Noli Me Tangere

by Jane Davitt


A/N Written for the Moonridge Orgasm Anthology 2009, edited by Caro Dee and beta read by Wesleysgirl; thank you both and the people who bid on the anthology.



Blair lay back on the couch, still damp from his shower, and let his body tell him just how happy it was feeling. Well-fucked. Oh, yeah.There was nothing to equal that used, appreciated, satisfied glow he got from being on the receiving end of Jim's dick when it was on a mission to conquer Blair's ass.

Except maybe being the conqueror himself, but today, on a lazy, rainy summer Sunday, he'd been in the mood to get thoroughly, completely ravaged over a period of hours and Jim had been on board from the moment Blair had crossed his arms behind his head, spread his legs in blatant invitation, arched an eyebrow and said with words and body language, "Take me; I'm yours."

He tugged absently at his robe, gaping open over his bare body, and then let it stay where it was, framing, not concealing his skin. Nice to dry off in the breeze from the open balcony door, warm enough to feel like a whisper of breath, the ever-present patter of rain like background music.

The bathroom door opened and Jim emerged, an entirely inadequate towel held in place around his trim hips with a finger and thumb. "Did you have to use every dry towel in the place?"

Blair sighed and stretched out, admiring his toes as he wiggled them lazily. Maybe he'd paint them. Natalie -- no, Laura -- had left behind a bottle of rocket red nail polish. He wasn't sure how Jim would react to that, though; Blair could deal with it not being a turn on, but outright mockery would sting. "Looks like it."

He eyed Jim covertly to see the reaction to his lack of apology. Jim was so easy to wind up and Blair freely admitted that he liked doing it when these days, the fallout wasn't a glare and some prolonged nagging, but Jim swooping down on him and reducing Blair to helpless, squirming penitence with his hands and mouth, mercilessly targeting every weakness.

Good times.

Jim let the towel slip down, caught it deftly, balled it, and threw it at Blair. On its arc, the towel unfurled, but Jim, damn him, had allowed for that, and the soaked scrap of fabric landed squarely on Blair's face. He clawed it away and narrowed his eyes at Jim, who smirked.

"Sorry. I was aiming for the laundry basket and missed. The way you always do."

"Yeah, whatever," Blair muttered, distracted and entranced by the view. Jim could always buy his forgiveness by getting naked.

Jim posed for him, the big show-off, pretending to adjust the fruit in the bowl on the kitchen countertop, acid green apples and richly shaded oranges jostling with a glossy spray of cherries. He didn't suck in his belly, the way that Blair might have done, because Jim didn't have anything to worry about; his stomach, if you didn't count the ridges of muscle, was flat and hard.

"Nice," Blair said approvingly with just a tinge of envy as Jim turned to give Blair an excellent view of his ass, pinked up by the water, a masterpiece of curves and, just for a change, more muscle. Oh, look at that; someone had scratched it with their nails. What a vandal. He remembered just what Jim had been doing to earn those vivid, livid marks and moaned, deep in his throat. He covered it with some hasty, off the cuff babbling, not that Jim was fooled. The amused glint in his eyes told Blair that. "Still life with cop. If I was creative, I could put you on display just like that and call it modern art. I've seen stranger pieces win awards."

Jim made a scoffing sound, but he preened just a little and looked pleased, if dubious. The nice thing about Jim, Blair reflected hazily as Jim popped a cherry into his mouth, was that when he looked in a mirror, he genuinely didn't see what the rest of the world did. James Ellison saw the zit; everyone else was focused on the perfection of the other 99.9%.

"I don't think I can hold this position for that long," Jim said and spat the cherry stone into his palm, disposing of it tidily in the trash and then heading for the stairs.

"I could take a photo," Blair said dreamily, too contented to even think about following Jim upstairs to dress.

Jim snorted loudly enough for the sound to carry from the upstairs bedroom. "After I get dressed, you can snap all you want, Sandburg, but when I'm naked, you keep the lens cap on, you hear me?"

"I'd make it artistic," Blair said. Nice not having to shout upstairs; he could murmur to himself and know that even over the sound of drawers being pulled out and the soft rumple of clothing being pulled on, Jim could hear him. "Naked doesn't have to mean skin mags. I once slept with a woman who took erotic photographs, as it happens. Marsha's work is in galleries all over the world."

Jim leaned over the rail. "Tell me you didn't model for her."

