Sense and Sensuality
To Robin - the best beta ever. Despite all her blushing and giggling, she was tireless, brilliant, and a joy to work with. She's a real friend like that.
Justin was hungry and horny, and he needed a fucking massage.
He figured he could handle two of the three himself, but he definitely needed a second party for the third. If his lover had been anyone other than Brian Kinney, it might have been a clean sweep, but Brian sucked at massage. He didn't have the requisite patience. Ass and cock soon replaced back and neck.
Sighing over Brian's grievous shortcoming, Justin pushed back from the desk and stretched his arms as high as he could, straining with the effort. He took a deep breath and held it, relishing the slight euphoria that soon flooded his body. It certainly wasn't an orgasm, but Justin took his pleasure however and wherever he could.
He was a hedonist like that.
He'd been working on his art project nonstop since Brian had left for the office, and it was time for a break. He knew exactly what the refrigerator held, and it wasn't much. The cabinets were even less of a prospect. Nevertheless, he opened the refrigerator door and contemplated his choices.
It was slim pickings - mustard, half an avocado, protein powder mix, and three-day-old Italian. Sighing again, he pulled out the angel hair with pesto and ate it cold standing over the sink.
He was a bit of a garbage disposal like that.
As he chewed, his thoughts once again turned to massage. There was a time when he could have called Emmett to ask for this particular favor; the queen was always only too happy to oblige. Unfortunately, this was no longer an option.
Justin had never told Brian exactly what had happened.
This was due, in part, to his own culpability in the matter, and to the fact that Brian had never been too happy with the whole situation to start with. Brian never failed to make some sort of snide comment upon learning that Justin was going, or had gone, to Emmett's for a massage.
"Oh, does the Sweetie-Baby-Princess want Emmett to pet him?"
Justin had simply endured these nasty barbs and used them to gain the upper hand, often replying, "Jealous much?"
He smiled as he recalled a particularly amusing incident.
One Saturday, as he hurriedly finished his cereal (he had a 9:00 a.m. appointment with Emmett, the queen having to be at Torso by noon), Brian had dragged into the kitchen in the grip of a really noxious hangover and growled, "Where the fuck are you going?"
Before Justin could finish his answer, Brian began to snark. He compared Emmett to "a fucking cat in heat, twisting and twining figure eights around your calves, holding his faggy tail high, desperately hoping you'll come sniffing." Justin had laughed so hard at that image, milk came out of his nose.
But if truth be told, Justin had always secretly enjoyed Emmett's constant fawning. In fact, he reveled in it.
He was a bit of a slut like that.
He liked to be rubbed and stroked for long periods of time, and in Emmett, he'd found a very willing masseuse. The first time Emmett had given him a massage, Justin found himself becoming aroused. He had tried to will it away, but was only partially successful. Emmett, ever the lady, discretely pretended not to notice.
It had happened again during the second massage. That time, Justin hadn't bothered to talk it down. He simply gave in to it. When the massage was over, he'd turned to sit up only to see that Emmett had a similar problem. They had both pretended not to notice.
Their mutual misbehavior went on for some time, and Justin had rationalized it away by telling himself that they really hadn't *done* anything, and that it was all just harmless, homo fun.
But then, things had taken a turn southward. Literally.
During that last massage, Emmett had pounced. One minute his hands had been on Justin's lower back, the next they were squeezing his perfectly plump and horrified ass. Justin, lost in his usual haze of muscle-melt-down and not-so-innocent arousal, had sat up with a shout.
Emitting a series of high-pitched yowls, Emmett had backed away, arms flapping, eyes wild. He looked and sounded, for all the world, like Justin had stomped on his tail. Steadying himself against the back of an armchair, he'd stammered a barely coherent apology. There was real fear in his eyes. After all, fucking with Brian Kinney's twink was a hanging offense.
Realizing that the credits were rolling on their little drama, Justin decided to make like Elvis and leave the building.
The queen had trembled under his touch as Justin patted him in what he hoped was a soothing manner. He told Emmett that it was all right, that they were both to blame, but that it needed to stop.
Emmett, still yammering, rushed to the door, willing Justin to leave. On his way out, Justin had kissed him on the cheek and promised it would stay between them. Emmett could only nod. For once, the cat got his tongue.
