down with some coffee. Then he set his shoulders and got on with it.
After the first hour in a museum, he’d reached his limit. Kerry flitted from painting to painting for two more hours, taking it all in before moving on to sculpture, while he walked sto
lidly through the galleries. He hardly even saw the artwork. Instead he saw couples holding hands, young sweethearts babbling excitedly, elderly companions walking slowly without need for more words, having exchanged a lifetime of them already. Everywhere he looked he saw men and women in love. He was nearing the edge of his sanity when he finally saw a pair of young men standing closer than friends would stand, before a huge canvas. He stopped to watch them, to see them express some tenderness to each other, to remind him what men can mean to each other. But when the one on the right spoke to the one on the left, the one on the left turned and left. The one on the right, left alone, stared at the painting intently for another minute, then wiped his eyes and left in the opposite direction.
Brandt sat down hard on a bench as if he’d been punched in the gut.
“Had enough?” Kerry said, plopping down next to him.
“I think so,” he replied, trying to scrub the pain from his voice.
“All right, then, let’s go find one of those charming sidewalk cafés you always see in books about Paris. We’ll get some crusty bread and some creamy Brie and a sassy pinot. I may buy a beret.”
“Now you’re talking,” he said. They found the nearest exit.
An hour later they were finishing a bottle of wine and watching tourists stream past their small marble-topped café table. They laughed at the little dogs and smiled at the babies, and for a moment Brandt forgot that he was having the worst day of his life.
“I know what we’ll do,” Kerry said suddenly once the last of the wine was gone. She stood, a little unsteadily, but soon regained her balance. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” he asked, knowing before speaking that it didn’t matter. He would go anywhere with her because anywhere was better than another night in the hotel was going to be.