"I didn't model for her," Blair said obediently. "Except, that's a lie, because I did. She only slept with people she wanted to photograph, and she only photographed people she'd slept with. She wasn't into casual sex; she could go a year -- well, maybe six months -- without finding a model, but when she did…" Blair shook his head. Marsha had chosen lovers with no regard to gender, race, or age. He supposed she made sure they were legal, but she didn't have an upper age limit; the lover who'd taken Blair's place in her bed had been pushing eighty, a harsh-featured man, his face carved by time into a pared-down strength. Blair hadn't had a problem with that choice, even if being dismissed for a senior citizen was a blow to his ego, but Marsha also didn't care if she broke up relationships or marriages to get her shot, and that Blair did take issue with.

"Oh, God."

"It's okay," Blair said, amused by Jim's reaction. "I'm not hanging on a wall anywhere. She said I was too pretty and she'd catch up with me in twenty years or so, if we were both still alive, but she wanted some shots of me anyway. Something about fueling her muse."

"Bullshit," Jim said flatly, as he walked down the stairs. "She just wanted to fuck you and took the photos so she could pretend she wasn't breaking her rules."

Blair considered that possibility -- Jim could be surprisingly insightful when it came to self-deception as long as it wasn't his -- and shrugged. "You could be right."

"And if she turns up at our door looking snap-happy, she can just --"

"She won't," Blair assured him as Jim sat down, pushing Blair's legs away to make room for himself and then providing a lap for Blair to snuggle his feet into. "She died five, maybe six years ago. Overdose. Naomi was really broken up about it; she was Marsha's second cousin or something; it's how we met."

"Keep it in the family," Jim said, with a lemon-twist of his mouth. "So are you saying you picked up some pointers about photography from her?"

"Maybe," Blair said, who hadn't. "Or maybe I'm just saying that you should keep an open mind, you know?"

Jim smiled, the dry, skeptical smile that meant that as far as he was concerned, Blair had gone so far over the line that said line was invisible even to a Sentinel with enhanced vision.

"An open mind. Right. My butt on display --"

"If I took photographs of you naked, they'd be for me," Blair said, a little taken aback by his own vehemence, a possessiveness he wasn't used to feeling surging up. "No one else."

"Easy, tiger," Jim said and patted the top of Blair's left foot, a bemused frown replacing his smile. "I'm all yours."

"Yeah," Blair said, comforted by the certainty that Jim wasn't the type to screw around. Unlike him. Not that he'd ever -- not with Jim -- And that had nothing to do with the fact that Jim would know immediately, a dozen sensory red lights blazing out from Blair's body. Blair thought hazily about a story…something to do with a king with ears like a donkey and a flute carved from a reed…His body would turn tattletale on him if he was unfaithful -- which was an old-fashioned word, sure, but it fit. Faith…yeah, he had faith in…

"Sandburg. You're snoring. And drooling. If you want to nap, go upstairs."

Blair jerked his eyes open and shivered. God, he was freezing. "I was asleep?"

Jim gave his leg a friendly slap and muted the TV, murmuring softly in the background. "Yep. For about an hour now. Twitching and chasing rabbits." He smiled and delivered the ultimate insult. "Cute."

After delivering a glare of death that just widened Jim's grin, Blair went to put some clothes on, each layer insulating him from the damp, cool air. Evening was falling, the summer-light sky darkened by clouds so that the loss of the sun was a gradual withdrawal, subtle and hard to track. His earlier contentment remained, a background hum, even though his body was nudging him with reminders that demanding harder and faster had to be paid for after the heat of the moment had cooled. Jim had been right there with him, chasing a climax of his own, and he'd given Blair exactly what he'd asked for.

Blair leaned on the balcony as Jim had done earlier and stared down at Jim in profile, sitting on the couch. Interesting angle -- and look at him, still thinking in terms of photographs.

Jim, on display. Oh, God, wasn't that an appealing idea, though. He didn't want to share Jim, but in a fantasy, with Jim locked away behind glass, it had a certain appeal.

"Naked," he murmured. "In a glass box, in a gallery, on a bed. White sheets and your body dark against them. Those long legs of yours spread wide and people walking past waiting for you to wake. Yeah, you're asleep. Sleeping Beauty. Untouchable."

Jim turned his head with a startled jerk, but didn't speak or glance up at him. Blair breathed in slow and deep, as connected to Jim as if he'd been curled around him, Jim's short hair brushing his cheek, Jim's hands on him, gathering him close.

"Only you. You can touch. No one else. But your hands are tangled in the sheets and nothing's touching you but cotton and the push and pressure of the looks you're getting. They're walking and looking, slowing down as much as they dare, admiring. They're hungry for you, but they're pretending you're art, hiding their hard-ons with their catalogues if they're men; using them to fan their faces if they're women, all flushed and aroused.