Justin exhaled loudly and returned to the present. Maybe he could bargain with Brian - a good massage in exchange for a public blow job. A quid-pro-quo-blow. Brian, no stranger to mixing business with pleasure, might be receptive.
He was practical like that.
Sucking down the last of the congealed mess no one but him would call lunch, he threw out the container, washed the fork, and returned to his desk. He studied the four drawings spread out before him. Each one represented his interpretation of one of the five senses. He'd finished "Touch," "Taste," "Sight," and "Hearing." Only "Smell" remained to be drawn.
Once again, as it had repeatedly during this project, his favorite line from the movie, "The Devil's Advocate," came to mind. Al Pacino, in a perfectly delicious turn as Satan, mocks: "Look but don't touch, touch but don't taste, taste but don't swallow." Justin loved that line. Knowing this, Brian would often spout his own variation. "Bite but don't chew, chew but don't choke, choke but don't hurl." Most of them were lame, but Justin laughed every time.
For "Touch" he'd drawn a shirtless Brian, from the waist up, holding a naked Gus. Brian looked down on his son, face half-hidden by a fall of hair. Justin had placed his subjects in front of a window with the light slanting through the glass to spotlight Brian's hands. The drawing captured the reverence with which he cradled his child. Justin was very satisfied with this piece.
"Taste" was a self-portrait. Justin had drawn his upturned face in profile, mouth open to catch a spray of water. He saw it as a baptism of sorts, his own initiation into the sensual, sexual world he now called home. It also reminded him of shower sex with Brian. As a child he hated bath time. Now, well, let's just say that Justin had never been so clean. Technically, this one had given him the most trouble; water being difficult to draw, and it needed more work.
"Hearing" had been fun to draw. He'd decided on a day-in-the-life approach and to do it "comic book style" in small, sequential frames. There were nine in all.
The first was a drawing of the loft alarm clock being kicked across the room by a bare foot. No explanation necessary.
The second was a closeup of Brian's face in mid-moan.
The third was a drawing of a bus, from the rear, expelling a loud belch of sooty exhaust.
Next up was another closeup. It was a PIFA stairway filled with a blur of feet on their way to class. He could almost hear the pounding on the stairs. After Brian's sex noises, this was his second favorite sound. It evoked a sense of belonging to a large herd of like-minded beings . . . artists. This was in sharp contrast to the fear and pain he'd often endured in the hallways and stairways of St. James.
The fifth frame simply depicted a hand holding a stick of charcoal above a sketch pad; a few trial lines scratched onto the paper. Another of his favorite sounds.
Daphne's face filled the sixth frame: head thrown back, mouth wide open in a delighted laugh.
The seventh frame held several stacks of haphazardly balanced dishes. Dirty, clattering, rattling dishes. This was in homage to his job at the diner. As tough as it was sometimes, he loved the customers, and he especially loved their den mother, Debbie.
In the eighth frame, Justin was being hugged tightly by his mom. Her mouth close to his ear, whispering words of encouragement, his head bowed low into her neck.
The ninth and final frame was a drawing of the noisy loft door being pulled open. Half-hidden, in the background, a tall man in a suit.
Deciding on the subject matter for "Sight" had been a bitch. In the end, he'd decided on another self-portrait. He'd drawn himself, happily at work, in the student's studio. It was the way he saw himself. The way he defined himself. An artist - seeing and interpreting the world around him. His art giving voice to his soul through his eyes and hands.
The project was due in two days, and he still needed to draw "Smell." If all went as planned it would be started and, hopefully, finished tonight. When he originally received the assignment, he'd known immediately that he wanted a live model for "Smell."
A live, smelly model named Brian.
So, with that in mind, earlier this morning he'd asked Brian not to use any deodorant. Brian wanted to know why, and Justin had briefly explained the assignment. With a knowing smirk, Brian had put the deodorant away, unused. On his way out of the bathroom, he'd slapped Justin's ass and said, "Gotta love a boy who loves kink. I knew there was a reason I keep you around."
Thinking about Brian coming home to him, after simmering in his juices all day, reminded Justin that he was horny. Hyper horny. Looking at his sketches one last time, Justin kissed the tip of his index finger and pressed it to Brian's black and white lips. "Later," he whispered.
He turned off his desk lamp and went into the bedroom looking forward to some afternoon delight.
