Friday, March 26, 2010

Flash Fiction Friday

Sometimes, You Feel a Little Country

“Country music, Michael?”

“Yes, Simon. Surprised?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“What can I say? I like variety,” Michael confessed, lewdly eyeing his lover from top to bottom. “And it’s actually from a friend. She sent this because I always end up talking about you every time we speak.”


“Look at the playlist title.”

“Country love mix. Nice.”

“Yeah. I love you, Simon.”

Not waiting for the larger male to echo the sentiment, Michael stepped closer on tiptoe in the foyer and kissed him. The hour late, Simon Montague’s workday over, the couple melted into one another. They would finalize dinner reservations soon enough.

Michael adored the way strong, confident fingers tangled the red-gold curls tumbling over his silk-clad shoulders. Balls of bare feet felt the music thrumming through the floor. A broad hand slid down his back, smoothing over Michael’s tingling spine to cup his behind. Devouring his mouth, Simon quickened the young and healthy heart better than any martial exercise.

The influential lawyer’s expensive suit felt good under Michael’s hands even as he wished that charcoal and white-pinstriped barrier would disappear. The firm body beneath held much more interesting textures. A certain line in the new song seemed to amuse Simon by the chuff exuded into Michael’s mouth.

Firm lips left the faintly tinted ones with a final teasing peck. Onyx orbs were so near that Michael could see the granite kohl outlining his own gray-green eyes. The makeup indicated his anticipation of supper at some swanky place where the rich and powerful could fawn over his Simon, one of the greatest among them.

“Is that what you do with your friend?”


“Kiss and tell. The country singer claims not to. What about Michael Blanc? If you say yes, I’ll have to punish you.”

“What about dinner?”

“Dial up something simple on the auto-mat. Later. I hope you’re not disappointed. You look tastier than overpriced nibbles of experimental kibble.”

“Kibble nibbles. Funny man. And disappointed? Hardly. Delicacies like suffocated kumquat and cheese-puff sushi don’t appeal at all compared to you.”

Simon reconnected their mouths without warning and swung his young lover’s hips into the beat humming from the wall speakers. Agile and intuitive, Michael stepped with Simon’s lead and they were dancing.

Michael shifted his hold from the long neck to clasp Simon’s shoulders. They spun and swayed as if one flesh.

Simon clearly stepped lightly, mindful of vulnerable appendages. His fashionably practical platform shoes avoiding tender toes were too new to have set foot on the earth’s charred crust. The pair rarely left their affluent sky-high home and offices except to ride in an aircar. Now it looked as if they wouldn’t even do that.

Dizzied by Simon and a rush of vertigo, Michael didn’t open his eyes. The blind trust garnered a groan of approval. Then a grunt followed, the slender form thrust into adjoining living room walls. Ironically, a woman’s voice crooned, “I don’t paint myself into corners any more.”

Michael was too busy being worshipfully molested to laugh. Big hands were all over him, kisses trailing down his chin. Nips followed his jaw to bring the wide mouth behind an ear. Sharp teeth scraped the line of shoulder until Simon’s nose bunched the soft fabric out of his way.

Slim, pale hands never left Simon’s shoulders. Michael couldn’t even think while his shirt came undone. The brunette liked the vulnerable look of a bared body, arms kept trapped in cloth. Soon Simon achieved his vision and the smooth chest heaved under his scrutiny.

“You still have your hat on,” Michael gasped.

Hands arranging the collar flopped behind Michael’s nape, the fedora-topped head nodded affirmation. Smiling wolfishly, Simon swept the cap off and tenderly canted it atop Michael’s crown. The felt lid pushed long bangs into the sweeping range of mascaraed lashes. Michael blinked, thrilling at the dangerous notion of a deer in the headlights.

“You never answered my question.”

Bewildered, Michael took a breathless guess and panted, “We’ll have crackers and caviar?”

