little t&a

and let me

Within ten minutes, Gene was splayed on his stomach on the bed, eating Paul out almost ravenously. One of Paul's bare feet kept rubbing up and digging into his back with every lick and suck, encouragement Gene didn't even need.

The musky scent and taste of him was intoxicating. Gene felt like he could bury his face in Paul's pussy forever. Paul didn't seem to be averse to that, legs shifting, thighs tightening mercilessly around his head. Strangled little cries were giving way to sharp screams. Paul had started off clenching the covers again, but his hands had found their way to Gene's scalp before too long. He wasn't digging in as hard as last time. Closer to petting, really, telescoping Gene's whole world, each touch, each sensation, down to just Paul. It was a real effort to lift his head—Paul grunted in protest immediately—and really take a good look at how unraveled Paul was getting.

His skin was flushed, eyes half-lidded and so heavily dilated they were practically black. Hair already a mess. Chest heaving. He should've looked more vulgar, obscene, even, but somehow he didn't. Paul almost looked sweet. He still had a bra on. It wasn't the one from the day before; it was the cream one he'd gotten from that first boutique, the day they'd both bought punk outfits for CBGB. Gene reached beneath it, pushing past the tiny bit of lace edging to cup and squeeze one breast. Paul jerked, hips twitching forward in a quick spasm.

"Take it off," Gene murmured. Paul sat up only enough to unhook the bra. He cast it aside, then reached down, hands returning to Gene's hair. "You already look ravished, did you know that?"

"Just get back down there."

"I mean it, though. I like seeing you this way."

Paul's face scrunched up, and instead of answering, he grabbed Gene by the head and shoved him back between his legs. Gene took the hint.

–

Gene got him through two orgasms with just his mouth and fingers. Paul's legs felt like jelly by the end of it, and yet the oversensitivity he was accustomed to after a round wasn't there at all. Just like before, he could definitely go again.

Gene had been warming him up to it; he knew it. Getting him ready. He was soaking wet still no matter how much Gene had lapped away at his pussy. Way wetter than he'd ever gotten alone. His clit was swollen and tender, nipples hard. At some point Gene had stripped down to his boxers, and now Paul was tugging them down, too, working at his dick as soon as they were off. Gene was on top of him, heavy against him, swearing softly under his breath with every stroke of Paul's hand.

He was thinking about his first time. The real one. He'd thought that after, everything would be different. He would be different. More confident, more self-assured. But then he'd gone home, and realized he was still sleeping in the same bed, and still waking up to the sound of Ericka squalling in the crib. Still haunted by the same fears. He hadn't changed. Nothing had shattered or expanded his worldview. He was still Stanley Eisen. He'd just gotten laid, that was all.

Now it was going to be different. Things were going to change. Even best case scenario, things were going to change. The drawing and the photo and all those clothes were going to be about the only physical reminders of the last several days. They'd go back on tour, and...

"You okay?" Gene's expression was mildly strained. Probably because he'd stopped jacking him off. Paul figured he'd get him off early and delay everything another fifteen minutes at least if he wasn't careful. Part of him didn't want to be that careful.

"Just thinking." He exhaled softly. "I guess I kinda wanna apologize. I don't know what I'm doing."

"You're doing great." Gene's eyes darted to the nightstand. "Paul, did you want to use a condom—"