Pump it Up

by Jane Davitt

The flat tire stayed mockingly flat and Blair tossed the pump aside with a frustrated snarl. Puncture. And despite Jim's advice to take along a few emergency supplies (Blair had made a mental list as Jim mused his way through the items he considered essential and estimated that taking them all along on his bike ride would require the attachment of a small trailer to his bike) Blair had blithely thrown a bottle of water and a granola bar in a pocket and a map in the other and set off.

A puncture kit would have come in real handy right now, though Blair still wasn't convinced about the necessity of a water-purifying kit on a ten-mile ride.

Sighing, he hauled out his cell phone. ("Check it's fully charged, Chief in case you need to call for help in the middle of the woods; my hearing's not that." "Neither is the reception out there." "Just check the goddamn battery, Sandburg!").

"Jim? Yeah, hi, it's -- yes, I know you know it's me -- look, I've got a flat and I can't blow -- no, I didn't pack one and even if I had, it's shredded; think I ran over some glass -- no, of course I didn't fall off -- Jim, the saddle is not too high for me; I like it that way -- Look are you going to come and get me or not? Jim? Jim!"

He stared at the phone with the same incredulous disapproval he'd given the tire. Jim had hung up on him. Before asking him where he was or if he was okay.

That was just rude.

Still serenely certain that he'd be seeing the truck crest the hill fairly soon -- he'd left the route he'd planned a while back, but Jim was a detective, right? -- he settled down against a tree and ate his granola bar, thriftily saving a single mouthful for emergencies.

The late afternoon sun made him feel drowsy and his eyelids dipped closed despite all his efforts to keep them open. Late night, with Jim doing everything he could to make sure that Blair's ride would be uncomfortable, not that Blair cared right then. God, he loved Jim's cock. Loved the whole man, sure, but that stiff, arrogant spike of flesh deserved its own fan club and even if it had a membership of one (okay, maybe two; Jim was probably fond of it, too) Blair was a fervent worshiper. He wriggled his ass in the grass and smiled, seraphic and smug. Harder, deeper, more, more… with Jim obeying every command, even when Blair himself had lost all comprehension of what the ecstatic grunts he was making actually meant.

Tender spots that the leather saddle sought out and pummeled were a small price to pay for coming so comprehensively Jim had tracked spunk splatters from his bedroom to the floor below, tutting crossly as he mopped them up. Blair twitched his toes. Yeah, they'd uncurled. Finally.

He played with the pump as he waited, idly pushing it in and out, a puff of air emerging each time. Jim liked to purse his lips and blow on Blair's skin, skin he'd licked wet, so that the stream of air was a tickle, a tormenting coolness…

In…out… That brought a whole set of images to mind and Blair let himself go with them, his eyes closed, the sunheat a lullaby. Pumping…in and out, slide of skin into flesh, hardness into hollowness, their breath quick and ragged, Blair's hands clawing at the sheets, Jim's hands all over him, fuck, so good, dragged palms on sweat damp skin, sweet, sharp slaps on Blair's ass and thighs, in crisp punctuation to the sounds Jim was making, incoherent, desperate sounds that drove Blair's arousal higher because he loved being fucked in the ass by Jim Ellison but Jim loved doing it more and he never held back from letting Blair know that.

God, what was he doing out here when it was a Saturday and he could have been with Jim, between cool sheets, that hard, big body all his to taste and play with and finally fuck, because his own ass was too raw for more of Jim's seven inches inserted at just the right angle (Jim said eight, but no way was it bigger than Blair's and he'd measured his and he knew --) and Jim always took care of him that way, always --

A foot nudged his leg and he woke up, automatically swiping drool from his face. Jim was silhouetted against the darkening sky, looking like a monolith.

"Do you have any idea how far I've driven trying to --" Jim's measured tones of reproof became a lecture in the space of a breath. "Look at you. Sunburned. Mosquito bites. Dehydrated --"

"I am not!" Blair pulled the water bottle out and waved it defiantly. "See!"

"The water's in the bottle," Jim hissed. "It's supposed to be in you!"

Blair unscrewed the top and took a single, sulky sip that woke his thirst immediately. He drained the bottle in a single long swallow and became aware of two things -- no, the itching bites made three. He was hard. Wet patch on the front of his cycle shorts hard. And Jim had noticed.

Jim gaped at him and then at the pump that Blair had been holding.

"I don't want to know," he said finally.

"Wait, Jim, I can explain --"

"I said --"

"It reminded me of your dick!"

Jim paused and stared at the pump again. It was about nine inches long and thicker than anything Blair would ever want coming near his hole, but Jim smiled in a gratified kind of way and helped Blair up, good humor restored.

"Thanks for coming to get me," Blair said belatedly as Jim tossed the wounded bike into the back of the truck.

Jim gave him a fondly exasperated look. "In case you'd forgotten, it's your turn to cook."

"Yes, but that's not why you came." Blair waved his hand around him. "I'm only two miles from home; I could've walked back and pushed the bike and still been in time to chop up a salad --"


"Salad. We had noodles last night."

"I like your noodles."

"Just don't miss the 's' off that sentence."

"As if I ever would, my little stir-fry."

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