“God, Wray,” Mojo sighs. His hand freezes on my cock in mid-stroke. “Oh, God, you’re not…I mean, you—”
“I’m going to suck your dick,” I say. The way he trembles all over tells me this might be the first blowjob he’s ever had. “Don’t tell me Darcy doesn’t do this.”
He can’t speak, but he shakes his head a little in disbelief. “She’s never…I mean, she doesn’t…” He licks his lips and squeezes my cock so hard, I almost come right there. “Do it again. Can you? Can you do it again?”
Staring into his eyes, I watch him watch me as I lean down again. I pucker just to prolong the inevitable, and I have to admit I like the way he catches his breath as I move in. When my lips touch the tender head of his cock, he bites his lower lip and moans unconsciously. Without pulling back, I run my tongue over my lips and at the same time over his glans because it’s so close. He gasps, his gaze glued to my mouth as if he doesn’t want to miss whatever it is I plan to do next.
After rimming the flared tip, I lap at the slit on the underside, then close my lips around the plum-like head.
Pain sears through my groin. I reach for my cock, caught in Mojo’s death grip, and rub his wrist to relax his hand. “Easy, man,” I say, sitting back. “If you’re going to strangle it, I’m going to have to stop.”
“Sorry.” With a sheepish grin, he lets me guide his hand up and down again, slowly, finding a steady pace. “Like this?”
I nod. “Better. Just don’t stop, okay? Just—ah, yes, that. That works.”
He rubs his thumb along the bottom of my dick, up my slit and down again, up all the way to cover the tip and down to the base where my balls begin. Long, even strokes, comforting, mesmerizing. If the pace never picked up, I could stay here in this state of semi-arousal for the rest of my life.
But I want more than this, and I know Mojo does, too. Leaning into his crotch again, I lick down the length of his shaft to his balls and press my mouth into the gaping fly of his boxers. Now I can feel kinked hair tickle my lips and chin—his balls are nestled in a fine fuzz that smells of sex and musk. I stick my tongue down in there and taste Mojo’s unique flavor, manly and sweaty and a little ripe. It’s the same taste I get from the pre-cum glistening at the tip of his dick, and it spurs me on. I want more.
I go down again, taking his full length between my lips. His cock fills my mouth, rubbing against the roof of it, then tickling the back of my throat. My hand flattens his balls down into the darkness of his boxers and I gently pinch my forefinger and thumb together, massaging him in time with his strokes on my erection. On my way up, I swirl my tongue along his length, licking it as I would a lollipop, savoring his scent and his flavor, the man, the moment, this. Us.
I cover his cockhead with little prickling kisses, then trail them down his shaft, kissing away the beads of my own saliva slicking his dick. At the base, I open wide and, covering my teeth with my lips, press my mouth around him, sticking my tongue out as if I could possibly encircle him with it. I raise my head, sliding my mouth up his length; at the top, I cover his knob with my mouth and release it, my head on the other side of his dick now, trailing back down the other side.
He moans above me. “Jesus, Wray. That’s so fucking hot.”
With a subtle thrust of my hips, I remind him to keep his hand moving on my dick. Then I go down on him again—I’m through playing. Closing my lips over his cockhead, I begin to rub his slit with my tongue as I suck in my cheeks. He seems to swell in my mouth, and I get the first teasing taste of the bittersweet saltiness of his seed. I go down on him once, twice, then concentrate on his tip again, suckling it, trying to draw him towards release.
From the faint mewling sound he makes, I know I’m succeeding.
Keeping the tip of his dick behind my front teeth, I stretch my tongue down his length as far as it will go. I’m no Gene Simmons, but I’ve never developed much of a gag reflex, so I can reach pretty far. His dick buts against my palette as I dive farther, my tongue angling to taste his balls. Mojo fucks up into me, forcing his cock deep into my throat, and I swallow to constrict the muscles around his erection.
“Yes,” he sobs, jerking me off with one meaty fist. He’s close to coming—I can feel the tension in his dick, the subtle tightening of the skin that always tells me a guy’s going to shoot his load, and he’s yanking on my dick as if he’s trying to pull it out by the root. “God, yes, yes.”