"Some brave ones pause, comment, and oh, if you were awake, you'd roll your eyes at them. They're talking about skin tones and they mean they want to lick you, head to toe; they're talking about composition and they want your legs to open wider and for you to murmur, stir, roll over so they can see your ass.

"Can't blame them for that, Jim. It's fucking gorgeous and you know it. All of you is, and if I don't tell you that often enough, well, I'm telling you now. I'd want you to roll over, too."

Jim turned his head and met Blair's gaze. Without speaking, he stood and stripped, his clothes removed with unhurried movements, the dream-like feel of the moment maintained. Blair watched Jim walk across the room and up the stairs, Jim's expression calm and distant.

He brushed past Blair, stirring the air between them, and lay on the rumpled bed. The sheets were blue, not white, but he took up the pose Blair had described, lying on his back for a moment, his eyes closed, and then rolling to his stomach.

Blair swallowed, his mouth dry with lust and love, and licked his lips. When he spoke, his voice shook slightly with the first few words, but he got it under control. He couldn't get this wrong, but he could spoil the mood by being hesitant. "The crowd's so deep around the display now that people are pressed up against the glass, marking it with their fingers and their breath. Some can see part of your face, untroubled, lax with sleep. Some are fighting to hold their place because they can see what I'm looking at right now; the shadows of your ass, the shape of your balls. They want to break the glass and run their hands over you, greedy, reverent, admiring -- I don't care. They don't get to touch.

"But they're making noise now, palms on the glass, and you stir and wake and you go to your back again."

Jim did just that and opened his eyes, a blue blaze that didn't look sleepy at all.

"You ignore them. They don't exist -- and there's a sigh of disappointment from the crowd. They wanted you to acknowledge them, but you don't.

"No one touches you, remember? That goes both ways. You can't touch them, either. But you're getting hard now, the way you are most mornings when you wake, and you scratch at your belly -- yeah, just like that, Jim, oh, that's good -- and they hold their breath, willing you to cup your balls and roll them 'til they're tight and high, dying for you to jack yourself hard, slowly, still half asleep, doing it because it feels good. First thing in the morning, it's not about being turned on, really, is it? Just about connecting with your body again, checking it out.

"Two hands now, and your dick's poking up, happy and alert, even if your eyes are still hazy. You bring your knees up and oh, you're blocking the view of the people at the sides and they don't like it, but they can still see your face, and it's getting hot now, flushed and red as you start to get into it, so they can shut the fuck up. I had months of lying in my bed under your room with nothing but the creak of your bed and a few whimpers; they get to see you.

"The tip of your dick's darkening now, smeared and wet and I want to lick it so bad, but I'm behind the glass, too, Jim -- no, don't look at me or I'll -- that's it, close your eyes. Yeah, close them. And work yourself, harder now, make those sounds I like, the ones you bite back unless I've gotten you really worked up. It's okay; they can't hear you. They want to, though; want to hear those breathy little moans and whimpers; the sound your hand makes as it squeezes and slides.

"Your thumb's making circles through all that mess leaking out of your cock and you're spreading it around and then -- oh, yeah, that's it, Jim, lick your thumb clean. And the crowd goes wild… Not just your thumb, either; you pull it out and start sucking on two fingers instead, your cheeks hollowed and your mouth tight around them. You bring them out and lick them and fuck your mouth with them some more and fuck, I -- God, I'm so close to coming right now. Driving me crazy here, man, just blowing my mind…I never thought you'd --

"Okay. Focus. You -- you send those fingers down. You're getting close; it's not going to take much more, I can see that. Your face is telling me that, but I'm not looking there now. I'm watching you slide a finger inside yourself, fighting to get it in and I'm thinking it hurts a little, feels a little raw, but you want it, God, you want to feel something in your ass so much that you don't care. Need to feel something and a finger's not much, but it's enough and oh God, Jim, oh God, yeah, do it, do it -- faster, fuck, oh --"

Blair went to his knees beside the bed, one hand clutching the sheet, the other busy, burrowed inside the sweatpants he was wearing, his climax sweeping through him, slamming into him, taking his body and owning it for a few crowded, ecstatic moments.

He looked up, his mouth open, panting harshly, words lost.

Jim stared at him and then deliberately arranged himself in his original pose, the streaks of come on his body catching the light, the softening curl of his cock pliant against his thigh.

Show over.


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