by Rob Rosen
“No, we need to go grocery shopping again. He’s inhaling food at an alarming rate.” Carter’s other foot restlessly rubbed up and down Tomas’s thigh. “I don’t care if she takes the class. I don’t even care if she stops the karate lessons.”
He waved off Tomas before he could protest. “No, seriously, she’s been doing it for five years. This past year she’s been whining more and more. She can break boards. She kicks every boy’s ass in the class. I know you want her to continue, but I think it’s time to let her leave. She may go back to it later. She may not. But she is going to start hating it soon if we make her stay. You know I’m right.” Carter let out a contented sigh. “I love your hands.”
Tomas smiled, tweaking Carter’s big toe. “I miss the days when we were concerned about Zoe’s unhealthy obsession with all things American Girl.”
“Me too.” There was a pause. “You need to talk to her. She—you need to talk to her.”
“I will.”
“So, how was the meeting? Did Horton sign the contract?”
“Yeah, they did. I’ll have to go back out to Oakland in a few weeks, but it will all be wrapped up soon.” He didn’t want to talk about the fiasco with Barron right now.
He kneaded the ropy muscles of Carter’s calf, enjoying the sensation of coarse hair under his palms.
“Take these off.” He tugged at the flannel sleeping pants. Carter lifted his hips. Tomas helped him slide the plaid pants down, cock springing free. Happy to see you, too, Tomas thought as he tossed the ugly pants onto the floor. Bending Carter’s knee a little, he kissed his inner thigh.
Carter sighed again. “I missed you.”
Dark brown hands glided up Carter’s hamstrings and back down. Little nips and kisses sprinkled along the taut inner thigh. Tomas gripped Carter’s cock and stroked. There was a protesting moan when he let go so that he could lean over to pull out the top drawer, to pluck out a bottle of oil.
He rearranged Carter’s legs to settle between them. He kissed across a hip, down to the pubic bone, licking and sucking at spots he had learned over the years that drove Carter crazy.
Carter tugged on his dark locks. “Tomas,” he pleaded.
Smiling, but not stopping his exploration, he made his way across the other hip. He would not be rushed. Fingers slick with oil, he stroked the sensitive tissue around Carter’s hole, working in one finger, then two. A groan of pleasure, Carter’s hips lifted, trying to get those diabolical fingers to push in deeper. He got a smack for his impatience.
Tomas massaged the rim, slipping his fingers in and out of the rosette. He focused on Carter, listening as his breathing changed, watching his face contort.
Tomas licked the cock bobbing in front of him, his mouth lightly sucking the head, lips sliding down the velvety shaft. He alternated between playful licks and intense sucking, knowing what his lover liked best. Carter’s hips rocked restlessly, both hands now tangled tightly in Tomas’s hair.
Tomas’s tongue kneaded the thick vein under the plum-colored cock. Fingers stroked and massaged in rhythm with his tongue strokes, making Carter moan even louder. God, he loved that sound. He dragged his fingers back slowly, only to thrust them in again, Carter’s hips pumping in earnest. Curving his fingers up, he pressed into that knot of flesh that made Carter’s spine arch violently. Tomas increased the pressure of tongue and suction of his mouth. With his other hand, he cupped the scrotum, playing with his husband’s heavy balls. He could feel the tightening leg muscles, Carter’s breath coming out in gasps and pants now.
“Tomas, ah god.” A faint sheen of sweat had broken across Carter’s golden skin.
Tomas abruptly stopped sucking, letting the cock slide from his lips.
“Oh god, don’t stop, please, Tomas.”
Tomas looked up at the bowed body of his mate. He loved to hear Carter beg. Smiling, he resumed treating the throbbing cock like a candy treat, Carter’s pleading groans music to his ears. Allowing his jaw and throat to relax, he suckled more deeply, taking Carter in to the root, enjoying the taste of him, the weight of Carter’s cock in his mouth. Tomas pinched tender flesh, kneading the ball sac. He could feel the large muscles of Carter’s thighs contract even more, his hips moving spasmodically now.
“Ah god.” Carter came in a torrent, Tomas swallowing all of it, not losing a single salty drop. He suckled as the flesh softened.
