January Thaw

by Lilith Duvalier

  Only a few months ago, sexy fantasies would have been about some full lipped, big breasted, sexpot girl. His last girlfriend, Lillian, still showed up in an occasional fantasy. She’d been all breasts and hips. Full and round like a woman out of an old painting. But now his desire for Lillian’s soft curves had given way for Peter’s firm muscles. Broad shoulders. Long legs. Thick cock.

  It wasn’t men either. It was Peter, and one of the many reasons Thatcher hadn’t been able to find a way to tell anyone about their relationship, was that he couldn’t figure out a way to explain that it’s only Peter.

  The way Peter bites his lip when he’s trying not to come. When he ruffles the hair on the top of his head over and over again when he can’t find his keys, and how it makes him look so ludicrously frazzled. The smell of Peter’s aftershave on Thatcher’s clothes after a date. The way Peter hates mushrooms, and carries on as though he has been horrifically wounded when the cafeteria puts mushrooms in something he would have eaten otherwise. His “No talking during the new episode of Supernatural” rule.

  A hand clamps around Thatcher wrist and he barely manages to stop himself from crying out.

  “Arms up,” Peter sing-songs.

  He’s already wrapped up in his own coat, a dorky puffy gray thing with the too-short sleeves worn out which looks like he’s been wearing it since junior high.

  Thatcher smiles and obeys. He pulls his hand out of his pants and holds his arms out. Peter pushes at his hip, encouraging him to turn around so he’s facing the house. Thatcher turns willingly. Peter helps him into his coat, and Thatcher fastens his fly closed over his erection. Now he just has to put up with the rub of the denim against his dick for the eight block walk back to campus and then: make up sex.

  Peter grabs his arms and presses his hands against the house, holding them against the chilly plastic siding.

  “Keep your hands up like this.”

  “Peter?”

  “Shh.” He leaves Thatcher’s coat unzipped, slides his hand down to Thatcher’s groin and undoes his jeans.

  “What are you doing? It’s freezing out here and we––”

  “I’m laying claim to you,” Peter says. He kisses the back of Thatcher’s neck then bites it. Hard. “Mine.”

  Thatcher tries to hide the hitch in his breath. “You can’t claim me back in your room, where it’s warm?”

  “That’s a fifteen minute walk. I want this made very clear right now.” He slides his hand into the front of Thatcher’s boxers. Thatcher gasps as Peter’s cold fist encircles his cock.

  “You can kiss that girl in front of your friend. You can kiss that girl in front of me,” Peter continues, pumping his fist over Thatcher’s erection. “But she’ll never be able to do this to you like I can.” He squeezes and Thatcher moans. “And you love this.”

  Thatcher swallows. He’s bent forward, hands against the house, Peter tucked against his ass. He can pull his hands away. He can stand up. Nothing’s stopping him. But he can feel Peter getting hard through his jeans. And he does love this.

  “I’m yours.”

  Peter chuckles and bites his neck again. He pulls his hand out of Thatcher’s boxers and brings it up to his face. Thatcher can smell a trace of himself on Peter’s skin before Peter presses his index finger against Thatcher’s bottom lip, then presses it into his mouth.

  It’s a clear signal, one Thatcher has learned to recognize in the last few months. Usually it’s enough to start Thatcher dripping, but this is too much. He squeals in genuine protest and pulls his head away.

  “No! No, you are not spit fucking me out here in the cold up against a house full of people. Absolutely not.”

  Peter’s flat out too big to take without some help in the lubrication department, and Thatcher’s not going to stand outside in a snow drift with his pants around his ankles.

  Peter’s mouth is up against his ear, puffing hot air against him again. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  “Then why are you––”

  “Do you trust me?”

  There was a vulnerability in that question. Peter was angry and hurt, and Thatcher needed to be better about finding the line between not acknowledging his relationship with Peter and ignoring it completely. Through his haze of fear and arousal, Thatcher can hear the sleepy voice of the man whose arms he slips out of on Friday nights, so he can sneak back to his room before Ethan suspects anything. He can see the braced grin of the athlete who carefully keeps his father away from his teammates on game days.

