Talker's Redemption (7 page)

Talker knew Brian forgave him for doing that exact thing because Brian knew that music kept him on this earth when nothing in the world, not even Brian’s touch, would do the job.

“What what?” Talker smiled. Something about the way Brian looked at him made him forget his scars and his tattoos and his crooked teeth.

“What are you thinking? Whatever it was, you were thinking it so loud it woke me up.”

Talker leaned forward and bumped noses with him, making him smile again. “I was thinking that we’re wearing too many clothes,” he lied.

Brian shivered. They had heat, but heat was expensive, and the central heat and air was… inconsistent at best. They kept the rat in their room, with the sunlamp, and a small space heater, and they slept in sweats and sweatshirts, under a double-thick sleeping bag that Brian had found for cheap at a thrift store in June.

“That’s a crock of crap,” he said, rolling his eyes, and Talker felt compelled to come clean.

“I was wondering if you missed it.”

“Missed what?”

“That thing we don’t do.”

Brian frowned at him. “The… the….” He blushed terribly, disconcerted as he always was by sex on a platter.

“The butt-sex?” Talker asked ingenuously, and Brian wrinkled his nose and rolled sideways, so they could be face to face. Talker liked it when they did that—it felt like little kids at a sleepover, except Brian would sneak his hand under Talker’s sweatshirt and rub his chest, and as far as he knew, little kids never did that.

“Well go out and say it like that!” Brian kidded gently. And, sigh, there went that hand. It was a little cold, but still worth it as it outlined Talker’s stringy muscles and played desultorily with his nipples and generally made him feel touched, which he needed so badly sometimes, it was like his skin was screaming.

“I will, thank you. Do you miss it?”

Brian pursed his lips (they were sort of pillowy when he did that) in honest thought. “I did it with girls sometimes, and it was okay,” he said, and Talker’s mouth fell open so wide he almost drooled on the pillow when he was awake.

“You what?”

Brian wrinkled his forehead and tried to explain. “Girls are different in real life than they are in books!” he said, sounding anxious. “They’re… aggressive and shit! One girl brought her own condoms and her own lube and just… just… got on her hands and knees, greased herself up and said, ‘Put it in there!’ And, well, you know. That thing’s pretty much got a mind of its own… it went!”

Talker was giggling by this time, because Brian sounded so… so…
put out
by being asked to ass-fuck a pretty girl! “Yeah?”

“Yeah!” Brain was laughing, but his ears were also pink. Talker wanted to kiss him, badly, but not as much as he wanted to hear the end of the story.

“So… how’d it feel?”

“Tight,” Brian answered promptly. “It was tight—and it felt really good.” He shrugged. “But it was the last time I heard from the girl, and she told me the sex was awesome, and she seemed to like it, but, you know….” He shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t pressed against the mattress.

“No. No I don’t.”

Brian sighed. “It was… it was like all the girls I was with. They were fun, and I liked their company, but their touch didn’t… didn’t make anything get warm. Didn’t make it pop or zing or ache.” That hand moved up to Talker’s neck, so that his pulse throbbed against Brian’s palm. “Didn’t make me feel any of the things I feel when you touch me or smile or… you know, sing in the shower or leave your shoes in the hallway or have conversations with the rat when you think I can’t hear you.”

“Mmm…,” Tate sighed, but better, and arched into Brian’s touch. And then refused to give up his bone. “But, don’t you miss… you know, fucking something?”

Brian grimaced and then turned pinker, which meant he was about to talk dirty. Tate watched him try to find words with great delight. It didn’t happen often. “You mean besides your hand or your mouth or your thighs or pretty much any other alternative? Just because it’s not… not…
orificial
sex doesn’t make it, you know,
unofficial
sex, right?”

Talker couldn’t help it. He laughed, the sound shaking him from his chest through his stomach to his balls. “
Orificial sex?”
he howled when he could find breath. “
Orificial sex?
Oh. My. God! Is that like a word you just made up or something?”

Brian’s ears went from pink to practically purple, and he buried his face in his pillow in embarrassment, and Talker couldn’t help it—he had to kiss that delicate shell of warm, embarrassed ear. Brian wriggled underneath him, and he kissed it again, and then he used the tip of his tongue, and Brian wriggled some more.

And then kissing Brian’s ear wasn’t enough. Tate moved to the nape of his neck (still pink, but turning blotchy, like Brian was aroused more than embarrassed) and nibbled on that for a minute. They
had
managed a shower the night before, and Brian tasted like shampoo and warm male. His hair was long enough to push aside so it didn’t prickle, and Tate kept kissing down to the neckline of Brian’s sweatshirt. Brian made a sound that was half giggle and half sigh, and Tate suddenly
needed…
oh, God, he needed.