Carter’s body was lax now. Sounds of breathing, harsh and uneven, tried to draw in more air. Tomas’s lips feathered over Carter’s, the kiss lazily changing as tongues and teeth became involved. “I love you,” Tomas whispered against Carter’s temple.
“Love you, too.” He nipped Tomas’s lower lip, scraping his short nails over a darkened nipple. Tomas sucked in a sharp breath.
“Roll over,” Tomas said.
“I can’t. My brain has shut down and my muscles won’t work. Wait a minute for my body to reboot.” Carter’s husky laugh rumbled out as calloused fingers continued to torment the puckered nipple.
Tomas captured both wrists and trapped them high over Carter’s head. “Behave,” he snarled.
With a gentle push, Tomas stood, removing his pants, his cock taut against his stomach. Picking up the oil again, he flicked the cap.
Carter lifted his hand, reaching for the bottle. “Let me.”
Slowly, Carter sat up, stroking Tomas’s prick, slicking the oil up and down, twisting and teasing. His hazel-eyed gaze locked with his lover’s coffee-brown eyes.
Breathing roughly, Tomas repeated, “Roll over.”
Carter bestowed a rough, demanding kiss before complying.
Tomas planted kisses along the spine, lapping at the sweat there. Lightly biting Carter’s right cheek, his hands kneaded the muscles, spreading flesh. He placed the tip of his cock against the rim and slowly pushed in as Carter pressed back. They both groaned. Tomas held still, enjoying the sensations, the tight grip of muscles.
“Move, old man,” Carter growled.
There was a smack of palm against ass. “You’re so impatient. And I’m not old.”
A rough laugh came from Carter. “Move, now.”
Tomas obeyed, albeit slowly, enjoying the leisurely movements of their bodies. No rush, just absorbing the feel of them together, the air painted with sighs, moans, entreaties. Tomas leaned over Carter’s back, caressing his flank, the flex of muscle playing against his palm.
Carter wiggled under him, rocking back and forth to urge Tomas along. “Faster. Fuck me faster, Tomas.” His voice strained.
Tomas lifted off Carter’s back, digging his fingers into his mate’s hips, his mind shutting out everything but this right now. Awareness honed on movement, sound, emotion, sensation. Carter moved in opposition to him, his tempo crescendoing, the sounds of flesh smacking together. Heat and desire built. Breath sawed in and out of lungs. Tomas’s heart galloped against his ribs as he thrust harder. “So good.” There was nothing but the two of them.
“Faster,” Carter urged.
When his verbal demand was ignored, Carter set to clenching and relaxing his muscles, spurring Tomas on. Teeth gritting, Tomas tightened his hold and expeditiously complied. His torso was covered in a thin gleam of sweat, their bodies gliding, pulsing, flying together.
The runaway train that was his orgasm ripped through him. Spasming, nerves zinging, he laughed. Tomas felt his muscles contract violently, then melt. His chest crashed onto Carter’s back. Sweat-slicked skin pressed to sweat-slicked skin, Tomas waiting for his body to come back online. His breathing synced with his lover’s. When he could, he eased back, rolling to his side. Carter flopped across him. The weight felt wonderful, comforting. He stroked Carter’s back.
“So,” Tomas said, a moment later, after he cleared his throat, “no more karate, huh?”
“No, if we force her to continue, it won’t be pretty.” Carter petted him, fingertips skimming over his chest, playing with his collarbone.
“I’ll talk to her,” he promised. “Grocery shoppin
g tomorrow?”
“Yeah, boys are so much easier.”
Laughing, Tomas shifted, pulling Carter onto him more. “Think your folks would take the kids so you can go with me on the next trip to Oakland?”
“In a flash.”
“Good, I missed you.” He pressed a kiss against Carter’s brow.
“Welcome home, Tomas.”
UGLY- SEXY
Gregory L. Norris
Did you hear the one about the two married dudes who were fucking in a leather sling, and how the sling broke, spilling their asses all over the basement floor? No?
Well, it went something like this:
Let’s begin with our cast of characters. There’s Flynn. Flynn’s the hero of our story. Flynn’s a construction worker—a man of tools who can sometimes be a tool. Dude swings a mean hammer. He built the house where the above-referenced disaster occurred. Flynn constructed the sling, too. At last report, the house was still standing.