  Thatcher tilts his head forward and takes the tip of Peter’s finger in his mouth. Peter hums in approval while Thatcher swirls his tongue around the digit, then sucks it into his mouth. Peter grinds his hips against Thatcher, and Thatcher can feel exactly how hard he’s getting through the denim.

  “I’m going to fuck you after this, though,” Peter says into his ear. The heat from his breath wafts over it, making the cold air that chases it sting even more. “I’m gonna make you come out here in the snow, twenty feet off the road, in the freezing cold, and then I’m going to take you back to my room and fuck you until you’re screaming my name because you’re so turned on you’ve forgotten your own.”

  Thatcher had thought he couldn’t get harder, but he’d been wrong. Peter’s words make his cock leap in his jeans, straining further against the already distended denim. He spreads his legs, and shifts his weight a little, trying to make it more comfortable. Peter yanks his hands out of Thatcher’s jeans, hauls his arms down away from the house, and circling one arm around Thatcher, clamps Thatcher’s arms around his chest, immobilizing him. A groan anyone anywhere within a city block must have heard, rips out of Thatcher’s throat.

  Lillian held him down during sex once or twice, but it had never been anything like this. Another thing he can’t explain to himself.

  And trying to explain it to Ethan, his best friend since first grade, the guy who up until this year knew him better than anyone else? Thatcher can’t even imagine the look on Ethan’s face if he tried to explain he’s not gay, he just really likes this one guy. That he’s not some sort of pervert, but he likes it when this one guy gets rough with him.

  Charlotte and Ethan have moved up to vanilla since college started. They’d been dating since ninth grade and only had sex two months ago, but as prudish as it is sometimes, Ethan and Charlotte’s relationship is what Thatcher’s always pictured when he thinks about “The Plan”. Perfect and innocent and enduring.

  But instead, here he is, pinned against the basketball star, grinding his ass against the guy’s cock and sucking his fingers against some random girl’s house.

  Peter buries his mouth against the side of Thatcher’s neck, kissing and nipping while he pumps his finger into Thatcher’s mouth. Back and forth, in and out. The calluses rubbing through Thatcher’s cold, chapped lips until Thatcher shudders forward into his hand.

  Peter shoves a second finger into Thatcher’s mouth.

  Not hugely subtle man.

  Thatcher trembles in Peter’s arms. He can’t feel his fingers or toes, but warmth is blazing so hard in his chest now that he’s burning up under his jacket. The icy breeze is catching against the beads of sweat on his forehead.

  Peter grinds forward again and thrusts his two fingers into Thatcher’s mouth again, scissoring them a little bit as though the message of “I’m going to fuck you later” wasn’t already clear enough. Thatcher decides to fight back. He hollows his cheeks, sucking Peter’s thrusting fingers, trying to concentrate on the taste of potato chips when the arm Peter has around his arms and chest like a vice, slips closer to his hips, pressing Peter’s erection even more tightly to Thatcher’s ass. Thatcher counters by sliding his tongue between Peter’s fingers, doing a little significant thrusting of his own in retaliation for what Peter was putting him through. Peter is squeezing him so hard he’s having trouble breathing. A gust of cold wind makes Thatcher realize he’s dripped a puddle of precome into his underwear.

  He loves t
his. He loves that he can no more wrench himself out of Peter’s hot grip than he can fly back to his dorm and Peter has no qualms about using it on him. He loves trusting Peter enough to let him do this, knowing he can trust Peter with all the dirty little secrets he’s been racking up since he moved to the big city for college. The dominance games, the sexual fluidity, the keeping things from a friend he’d never lied to before.

  “Hard for me, baby?” Peter asks.

  Thatcher moans. “God, yes.”

  “Wet for me?”

  “Mmmhmmm.”

  “Good.”

  Peter lets him go again, and Thatcher sucks in air as Peter pushes him forward hard enough to force Thatcher to catch himself against the house again. He’s back in his previous position and the message is clear. Don’t move.

  Peter thrusts his spit-slicked hand into Thatcher’s underwear and runs a couple of wet strokes over him before he squeezes his cock, runs his thumb over the leaking head, and pulls it out of his fly.

  “Ah! Ah, shit!” Thatcher cries out at the sudden shock of wind stripping the warmth out of him. Peter shushes him and circles his hand around Thatcher’s shaft, leaving the tip of his swollen cock exposed to the cold.

