"You can't ride back with me like that."
Gibbs looks pinched around the lips with irritation, his eyes going from my muddy pants -- come on, boss; don't you know that sludge is this year's black? -- to his pristine, shiny, just detailed car. Normally, he's not that fussy about his ride; I left a piece of intestine (skunk) on the passenger seat once and got bawled out for improperly tagged evidence, not the slime or the stink.
Today, though, he's in one of those control freak moods and I'm expecting him to solve the problem by whipping up a collar and leash and making me run back to the office jogging beside the car, my leash wrapped around his hand as he sticks to a steady ten miles an hour.
Except Gibbs doesn't ever drive that slow, so -- ouch. Let's not go there.
"It's not my fault, boss. It's a swamp. I fell in. It was kind of inevitable, and funny, did I mention funny? Because I'm sure I saw you smile. Did you? Did you smile, boss?"
Gibbs gets right up into my face, which closes the lid on the babble box, and I feel his breath and just a smidge of spit as he starts to yell -- gross if it was anyone else, but Gibbs' spit is somehow sexy. God, I've got it bad.
"DiNozzo, do I look like I'm smiling to you?"
He's dying to snap out a terse, "Drop and give me twenty", I can tell. Twenty? Make that fifty. And then he'd need a new senior field agent because the one he's got now would be dead. I can do push ups if they stay in the 'I can count them on the fingers of both hands' numerical range.
And for the record, thumbs aren't fingers. If they were, they'd be called, oh, I don't know; fingers, maybe? Think about it. Yeah.
"Above the waist, I'm spick and span," I offer. The swamp wasn't that deep, but I entered it at an angle. Gibbs' hand tight in my collar had been all that stopped me going under. It had cut off my oxygen for a moment, but that's a feeling I'm used to around him. He slaps the back of my head sometimes and stops my heart.
The man's given me kinks the way other people hand out sticks of gum; he slaps my head and I think of that hand on my bare ass, spanking me just as crisply, just as hard. He sips his coffee and makes that face that says he likes hot liquid filling his mouth, waking him up, and I go to places that make even me blush, seeing myself rise from my knees, mouth swimming with come, forbidden to swallow, though my throat's aching to do just that, and feed it back to him in a kiss, a dirty, sloppy, messy, fucked-up kiss.
I really don't know where that one came from. I mean, looked at objectively, Gibbs isn’t the kinky sort. He's strangely innocent for a man who's killed people in big numbers and seen some seriously nasty shit. No, okay, not innocent. Just…he's missing big chunks of what makes the world go 'round, who's in, what's hot, who's not. It's what happens when outside of work, you live in a cave. Mention Big Brother and he thinks you mean a book.
Gibbs looks me over. Another kink. God, I need to make a list. Bullet points, alphabetical… He stares like a kid trying out X-ray glasses, maybe squints a bit, his face screwed up and I stiffen. All of me. Yes, I do mean there; my dick's the first to go. And since he starts at the top and works down slowly, I know he's had an eyeful of DiNozzo Junior now and then, but we don't discuss it.
He could probably tell me the exact size it reaches, down to an eighth of an inch. Good eye.
"I wouldn't say that, DiNozzo." He purses his lips and then nods sharply. "Strip down. Nothing with mud on goes near that seat."
If I lived in a cartoon -- and, hey, that'd be cool, wouldn't it? -- this is the point where they'd use a screeching needle sound effect, but actually I'm not that freaked out by the idea of it; Gibbs has seen me naked before; it's not the first time I've gotten messy on the job. Riding back with him, naked from the waist down, though…
"Uh, if we get pulled over --"
"We won't." Cocky, confident bastard.
"At the other end -- the office -- " I try again.
"I'll take you back to your place. You can write the report in the morning."
I eye him, see no mercy, and start to undress, dropping each sodden garment into the plastic bag he holds open for me. The bag I could've just sat on, but that'd be no fun, now would it?
I'm starting to wonder if I've pissed Gibbs off. I'm scarily good at that; take pride in it even.
Shoes, sock, pants, fire-engine red briefs that now look like I had an accident, Miss…they all go inside the bag and the bag goes in the trunk. I'm shivering and if Gibbs even tries to guesstimate the size of my dick now, I'll drown him in the swamp before he can tell anyone.
He cranks up the heater in the car to compensate for the chill of the leather seats and I stop shivering within a mile or two and concentrate on making my pulled down shirt stand in for my missing briefs. Bits of me keep popping out as Gibbs takes corners on two wheels like usual; my balls, the tip of my dick; once, when he decides to brake at a stop sign at the last possible minute, everything, for one frantic, crowded moment, as I grab onto the seat and my shirt rides up, up, up.
Gibbs notices. He should be watching the fucking road, but as we come to a quivering halt, he glances over at me and down, his gaze lingers, and he smiles, just faintly.
Pinky turns perky. By the next red light, I'm hard and my face matches the light. My ears are hot.
Then I have to take back everything I've ever said about Gibbs being vanilla. He flicks a switch and the seat warmer kicks in, full blast.
My ass gets toasty, my balls start to sweat, and I'm wriggling, gasping, porn flick noises squeezing out past gritted teeth. Jesus, that feels good. Like being touched, like lying on top of someone, all warm skin, damp from exertion, sticking together and not caring. Like the glow two hours after you've been spanked when it's not hurting, just tingling.
Not that I've ever…does it count if you do it to yourself and pretend it's your boss and you're lying ass up over his desk, your face pressed against the seat of his chair, where it's hollowed out in the shape of his butt?
Gibbs gives me a sidelong look and smiles some more.
"Boss, I'm going to come right out and point at the elephant in the room," I say. He didn't want me on his team because I was a gutless coward. I can lay it out like a man.
"We're in a car, Tony."
"Yes, and there's no elephant. Work with me here, Gibbs," I snap.
"You're hard," he says contemplatively. "That what you were going to say? You're uh, flying the flag?"
Not much point in trying to cover it up.
"Guess I'm a patriotic boy, boss."
He cuts his eyes my way again. "You're a dirty boy."
He isn't trying to be sexy or hot, I know, but since when did Gibbs ever need to try? I whimper out agreement because, yeah, take it literally or not and I am.
He's been my main jerk-off fantasy for years. My dick knows his hand, his mouth, his ass; my ass knows his hand, his mouth, his… you get the picture. If a man can do it to another man and both of them walk away smiling (limping and the odd bruise is fine) I've done it with him in my head.
When I'm mad at him -- which happens often -- I take an inch off his dick just to show him.
"Maybe I'll take you back to my place instead."
I gurgle at him. And he puts his hand over the straining, jerking length of me, right on me, cupping and squeezing and tearing that climax out of me with no more than his thumb, smoothing through the wetness with a killing gentleness as the rest of his hand clamps down hard.
"Take you home and clean you up," he continues as I bite my lip hot and bright, caught between the steam of the leather and his tight right hand, spurting and spilling and trying real hard not to get a drop of spunk on anything that isn't skin or my shirt.
"Sounds like a plan, boss," I gasp, weak-kneed and trembling.
He holds his hand to my mouth and after a second or two, I get it and lick it clean for him. Not much to deal with; most of it's on me, cooling come, sticky, extra-wet. His skin tastes salty, clean; smooth, not gritted with sawdust the way it is in my dreams.
I don't mind losing some of my dreams if it gets me Gibbs for real.
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