by Quin Perin
Sam shrugged. “How was I supposed to know that a suit would be your kink?”
“At least your pants aren’t tucked into your socks.”
“You realize I’m going to do that more often now that I know it pisses you off.”
He walked back behind his desk. “Please don’t.”
“Eh, you’d still wanna fuck me.”
Donovan almost tripped over his own feet. “Sam!”
He held up a massive presentation folder. “Important meeting!”
Before Donovan could even turn on the light in his foyer, Sam shoved him roughly against the front door and licked into his mouth. Donovan welcomed the onslaught, his hands immediately reaching beneath Sam’s suit coat to caress the soft fabric of his vest and feel the sharp edges of his hips.
Donovan pulled away long enough to mutter, “Amazing. You were so amazing today.” Then, back to kissing while Sam removed his own suit coat before tugging at Donovan’s.
It was official: Sam Shelby was a twenty-six-year-old graphic design genius who could charm the pants off a nun. As soon as he’d started talking in their meetings that day, the entire room had fallen under his spell. Progressive loved his presentation, his ideas, and his vision. Donovan had been practically invisible, just nodding agreement in the corner, and he was fine with that. He could admit it now: he didn’t give a shit about advertising anymore, but he cared an awful lot about Sam, who nibbled at Donovan’s lip and then, down the side of his jaw.
The Great Lakes Brewing Company people had invited them out for drinks after their presentation, which was why Sam’s tongue tasted like an IPA. “This has been the fucking perfect day,” he panted as Donovan reached down, grabbed his ass, and ground their hips together.
“God, I love watching you,” Donovan said. “So brilliant.”
Sam hummed and untucked Donovan’s shirt from his pants. “I want to suck you off.”
Donovan’s brain short-circuited before he could reply. Next thing he knew, Sam was on his knees, hurriedly unzipping Donovan’s fly. He tugged at Donovan’s boxers until Donovan felt warm breath on his bare cock. Sam sucked its head, and Donovan’s legs almost buckled.
He didn’t know what to do with his hands. Anna hadn’t liked giving blowjobs, so it had been a rarity in their marriage. She certainly didn’t appreciate Donovan touching her while she did it, so Donovan didn’t touch Sam—just let his hands hang limply at his sides until Sam sucked his dick from base to tip before leaning back.
“I probably should have asked if this was okay.”
Donovan nodded. In the dimness of his foyer, Sam’s wet lips glistened, which only made him harder. “It’s okay.”
Sam leaned back on his heels. “Then, why are you so tense?”
“I haven’t had a blowjob in a long time. Anna hated doing it.”
“Thankfully, I’m not your wife. Now, fucking relax and pull my hair, would you?” He dove back down and swallowed Donovan to the hilt. Christ, the guy knew how to give great head, which wasn’t a surprise. Sam was good at most things—except growing a beard—and sensuality oozed from his pores.
Donovan did as directed and dug his hands into Sam’s hair. Sam hummed his approval and swallowed around the head of Donovan’s cock. When Donovan’s skull slammed back into the front door, he didn’t even feel it. All he could feel was the wet heat of Sam’s mouth while squeezing silky tendrils in his fists. Involuntarily, his hips canted forward in slow, little thrusts that made Sam even more enthusiastic.
Donovan cussed and said, “You’re going to suck the life right out of me.”
Then, Sam’s mouth pulled off suddenly with a quiet pop, and Sam grinned up at him in the semi-dark, fingers wrapped tightly around the base of Donovan’s cock.
Donovan almost cried. “Why did you stop?”
Sam chuckled and licked his tip—once—before staring up at a desperate Donovan.
“Sam …”
“Come on, beg me.”
“What?”
“Grumpy boss man. Stoker and Steele hotshot. I … want … to hear … you beg.” He punctuated almost every word with another lick to Donovan’s tip until Donovan’s eyes watered.
“Jesus, okay. Please.”
Sam moved his hand minutely up and down Donovan’s cock and sing-songed, “Please what?”
Donovan felt like he was drowning, couldn’t pull air into his lungs. “Please, Sam Shelby, suck my dick.”
