Sumage Solution GL Carriger

by G. L. Carriger

  Max glared. “Must you?”

  Biff was already naked, of course. I left my clothing ripped and out in the driveway somewhere. Oh, well. The price of werewolfdom was paid in ruined shirts. Which, as he tried to explain to Marvin regularly, meant he shouldn’t buy the fancy ones.

  He left his man dripping and suffering and began to explore the rest of his body.

  “Really? Really! I’m dying here. I thought licking was your thing. I’m calling our previous encounters false advertising.”

  Does he never shut up? Biff ignored him and continued stroking and nibbling down those long legs.

  Max went to jack himself.

  “Don’t you dare,” Biff growled, allowing some of his own racing need to color his voice with mock anger.

  Max’s cock jerked in eager response to the command and he slammed his hands back against the wall without question.

  Biff continued his explorations. Even Max’s feet were gorgeous. Which was unfair. He ached to see Max’s toes curl when he kissed his ankle.

  “What am I, fucking Cinderella? There’s neglected dick here.”

  Biff looked up at the cock in question, which was glistening, flushed, and oh so eager. Max aimed his hips toward Biff’s mouth. Demanding brat. Above, his blue eyes gleamed and Biff realized there was a fine line between want and magic.

  Biff took a deep breath to steady his own bottomless desire, the blood beating in his ears, his prick just as painfully hard as Max’s, possibly more so. Breathing was a bad idea, because with it came Max’s scent – butter, rum, musk, and need. All of it intoxicating.

  Against the wall, Max’s fingers clenched and twitched.

  Biff squinted at him. “Behave.”

  It was awkward, but he managed to reach up and, with one hand, trapped both of Max’s wrists behind his back, pressing them between the curve of his ass and the wall. Biff used his other hand to bracket the base of the man’s leaking cock, not touching it, just applying force to Max’s pelvis so he had to stay trapped and immobile.

  Max whimpered, either in annoyance or total submissive turn-on, or both.

  “Stay still,” Biff growled.

  “Shut up and take it?” Max recommended an alternate command.

  “You capable of that?” Biff asked.

  In an effort to silence him, Biff licked across the head of Max’s dick. Just the crown, delving the tip of his tongue into the slit there, the salty bitter fizziness sparkling in his mouth.

  Max moaned and then snapped his mouth shut. He jerked but Biff kept his wrists firm and trapped. Biff wove the fingers of his other hand into the sumage’s pubic hair, the only hair he really had on his body, except for a bit under his arms.

  Then Biff stopped, pulling all of himself back except his hands. Max was suspended on only two points of contact.

  The sumage’s eyes popped open and he frowned down.

  Biff looked up at him. Blinking. Innocent.

  Max’s pupils dilated until the blue of his irises was a sliver around the edge of his pupil. “That’s awesome. Your eyes turn yellow.”

  Biff grinned, showing that his canines had extended, not much, but enough to be not human. “Arousal.” His own voice sounding growlier than usual.

  “That is crazy hot.”

  “Good, because I can’t control it. Now shut up.”

  Max nodded, relaxing into Biff’s grip and the cool support of the wall.

  Acquiescence at last.

  Biff began licking him then. He licked all his wanting into Max’s skin. Licked the wrinkles and creases of his groin, the divots of his hips, the side curve of his ass, the inside of his thighs, which were softer than everywhere else. The noises his lover made taught him pressure, guided his path, like a vocal beacon. But he wanted more. They both wanted more.

  Instead of ordering him to turn around, Biff stood, keeping his firm grip on Max’s wrists and stole one more long kiss. Max melted into a puddle of silence against him.

  Biff let him go and in the same movement lifted and spun him around, a sudden weightlessness after all that want and firm surety.

  “Wha—” Max’s eyes flashed open.

  Biff gave him the kitchen counter to lean against, to hold in desperation, the only solid option.