He headed straight for one of Brian's goody drawers to look for just the right toy with which to scratch his itch. He pawed through dozens of dildos, vibrators, cock rings, anal beads, nipple clamps, whips, feathers, handcuffs, sandpaper, (sandpaper?), collars, leashes, masks, ball gags, paddles, clothes pins, shackles, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
There! A flash of red, and jackpot.
He fished out the dildo he'd affectionately dubbed "Big Red." It was a nasty looking fucker, extra ridge-y and extra vein-y.
Justin was all about texture like that.
It had been a Valentine's Day gift from Brian. Justin still chuckled when he thought about the "poem" Brian had scrawled on the sheet of sketch paper he used for wrapping. A fucking card being completely out of the question.
This cock is red
Go get the lube
It's extra thick
And long for you
Monster cock in hand, he kicked the drawer shut and was about to walk away, when he was struck by a sudden thought. He reopened the goody drawer and rooted through until he found his favorite pair of nipple clamps. Might as well make it memorable. He headed for the bathroom to get a towel, all the while slapping the dildo against his thigh in time to Brian's ridiculously unromantic poem.
With toys in hand, Justin was ready to play. He flopped onto the bed and pushed his sweats down around his ankles, pulling his right foot completely free. He always left them bunched up around one of his legs. It was an old habit leftover from his early years of jerking off. It had allowed him to dress quickly if caught by surprise.
He retrieved the Astroglide from under the pillow, and by the time he finished lubing everything up, the tube was nearly empty. If Big Red had been a car, it would've gotten eight miles to the gallon. A real guzzler.
Prep work completed, he pushed his shirt up, licked the tips of his fingers and smeared saliva in small, hard circles round and round his nipples pinching each one, again and again, until they burned with a pink heat. They were soon ready for their clamps.
The tiny metal teeth bit sharply, and he was rewarded with the fiery sting he'd come to love so much. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he scratched lightly at his inner thighs and imagined it was Brian and his five o' clock shadow - rough, dark and insistent. A low, needy moan escaped his throat. He was ready now.
Turning on his side, he took a deep breath and willed himself to relax as he pushed the dildo in carefully, carefully, wincing only a little. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Oh yeah. Justin liked nothing better than an ass full of cock.
He was a faggot like that.
The dildo was considerably longer and thicker than Brian's dick (thus, Brian's poem), and for Justin it was love at first sight. He didn't like to think of himself as a size queen, but hey, as they say, "if the cock fits . . . " The first time Brian had used it on him, he said it was one of the hottest things he'd ever seen. His exact words had been: "It makes me so hot to watch this big, red cock get swallowed up by your tight, white ass."
Brian was eloquent like that.
Brian had found it so hot, in fact, that he hauled out the camcorder to memorialize the event. He shot a 30 minute video; the only audio besides their various moans and groans was Brian's intro, "Open up and say aaahh." What well-behaved, red-blooded American boy could say no to that?
Brian had shot the whole thing in extreme closeup. "To protect the innocent," he'd said. He titled it, "My Secret Valentine."
Two weeks later, Justin had come home to find Brian masturbating on the couch while watching the "Valentine" video. "Ah, the real thing." Brian's voice had been rough with want, and he'd watched Justin come toward him, never breaking his stroke, a small smile on his lips. When Justin bent to kiss him hello, Brian had reached for him, but Justin had put his lover's hand back on his dick and told him he wanted to watch.
He'd positioned himself behind the sofa where the vantage point gave him the best of both worlds. He was able to watch his own ass at play on the big screen and to look down and feast his eyes on a wet dream come to life. Wearing nothing but his black silk robe, Brian had been slouched into the couch, legs spread wide, the tendons and muscles in his right arm flexing in sharp relief as he fucked his fist.
Justin had stood there, horny as fuck, playing with Brian's hair when he realized that it was the perfect time to give Brian something he'd previously asked for. A month prior, Brian had confessed to his almost fatal scarfing incident. Justin had listened, heart in throat, and made Brian promise never to try it again. Brian had sheepishly agreed but hinted that it would be kinda hot if Justin could do it for him. Justin told him he would look into it.
He was kinda deviant like that.
True to his word, Justin had jumped on the net and boned up on erotic asphyxiation. After thoroughly exhausting that resource, he decided it was time to go to The Meathook for a little one on one.
