by Neil Plakcy
“I’ve been—ah—busy. With work and—things. Oh, oh, shit that’s good.” Shawn chuckles to himself: who’s doing the swearing now? With one hand, he tugs open the man’s belt buckle, unbuttons, unzips: the silky trousers slither to the floor; the other hand steers their mouths together, the shorter man straining around to reach Shawn’s lips. Commando, he realizes, as his hand grazes bare skin, just as he’d thought down in the bar. Shawn brushes his fingers across the man’s belly. At the touch, the stranger lets out a strangled cry. “Oh, god, Sh—”
Shawn grabs his jaw once more, catching him in a rough kiss before he can get out the words, swallowing his moan. “Shh,” he says, smoothing a hand down the front of his body, “not now, baby, not when you’re being so good. You want to be good for me, right?”
He opens the blue shirt, hands dipping down between each button so he can stroke that lovely cock, tugging on it from root to tip, an overhand pull, one hand after the other. Up and down, avoiding the glans, tugging down on his balls to keep him grounded. He needs that small bite of pain in everything they do, be it the yank on his hair, or the smack of his ass, or the twisting bite of teeth on his inner thighs while he’s getting fingered. It doesn’t make him any less impatient, though, for even now he’s mumbling, pleading. “Fuck, need you, need you in me, please. Please.”
He swallows hard. Lord, but the begging gets him low in his gut, loud and twisting like crumpled cellophane, every fucking time. “Go get on the bed.” The pants tangle and slow him down, but Shawn still manages to lag a step behind. He pauses to take in the perfect composition of his partner’s body, how his shirttails frame his dimpled ass. He lies down with his feet propped on the floor, tracking Shawn’s movements as he pulls open the bedside drawer, looking for lube. A copy of the yellow pages; eyeglass case; a heavy gold wedding ring, engraved with two pairs of initials; a black plastic prostate stimulator and a matching rubber cock ring; a plastic bottle, newly opened, barely used. He picks the last of these.
The man watches quietly as Shawn slicks his fingers. His hands unfurl and close in anticipation, picking a rhythm out from the folded edge of the sheets. The movement reminds Shawn of a kitten, tentatively feeling out its first steps beyond the whelping box. He sinks to his knees in front of the open drawer and presses a kiss to the inside of his left knee, lifting the foot to place it on his thigh. White teeth grind against his full bottom lip, swollen from Shawn’s stubble. A flick of tongue to soothe away the burn.
Face gone flaming, he rolls his hip open so Shawn can see him, pink and perfect. One finger surges forward, for Shawn finds hardly any resistance there. “Oh,” the man sighs. Inside, too, he is slick and stretched, quick to take a second finger. “Yes,” he breathes. “So good.”
Open, Shawn can feel, and his own cock surges to think of him here, late afternoon light picking out the muscles of his arms and the rucked-up sheets as he fingered himself, surrounded by the mess of shopping bags and the casual disarray of a space not his own. He would have been on his back, legs spread, slim fingers slick with lubricant as he made himself ready to take Shawn’s cock.
“You did this,” he breathes, the realization hitting him low in his gut, the heat of his lover spreading down Shawn’s whole arm, suffusing him with warmth. “Here, on this bed, getting yourself all ready for me.”
The man’s pale chest heaves in time with his frantic nods, “Y-yes,” he utters, and looks down the length of his body—naked and exposed from the waist down, precome smearing his smooth stomach, mixing with sweat, staining the hem of his shirt, Shawn crouched between his open thighs like a predator—and as one they watch his ass clench, then yield, as Shawn adds a third finger, slowly thrusting them in and out. “I wanted to be ready—oh fuck—right there, Jesus, sh- shit—you, fuck…” His head falls back against the pillow.
“What did you think about,” Shawn asks, “when you did it?” He swallows. “A strange man filling you up, splitting you open?” Without removing his fingers, Shawn comes to stand, towering over his partner. “You,” the redhead gasps, a sound made all the sweeter by the knowledge that it is Shawn, only Shawn, who can do this to him. Strands of hair cling to his forehead, a blotchy flush dots his cheeks. They share the air as Shawn leans in and closes the distance between them. The words are full of love and pleasure so thick it fills the room.