One more long pull does it. His ass rises off the sofa as he ejaculates. Hot jism fills the back of my throat as I drink him down. The taste and scent of his orgasm triggers my own release—my cock spurts onto his fingers, slicking them with my juices. “Jesus,” he sighs. “Just…oh God, that was good.”
I pull my head back, letting him slip from my throat into my mouth. Tenderly I nibble on his bulbous tip one last time before releasing it. “You’ve got a fat one on you,” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “And you come too damn quick.”
His grin slowly dissolves. “It was my first time.”
“I know. We’ll have to work on that.” I reach for the hand still gripping my dick and, peeling the fingers off me one by one, I lace mine between them. Semen and A & D ointment squish between us.
A slow smile crosses Mojo’s face. “So you’re saying you’re cool with this?”
I don’t say anything—my response is a smoldering look that brings a faint flush to his cheeks. Locking my gaze with his, I raise our hands to my lips and stick out my tongue. As he watches me, I lick my cum off his knuckles, one by one. By the time I’m finished, his mouth is slack, his eyes hooded with lust. Between us, his cock has begun to stand up and take notice again.
* * * *
The tattoo itself only takes an hour—I’m usually quick with letters, but Mojo’s skin above his pubic area is delicate and thin, so I’m more careful than usual to make sure the lines are crisp and tight. He wiggled a bit when I was putting on the transfer, and I had to get him to hold his dick to one side, out of the way, so it would stop bumping against my wrist, but other than gritted teeth and a grimace as I worked, he weathered it fine.
It isn’t until I’m taping a sheet of clear plastic wrap over the area that I realize what he said earlier about Darcy. “Hold up,” I say, pausing with my hand over his lower belly.
“What?” he sighs. His face is still flushed and he’s sweating a little, but whether it’s because of the endorphins flooding his system after the tattoo or the erection held tight in his hand, I don’t know.
Smoothing the wrap flat over his new ink, I look at the words and the angry skin around them. “You said you wanted to surprise Darcy with this.”
He grins wickedly. “She has no clue I asked you to do this. When she sees it, she’s going to flip.”
“But then you said she’s never gone down on you,” I point out. “So why bother?”
He looks down at the tattoo. “I’ll know it’s there. Hell, by the time she lets me touch her again, the hair will have all grown back anyway and you’ll need a weed whacker to get to it.”
Then he covers my hand with his, pressing my palm flat against his lower belly. The skin feels hot beneath my touch. “And you’ll know it’s there,” he says, slipping his fingers under mine. “Think of it as an open invite.”
I laugh as I start to put away my tattooing supplies. “So now it’s like that between us, is it?”
Mojo’s smile slips a little. “Like what?” When I shake my head but don’t answer, he catches my wrist and forces me to look at him. “Wray, I thought you were cool with this. With…with us.”
“Let me ask you this.” I stop what I’m doing and face him squarely—I want to watch him answer me, to make sure I get this straight…or rather, as straight as it could ever possibly be between two men. “Look at me, Mojo, so I’ll know if you’re lying or not.”
“I’m not—”
“Let me get the question out first.”
His mouth snaps shut.
Taking a dee
p breath, I ask him, “Is this just something you want to do while Darcy’s not putting out for you? Once the baby’s here, are things going to go back to the way they were—the blue-ball flirting without either of us putting out for the other?”
Mojo frowns and shakes his head. “Wray, no…”
“Or is this something you want to follow through on?” I ask, speaking over him. “Not just me getting you off but something mutual, something more? Because if it’s just going to be me blowing you now and then, we can go back to being friends and forget tonight ever happened.”
“No.” Mojo shakes his head again, emphatic. “Wray, listen. I want you, I do. Darcy knows it…hell, she knew it before I did myself. And she’s okay with it, really. She knows there are things one guy can do for another that a woman can’t.”
“She can lick your dick as well as I can,” I say, unconvinced. “Probably better. She has that tongue piercing—”
“Wray.” Taking both my hands in his, Mojo pulls me to him. I have to be mindful of the fresh ink on his belly, so I let him pull me up off the coffee table where I gave him the tattoo and then sit perched on his knees. When he looks at me, the expression in his eyes is everything I’ve always wanted to see shining back. “This is all new to me, but I want it. I want you. And I know you’ve wanted me for so damn long now. So can’t you give me a chance? Let me prove there’s something deeper than friendship between us. Show me what to do and I’ll do it. Show me how to love you, and I will.”
