This story is rated NC-17 (mature readers only). It includes explicit male/male sex. If this is what you came for, scroll down. If it isn't, hit the Back button.
























by Resonant

"I don't do this," Jack said.

"Mm," Dainard said, and Jack's head hit the wall behind him. Christ, he was good at --

"You do this," he insisted, because obviously Dainard hadn't gotten this good without doing this to other men, dozens of other men, pinning them to the wall and putting his filthy, filthy mouth -- "You do this. I don't."

"Mm," Dainard said, and Jack set his teeth to hold back a groan.

Dainard's house stank of whiskey and stale cigarettes and dirty laundry and dishes left in the sink for weeks on end, like nobody ever washed anything or even opened a window, like Dainard sat in that stinking chair while the girl rode her bike all over town like a wild creature, and everything just went to hell around him.

Jack had come to make peace. Four of the beers he'd brought were still sitting on the sticky dinette table. Joe and the girl had taken off to see that stupid airplane movie for the fifth time. They were probably holding hands daringly in the back of the Palace Theater.

He didn't remember how he'd come to be here, leaning on the grubby wall -- he was still in uniform, jesus christ --

"You," he said, and his hand was on the back of Dainard's neck, Dainard's stupid hair falling lank and soft over his fingers. "You make me want this, you and your dirty mouth, your dirty -- I don't even know what you're doing to me, god, Dainard --"

He gripped harder, fingers sinking into the thick muscles at the base of Dainard's neck, and Dainard's mouth went so tight that Jack's hips moved without his permission, shoving hard up off the wall, surging into Dainard's mouth. He could hear Dainard making choking noises, but it was too late -- he'd lost all control of his body, and he was coming, coming into Louis Dainard's dirty beautiful mouth, fuck --

"Oh, jesus," he said, because he was still shaking a little from aftershocks, but Dainard's neck muscles had gone solid under his hand. He released it fast, and Dainard heaved in a wet, noisy breath, and then another.

Jack had punched a suspect in the gut once. Just once. A stoned little punk who'd kicked him every time he got a chance and called him foul names. When he'd gone to Sheriff Pruitt afterwards, stiffly, hat in hands, to take what was coming to him, Pruitt had smiled that fatherly patronizing smile and said, "All I saw was a responsible officer of the law doing what was necessary to subdue a suspect before he harmed himself or others." But Jack still remembered the sick satisfaction of that asshole folding under the impact, smile wiped off his face. He'd come to himself drawing his fist back to hit him again.

He unfolded his other hand from Dainard's hair and dropped onto the stained carpet.

Dainard shook his hair out of his face, giving Jack a defiant look. His eyes were watering and his mouth was puffy, reddened at the corners.

"I'm sorry," Jack said, meaning those final choking thrusts, meaning all of it from the moment he'd gripped Dainard's shoulder as Dainard sank to his knees. He took Dainard's head in his hand, thumb smearing away the moisture from the corner of his eye. "I'm sorry. Jesus, Dainard, you didn't have to -- you don't owe me this --"

Dainard didn't shake off his hand, but he smirked. "You always were a stupid son of a bitch, Jack," and when Jack didn't move, he rolled his eyes: "It turns me on, all right? I like it."

Why would someone -- Jack watched his hand move, over Dainard's stupid sideburns and inward, as if it belonged to someone else; watched it slide wetly over Dainard's ridiculously plush lower lip, pulling it down a little.

Dainard licked his thumb.

It sent a spike of renewed desire through him. Dainard's eyes were half-lidded, his cheeks flushed. He pulled Jack's thumb into his mouth, wrapped his tongue around it, let it slide slowly out between his lips, then took it in again, where his mouth had been full of --

Jack pulled his hand free.

"Too dirty for you, Deputy?"

Dainard was still smirking when Jack kissed him.