Flynn. Your typical former jock. Still plays sports at forty, but comes home creaking to that house with the former sex sling in its basement. He ices up now more than when we first crossed paths, back when I was in my early twenties and he’d just hit the big three-zero. Flynn plays first base on a summer weekend hardball league that’s made up of other wannabe jocks that never got their big breaks. Fucker stands at six-two, doesn’t have an ounce of fat on his lean, ropy mass of muscles, drinks beer, scratches and grunts. He’s a modern caveman. A penis with feet—size-thirteen boats, by the way.
I’m Flynn’s costar in this mad piece of performance art known as our life. You can call me Charlie. That’s sort of Flynn’s pet nickname for me. Okay, under full disclosure, it’s what he calls my asshole, which he first fell in love with at a rest stop men’s head just after the witching hour on a humid Sunday night a decade ago. We don’t have your typical meet-cute story—it doesn’t get trotted out at parties or shared with relatives, most of which still refer to us as “roommates.”
It’s sort of an ugly story. Sexy, too, because something miraculous happened when Flynn was buried balls deep in me in that stinky men’s stall. It was the best sex of my young life. Turned out, it was also the best of Flynn’s, pre and post-divorce. We exchanged phone numbers after flushing that second cock-sock full of his juice down the drain, then started to walk away from each other, but wound up watching the sunrise together at that house he was building.
We’ve been together ever since.
Relationships can get ugly. The ones with legs, with staying power, go through a predictable evolution. First up is the nonstop fucking or honeymoon stage, where you can’t keep your hands off each other and you’re doing it everywhere, at all hours: in the shower; in the mudroom the moment he swaggers home from work and kicks off his gigantic steel-toed boots; in the car after you make a run to the grocery store for ice cream, and you not only get caught by the driver of the minivan you’re parked next to while humming up and down on his dick but also the fucking ice cream melts.
Then you arrive at a kind of Limbo—land of lost souls, according to the ancient Greeks, who, as goes the legend, understood the joy of that wondrous honeymoon stage, and also the dangers of getting stuck in a place between living and death. In modern speak, Limbo is when he’s sprawled across the sofa in the basement’s man cave, his giant feet kicked up on the coffee table, and one big toe poking through a hole in his white crew sock. He’s wearing old shorts and a T-shirt that’s overdue in the wash, hasn’t shaved for two days, and his face is almost as hairy as his legs. You go down there to ask him what he wants for dinner, listing the options. He grunts, his eyes no longer seeing you, just the ball game playing on the flat screen.
There’s something galling about being overlooked for baseball, football, pucks, hoops—whatever sport is playing in high-def. Heck, it could be fucking bowling that owns his attention. But also, there’s still that image of cuteness as he flexes his toes, scratches his chin, thinks a man’s most basic thoughts. Yeah, sexy.
Changing tactics, your eyes wander over those athlete’s legs, that one big toe sticking out of his sock triggering breathlessness. You drink in his manly scent, piney and potent, lean down and kiss his furry cheek. Your mouth lingers, moves up to his ear, licks. He shrinks, pushing away from you.
“Quit it,” he grumbles.
You don’t, and then cup his cheek, drawing his mouth to yours.
“Charlie, the game!” he complains.
The only game involving a bat and balls you care about waits between his legs. You kiss him, your free hand walking down, lower and lower. By the time you reach his furry belly button, visible through the gap between T-shirt and the top of his shorts, he’s getting into it, kissing back. You find his dick hard, his piss-slit damp with a drop of his juice when you pull his shorts aside, and those big, meaty balls that won over your heart spill out. He works one of his gargantuan mitts through your hair, urging you to suck his cock. Which you do—after attending to those low-swinging nuts, funky with his sweat. You even take a few licks at his asshole, which he permits. In the honeymoon stage, when he was mostly straight and fresh out of a miserable marriage, you had to warm him up to the idea. But once you did, there were times that you ate that fur-ringed knot between his sports-toughened ass muscles for what felt like hours, made him bust more than a few loads merely from licking him where no one else ever had.