There’s that word again, love. If he says it enough times, I might let myself start to believe it.
Sliding down his thighs, I sit in his lap and lean forward until my forehead touches his. This close, his eyes are mesmerizing. “I can’t really show you how to do it,” I murmur, my words soft in the intimate space between us. “Just think about whatever it is you’d want to have done to you, and do it to me instead.”
Mojo wraps his arms around my waist. “How will I know if I’m doing it right?”
I touch my mouth to his in a sweet kiss—the first of many. “We’ll have to keep practicing until you get it.”
I feel his lips smile against mine. “If we’re lucky, this could take all night.”
I’ve never felt luckier.
THE END
The Tattooed Heart
To my own tattoo artist at Lucky 13
When Lee enters Tattoo 804, Chris is just finishing up with a client. Though it’s less than thirty minutes to closing time, April’s behind the counter and knows Lee’s a friend, so she waves him back to Chris’s booth. “Hey, man,” Chris says, glancing up from the ornate Celtic knot armband he’s been coloring in for a while now. The client, a pretty woman in her late twenties, grins at Lee with gritted teeth. Chris motions to a nearby chair. “Have a seat. I’m almost through.”
Lee’s two years older than Chris but they go way back. The first day after winter break when Chris had been in the fourth grade, to be exact; Lee had been a burly sixth grader, scary as shit, patrolling the playground at their elementary school with the other tough boys in his class. Chris, always on the small side, often fell prey to the bullies. When Lee came over to pick on him that cold January afternoon, Chris was sitting on the frozen ground, one pant leg pulled up to expose an intricate pattern he’d been drawing on himself with a ballpoint pen. He expected to be laughed at, jeered, maybe even punched if he couldn’t dodge fast enough. The last thing he’d been ready for was to find the older boy hunkering down beside him as Lee pulled up the leg of his own jeans. “Great tat. Think you can do one on me?”
Funny how life turns out. At thirty, Chris rents a booth at Tattoo 804, an up-and-coming tattoo parlor in Richmond located less than a mile from the schoolyard where he first met Lee. Most of his clients aren’t looking for anything custom, not yet—they want hearts on their wrists or paw prints on their ankles, or someone’s name scribbled somewhere on their bodies. His own art is hidden away in portfolios he never shows anyone but Lee. They’ve been friends forever, and when Chris has a new design he’d like to etch into someone, who else would he call?
Lee sinks onto a stool near the mirror by Chris’s booth. He leans down to look at the armband, careful to stay out of the light. “That’s tight, man. Real sharp. You oughta do one for me.”
“I got plans for you,” Chris promises. He wipes away excess ink and a trace amount of blood, studies his handiwork, then dives back in.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Lee in the mirror—it’s June and already hot out, so Lee wears one of those faded tank tops called a wifebeater that shows off the ink on his arms. Chris did every single tattoo on Lee’s body, each a custom design, a tribute to his art. He’s not the only one looking; the woman in his chair turns her head and checks Lee out. Dark, mussed hair that looks like he just got out of bed. Warm eyes that crinkle into half-moons when he laughs. Heart-shaped lips most women would kill to have. They’d look girly if he wasn’t so damn built. Lee works construction, and Chris is never sure if he wears those dirty jeans and clunky boots for looks or function. Noticing his newest tattoo, a colorful maze Chris did a month ago spiraled around Lee’s left elbow, the woman says, “Nice tats. Where’d you get them done?”
“Here.” Lee gives her a wink that makes her blush. “You’re in the hands of the best, babe. Nobody inks me but Chris.”
When the armband’s finally done, Chris wraps it in cellophane and tells the woman to keep it clean. “I know what to do,” she promises, slipping him a neatly folded ten when he helps her out of the chair. “You aren’t my first. I really like your touch, and those designs on your friend are killer. I’ll definitely be back.”
Lee waits until she reaches the front desk before he takes her place in the chair in front of Chris. “What’s up?” he asks, watching as Chris cleans his station. “I ain’t heard from you in a while. Keeping busy?”
