by Jane Davitt

1 : an act, process, or instance of translating: as a : a rendering from one language into another; also : the product of such a rendering b : a change to a different substance, form, or appearance : conversion c (1) : a transformation of coordinates in which the new axes are parallel to the old ones (2) : uniform motion of a body in a straight line

"I don't understand a word you say sometimes when you're spouting out all your theories," Colby says, his voice languid, husky, the voice of a man who's just come hard enough to make talking an effort. "Seems like that should matter more than it does."

Charlie licks his lips, then runs his tongue around his mouth. It's tingling and numb at the same time. Odd. When he swallows, the taste Colby's cock delivered in warm, liquid spurts, four of them, is still with him. He wants to keep that earthy, organic taste as much as he wants to brush his teeth to hide the evidence. Oh God, Don's not going to like this at all when he finds out…

"You understand me just fine," he tells Colby, aware of his own need, the toothache twinges in his balls, the ripe fullness of his cock. "Put -- put your mouth on me. You understand that, don't you?"

Stammering. Shy. That's not him. Except, around Colby, sometimes it is. When they're naked, anyway.

"Got to be more specific than that," Colby says, grinning. "Come on, Professor. I thought you math guys were all about the details."

It started out as a game, this insistence from Colby that Charlie spell it out, everything he wants, all of it. Colby makes diligence worth it. Colby will do just about anything Charlie asks him to, within limits that Charlie's really eager to map. Colby's limits form an interesting shape…narrow in places, vast in others. Irregular, definitely.

"Suck me," Charlie says with a firmness that surprises and pleases him. It's getting easier to ask. He rewards himself by leaning in to kiss Colby's neck, the skin tacky with sweat, salty like peanuts, demanding another taste and then another until Charlie's humming greedily and sucking hard.

"Gonna mark me," Colby warns him, regret sharp. "Ease off -- or bite me someplace else."

Charlie obeys him, then blows cooling air over the wet, reddened skin, idly calculating cooling vectors in his head to distract himself from the urge to rub up against Colby's hard body like a dog, like a horny, shameless --

He whines, anguish and lust hitting him as he pictures himself coming on Colby, spunk spattering on skin, thick trails of it.

"Hey," Colby says and soothes him with a touch, his hand working its way through the sweaty lankness of Charlie's hair and sweeping down to Charlie's ass, still hot, still smarting (one of Colby's narrow limit: hand, yes, implement, no). "Right here, Charlie. Just tell me what you really want, okay? You've got to tell me."

There's no sense of rules imposed when Colby says that. It's more the way a student asks for instructions and Charlie relaxes, on familiar ground again.

"I want to try something new."

"Yeah?" Colby's voice is encouraging, if wary. Charlie's never thought of himself as kinky, but apparently a lot of what he asks for qualifies. He's unsure if that's a source of pride or dismay.

"I showered before I came over. Really, uh, thoroughly. I wanted you to -- with your tongue -- before you --"

He's back to stammering again, the stark words he's rehearsed on the drive over lost.

(I gave myself an enema. Twice. I want you to rim me, get your tongue inside me, fuck me with it until I'm begging you to use your fingers, your cock. And by the way, I'm willing to do that to you if it's something you want, even if you don't want to do it to me.)

"Oh, Charlie," Colby says quietly and his hands are cupping Charlie's burning hot face now, holding it in place so that Charlie can't look away. "I'm gonna make you come so hard you forget how to talk, how about that? You won't know how to add two and two."

Charlie's not sure Colby is going to do anything more than blow him, but he nods, accepting the consequences of being unclear, and failing to communicate. It's still going to be good, after all, just not quite what he was anticipating.

Colby rolls him to his stomach, parts his legs, the swift, assured movements allowing Charlie no opportunity to struggle, even if he wanted to. The soft, warm tickle of Colby's tongue against him, in him, as Colby's hands fit over the palm prints he left earlier, is a revelation. Pleasure builds, slow, sweet intensity like nothing he's ever experienced before, one long, continuous climax from the first slide and flick of Colby's tongue to the moment when he screams out Colby's name.

Oh, he was right. Colby understands him just fine.

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