All About You - TrickC Fic

[mickeym]

This is probably safer and more digestable than the last fic I posted *g*

Kinda mprov-ish in that I wrote it in about an hour, maybe less. Not sure. I just--wanted to write something but didn't want to work on anything on my hard drive. Go figure. *g*

And of course the world needs more wanking fic, right, Halo?

Enjoy, y'all :-)



By Kim G.
© October 2002


The visual in your mind is stunning: you, on your belly, maybe on your hands and knees, legs spread wide while he fucks you into the mattress.

The reality is your hand, slick with warm baby oil, slowly stroking yourself.

The clock beside your bed says it's after eleven, and you wonder if he'll call tonight. You wondered last night, and the night before that, and before that, too. Not that you're in, always; you've been keeping yourself busy, doing this or that, hanging out, enjoying – mostly – this hiatus-cum-vacation you all worked your asses into the ground for.

You're enjoying it, but you miss them, your friends-brothers-bandmates. You have lots to do and plenty of friends, but none of them are Lance, Joey, Justin or Chris.

You glance at the clock again, then slide your hand up and down your dick, varying the speed, the pressure, shivering when shards of pleasure streak up your spine, and picture him the way you last saw him: dark-eyed, intense, hair done in a spectacular 'fuck-you' to the world – a mohawk, of all things.

You think about his voice, the last time you talked, just a week ago, with the 'fuck you' tone still evident, still heavy inside the pure, clear sounds he made.

You think about the way he sounded when he said 'I want to fuck you', just like that, offhand and casual, like he said it every day.

I want to fuck you, C.

I want to fuck you.

Your dick hurts, you're so hard. Your fingers are pleasurepain, working yourself, up the shaft before teasing around the glans, then back down again. You're leaking, precome smearing across the tip of your cock, and you catch a couple drops on one finger, bring it to your mouth to taste. Suck your finger for a moment, thinking about sucking his fingers, his cock, tasting him.

It's a strong, powerful image, and you're torn between that one and the one of him actually fucking you.

You'd like both, you decide.

You shift on your bed and close your eyes, sucking harder on your finger while you work your cock with your other hand, slick slide of flesh against flesh, tight tunnel of your hand compressing you, until you can feel each pulse doubly, once against your hand, the other in your chest, when your heart beats. Pounds.

You're throbbing now, aching, and in your mind he – Chris, you whisper to yourself, give him his name, while he stars in your fantasy – kisses you, a long, hungry kiss that leaves you whimpering in your throat, leaves you longing for more. Dark, hot touches – eyes, hands, skin-to-skin as your bodies press together.

You cup your balls, roll them, abandon sucking your finger to trail the dampness over your nipples, then down the center of your chest. His fingers, Chris' fingers, touching you. Learning you. You writhe against the sheets, grateful for the softness of cool cotton, and arch your back, bowing up toward the pleasure of fantasy and touch.

Fingers stroke downward, over your erection, teasing you with bits of stimulation, a barely-there scrape of fingernails, then down further before returning to stroke more firmly again. Jerking off, while you spread your legs, moving your other hand lower to rub over your hole, the muscle twitching, reacting to your gentle touches.

You can't stop, now, not even if the phone rang just then, you couldn't stop. Too much sensation, you're lost in it, overwhelmed by it. You have to wait it out, play it out, go where it takes you.

I want to fuck you, C.

Fingers buried in your body, two of them, twisting and plunging, a not-quite-satisfactory substitution for Chris, but you'll work with what you have, and remember his voice, the words, while you fuck yourself and work your cock, and oh, god, you can feel each spike of pleasure, each drop of sweat gathering on your body, each muscle spasm as you get closer, closer, closer—

Orgasm is a blinding, whitehot light which begins at the base of your spine and shoots upward and downward and outward, streaking through every atom of your body. It's a nuclear explosion contained within flesh, a cloud of pleasure billowing out and overtaking you. The wetness on your belly and thighs is warm, thick, and you pant with each spurt, twisting your fingers deeper, harder, gasping when you hit your prostate, forcing the waves of sensation higher, waiting for them to crest.

Your vision clears, after a few minutes, and you can think again, can breathe again.

You can think about Chris, and his words, and how much you want to see his face and hear them all at the same time.

When the phone rings, anticipation leaps inside you, and you grab for it, caller ID letting you at least sound nonchalant.

"H'lo?"

"Thinking about me, dude?"

You smile, warmth spreading through you while your anticipation grows. "All about you, Chris."

~finis~

Comments

[mickeym.livejournal.com]

Dude, *I'd* be happy to buy JC a stick and a dog, and lead him around *g*

But I'd rather watch him and Chris :-)

*hugs* Thanks!