He'd never kissed another man in his life. Dainard's lips were pillowy as a girl's, but his chin and cheeks were bristly and hard, and he smelled like a man, underneath the beer and cigarettes. Jack wanted to taste it, all of it, the tang of iron at the corners of his mouth, the salt that was probably sweat and not Jack's own spunk. He held Dainard's face in both hands and tilted his head and tasted every part of his mouth, slowly, slowly.

Dainard's hands touched his shoulders, pulled away, touched down again. Dainard's mouth came open and offered up everything.

Jack let go of his face to wrap an arm around his back, pulling him up from his crouch to press their bodies together. Dainard was big, heavy muscle under the surface fleshiness. He put his arms around Jack slowly, as if he didn't know what else to do with them.

That was Dainard's cock, a hard line against Jack's hip. Jack slid his arm down to Dainard's lower back to press closer into it, and Dainard choked and clawed up handfuls of his uniform shirt.

He was starting to see why Dainard said, I like it, because he should have been freaking out over this, but the idea of making Dainard come was starting a burn in the base of his spine. "What do you do?" he said against Dainard's chin.

"I don't kiss," Dainard gritted, but he held tight and wouldn't let Jack move away. "I haven't kissed anybody since --" and his tongue was in Jack's mouth before he could fill in the rest --

Since Joan ran off to Dayton with a sales manager. Since all the laughter went out of his house and all the warmth went out of his bed. "I know," Jack said against his lips, "I know," and Dainard made a noise that was almost a growl.

Dainard's cock distended the front of his ill-fitting pants. It was hot on Jack's palm right through the fabric, and Jack's hand shook a little, like a coffee tremor, as he undid the button and zipper and pushed down past the elastic of the boxers.

In that humid space, Dainard's cock was hot and hard and damp in its nest of hair. He had a lot more hair than Jack did, and Jack shocked himself with a vivid picture of laying him out naked on the floor, of what that solid body would look like. Dainard's cock moved in his hand. When he gripped it in his fingers, Dainard's head fell back against his encircling arm, pink-cheeked and red-mouthed and weirdly, inexplicably arousing.

Jack was going to be hard again by the time Dainard finished. He wondered if Dainard was up for sucking him off twice in one night.

"Ah!" Dainard grunted as Jack's fist tightened, and his hand came up to cover Jack's. "Ease up, man." His eyes slitted open, and he smiled and licked his lips. "Too hard. Just like always."

They'd gone to Lillian High together, like everybody else in town. Dainard had been a punk, and Jack hadn't had the time of day for him, but Elizabeth and Joan had been friends, so he could remember years of Dainard's lax posture and dress code violations and hair over the collar and big hands on Joan's ass at school dances. Jack eased his fist. "You're just too sloppy," he said.

"Everything but my mouth, huh?" Dainard smiled breathlessly and Jack kissed him -- not too hard, because he could do easy when the circumstances called for it, he could do sweet and soft, jesus, he hadn't had sweet and soft in his life for so fucking long --

And now it was Dainard saying, "I know," panting against his mouth, "I know, Jack, give it to me, you can give it all to me, fuck, give me all of it and I'll come for you, I'll fucking come all over you," and he was -- that was -- he was shooting into Jack's hand, making a noise through his teeth and arching his back so hard that all Jack could do was lay both of them out on the floor while Dainard's cock went on pulsing into his hand.

"All over the uniform," Jack said mournfully.

Dainard grabbed Jack's hand and smeared it around even worse. "Been wanting to spunk you up since you came back from the Navy, Jacky boy." Jack wanted to be pissed off but he could feel that he was smiling, and when Dainard pulled his head down, he went.

He lay like that on the sticky carpet for an unmeasured time, relaxed, faintly turned on, enjoying Dainard's hot body pressed under him and Dainard's heartbeat against his ear and Dainard's hand idly combing through his short hair. "Do you have any idea how disgusting I'm going to be? There are probably dust bunnies stuck to my uniform now."

"Fuck you, I'm a poor single dad," Dainard said, and his hand cupped over the back of Jack's head, warm and soft. "Call me before you come over next time and I'll clean the place up for you."











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July 24, 2011