“Sounds good. But no. Do you kiss and tell?”

“Oh,” Michael purred, “sometimes. I have to brag about my man.”

“I could do the same. You look stunning tonight, even before I un-wrapped you.”

Michael’s belly clenched, tensely aroused to be touched by more than eyes. He willed patience to prevail, unaware that he fisted the hem of his shirt.

“Relax,” Simon advised observantly. “We have all night. This music makes me want to take it slow, take you slow. In fact, have a seat on the couch. Let me feed you.”

Sun-spotted moodsetter,’ Michael swore silently.

His formal training kicked in, the formerly licensed Corporate Stress Reliever playing to his lover’s desire just as he once did for all the man’s underlings at the law firm. Michael never expected monogamy to be nearly as demanding. Yet this was one of the biggest reasons he loved Simon so.

Left alone to settle on the sofa, Michael surreptitiously dabbed a shirttail over the bead of moisture at the tip of his erection. He lifted one knee and curled the other leg seductively on a pillow slanted against the arm of the couch. Neatly folding the sleeves back from his wrists, he made certain to show off the color on his nails. Translucent rose-brown perfectly matched his lips and nipples, all rouged to a subtle glow. He checked his reflection in the window overlooking the city and adjusted the wide brim a tiny bit.

Simon padded silently back into the room, his shoes and socks discarded along with the coat. The tab-collared shirt opened by another button, his hair artfully rumpled, the man clearly took time to look attractive in an understated manner. Michael appreciated the stimulating consideration. The fine dusting of chest hair drew his eye, in particular, and he could distinguish the sharp points standing out from the well-developed pectorals.

Michael’s strength less apparent, he liked how slight he felt next to Simon. The clatter of Simon’s burden revealed the mutual admiration and anticipation. A self-deprecating chuckle announced his ease over that little betrayal. Michael smiled in response, partly over what his mate brought.

“You don’t like cream cheese.”

“You do. And it’s growing on me. The delivery system makes all the difference.”

To demonstrate, he sat and scooped Michael’s hand off his naked thigh. Bringing the dish to tapered digits, he dipped them into the dense cheese spread and bent Michael’s arm. His lips closed over the dollop and he sucked every knuckle clean. Black eyes didn’t let Michael go even as lips released him and Simon spoke amusedly.

“Are you okay?”

“I am now.”

“Good. Now, are you ready for a cracker? Oh, crap. I forgot something to drink.”

“That’s okay. I doubt we’ll be eating much.”

They fed one another, each bite carefully constructed with the perfect balance of salt, crunch, and creaminess. Frequently, Michael would make sure to leave a dab of food on his lip. Simon’s thick tongue would swab the spill and invade whichever corner he happened to find needing attention.

Miraculously, tilted faces kept Michael’s cover firmly upon his pate. Eventually, however, their deep kisses pushed them beyond foreplay and knocked the fedora to the floor. The rich man’s garments went away under tremulous, frenzied hands.

This new dance followed its own rhythm, twined bodies influenced more by the message than any musical pulse from these ancient recordings. Simon maneuvered his young love gently but willfully, flipping Michael to face the back of the couch. Practiced probes readied the receptive, palms eventually spreading wide his cleft for their joining.

Michael bit into the cushion when his lover entered him, the twinge brief and the pleasure exquisite. Simon growled when Michael begged for him to let go, that wet throb within forcing orgasm through his own mind and body like nothing else.

“Please!” Virtually shouting, Michael cried, “Make me come.”

When his mind returned to his body, Michael realized that Simon was speaking. The words could have been a foreign language for all he could make of them.

“What’s that, love? My brain is fogged.”

“I said, I think I’ll call you Liechtenstein.”

“You were speaking another language. What do you mean?”

“Well, sometimes you feel a little country.”

Falling to the floor hurt more than a little. All the same, both men felt fabulous for the endorphin rush of great sex followed by a bad pun.

~the end~