Thoughts of a Drowning Man

He's been on his knees for a long time, but I don't think either of us cares. I'm not noticing the bricks cheese-grating my back through my shirt; he's not shifting position to ease the ache he's got to be feeling in kneecaps that have been kissing wood for too long.

He's kneeling, at prayer, and it's me he's worshipping, mouth and fingers, and if he's not all that reverent, he's fervent, devoted. Words spill out between kisses, but not many. Mostly my name. He's focused.

The only skin he's got to work with, because he didn't give me time to strip, even if once my back hit the wall time slowed syrupy slow, is what's showing of my belly between my rucked up T-shirt and my jeans, and the T-shirt's starting to slide back down, which he doesn't like.

The wet, licked skin of my stomach is tingling, cooling, heated again with the next swipe and lash of his tongue. I've got Jim's spit all over me and he's started to bite me now, open-mouthed sucks, teeth leaving little red marks, dotted lines he can rip apart -- okay, that sounds gross but it doesn't feel that way. Little bit dangerous, maybe, but he's never been tame, and I wouldn't want him that way. I'm remembering that gods have been killed, though, but if I go, this is as good a way as any, because I'll take him with me, both of us consumed by this -- God, this is -- is --

My T-shirt finally falls down, gravity and the way my chest is heaving as I remember I need to breath in between times of not breathing at all in case I miss something, making it inevitable. My hands are locked around his shoulders, clamped there, feeling bone and muscle shift and tense, and I don't think I could move them without a direct order from above (below).

Jim turns his head and hunches one shoulder up, before pushing his tongue in the gap between my thumb and finger, lapping at the thin, tough web of skin there.

I can move then, but I don't need to do much; he does it for me. He ends up with my middle finger in his mouth, and the feel of his tongue, flickering fast, and the wet heat -- his teeth, I'm touching his teeth, and why that feels so fucking intimate I don't know, but I'm curling the tip of my finger behind them and learning the shape of them, running my tongue over the back of mine to compare concavities.

He bites: Stop, and I do, but I can't help pushing my finger back and forward a few times. If he doesn't like that, I want to find out now, before it's my dick in there.

His teeth circle my finger, pin it in place, and he starts to suck the fingerprints off the skin.

I haven't said a word to him since my back hit the wall. I'm not sure he realizes what a big deal that is, but I do. If this was something I didn't want, I'd be talking, and I'm not. But if it was something I wanted, I'd be talking too, encouraging, appreciative words, getting him to do it the way I wanted because I'm like that. Pushy. Demanding. Not everyone likes it but it's not something I plan on changing.

Now, though, I'm mute. Not from shock; this has been coming for a while, oh, God, train on the horizon, coming down the tracks, choo-choo, whistle blowing, and we're tied to the tracks, both of us, rope burns and peril, and somewhere a silent movie star's screaming…

No, I'm quiet because he's not leaving me anything to say. He's there, a step ahead of me, all the way. He knows what I want before I do and he knows how to give it to me. I'm still zipped up and buttoned and I'm naked to him, a whodunit he's read before.

He turns his head, my finger slipping out of his mouth, and inhales sharply and then sniffs again slower, his nostrils wide, his eyes intent. I know what he's smelling. Me. All sweat and spit and sex, as I leak lust and need and Jim, Jim, killing me here, into the air. I know what message I'm sending, I just don't know if he thinks I'm ready for something more than this.

I know I think I am, but that stopped mattering somewhere around the time I patted his ass in the elevator and went just a little too far with the flirting we've been using as foreplay for months.

I'm letting Jim drive, just like always, and if I can't stop pushing now and then out of habit, I'm not doing it much.

Five, six minutes and he's trained me to wait for what I'm given. Oh, man. Oh, man

He puts his mouth on denim and breathes out, and sniffs again. He chose to go low, where my balls are squashed, suffocated, screaming for air. If he'd done it higher, touched his lips to my dick, even with a few layers of cotton separating them, I'd have come.

I wonder what he'd have done then and my brain supplies the answer: more licking. The hand still on his shoulder squeezes him hard, can't help it, and the other, hanging by my side, forms a fist I slam back against the wall, needing the pain to distract me.

He grabs the fist in one of his hands, and stops me doing it again. My hand hurts; it's not bleeding, but the skin feels scraped and raw and his fingers are rubbing it better, worse, better.

He moves my hand, easily, because I'm not resisting him at all, can't imagine doing that, not ever, no way, not yet, and uncurls my fingers, one by one, and then pushes the palm of my hand flat against my zipper.

Then he moves, putting some space between us as he rocks back on his heels, and he looks up at me for the first time since he went to his knees, and says, "Take it out," and I do.

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