  Max grabbed it with a grateful whimper. Biff bent him over, blanketing him with his bigger form, chest to back, cock to ass. Biff was no fool. Max called him Muscles for a reason. Frankly, it was nice to have a purpose for all his solid bulk. His size and shape generally intimidated people. Since Biff was Beta to the core, he hated that. He’d rather be liked than feared. He found Max harder to read than his pack, but the man clearly craved the solid, sure pressure of desire, and he certainly wasn’t intimidated.

  Biff gave Max his weight for a long slow moment and breathed him in. Molded himself to the lanky smooth form beneath. Then he sucked up a series of marks on Max’s neck where no trace lines ran. With studied care he administered four small and one large. A special cluster just there, arranged exactly how he imagined them, for Max to admire tomorrow. Or at least, Biff hoped he would admire them. His sumage seemed to be enjoying getting them, that was certain. For one thing, he was quiet. In fact, Max barely breathed, but his hips humped forward and back, his cock trying for friction against the cabinet while his ass craved the rub of Biff’s body at his back.

  Soon, Biff thought, I’m going to fuck him like this. But he’d never done that before, not even with a woman. He’d a vague idea on the logistics, but he knew pain might be involved, and that was so entirely against his nature, it complicated matters. Even Biff, too shy and too gruff, figured talking would be in order before they actually fucked. He didn’t even know if Max genuinely liked penetration, or wanted such a thing from him.

  So, he kissed his way down the man’s spine and knelt behind him. This, he knew they both loved. In fact, Biff worried that he might like it too much. The taste and smell of his lover was so completely transporting, it was like a hallucinogenic drug.

  He licked a long line down Max’s crack and then speared his tongue in over Max’s hole. And then, he entirely lost himself there.

  He became vaguely aware of Max writhing and screaming and panting and shuddering. Of the sweat that trickled over both of them. Of his lover coming apart endlessly above him. Biff’s focus was so centered on Max’s ass that he lost even his own need to the giving of pleasure.

  Eventually, overwhelmed, he pulled back slightly.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” said Max, after a moment, on a long breath. “I’ve always loved rimming, but I didn’t know I could cum hands-free like that.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And now I have to clean my kitchen.”

  “Later.”

  Max turned as Biff stood.

  The sumage was limp and wrung out, supporting himself back against the counter on his elbows, but his eyes were riveted on Biff’s very angry and needy cock. It was no longer happy about being forgotten.

  Max recovered some control over his limbs and stepped in against Biff.

  With his main purpose satisfied, Biff was willing to relinquish control.

  Max seized it, body-walking him backward to the bed, pushing until Biff lay sprawled across the comforter.

  “God” – his sumage seemed to have found his voice again – “I wanted that tongue to be your dick so badly.”

  Biff looked up, dazed. “Yeah?”

  “Not just yet.” Max crawled over him, rubbing his satisfied cock and ass against Biff’s unstated desire. “Need some time to prepare. It’s been a while and you’re, you know, hung like a beast.”

  Biff blushed. He hated compliments. “Later, then.”

  “You’re not upset? Oh. No, you certainly aren’t. Mmmm.”

  Biff’s breath hitched and he tried to see what Max was doing with his mouth.

  “I’m inexperienced. We should talk about it.”

  Max looked up, blue eyes wide. “What did you just say? Talk?”

  “No
t now, Max!”

  “There’s my gruff baby. Now, what are we going to do about this?”

  Fortunately for Biff, Max was experienced. He brought every bit of that experience to bear on what he called Biff’s “fucking horse cock – what do you think you are, a kelpie?” Fortunately, the words belied the worship, and Max’s mouth was very talented – when he wasn’t speaking.

  Biff’s climax came upon him suddenly, too long suppressed while he floated in the glory of Max’s taste so that his own pleasure was a surprised rush that arched him up into near convulsions.

  Max drank him down, as if he liked the flavor, looking up at Biff after with a devil’s grin. “So spicy. Should put you on a burrito some time.”

  Biff arched an eyebrow. “We into food? First me with the Ethiopian, and now you with the Mexican.”

  “Mixing food with sex isn’t really my thing. Gets messy. But with you, Muscles, I’d try it all.”