He groaned and arched his hips, grinding up against the hollow made by Brian’s upper thighs and his tight little ass. Brian groaned too, and pushed back, and Tate kept kissing his back. He rucked up Brian’s sweatshirt and played peekaboo with the pale gold skin. Brian had three small moles on his back, flat and dark, ranged unevenly around his backbone, and Tate kissed his way between them in a game only he knew. He got down to the waistband of Brian’s sweats, and Brian pulled up off the bed to give him better access. Tate took it and shucked the whole works—sweats, tighty-whiteys, sleep-socks—down to the foot of the bed and off.

Brian started to roll over then, and Tate stopped him.

“Hold still!” he laughed, continuing his kissing exploration in its original direction. Brian’s asscheeks were tight, and when he sucked in his stomach, they dimpled. Tate wanted to play with them. He could see Brian’s testicles—getting hard and heavy—drooping in the center of that magic, mysterious triangle, and covered in blond fur, and he wanted to play with them from this new angle too. This was fun—this is what Brian had introduced him to, in their bed. Fun and exploration and pleasure and dizzying, giddifying joy.

Brian made things easy. He pulled up his knees practically under his chest and pushed his shoulders down against the bed… then he started fumbling in their dresser drawer.

“What are you doing?” Tate asked in between little kisses right at the cleft of that tight little bottom.

“Gnnnngggg,” Brian groaned, and Tate grinned, then reached under that lean, muscular body and stroked Brian’s loooonnngg, reasonably thick cock as it bounced under his tummy. (Brian was unaware of the absolute beauty of the ginormous wonder stick at the apex of his thighs. Tate had—so far—managed not to tell him that he could walk into any gay bar in the city, drop his pants, and yell “Who wants to support me for life!” and get some really eye-widening offers. He was planning to keep
that
a secret too!)

Tate kept stroking, and started licking Brian’s balls (very grateful that Brian liked to shower thoroughly, because this could be a
really
unpleasant position to be in if he didn’t) and Brian stopped rummaging for a minute, pressed his face against the pillow again and let out a short bark of a laugh.

“Gaaaawwwwdddd Talker! Killing me! Killing. Me!”

And Tate opened his mouth wide and engulfed his entire testicle, just to hear him strangle on his breath into the pillow. He kept doing it, and after a minute or two, the rummaging around in the dresser resumed, and Brian blurted, “Thank God!” and then his hand came back, and he fumbled for Talker’s hand as it stroked his cock.

Talker let go of the cock (not easy to do. God, it felt good, all swollen and tight like that) and wrapped his fingers around….

A round plastic bottle of lube.

“Wha?” He was startled.

“Jesus, Talker,” Brian breathed. “I’m all… all… just grease me up and take me, right?” He thrust back with his bottom to punctuate the idea, and Talker just gaped at him, his hard-on aching in his sweats and his brain on flash-fry.

Brian made a little whining sound and turned around to snatch the bottle back. While Talker was still coming up with words for, “But… but
you’re
the top! I’m supposed to… oh Jesus.” Brian poured clear, slippery lubricant on his fingers and reached back, and and and oh holy bat, crapman, he was thrusting a finger into his own tightly puckered entrance, and Tate couldn’t look away.

Brian sighed and grunted, and his whole body shook like a dog getting scratched in just that right place, and then he added another finger.

All thoughts about “top” and “bottom” charged out of Talker’s skull, and he wanted to touch his lover in the way that was making him moan softly into the pillow with every molecule of his body, even the ones in the ends of his hair and his tattoos.

He reached out and grabbed Brian’s hand and pulled his fingers out, muttering, “Let me!”

Brian put his hand down and just sat there, ass in the air, vulnerable, and quivering with an unspoken begging that made Talker hurry so fast his hands shook. He stripped off his own clothes, shivering in the chill of their bedroom, and snagged the lube from where Brian had left it on the bed, then added some to his fingers.

He tended to keep his nails bitten to the skin anyway, so there was nothing sharp to snag on tender flesh, and he used two fingers, and push… push… push….

Brian’s sphincter clamped down on him in a tight, wet, lube-slick grip that gave Talker the shivers. Brian moaned and Talker pumped slowly in, feeling the hot, grainy texture of Brian’s insides and wondering, oh God, wondering….

His own cock, medium-sized and misshapen, was literally dripping pre-come onto the rumpled blankets. Oh God!

“Stretch me,” Brian commanded, his voice thin and impatient. “Scissor your… oh
hell
yes
!”

Tate had never possessed any subtlety. “Now? Are you ready now?” Brian was begging. Omigod, there was his lover, on his hands and knees, slick and dilated and begging and of
course
Tate was good to go!

“Soooooo ready. C’mon, Talker… do it… Geez….” More pleading grunts into the pillow in front of him, more ass-wriggling and sexy shivers. Tate wanted him so bad, but—

“Don’t want to hurt….” For the moment, he was uncertain, and Brian put that to rest right quick.