Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Cafe/8298/
Author's disclaimer: Not only do I not make money by taking off the clothes of Pet Fly's characters, I sometimes pay money for computer time to read and write about them.
Author's notes: Well of course the Big Guy wanted a turn. I've finally gotten to indulge my m/f-sex-in-a-slash-world fetish; as the warnings indicate, this contains m/f as well as m/m sex (lucky Blair). Thanks, as usual, to Te and Amirin for encouragement, and to all the lovely people who wrote to me about "Politically Incorrect".
Totally Impossible
by Merri-Todd Webster
(18 December 1998)
The first time I noticed it was by accident. I happened to be coming out of a late-night trip to the bathroom when he got home from a hot date. We talked for a minute or two before I went back upstairs, and it was just impossible for a Sentinel to miss it. He was standing practically under my nose, for crying out loud, and he reeked of sex. It was a mixture of his odor and a woman's, his, um, secretions, and a woman's. Thank God I was standing there with just the bathroom light behind me, because my dick leaped to attention like Blair was the Commander-in-Chief. He couldn't have noticed. I'm sure he didn't.
I didn't get much sleep that night. I lay there with a hard one, too surprised and too stubborn to jerk off and forget about it, staring at the ceiling and trying to cope with the fact that I had a yen for the kid. Blair Sandburg. My helpful neo-hippie witchdoctor punk roommate. If I dialed up my senses like he'd taught me, I could still smell the rut on his skin, him and her, whoever she was, hear his breathing and his heartbeat, the peaceful sleep of the well-fucked. Maybe I didn't jerk off because I thought he might hear me. Because I'd have heard him jerking off. I would definitely have heard him.
I didn't start fantasizing about him right away. The fantasy kind of took shape in the back of my mind, when I wasn't looking, so to speak. But he kept coming home, often in the middle of the night, smelling of sex--and smiling all over himself, too, the next day, which didn't help--and then one night, he smelled of sex but not of a woman. I was in bed, awake the minute I heard him come in, and I dialed it all way up. Oh, he'd been laid, no question, but there was no female odor. None. It took me half an hour to figure out that I was smelling another man's odor mixed with his.
The little bugger never told me he was bi. 'Course, I never told him I'm gay, either.
That night was the first time I really had the fantasy. It was good, really good--it made masturbation almost as good as getting laid--and I've been through it way too many times since then. It's totally impossible that it will ever come true, so I try not to feel too guilty about indulging in it.
It starts with him going out on a late date, after dinner. He's taken one of those marathon showers of his--gotta wash, dry, and set the hair--put on clean clothes, and slathered on the patchouli oil that doesn't make me sneeze myself into a coronary. The earrings are in, the hair is down, and he's got some tribal-looking bead necklace on that calls attention to his jaw and throat. Loose maroon velvet shirt, tight jeans, good boots, and he's ready to go. And so am I.
"Don't wait up for me, Jim," he calls over his shoulder.
"Believe me, I won't."
Sandburg's a lot less naive than he used to be, but he's not a trained cop. Not sophisticated enough to tell that I'm following him if I don't want him to know. He's been out with this woman three or four times, so I know exactly where he's going and exactly where I'll be.
I follow him through the dark streets, park a block and a half away, and go into a McDonald's that stays open late. I order a Coke and some fries so they don't throw me out, then go up to the second level and around to the left, near the restrooms. From this dim corner, I can see into the apartment of Sandburg's current girlfriend. It's in the building right next door, separated from the Mickey D's only by a narrow alley, and I can see and hear everything I need to.
Yeah, I know it's ridiculous, but it's a fantasy.
I see them when they come into the bedroom. Sandburg already has his shirt unbuttoned, and I start drooling into my french fries at the sight of dark chest hair showing between the edges of red velvet. The woman is just his type--a little taller than he is, blonde and slim, long hair, long legs. She's laughing at something and then they kiss.
I lean closer to the window, pulling back when my breath starts to fog the glass. Carefully, I dial up sight and hearing, piggybacking one on the other so I don't miss anything--
"Why play games?" Sandburg is saying cheerfully. "I came over so we could make love, right? We didn't even bother with dinner. I don't see why we shouldn't get to the main event and be honest about it."
"So you wanna have sex with me?" the blonde says, tilting her forehead against his. Her voice is high and light and a little giggly.
"I wanna make love to you." He punctuates this sentence with a long, thorough kiss--I can see their tongues move inside their mouths. Sandburg draws back, kisses her nose and her forehead. "I want to worship the Goddess incarnate in your body. I want to kiss every inch of you--" he kisses a spot on her neck "--and work my way down--"
She interrupts him, giggling. "Blair, you're a sweetheart and you're great in bed, but you talk too much."
My sentiments exactly. Clothes start flying and I gulp my Coke. Maybe I should just dump it down my pants. They stretch out on the bed, writhing artistically together; I can't see much except for moving limbs because their faces are covered by hair, pale and straight, dark and curly tangled together.
After a couple of minutes of this, she settles in the middle of the bed, arms and legs spread out--yeah, she's really a blonde--and Sandburg goes to work on her. I watch him in fascination even though I can only see him from behind: the hair swinging back and forth, brushing shoulderblades that stick out under the skin; the curve of his spine, just perfect, with a fine line of hair running down it; his ass--God, that ass--round and hard, with a little fuzz showing in the cleft. He spends a long time on her throat, shoulders, and breasts, kissing, licking, biting, sucking; I can hear her noises and the occasional half-humorous comment, with his reply. She stops talking and gets noisier when one of Sandburg's hands strays between her legs. I have a great view--better than I'd like, really--of his fingers rubbing her clit, stroking between the folds, slipping inside her.
