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He doesn't take bribes, never has, so this isn't going down as one. Oh, bad choice of words, bad, because his knees have just hit the floor, and he really needs some rugs around the place. Hardwood. Floors. Hard wood -- Oh, fuck, worse choice.

"This is going to be quick, got that, Chief?"

Sandburg's hands fumble eagerly at his zipper and Jim swats them away, not wanting the kid involved even that much. "Hold onto the counter. You don't touch me."

"No touching, right, no -- so it doesn't count if you're touching me?  Because to be honest, Jim, I don't see how we can do this with no…ooh, oh, no contact, did you just blow on me?"

"Do you ever shut up?"

"Well, if I was the one down there, I probably would. Once we got started, anyway. Are you going to start? Because the lecture begins pretty soon, and I have to be there or the students, well, they don't hang around long, you know?"

He wants to bite him. Snap his teeth a quarter-inch away from the tip of Sandburg's dick, already glossed-over and red, just to see him flinch and whimper. He spits on it instead, a messy glob of clear spit, hitting with a sizzle and drooling over the curved thrust of an impressively fast erection.

Jim's not hard, not really. It takes his dick a while to catch on to sex in the offing and this doesn't qualify.

He blows again, a pursed-lip darting jet of air, playing it over wet, tight skin and smiling inside, where it counts, when Sandburg's fingernails scratch the counter in eight separate, desperate scrabbles, louder almost than the whimper that follows, because by then Jim's concentrating on the way Sandburg smells down here, all secret folds of hairy, pale skin, flushed with blood all on its way to that wiggling, jiggling six inches that's appeared out of nowhere.

Sandburg smells clean; too clean. Jim would rather smell Sandburg than soap, even slightly ripe Sandburg, and the kid showers too often to ever get really stinky, jerking off in there in the mistaken belief that he's covering his tracks.

He hadn't this morning, though; too busy setting up that ridiculous fucking taste test. Jim runs his tongue over his lips and grimaces, still tasting the spoiled, sour milk. God, it'd been well on its way to being yoghurt.

The soap smell's fading, though, lost in the scent rising from Sandburg's body. Arousal manifesting in every one of the senses, so Jim's spoiled for choice when it comes to focusing on one.

He shouldn't be doing this. Using his abilities to get off seems wrong, a perversion of a gift, like Da Vinci painting a shed, or Caruso warbling Happy Birthday to a party of six-year-olds.

But he's damned if he's going through the day tasting something that can't decide if it's a solid or a liquid. And equally damned if he's going to let Sandburg think he only has to snap his fingers to get Jim to do something.

Even if it's true.

Giving up on the tease, he takes Sandburg's cock in deep, working it with everything he's got, his hands going to cover Sandburg's where they're flexing and grinding into the counter.

He swallows the thick spurts of come, eyes closed, making sure he doesn't rush it.

And then he pulls back and smiles up at Sandburg whose eyes are still closed, mouth hanging open, looking totally fucked.

"Want a breakdown of how you taste, Chief?"

Sandburg's head moves in a no.

Jim gets to his feet, wincing as his knees crack, and swallows again.

Yeah. That's better. Now all he can taste is Sandburg and he's not planning on brushing his teeth until tonight. He'll let his mouth wash clean by itself, over time.


"Welcome," Sandburg manages. "Any time. Really."

And the kid's got manners because he hesitates just a second, gaze flicking down, and it's not until Jim pats his cheek and murmurs "Maybe another time," that Sandburg asks him again if he'll go to the lecture.

And he says yes, because that wasn't a bribe, what just happened, not from either of them, and he doesn't owe Sandburg a thing.

Just likes making the kid happy.

Nothing wrong with that.

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