He'd spent an interesting evening interviewing some of the club's more seasoned veterans. He learned all about hand positioning, how to apply pressure, when to apply pressure, how to build pressure, and most important, how not to kill your partner.
Armed with his new knowledge, Justin was almost out the door, when one of the bigger bears caught him gruffly by the waist and offered him a "hands-on" demonstration. Justin had laughingly declined and allowed the man to buy him a beer instead.
Justin was polite like that.
Standing behind Brian that night he'd been a little afraid. Ultimately, his confidence in his ability and his desire to thrill his lover had won out. Pushing away the last of his doubts, he'd placed his hands around Brian's neck.
Hesitant at first, he squeezed lightly, held it for a few seconds, then released his grip. Emboldened, he squeezed again, this time increasing the pressure slightly. He continued in this manner until Brian stopped jerking himself to look up at him. There had been a curious mix of emotions on his face - lust, hope, gratitude and pride. Justin bent down and whispered in his ear, "Go for it. I've got you." Brian had reached up, touched his cheek and praised him, "Goddamn, Justin."
Brian resumed masturbating, and Justin had kept a careful watch on his body language, paying special attention to his breathing, as he continued to squeeze. Soon, Brian's thighs and abdomen tensed, signaling his impending orgasm. In concert, Justin had applied the final pressure. Brian let out a single, strangled cry and came harder than Justin had ever seen.
It had scared him, but he didn't let go until Brian slumped back onto the couch, body shuddering involuntarily. He would have slid off the seat, had Justin not jumped over the top to straddle him and keep him in place. He'd watched Brian with mingled lust and fear as he coughed and gasped, his face dark red, eyes fluttering behind closed lids.
Now, as he savored that memory, Justin continued to fuck himself.
He thought about the way Brian's body had convulsed at the height of his orgasm. One of his legs had jerked so hard that his shin clipped the metal edge of the coffee table with a sharp crack. Justin had almost come in his pants at the sight.
As that image and sound filled his head now, he came so fucking hard, his body lifted off the bed, his yell echoing in the silence of the loft. He was dead. Fucking dead.
When he finally came to his senses, he reached for the towel and blindly wiped himself down. He dreaded removing the dildo, and as the head slipped out, he bit back a curse at the cool loft air which filled the void. With shaking hands, he clumsily wrapped it in the towel and dropped it to the floor. The thud was impressive. Taking another deep breath to steady himself, he gingerly removed the clamps.
Tits and ass aching pleasantly, he grabbed Brian's pillow, and curled himself around it to enjoy the afterglow. As he floated, he thought about the afterglow with Brian. Muscles twitching from their efforts, bodies hot, damp and sticky, Brian's weight so heavy and right. Justin sometimes thought that it was better than the actual sex.
He was a romantic like that.
But the real reason he loved these moments so much, was because Brian was at his most accessible then. Soft, sleepy and sated, Brian was more likely to spill. Most of his confessions and self-revelations had taken place during these times. Justin considered these moments, this place, their holy ground.
Sighing deeply, he hugged the pillow to his chest and marveled at how loose he felt. His muscles felt like liquid, and he decided he no longer needed the massage. He'd managed to take care of that as well. He thought about the time he and Brian had smoked some killer weed and then had killer sex. He'd been so gone from the combination of his orgasm and the weed, that he'd told Brian he felt like he had "no bones." Brian had cackled wildly and called him "my boneless chicken" until they'd both passed out.
They were often silly like that.
Unbidden and unwelcome, his art project swam rudely to the surface of his consciousness. He really needed to add some final details, but he couldn't fucking move. Just 10 minutes, then I'll get up,' he promised himself. He buried his face into the pillow and fell asleep.
Hours later, Brian stood motionless at the foot of the bed and studied Justin's sprawled form. One leg bent, arms flung out, tit clamps half-hidden in a curl of fingers. He looked like a rag doll- soft and malleable.
Watching Justin sleep usually had one of two effects on Brian: it either made him feel protective, like he wanted to take Justin in his arms and wrap him up so tightly nothing would ever hurt him again; or it brought on a fever pitch, a level of arousal so intense it almost felt indecent.
Right now, he was not feeling protective.
He blamed it on the sex props scattered around the boy's body. Without them, Justin might have stood a chance. For a moment, Brian felt a flicker of pity. After all, a growing boy does need his sleep. But as he took in the decadent spread of Justin's body, the moment quickly passed.