What turns me on about watching Sandburg get it on with this woman is that he's obviously so good at it. She's having the time of her life, and when I can see his face, he looks so damned--happy. I used to feel like sex was work, so much of the time. For Sandburg, it's play, the very best kind of play there is. He's refined his technique as any athlete does, and he gets a rush out of exercising his skills.
The view improves, from my point of view, when Sandburg lies down on his back, feet toward me, and the girl kneels over his face. I focus in and run Sentinel vision from the pale bottoms of his feet, up the lean, hairy legs, over his also lean, hairy torso, and back to his cock. It sticks up out of brown curls that are just exactly like the curls on his head, not long but nice and thick, glistening with one drop at the tip. I'd love to be there and lick that drop off, see if another one would take its place....
The girl gives us both a surprise when she leans forward and starts sucking on him. She deep-throats him easily, and pretty soon pulls off, replacing her mouth with her hand as he comes. He's coming, she's coming, she's practically screaming, and I can almost smell the creamy white come that pours over her small slim hand.
They both collapse for a few minutes. I drink Coke and stuff in my cold, greasy french fries, trying to distract myself from the desperate hard-on in my jeans. Patience... it's not over yet.
And then they're at it again. Sandburg goes back to kissing her breasts, kissing his way down to her pussy again, eating her while she lies on her back and he lies on his stomach. She's so loud I'm glad I'm not in the same room with them--she'd hurt my ears. The next time they change position, he's hard all over again. Ah, youth. There's laughter and joking as she helps him put on a condom--a bright red one. Very cute. Sandburg rolls over on his back and the girl climbs on top. Boring for me, since I can really only see her back and his legs.
But they're not finished yet, not by a long shot. She climbs off him after about five minutes and curls up on her side. Sandburg kneels behind her, at a right angle to her, and goes in again like that. Much better--I can finally see his face, that incredible face that's not only beside me every day, but haunts my mind every night. I can see what he looks like, lost in pleasure, letting go completely the way I know he would. His eyes closed, his lips parted, his body undulating as he thrusts into his lover. I want more than anything to make him look like that, to be the reason he looks that way. He's so beautiful--that doesn't sound right for a man, but there's no other word. Beautiful.
Another change of position. Sandburg certainly has stamina. Good old missionary position this time, and I feast my eyes on that luscious ass clenching as he thrusts, his balls quivering. The pressure in my cock is just killing me--it wants to find a home in the little dark opening between those tight cheeks. He's really pounding now, they're in the home stretch, and I can't help groaning out loud when they come, together--she screams, he screams, well, more of a yell, not muffled by her body this time. Christ, he's an air raid siren, too.
I'm not sure how long they lie there before they disengage. Then they start talking, so I go downstairs, leave the McDonald's, and position myself for phase two of my stakeout. I know how to wait.
It isn't too long, but long enough that my cock has gone down some, before he comes out. So they didn't start discussing Proust or something. I'm in a convenient alleyway near Blair's car, hidden in shadow like a criminal. Not a criminal, though--just a predator waiting for its prey.
Before he knows what's happening, I have him pinned to the car. The smell of sex on him is so fresh and sharp that my head starts spinning--don't zone out, Ellison.
"So it was a woman tonight, huh, Sandburg?"
He stares at me stupidly. "What--Jim? Jim?!"
Before he can say another word, I latch my mouth onto his. Only digging my fingers into his shoulders keeps me from zoning--I taste her pussy, his come, his breath, everything, the world's strongest sex cocktail. By the time I pull back, he's not fighting, oh no, he's shoving his hips against mine, getting hard for the third time tonight, and my cock feels like one of those telephone pole things that Scotsmen toss for fun.
I run my hands up into his hair--soft thick hair--holding his head, looking into his eyes. "It was a woman tonight," I repeat, "but a month ago it was a man. Was his name Terry? You never said much about that one." Kiss him again and bite his lip. "I can smell it on you, Sandburg. You spend the night out fucking, you come home smelling of sex. You see somebody you like, you start smelling of sex. Your secret's not a secret any more. You like women, you like men, and you like me, Blair, and before tonight is over, you're going to smell like me."
I'm not quite heartless enough to drag him into the alley for what I want, so I drag him back to the truck and head for the loft. He doesn't ask how or why I followed him, doesn't protest leaving his car. He doesn't say anything. Good. A silent Sandburg is fine right now. We'll talk later.
As soon as we get into the apartment, I turn on him and back him against the door. I peel him out of those tight jeans--nothing but him underneath--and he's moaning my name. Down on my knees and I deep-throat him, right down to the thick brown curls, tasting him, smelling him, smelling her on his pubic hair, and now his hands on my shoulders are keeping me grounded, that and his pleading.
He comes in my mouth in less than three minutes, hot, salty, not much of it after what he's done already, and then just slides down the door, his knees useless. Still kneeling, I unbutton his shirt and spread it apart, wouldn't want to ruin the velvet, then pull out my cock--finally!--and start working on myself. My head falls back and I groan, helpless myself now, letting go, when Sandburg's hands take over from mine, followed by his mouth. At the last possible minute I push his head away and come all over his chest so he'll smell like me, just as I promised.
Sometimes there's more, depending on how long it takes me to get off, but that's the gist of it. I know it's impossible. Or is it? He's the best friend I've ever had, no problem there. And he likes men... I like men. But he doesn't know that. And he doesn't know that I know he likes men. If he liked me, he might not let me know it. Wonder how I could open the lines of communication....
end