  “You don’t kiss girls in front of me,” Peter whispers.

  “I know.” His knees buckle when Peter’s scorching hand runs over his cock, the sensation of touch and warmth working together for a moment before Peter plunges his fingers back into Thatcher’s mouth, leaving his cock to hang out in the cold until Thatcher whines and Peter takes pity.

  “You don’t kiss anybody but me.”

  He extricates his fingers from Thatcher’s mouth slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, before he reaches between Thatcher’s spread legs and circles his hot, wet fingers around the head of Thatcher’s cock. The pleasure of the smooth touch is instantly chased by the bite of the freezing wind on the wet skin. It hurts like hell and the extreme difference in temperature between Peter’s hand and the air is doing bizarre things to Thatcher’s libido. Thatcher can’t stop the whine pouring out of his throat as Peter works the circle of his fingers up and down over Thatcher’s ridge before he finally closes his fist over the head.

  The sudden relief of warmth makes Thatcher whimper, but only for a moment before Peter’s fingers are back in his mouth and the cold rakes over his skin again.

  “You’re mine.”

  Thatcher feels dirty, absolutely fucking filthy as he starts fellating Peter’s fingers, outright advertising what he’s going to do to him in exchange for half incredible half painful hand job. He runs his tongue along Peter’s knuckles, drops his head down to take them as far back in his throat as he can manage. He almost cries out in victory when he makes Peter moan. Thatcher knows exactly how much Peter loves his mouth. Peter has been a very attentive teacher, and Thatcher has been an eager student. His Econ 101 class this semester may have been a bust, but he’s fucking aced Introduction to Blow Jobs.

  Peter pulls his fingers away, chuckling when Thatcher chases after them.

  “Thank you,” Thatcher manages as Peter reaches for his cock again.

  But then he stops. Instead of grabbing Thatcher’s freezing member, Peter sets his cold, spit-covered fingertip to the underside and trails a line of ice up the vein along the bottom of his cock, then back down.

  “Cold. Peter, cold. Please.”

  “Okay. But what aren’t you going to do?”

  “Kiss girls,” Thatcher answers breathlessly.

  “And why not?’

  “Because I’m yours.”

  Peter hums in agreement, and the furnace grip circles Thatcher’s shaft again, letting him regain the firmness that he’d lost.

  It’s another thing he shouldn’t want. Being ordered around like this. Being specifically ordered not to follow one of the requirements of the original “Good grades, good school, good job, good wife, good kids” plan. The plan Ethan and Charlotte were half way through. But when he’s hot and hard and begging for Peter to touch him more, he can almost keep himself from caring.

  Peter’s stroke is hard and firm. He’s huffing steamy breaths against Thatcher’s neck, each one burns hotter against his skin as the wind comes up and rips the warmth of the previous breath away again and again.

  Thatcher can feel his balls tightening as Peter keeps jacking him off. He’s getting close. A little bit tighter, a little bit faster and he’s going to come.

  “Peter, I’m––” His cock leaps in Peter’s hand.

  “No you’re not,” Peter pants against the back of Thatcher’s neck. He pulls his hand away. Thatcher nearly screams in frustration when the cold winter air replaces Peter’s warm hand again.

  Peter plunges both fingers, laced with the taste of his own precome, back into Thatcher’s mouth, pumping away between his lips as Peter’s insistent grinding against his ass grows suddenly frenzied. Peter moans into Thatcher’s ear.

  “Apologize again.”

  Thatcher tries to mumble out the apology around Peter’s fingers. When he can’t manage, Peter sticks a third finger in his mouth, making Thatcher jerk and moan in his arms. He’s so close to coming, he can feel it, and he wants it so badly.

  Peter’s fingers make a filthy popping sound when he pulls them out of Thatcher’s mouth. Thatcher’s hips jack forward into Peter’s hand when the wet heat finally circles him again. Peter finally starts jerking him off in earnest. Fire and ice chase each other up his shaft until his vision whites out.

  His knees give, and when he can see straight again he’s facing the splash of come he’s spattered all over the house.