“Aw, you’re so desperate.”
“Are you kidding?” Donovan huffed. “I’ve pictured you on your knees with your lips around my cock a half million times.”
Sam laughed then snorted before leaning forward, licking from base to tip, and taking the whole thing into his mouth and down the back of his throat.
A few seconds later, Donovan tried to sputter a warning but was too late. He came down Sam’s throat and tried apologizing until Sam smirked and said, “Knew you’d taste good.” He fell back onto the floor on his elbows and wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve.
“That was …” He couldn’t finish his sentence. Too disoriented to pull up his pants, he just sank to the ground, bare ass on the floor.
Sam slid all the way to his back and stared at the ceiling. “Since your boring wife didn’t give blowjobs, I assume anal was off the table?”
“Ha. Obviously.”
Sam rubbed his face and extended his legs so his ankles wrapped around Donovan’s. “Your little heterosexual life sounds terribly dull.”
Donovan replayed his years with Anna. There had been a time when she’d made him happy, right? When they’d made each other happy? Then, Donovan had changed. He’d become disillusioned with his work, lacking in purpose. Dreams of painting had become an afterthought.
Painting. He’d painted the other night after his fight with Sam. He wanted to paint at that very moment: a big canvas with bright colors. He wanted to paint a picture of how Sam made him feel … which was when he realized: Sam made him happy.
Sam was also speaking.
“What?” Donovan asked.
Sam sat up and looked decidedly un-Sam. He looked shy, especially when he asked, quietly, “Will you fuck me?” before plucking at his pants cuff and avoiding eye contact.
Donovan reached out and tilted Sam’s chin back up. He wished he could see the bright blue of his eyes, but the only light was from the moon outside. “You know I’ve never—”
“I know.” Sam nodded. “But I’ve been told I’m a good teacher.”
“Deflowered a lot of straight, married guys?”
Sam kissed Donovan’s palm. “You’re neither of those things.”
“Still married.”
But the paperwork would go through soon, which Sam confirmed when he replied, “Not for long.” He continued: “So will you?”
Donovan knew this was dangerous and not in the physical sense. Over the course of a few weeks, Donovan had gone from totally straight to totally Sam. Hesitant beginnings had led to a constant yearning for the young man before him. He now wanted everything from Sam and wanted to give Sam everything. And that was the danger: so soon after his separation, was he prepared to give away his heart? It would be inevitable if they slept together—“fucked,” as Sam put it. If he had Sam that way, Donovan knew he would fall in love soon after.
And so what if he did?
He’d been such a miser about his love with Anna, so much so that she’d eventually sought the embrace of another man. So what if he fell in love with Sam Shelby? So what if he put it all out there and gave himself over to happiness without fear? What if he finally started living again?
Pants half-down, he stood and pulled them back up before reaching for Sam’s hand and tugging him to his feet. “Let’s go to bed,” he whispered.
Sam leaned his forehead against Donovan’s. “You mean …”
“Yeah, I mean.”
Sam fist-pumped. “Fuck, yes. Best day ever!”
Donovan laughed and allowed himself to be dragged to his
own bedroom. Once there, clothes went flying, although before Sam could leap into bed, Donovan pulled Sam’s back against his front and kissed across his shoulders. “You’re so gorgeous.”
Sam spun in his arms. “Well, so are you. Why else would I want you to fuck me? It’s certainly not your glowing persona—”
Donovan cut him off by tickling his sides until Sam shrieked and escaped under the covers, giggling. Donovan dove in after him.
Sam kicked all the blankets to the base of the bed to allow Donovan a full view. He stretched out on his back and trailed his fingers over his flat chest and abdomen. His fingers reached even lower as his thighs spread wide.
Sam gave his own dick a lazy stroke before bending one knee up toward his chest, reaching his hand around, and pressing the tip of his finger into his hole.
Donovan cussed as he watched that single digit disappear. Sam pushed one finger into himself easily and moved it in and out. Donovan spared a glance upward into Sam’s face, wrinkled in a mix of pleasure and pain as he chewed his wet bottom lip.