  “I don’t think it’s needed, do you?” Biff reached down to haul his lover up, pulling him to drape partly against his body. They were sticky and hot but he wanted the closeness.

  Max smiled into his eyes, pleasured into supine limpness. “So, about that spandex?”

  Biff yawned. “If I agree to go shopping on Haight Street, will you let me sleep?” It was said oh so casually, with a hope that Max might expressly invite him to stay the entire night. Not out of some sense of obligation but simply because he wanted Biff’s company. That way, Biff might feel less like some stray dog Max had picked up. For a night, he could pretend he was meant to be in Max’s bed, in Max’s life.

  “Who said anything about sleep?”

  Biff gave him a wary look. “Seriously, already?”

  “What, not up for it? Big, strong werewolf like you.” Max licked his own swollen lips, ripened by too many kisses forcefully applied. Biff remembered what they’d looked like wrapped around his cock and got a tiny lurch of renewed interest.

  He knew Max was teasing. The man could barely move, he was so replete. So, Biff used his cock’s fortitude for payback, rubbing his swelling length against the sumage’s smooth, trace-marked hip.

  Max blinked. “Holy shit, you really can rise to the occasion.”

  “I have my uses.”

  Max chuckled, low and honest. “Okay, okay, we sleep. Down, boy. But first, I’m gonna clean up.”

  Biff opened his mouth.

  “Yes, I know. No stinky soap.”

  Biff smiled and lay back. That felt enough of a concession to be an invitation. He drifted on the joy of it, aware he should get up and wipe off the kitchen cabinet door. Did cum stain wood? And wipe down himself. And collect his clothes from outside and…

  * * *

  That little shit left hickeys on my neck!

  Max examined himself in the steamed-up bathroom mirror. Trying to put his hair in order. Trying to put his head in order. A werewolf snored softly in his bed. The biggest, hottest, best lay of his life – quiet, gruff, and easy. Easy on the eyes. Easy to be with. So casual in his acceptance of all of Max’s issues.

  It’s going to be a pretty mark. Even on his darker complexion. Bryan had been so thoughtful as he gave it. So studied in his possession.

  Max rubbed away the steam and leaned in to examine the shape.

  Then he laughed. A paw print. Very cute. He twisted, trying to get a better angle. I think I love it. He paused, watched his own pupils blow wide in shock. I think I might be starting to love him. Great. Now I want to throw up.

  He turned the sink on cold and splashed his face as if the shock of the freezing water might wipe out that last thought. He brushed his teeth and delayed as much as he could – not because he was afraid, but because he wasn’t.

  Eventually, Max walked back to the perfectly designed concoction of hazel eyes, and hairy chest, and soft sure dominance that was his sleeping lover. He stood and looked down, as he might stand staring at his father’s house, and with the same fear driving him to neglect. But what had left the house run-down would break this man, for Bryan had no enchantment protecting him. He was no more the origin of Max’s pain than that stupid house, and he deserved ill treatment less.

  Max owed him. For sweet dates and amazing sex and comfort and acceptance and not running. And for not caring how badly Max wanted to run. Because he did. He still did. And what Max owed Bryan wasn’t fear, or even honesty. It was trust. Hardest thing of all.

  Max sighed at himself. He was cold, and a pile of warm muscles was right there, so he climbed in next to risk. The werewolf snuffled softly, turning to him as if by instinct.

  Max allowed himself a strange floating comfort of this not-quite-a-stranger’s interest and lay awake next to him, thinking. And because he didn’t want to think about the comfort, he thought about the crazy amazing sex that had come before it.

  He’d been an out gay man for well over a decade now, in a permissive and accepting part of the world. There were things he expected from sex. Especially with a man newly out, or a closet case – although Bryan did say that his pack now knew – expectations of hesitancy and the ordered dance of novelty. Bryan had moved to varsity level so swiftly, so sure in his needs, it left Max loopy. He’d been so willing to make use of Max – in the best possible way – dirty, beautiful, complete use.

  Three times now, Max was left utterly satiated by a man with no experience. A man who took all his pleasure in giving. So that he bathed Max in his own desire, stuffed him with the liquid fire of wanting until Max was nothing but quivering free fall.