“Take my cock out, baby,” he murmurs, the dirty words filled with tenderness. He reaches up through his spread legs to fumble at Shawn’s fly. The pink tip of his tongue presses against his teeth, his brow contracts. Concentrating. Metal clanks as the buttons open and the zipper is yanked down. Both hands grasp for Shawn’s erect cock, the trailing brush of fingers and caress of cool air.
The stranger’s mouth spills open when Shawn pulls his fingers out; a filthy wet sound fills the silence. With a soft gasp the man watches wide-eyed, staring down past his stomach. Shawn positions himself, slings one leg over his shoulder, as the man underneath him groans. He doesn’t bother to reach for more lube, since they’re both soaked through, but swipes the fat head of his cock along the man’s crack, gathering the excess, then lines himself up. He cradles the back of the man’s head with his hand, forcing his gaze down to watch.
“Look,” Shawn breathes. “Look at yourself, picking up strangers, so desperate for it. Look at how I’m going to fuck you, baby, look.” The fistful of hair he’s grabbed is sweaty, but it doesn’t matter, Shawn’s got him pinned, pretty well bent in half, perfectly ready to split open.
The words come out as a moan, “Yes, yes, fuck me, please,” the man whimpers. Together they watch the tip of Shawn’s cock as it disappears, the gleam of the wet shaft sliding into the darkness of their conjoined bodies.
The man clenches and fucking wriggles on Shawn’s dick. He mouths his shoulder, scraping teeth along the muscle. “You feel even bigger than you look.” “Christ,” Shawn groans, stilling his hips. He settles in deep until he’s fully sheathed. The other man’s cock twitches, red and heavy against his belly. The stranger clenches around him, and then releases, tilting his hips so Shawn can fuck in deeper. Through his nose, he takes a deep breath, willing himself not to shoot off right away. The other man, though, his partner, does not like that decision one bit. He wriggles, again.
“No,” he pleads. “Don’t stop. Fuck me harder,” he insists, ass clenching, and Shawn bites off a curse and starts to move. Sliding out, and coming home, so tight every time. He pounds him into the mattress, because they cannot hold back the tide. Tomorrow, he decides, rocking into the narrow cradle of the other man’s hips, tomorrow I’ll eat him to delirium, wake him with my mouth on his balls and a finger up his ass, and in between we’ll call for room service, for mediocre hamburgers gussied up with aioli, French fries that will be cold before they even arrive, losing their crisp heat on the ride up five floors, but it won’t matter one bit, lazy and sated, wild-haired and fucked-out, he’ll eat them anyway.
“Yes,” his lover moans, as Shawn fucks him, “there, Shawn, Shawn, oh—god, please let me let me.” His cock is gleaming, twitching each time Shawn slams into him, nailing his prostate on every thrust.
“Do it,” Shawn commands, to the humid curve of his husband’s pale throat, “come for Shawn, come for me, baby.” Their hands intertwine, and Shawn shoves down his hand, pinning his partner as he comes undone, spasming and moaning so loudly, like they can’t at home, never alone, and fucking out all those little sighs and groans makes him drive into Brian all the harder.
He awakes with a start, as he does every morning. The kids are with Cathy, and he has overslept. The sun streams in at an angle too high for early morning. It is quarter till ten, Shawn sees, when he looks at the clock, and Brian—hair mussed from sleep, swaddled in a white terry-cloth bathrobe and wheeling in a cart that promises to contain French roast and multiple varieties of melon—smiles fondly down at his husband.
“It’s late,” he gripes, accepting the china cup from his position on the bed.
�
�Mm,” Brian hums, sipping his own coffee. “Someone needed sleep.”
Shawn scrubs a hand over his face and takes another sip of coffee. Brian cracks his fingers. Shawn, as he does every morning, winces from the sound. Brian tips his head from side to side, stretching his neck, and in doing so, exposes the pale line of it to Shawn’s hungry gaze. There are bruises purpling there, faint teeth marks scored against the skin, which Brian absently traces a finger over.
“Look at what you’ve done to me,” he purrs.