He caught Donovan staring and smiled. “Lube?”
Donovan almost knocked over a lamp in his hurry to reach it, not wanting to miss a moment of Sam’s shaking breaths.
He added a second finger and whimpered, chest already starting to glow with a thin layer of sweat. Donovan stared until he practically drooled. “Uh, can I …” He wasn’t quite sure what he wanted, but he wanted.
“You wanna help?” Sam waggled his eyebrows.
“I don’t know. I think so?”
“Put lube on your fingers. Just start with two, okay?”
Donovan nodded and did as asked before inching closer to Sam on the bed. Sam stopped fingering himself long enough to grab Donovan’s trembling hand and guide it down his belly, past his leaking cock, to between his legs. Still guiding, he pressed Donovan’s fingers to his hole.
“Gentle,” he said.
Donovan nodded again and pushed inside carefully. His own dick twitched. “Oh, my God, you’re tight.”
Sam moaned. “That’s kind of the idea. Now, shut up, and get on with the finger-banging please.”
Donovan gulped, the sound huge in the silent room, so Sam laughed. Donovan felt the vibration against his fingers, which made him see spots because if that sensation was so amazing against his fingers, how would it feel around his dick? He moved his fingers in and out, wrapped in tight heat. Enraptured by Sam’s face and his quiet pleas, Donovan had to be told twice to add a third finger.
“What? Seriously?”
Sam gazed up at him. “Your dick is going to be following those fingers in a few minutes, so yes, three.”
Donovan had only recently developed the belief that Sam was usually, annoyingly right, so he added a third finger—but froze when Sam gasped and his lower back arched off the bed.
“Are you okay?”
“Fuck, yes. Yes. Keep going. Fuck.”
After a hesitant pause, Donovan kept going, amazed to feel Sam stretch around him. It was like some kind of magic trick, really.
After a few minutes, Sam scratched at his shoulders. “Stop, stop. Condom. Condom now.”
“You sure?”
“Who’s the expert here?”
“Fair.” He reached for the same drawer as the lube and pulled out a small cardboard box. “I really hope these aren’t expired.”
Sam writhed beneath him. “Donovan!”
He checked the date. “Okay, they’re fine. They’re …” Again, his hands were shaking, so Sam ultimately opened a wrapper and deftly rolled a condom onto Donovan’s painfully erect dick before covering it with lube. Donovan was pretty sure he’d never been that hard in his entire life.
“Come here.” Sam guided Donovan to a kneeling position between his spread thighs before grabbing a pillow and shoving it under his own hips. The view of all Sam’s junk and his waiting hole made Donovan’s eyes vibrate in his head. Sam’s voice brought him back to reality: “Slow,” he said. “I’m an expert, but honestly, your huge dick could break me in two, so go slow, okay?”
Donovan ran his hands up the sides of Sam’s thighs before nudging closer, closer. “I’m nervous. I haven’t been nervous about sex since I was fifteen.”
Sam grinned. “Don’t be nervous. It’s just me. And I need you.”
When Donovan first pressed the tip of his penis inside, his head thumped forward onto Sam’s skinny chest. “Holy. Shit.”
Sam panted above him. “Just … go … slow.”
Donovan pushed his hips forward—slowly—further into Sam. He lifted his head and took deep breaths with his nose shoved against Sam’s cheek. He breathed and kept moving until fully seated in Sam’s welcoming heat. “Jesus, Mary, and all the disciples,” he stuttered.
Sam laughed.
“Do not laugh right now, or I’m going to come.”
“Sorry, sorry.” He stifled his giggles and buried his hands in Donovan’s hair. “Kiss me.”
Their kisses were languid and soft as the rest of Donovan’s body buzzed with sensation. This wasn’t sex. This was something else.
“Move,” Sam said.
Even though Donovan started with shallow thrusts, Sam soon demanded more.
“Harder,” he said.
“I’ll hurt you.”
“No, you fucking won’t.” He pulled Donovan’s hair. “Harder.”