  That a comparative innocent could give him such rapture was miraculous. That Max could be so taken, he might lose all of the guarded parts of himself and forget to be wary was terrifying. Combined, the two sensations left him with something that – for lack of a better word – felt like hope.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Officially Dating

  Much to Max’s delighted horror, they pretty much started dating after that. It wasn’t discussed and they never used the word boyfriend. Labels made Max nervous. He labored under so many already: mage, sumage, gay, Placer, damaged, failure. Once the label came into play, that meant telling the outside world. And then, well, then, the wolf pack would get involved and Max really wasn’t ready for that.

  They talked about other things instead. Mainly sex. Then they had a lot of sex. Turned out that discussing sex all too often led to engaging in it.

  Bryan was pretty much game for anything, in a startlingly open way – figuratively and literally. There were butt plugs involved. With the excuse of needing to stretch and prep, Max brought out all his toys. Bryan’s eyes gleamed even as his cheeks flamed. They tested out nipple clamps (neither was really into those) and leather cuffs (a resounding yes from Max, take it or leave it from Bryan) and moved on to more adventurous anal play (big yes from both).

  “See, babe, lots of lube and everything goes smoothly.” Max explained in a slightly pompous manner he hoped would keep the big guy relaxed.

  “Very cute. I see what you did there.”

  “And this is how it feels.” He pushed the small plug in very gently.

  “Holy shit.”

  “Not a good idea to bring up shit at this exact moment.”

  Bryan was panting and distracted but clearly enjoying the experience.

  What Max had really learned about his new lover was that Bryan’s need not to hurt was an entirely instinctive and overriding one. To the level where Max’s trust issues had morphed into issues around responsibility. For Bryan would do pretty much anything not to hurt him (well, not to hurt him in the wrong way – he was awesome about the right way) and that included both emotionally and physically. Max felt burdened by his werewolf’s well-being, a responsibility for Bryan’s emotional confidence. For while Max might worry about trust, Bryan did not. Not because he was somehow innocent, or stupid for not being jaded, but because he would rather dive headfirst into pain, and take the consequences, than cause suffering in another. Bryan might delight in modest dom
ination sexually, but he would let Max take the lead in all other intimacies to the detriment of himself.

  Max took full advantage of Bryan’s physical trust in the form of butt plugs, dildos, prostate wands, and fingering. The werewolf was happy to do pretty much anything so long as Max did it to him first, so he knew what it felt like, so he knew what to expect, so he could do it right on Max. Not that they liked exactly the same thing. But it was a jumping-off point.

  So, they dated. Both of them wanting to see each other more than on prescribed weekends, but obeying the rules of society, which dictated slow and careful, at least outside of the sack.

  Over the next few weeks, Bryan got himself a job, a pretty decent one too. By tacit agreement, they always ended up back at Max’s after a date. The pack’s absent hostess was letting them stay longer in the small apartment, Manifest Destiny’s contract in New York having been extended. But there was no privacy there even if Max was ready to meet the pack.

  Max became frighteningly accustomed to the werewolf’s presence in his tiny space. A space that had for so long been solitary peace but which now, on the nights when his lover wasn’t there, was made lonely by absence. Bryan’s smell lingered. A small stock of tea accumulated in one cabinet. And, yes, it was that cabinet.

  “That one is mine,” Bryan insisted.

  “I haven’t even given you an underwear drawer yet, and you think you can stake a claim to part of my kitchen?”

  “Yep. I don’t wear underwear, and if you want proof of entitlement, I’ll bend you right back over that counter.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  So, Bryan did.

  Max ceded him some space within – on both counts. Bryan filled the one with weird fucking tea – no, not that, now who has a dirty mind? – and lots of meaty protein bars. He stuffed Max’s home full of a comforting silence, so that when he was gone, Max yearned for stupid things. Like the smell of Bryan’s stinky brown tea, or the thump of his heart under Max’s ear when they slept.

  It might have continued just like that for a while, except Max had an encounter with a judge and got very, very drunk.