Shawn swallows, heavily, the unspoken suggestion to Face-Time the kids and Brian’s mom now stuck in his throat. Brian catches the furrow of his brow, reads there the anxiety of the full-time dad and gently he detaches the coffee cup from Shawn’s hand and places it on the end table.
“It’s their naptime,” Brian says, unknotting his bathrobe. A pale sliver of skin reveals itself as the fabric parts. “We don’t want to wake them up,” he adds. “We’ll call after.” After, his eyes sparkle, after you fuck me into the mattress again. Already, he feels a stirring, a need to glut himself on Brian, to mold his body to his own and feel him anew. Today, and every day from now until they die.
“After,” Shawn agrees, reaching for the man he loves, “they’ll be much happier after their nap.”
“Quite right,” Brian agrees, and leans in to kiss him.
TABLE FOR THREE
Jameson Dash
Bette had her laptop open and paperwork spread across the bar when Toby arrived at the restaurant. “You’re late,” she said. She gave him a look over her reading glasses.
“I thought you worked better without me over your shoulder.”
She shrugged. Then she said, “The new kid starts tonight.” Bette pushed her glasses up into her braids. She reached out and patted his hand when Toby groaned. “You hired him,” she said.
He did, but Toby forgot he was starting tonight. He wanted him in the restaurant as soon as possible, to get him training. Instead of throwing the kid in the deep end of weekend service, they were starting tonight, a Wednesday. It would be a nice, slow night to ease the kid into the job so they didn’t lose another server in another month.
They had lost three to grad school in the last year, and the latest position had already been filled twice. Toby was hoping this kid would stick around.
“Tell me his name again.”
“Mike.”
Toby groaned. “Why would I hire a Mike?” He wandered into the kitchen, Bette’s laughter fading into the sounds of cooks and cooking. He stopped to chat with Mo, who was working out the night’s menu on the back of the day’s receipts.
“Our new server is starting tonight,” Toby said.
Mo nodded. He left that stuff to Toby. Mo took care of the food; Toby took care of the people.
“I’m just saying,” Toby said, trying for a sneak peek at the menu. “Don’t give him a mouthful to recite. He’s a white boy.”
“Good luck tonight,” Mo said, a twisted grin on his face as he passed his back-of-the-receipt notes to Ramon. He did a specials menu every night, with two or three dishes based on what looked interesting at the market that morning.
Toby didn’t care what Mo cooked, just as long as he kept making the injera, the flat bread that accompanied every dish. It was the foundation of Ethiopian cuisine, the name of their restaurant, and no one made it better than Mo. He could never admit it out loud, but Toby liked Mo’s injera better than his mother’s.
He was setting up the bar for the night’s service when Parvati showed up. She tied on her server’s apron and took over, setting tables while Bette finished up her paperwork and got out of their way. Injera was a small restaurant, with only two more servers set to show up: Celeste, who would take Toby’s place as host tonight, and Mike, the new kid.
Mike started talking as soon as he arrived, and he didn’t stop all night. Toby tried to hide in the kitchen while Mike was clearing tables, but Ramon kicked him out. “We’re working in here,” he said. Toby escaped behind the bar.
“He’s nice,” Parvati said, waiting with her tray while Toby got her drinks. “I hope he sticks around.”
“If you’re looking for a date, stop right there. There will be no fraternization in my restaurant.”
She laughed over her shoulder on her way back to her tables. Toby had assigned Mike to the four-top in the window and the two seats in the corner. He was over there now, with his hand on a man’s shoulder, and the whole table was laughing along with a joke.
He was good at the job. Toby watched him walk through the restaurant, checking on everyone, not only his tables, before he returned to where Toby was working the bar.
“Having fun?” Toby asked him.
“It’s such a nice place,” Mike said. He leaned across the bar and spoke in a low voice. “The smell is driving me crazy. I’m starving. How do you stand it?”
Mo did a tasting of the specials for the servers, and he had done a few of the classics for Mike to taste along with them, to get an idea of the whole menu. He said he had never eaten Ethiopian food, but he ate with enthusiasm and had spent much of the night suggesting dishes to customers before they even had a chance to decide.