Just like in his fantasy, Donovan let himself go. He fucked harder and deeper into Sam until Sam was crying out like a rowing coxswain, yelling “stroke, stroke …” at differing intervals. Sam wrapped his legs around Donovan’s waist and drew him so deep inside, Donovan imagined the tip of his dick tickled Sam’s tonsils. Then, somehow, Sam pulled him even closer for a messy kiss that ended with Sam’s teeth latched tightly onto Donovan’s bottom lip. From what Donovan could make out of Sam’s face that close up, his eyes were squeezed shut, and he was gone, floating on sensation as sweat beaded on his brow.
Moments later, Donovan felt the building tension in his abdomen. He drew back, balanced above Sam on his elbow. “I’m going to come,” he mumbled.
In response, Sam touched his own dick. Donovan’s movements pushed Sam’s hips up into his waiting fist while Donovan watched, enthralled, as he thrust into the delicate, so goddamn pretty—but definitely male—frame beneath him.
Suddenly, Sam came, and oh, dear God, Donovan was not ready for that sensation—the fluttering squeeze that sent him, shouting, over the edge of sexual oblivion.
His elbows went out from under him, and he plastered himself to Sam, whose fingers doodled invisible pictures on his back. The sound of their heaving breaths filled the room.
Donovan pressed his face to Sam’s throat and breathed, “I’m so glad I found you.”
Sometime in the night, he rolled over and realized Sam wasn’t next to him. He stretched his arms out on either side, but his bed was empty. He said Sam’s name. Nothing. Outside the window, snow fell silently as Donovan climbed out of bed and pulled on a pair of pajama pants to go investigating.
Sam wasn’t in the living room or kitchen for a late night snack. He wasn’t in the bathroom or in Donovan’s office, which meant … Shit. Donovan hurried his steps as he approached his private studio, and of course, the door stood ajar. A single bright light lit the room, his most recent painting its focal point.
Sam stood in front of the easel. He was wrapped in the thick, gray afghan Donovan usually kept at the foot of his bed. Sam stood and stared, lips parted, with eyes wet and red.
Donovan reached a hand out and touched his shoulder. Sam’s head whipped around, gaze landing on Donovan, before he quickly wiped his eyes with the blanket. “Sorry, I couldn’t sleep. I …” He gestured to the newest painting. “It’s me.”
Completely abstract, only an artist as intuitive as Sam would see that. A mishmash of shapes coalesced to form a whirlpool of color, but of course, Sam recognized the blue of his own eyes, the chestnut of his hair.
The long, pale fingers encircling
a vibrant, red orb: Sam’s fingers.
The flutter of black eyelashes on the edge of a triangle: Sam’s, too.
Sam turned to face him, nude but for the blanket. “You have to do this, Donovan. These are amazing. They …” His breath shook. He sniffed before a rogue tear dive-bombed down his cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s just a hobby. A dream.”
“No, fuck advertising, man. Fuck that stupid Michael Halliday painting in your living room. Fuck all my sketches. You. You’re …” He shook his head and looked back toward the stacks of finished easels on every surface. “You’ve been hiding yourself for so long. I can’t let you do that anymore.”
Donovan studied the Sam portrait. “That’s not really your decision.”
“No, that’s true. It’s yours.” He wrapped his arms and the soft afghan around Donovan. “But I’ll support whatever you choose, and know I’ll be here as long as you want me.”
Donovan pressed his face against Sam’s and knew what he needed to do.
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The Kiss
A.G. Carothers
Preface
There are a ton of definitions used within the BDSM community as a whole. There is no "True" way to do anything. There's just consent and educating yourself in the things that you want to do. So, with that in mind, here are the definitions to words that are used in this novella as I see them and have used in this novella.
Top – a person who does or gives the thing to another. This is not synonymous with dominant.
Bottom – a person who the thing is done to or is given. This is not synonymous with submissive.
Cracker – This is the very end of any single tail whip. It can be replaceable or permanent. In this, I'm speaking of a replaceable one that is made of mason string. This is done by separating out the individual threads of the string and taking one and twisting it and tying it to the end of the fall. There are many different types of crackers, and each one has a different feel to the bottom.