Flynn flips you onto your stomach and returns the favor, his tongue wet, warm, hungry. He lines up that fat head of his dick with your knot, and pushes into you, his cock at long last scratching the itch that’s now always there. He grinds on top of you, fucking in and out, his shorts hanging off one of his ankles. He moans warm breaths into your ear, presses his cheek against yours, humps, and sweats. You take care of your own dick, jacking off in concert to Flynn’s fuck-thrusts, a trend now that you’re in Limbo.
“I love you, Charlie,” he pledges, his fat balls gonging against you with every inward charge.
You believe him, and you love him, too. But at some point, you notice his eyes are back on the television. He’s a man only half there.
Yeah, that’s Limbo for you.
But then there’s the End. That’s the place where a week passes between fresh lays. Fucking becomes part of a schedule, penciled in like an appointment to see the dentist or your mechanic. Sometimes, you reschedule it for another time, or you skip it altogether. He’s down in his man cave jerking off between innings or at halftime to stay sane, and you’re upstairs doing the same thing to the latest sausage-fest of bachelors on your favorite bad reality TV show.
Where do you think Flynn and I were, leading up to my ill-fated swing in the fuck-sling? You get one guess.
Yup, it was the End.
He forgot his wallet. So, aggravated, I hopped into my car and drove downtown, where Flynn’s construction company was renovating an old brick mill building into luxury loft apartments. It was seasonably muggy out, and when he strutted up to my window, hardhat on his head, the musky smell of his sweat riding up my nostrils, I wasn’t turned on.
“Here,” I snapped, and handed Flynn his wallet.
Flynn narrowed his blue eyes. I hated the look of his nose and the threads of silver visible above both ears. “Is there a problem, Charlie?”
“Clearly,” I lobbed back. “I’ve got things to do today, and you keep piling more on my shoulders.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, though by his tone I could tell he really wasn’t. “Jesus, I’m sorry I forgot to take my wallet with me.”
“You forget to lock the front door, you forget to empty your pockets before you toss your pants in the laundry, and you’d probably forget your head if Doctor Franken-stein hadn’t sewed it onto your shoulders.”
A bead of perspiration slipped out of Flynn’s hairline and dripped down the side of his face, telegraphing that his temperature was rising, and that my husband of a decade was growing angrier.
“Charlie,” he growled through clenched teeth.<
br />
“Try a little harder; that’s all I’m saying.”
“Fuck,” he sighed. Straightening, Flynn pocketed his wallet.
At that moment, it was easy to forget that we cared for each other, that we loved each other, even if we’d fallen out of love through the natural progression that links two horny males together and potentially drives them in search of other partners for excitement.
That potential living wedge moseyed over from the direction of the construction waste dumpsters in the form of a tall, lean tomcat dressed in old blue jeans, a navy T-shirt, dirty work gloves, and dirtier shit-kickers. Flynn’s face hardened, but he didn’t say anything as the young man leaned down, all smiles.
“This the main squeeze, boss?” the tomcat asked, his voice a youthful but manly baritone.
In the next second or so, I drank in his magnificence: clean white teeth showing from a gesture more wolf’s snarl than actual smile, a prickle of five o’clock scruff at just after nine in the morning, bright blue eyes, some ink protruding from the cuff of one sleeve, hair in a classic athlete’s cut, a total jock’s body. He was, dare I say, a younger version of Flynn.
Still hacked off and avoiding direct eye contact, Flynn said, “Cory, this is Charlie. Charlie, this is the new dude, Cory.”
My annoyance evaporated, a shiver teasing the fine hairs at the nape of my neck. I wanted to believe that the handsome, younger version of Flynn was experiencing a sliver of the same attraction that held me in its grip. His scent, pretty much the same as my husband’s, made my insides ignite. I extended my hand, intending to shake, but Cory took it and kissed the back, like a handsome prince from a fairy tale.
“Enchanted,” he said.
I resisted the urge to smile, but failed. “What a gentleman.”
“Hey, Big Flynn here’s a lucky dude, I hear. I should get so lucky to have a Charlie waiting for me at the end of every long, miserable shift.”
Our eyes connected, and I fell madly in lust with the handsome young stranger: the Before to Flynn’s After.