The Sporting Life
Crazy. One of them was crazy, and he was pretty sure it was Stanley—though that was a pretty ludicrous thing to say what with Fraser out there making like the Fourth of July with real bombs. Fraser could sure give Stanley a run for his money in the crazy department, but it wasn't Fraser all sprawled out on him like this, holding his mouth open and sucking for kisses. This was maybe Stanley's own distinctive kind of crazy.
Kowalski was a punk, a scarred-up kid—and queer, too? How did you get from there to here? Except he could see it if he squinted hard. Certain guys, they were like alley cats—all skinny and yowling with hunger and so horny they'd rub up on the walls. Ray raised his arms and clutched Stanley to him, feeling his narrow shoulder blades under his thin white t-shirt, the thin layer of flesh over the ridges of rib cage. Stanley's kisses were sweet with desperation, and he began to hump Ray's leg. Oh, crap. So hot. Ray slid his hands down Kowalski's back and cupped his ass with both hands, kneading and rubbing and loving the way Stanley gasped and writhed on top of him. Stanley was a human being, at least—he had needs, he was willing to show he had needs, and beg if he needed to.
God, what he would give to hear Stanley beg for it.
He rolled Stanley over onto his back and lifted his head—Stanley was panting hard, chest rising and falling, and visibly turned on, practically writhing beneath him. Ray reached down and pinched a nipple, hard, and saw Stanley's face contort, heard the small gasp. Then he reached down and fingered the bulge in Stanley's jeans—and it was quite a bulge, long and solid, and he rubbed it harder with his palm, liking the way it felt, liking the way it made Stanley look.
Stanley closed his eyes and began to move his body in a slow horizontal rhythm, kind of like dancing to the beat of Ray's hand on his cock. "Oh yeah," Ray whispered; he was sweating, pulse racing, as he rubbed the shaft under the denim harder and harder. "Come on, baby—" He pushed the heel of his hand in a hard, circular motion over Stanley's balls, loving the way Stanley pushed back against him.
When he looked up at Stanley's face again, he saw that Stanley had his eyes open and was wearing a crooked little smile which widened once he had Ray's attention. You like this—the message was written clear across Stanley's face, and it wasn't a question and it wasn't a judgment though it was just the tiniest bit triumphant somehow.
Ray closed his hand tight, tight, tight on Stanley's dick, closed his eyes, and nodded—easier to admit everything when he didn't have to look at that smug, grinning face. A second later his hand was knocked away and he opened his eyes, surprised; Stanley was tugging down the zipper on his jeans. Ray watched with a dry mouth as Stanley pulled his cock out—Christ, what a gorgeous cock—and started jerking himself off slowly, holding his hand so that Ray could see everything. The way Stanley squeezed himself, the way he teased himself, the way he pressed his thumb beneath the head.
When he looked back at Stanley's face he saw no trace of smugness there; Stanley was just watching Ray watch him, and after a second, Stanley let his head fall back and he beat himself faster, expression slack-jawed with pleasure.
A present, Ray understood suddenly, with certainty; all of this was a present, from Stanley to him, something he'd done right, some test he'd passed today. Stanley knew he liked this, wanted this, and wouldn't have asked it for himself—and God only knew what Stanley might give him, might do for him, if he continued to be what Stanley wanted him to be.
Stanley gritted his teeth and tightened his fist and beat himself hard and fast until there was come splattering onto his exposed white belly where he'd pushed up his cheap, white tee. Stanley sucked for air through his mouth as he slowly drew his hand through the puddled come on his belly—and then he was pushing his t-shirt up even further and making a seductive little hand gesture that was the sexiest, dirtiest invitation anyone'd ever made to him ever—and Ray fumbled with his belt and unzipped his pants and shoved his boxers down, and once he'd gotten his cock in hand he leaned over Stanley and jerked off all over him, gasping with satifaction as Stanley moaned and closed his eyes.
"Ray! Ray! Ray!!" In an odd way, Fraser's tendency to call his name over and over made some kind of sense now, though it always made Ray worry that maybe a third Ray was gonna be joining them any second now. Ray jerked upright and banged his head, hard, against the bottom of the canoe above them—and Stanley reached out for him, worried for a sec, but then grinning when he saw that Ray was all right.
"You're all right, aren't you?" Fraser called out.
"Yeah, Benny!" Ray called back.
"Is Ray Kowalski with you?"
"Yeah!" Ray had put his dick away, and now he was frantically searching his pockets for a handkerchief to give to Stanley, who was in no condition to be seen by anybody as innocent as Constable Benton Fraser. "He's here!" Ray called, and Stanley grinned at him.
"Tell him it's safe to come out, now!"
"Oh yeah?" Ray yelled, stalling for time while Stanley quickly mopped himself up. "How do we know it's safe?"
That bought them a couple of extra seconds. "Well, I'd ask you to take my word for it, Ray," Fraser said finally.
Stanley looked like he was all cleaned up, and Ray gave him a quick questioning look to figure out if he was ready to get out of there or what. Stanley doublechecked his zipper and nodded his okay, shoving the come-stained handkerchief into his pocket—and just as Ray was about to call out again to Fraser, Stanley cupped a palm to the back of his head and drew him into another kiss, this one slow and wet and long.
"Ray?" Fraser called. "Really, I assure you, it's perfectly—"
"You can paddle my canoe anytime," Stanley murmured into his mouth, and Ray decided that there was maybe something to the outdoor life after all.