“You eat before you show up for work,” Toby said, deadpan. Mike laughed, so he knew how to take a joke. He was going to get along well at Injera.
“The only thing I have in my fridge right now is beer,” he said. He turned away from Toby to glance around the room. Mike was attentive and pleasant to be around. Toby couldn’t bring himself to complain about the constant questions. He was new. He had a lot to learn. “What about you?” Mike asked, coming around the bar to grab the cloth and wipe it down for something to do. “Is your wife a good cook?”
It had been a long time since Toby had to come out to someone. He encountered people every day who didn’t know, but they didn’t always need to know. Mike would find out, and if he was still here when Azzo arrived to take Toby home, he would find out tonight.
“Husband,” Toby said, an easy correction.
Mike’s mouth fell open, almost comical, but his eyes were also wide, and Toby felt that old, familiar panic reaching up into his throat.
“That’s awesome,” Mike said. Toby didn’t think Mike could be any younger than he already looked. “I have so many questions, man. Where did you meet? How long have you guys been together? Is he hot?”
Toby laughed, but there wasn’t time for any of that, of course. As Mike was inching himself closer, Toby spotted a customer glancing around the room.
“Table five,” he said. Mike jumped, and he was gone, completely professional once more. He would do well here, Toby decided. He would be a good kid to keep around.
After service, after the chairs were up off the floor and Mike was sweeping, Mo wandered out of the kitchen.
“Kid,” he said, loud, so Mike would know who he was talking to. “First night in the restaurant, you have to come out and buy the boys a round.”
Mike went pale, the lights from above making him look gaunt.
“Why are you teasing him?” Toby rinsed their glasses and gathered up his things from behind the bar. Azzo should be there any minute. “We want this one to stick around.”
“You’ll buy a drink for your chef at least,” Mo said, stalking across the room and putting an arm around Mike’s middle. Mike looked down on Mo—at least a head shorter—with a careful smile. He nodded, like he believed that was the way to keep his job.
“Don’t listen to him, Mike.” Toby pulled him away from where Mo was chuckling. He walked Mike to the back, where he put away his broom and picked up his bag. “You don’t have to go out tonight. You might want to work your way up to partying with the kitchen guys. They’re hard-core.”
“Are you coming?” Mike asked. His eyes were big and expectant. He looked so young and made Toby feel so old.
“Azzo’s picking me up,” Toby said.
“That’s your husband? That’s a nice name.”
Back in the dining r
oom, Mo was at the front door. The lights were off, but Toby could hear his husband laughing. They had their arms around each other, holding each other up as each one bent over with a belly laugh.
“I don’t like leaving the two of you alone,” Toby said. He shouldered his bag, and Azzo met him halfway, reaching out his hand, like he couldn’t bear them apart for one more step. “I think you should make it up to me,” he said, putting on his pout for show. Azzo kissed it right off his face.
“Mo said you were flirting,” Azzo said, pulling away from the kiss, but he didn’t go far. He held Toby in his arms as they swayed and turned around the room.
Toby shook his head. “Mike, you should meet my husband.” The kid was nervous. Wiping his hands on his pants, he stepped forward, arm extended in a job-interview handshake. “Our new server, Mike. My husband, Azzo. This is his first night, so be kind.”
Azzo asked, “Did you survive, kid?” Mike didn’t think; he just nodded. “Do you want to come back tomorrow?” Mike answered that one with another nod, no less certain. “Then you’ll do just fine.”
“Should we head out?” Mo asked. He had his hand on the door. “Before my staff drinks all night and leaves me with the tab?”
He led the way, holding the door open as Azzo pulled Toby along. Their feet never tangled when they walked this close. They had been walking this close for years. Mike was the last one out, so Toby tossed him the keys to lock up.
“The kid’s cute,” Azzo said. His voice was low, and his lips brushed Toby’s as he spoke. It was half kiss, half question, and Toby leaned into him for more.
“Stop.” Toby gave him a smack, then dragged them right back together. Up ahead, Mike was walking with Mo, and it looked like Mo was suffering through the same questions that had dogged Toby all night. “He asked about my wife.”