  Peter’s kissing his neck and ear, holding him up out of the snow as he milks the last drops of come out of him. Thatcher shivers with over stimulation and pleasure and cold as he watches them drop from his cock into the snow, where the warm liquid tunnels down through the snow.

  “Peter?” Thatcher quavers as Peter lifts him back to his feet. “Did you––”

  “Not quite,” Peter says.

  Thatcher shudders as Peter tucks his cocks back into his jeans and zips them up. He gets really oversensitive after he comes, and the press of the denim is a lot to take, but it’s not as bad as the freezing air.

  He feels overloaded, like he’s hung-over and someone turned a floodlight on him. But he doesn’t want it to stop quite yet. He’s not ready for Peter to stop touching him yet. He doesn’t want to go back into the party.

  “Please,” Thatcher starts, stops, and sucks in a breath that burns in his lungs. “Please take your cock out.”

  “What are you going to do, get on your knees in the snow?” Peter asks. His voice is soft and calm again. He made his point and he’s done playing his demanding Dom role, but Thatcher’s not done being submissive and apologetic yet.

  “Pretty much, yeah.” Thatcher sets his palms on Peter’s thighs, rubbing up and down over the denim as though he’s trying to warm Peter’s cold legs.

  For about three seconds, Peter looks like he’s going to protest. Despite everything, Thatcher knows he won’t be able to accept that. Right now, he needs to feel how badly Peter wants him. He lowers himself until he’s squatting at crotch level, then leans forward, mouth hanging open. He sets his lips to the bulge in Peter’s jeans. The metal of the zipper is cold against his lips and he heaves out one long warm breath until he feels his lungs go empty.

  A breathy declaration of “fuck” falls from Peter’s lips. Thatcher cranes his neck back far enough to see the way Peter’s eyes are glazed over in lust, and smiles. He loves that look. He loves knowing he is the cause of that look. As much as he loves the brawny strength of Peter pinning him down, Thatcher thinks he might love that a promise on his knees makes Peter equally as helpless to pull away from him even more.

  He leans a little further forward, pressing his lips tighter to Peter’s jeans and pushes out another breath. It’s barely audible, a susurration which would have been lost under the background hum of the furnace in his own room, or the const
ant video game music that came through the walls in Peter’s dorm. But it’s like a siren wail out here in the dead calm winter night.

  Peter cups Thatcher’s face, slides his fingers back into Thatcher’s hair and, suddenly grips tight. Peter takes a step to the side to avoid the freezing come splash on the siding, and falls back against the house, dragging Thatcher along with him. With his hand knotted in his hair, Peter pulls Thatcher’s head back. With the other, he undoes his own coat, belt and zipper.

  Eagerly, Thatcher slides his fingers into the scalding heat of Peter’s boxers and pulls his fat, erect cock through the fly.

  Peter cries out. “Fuck. I did not realize the cold would feel like that.”

  Thatcher chuckles and adjusts his stance for stability. He’s holding himself in a thoroughly undignified squat to keep himself from needing to kneel in the snow. He’s keeping his balance by gripping the denim around Peter’s knees like it’s the top rung of a ladder.

  The party goers inside and the likelihood of them being caught out here seem like a much smaller issue now that Thatcher has already come, but it’s still a relief to see how hard Peter is. He’s more than ready to blow. It’s going to take Thatcher no time at all to finish him off.

  “I want you to take me home and fuck me after this,” Thatcher said.

  “Oh, god, I’m going to need to.” Peter canted his hips forward and pulled Thatcher’s face right up against his crotch, so that the cold tip of Thatcher’s nose hits the sliver of skin between the sides of his zipper. “Come on, baby. Warm me up.”

  Thatcher sticks his tongue out, pressing it to the underside of Peter’s erection and stretching his legs up to let himself lick his way to the top. He lowers his mouth down over the tip carefully, doing what he can to leave himself room to move his mouth along Peter’s shaft despite his awkward positioning.

  But the uneven snow and his bizarre squatting is working against him. He wobbles, grips Peter’s jeans more tightly to steady himself, and after a couple of attempts to bob his mouth along Peter’s dick, pulls away, the feeling of desperate, wanton sexiness already crumbling under the embarrassment. He’s been working on this all semester, and sometimes still feels a little sting of inadequacy when something doesn’t work as well as he thought it would.