A slow smile spreads across Chris’s face. “You could say that. I got a man now, Lee. I have to be home nights.”
Lee claps his hands and whoops, a little too loudly. “All right!”
Chris ducks his head, embarrassed, but there aren’t many people in the parlor this late. “Keep it down,” he says, even though he can’t stop grinning. “It’s not all that.”
“Not yet,” Lee points out. “But you want it to be?”
Chris laughs. “I think so, yeah. I think he’s the one.”
As he clears away the small cups of ink and water from his table, his mind drifts to Barry. The dude is everything Chris wants in a lover, there’s no denying it. Tall, slim, sexy, even if he doesn’t have any tattoos yet. That’ll change. Chris has offered to ink Barry himself for free and Barry said maybe, yeah. Another couple months and Chris thinks that “maybe, yeah” will turn into “please.”
“Where’d you meet him?” Lee’s voice is quieter now, subdued. “Is he hot?”
The look Chris gives his friend says it all. “Shyeah. Hot as shit. He plays guitar in April’s brother’s band and we met after his set one night at the Code downtown. Just hooked up and hit it off. I am officially in love.”
When Chris glances at his friend, Lee’s grin slides into place, but when he turns, he sees it slip away in the mirror. There’s something unsettling about how Lee stares at him, something that says wheels are turning inside that bushy head of his. “I know what you’re thinking,” Chris says.
That earns him an amused grunt. “What’s that?”
“It’s too early to tell.” Chris laughs and shakes his head. “Man, whatever. He’s all into me, that’s all I’m saying. Finally, you know? A guy who wants to be with me twenty-four seven, who likes my art, who wants me to draw something special for his first tattoo and put the image on him myself. Where else am I ever gonna find someone like that?”
In the mirror, Lee’s heart-shaped mouth twists into a strangled knot. “Hell if I know.”
When Chris turns toward him, that sour pucker has smoothed out and he thinks maybe he imagined it. “What ‘cha got
for me tonight?” Lee asks, clapping his hands together. “Are they cool with you staying late for a client?”
“A client? No.” Chris reaches for his portfolio, tucked into the space between his table and the wall. “But man, you’re a friend. This ain’t a sale. Let me show you what I’ve been doing. How’s your own love life going?”
Lee takes the offered portfolio and flips to the back without being asked, where he knows Chris’s newer work is kept. “Pssh,” he says, dismissive. “My problem is the guys I like never like me back. These sketches are good. More mazes?”
“They’re not really.” Chris rolls his stool around so he’s beside Lee’s chair and leans against his friend’s arm as he traces one of his more elaborate drawings. “It’s one continuous line, see? They just bend sharply and fold back behind the first line, sort of like that old Windows screensaver, I guess. You know, the one with the pipes? I can leave ‘em hollow or color them in, any color you want. I’m thinking they’d look damn cool on your shoulder and flowing over down your arm, you know? I can do as much or as little as you like.”
Lee’s arm burns through Chris’s shirt. “Whatever you want,” he murmurs. “It’s up to you.”
Chris looks up to find his friend staring at him openly and he grins to alleviate the sudden tension between them. “Great! Let’s get started. Take off your shirt for me, will you?”
* * * *
Lee’s first tattoo was a black and red star on the back of his right hand. It was the first tattoo Chris ever did, and no matter how much Chris tries to cajole Lee into letting him redo it, Lee won’t let him. “It’s crap,” Chris has said. “I’ve gotten so much better.”
But Lee is adamant. “I like it. Shows just how far you’ve come. You can touch it up but don’t you dare cover it over.”
As Chris sets up for Lee’s next tattoo, this Möbius strip-like pipe, Lee flips through the portfolio in his hands. Chris is an awesome artist, one of the best. A consummate professional, too, with a light touch and unique designs. The moment they met all those years ago, Lee knew Chris would be doing something with his art later on in life. Lee couldn’t draw stick figures, let alone these gorgeous sketches that fill Chris’s portfolio. There are dragons and birds, vicious sabertooth cats, sexy women and hulking men, hooded skeletons, Celtic-inspired knots, and everywhere these new pipe things Chris currently favors.
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