He began to remove his clothes quietly, never taking his eyes off the boy. He could see one of the veins in Justin's neck lightly pulsing and felt his cock twitch in response. He noted that Justin was wearing one of 'his' shirts. No fucking surprise there. The brat often did that wore Brian's clothes while he was at work.
The thought made his dick grow harder.
The shirt was pushed up high, revealing his chest and all of his taut stomach. He stared at Justin's nipples. They were swollen and colored an angry red. Brian shook his head and smiled.
He looked at Justin's stomach, easily rising and falling with each breath. There were times when all Brian wanted to do was to bite Justin's belly - fucking eat him right up. And there were times when he did just that. Justin would lie passively, quietly moaning and alternately clutching the sheets and Brian's hair.
Sometimes, to relieve the tension, Brian would ease up and lightly tickle him. Yummy tickle-torture. He'd allow Justin to giggle and squirm for a while, but would soon return to the business at hand. Brian liked to mark the boy's belly and sucked and bit until it was covered in cherries. His belly was pale now, smooth and unblemished.
Brian's nostrils flared at the thought of what it would look like before the night was over.
Finished undressing, Brian stood silently at the foot of the bed, wearing only a sheer black jock strap. It was a beauty, and when the light caught it, there were flashes of green. He personally thought it was a tad over the top, but it had been a gift from Justin. It really turned the boy on, and who was he to deny him this small pleasure?
Speaking of giving the boy pleasure, Brian lifted his right arm and smelled himself. He was good and ripe, made even more so by his hour-long workout at the gym.
Brian had discovered Justin's secret passion for his scent during one of their "date nights" at the baths. The air conditioning had been on the fritz, and the oppressive heat had almost been too much for Brian. The twink, on the other hand, had come alive like a hot-house orchid, attacking him suddenly and forcing him into a private room, where he'd topped Brian not once, but twice.
Brian was no stranger to being turned on by the smell of a lover's body. He often spent long minutes smelling Justin, all over, after a good, hard fuck, as foreplay for their next bout. Justin's fragrance was lighter than Brian's and had a spicy tang reminiscent of grapefruit. Brian found it intoxicating.
Walking carefully onto the bed, so as not to wake him, Brian slowly lowered himself over Justin's prone form, and knelt astride his hips. He paused briefly to calculate his next move.
All at once he sat hard, dropped forward, grabbed the back of Justin's head, and shoved him face first into his armpit. Justin, awake immediately, began to flail and kick. Brian held him tightly and hoped he wouldn't bite. He spoke loudly into Justin's ear, "Quit hitting me or I won't let go."
Justin went still, and Brian released him. He collapsed back onto the mattress, gasping and teary-eyed.
"Asshole! You fucking scared the shit out of me." He punched Brian hard on the thigh, and tried to sit up. Brian shoved him back down with one hand, leaned back and cracked his knuckles.
"What, you didn't like your wake-up call? Not sweaty enough for you?"
Justin didn't say anything.
"Umm, do you need to buy a vowel?"
Justin remained silent. He wanted nothing more than to slap that smug smile off the fucker's face.
"Cut the shit princess, you knew it was me. None other than the funkiest fag in all of Pittsburgh." Brian laughed at his own joke and ground his ass hard into Justin's dick.
Justin's cock stirred, and he closed his eyes, cursing it for its constant betrayal.
Brian continued to toy with him. "You think you could pick me out in a lineup of stinky guys?" He flicked dried come off Justin's belly as he spoke.
Justin decided to hurry this along. He had to pee.
"With a fucking head cold." He smiled sweetly.
Brian bent down to kiss him then scrunched up his nose and said, "Your face smells like shit."
Justin had to laugh at that. He pushed at Brian's chest with both hands. "Get off me you freak, I have to pee."
Brian obligingly rolled away, calling him "stinky twinky" as he went. Justin shook his head disbelievingly, huffed once and got up. Knowing that Brian was watching, he took his time as he bent over to untangle his foot from his sweats. He stepped lightly off the platform and with an exaggerated swing of his hips, sauntered into the bathroom.
Brian watched the little tease walk away wearing nothing but 'his' fucking shirt. He'd paid $480.00 for that shirt, and the kid was jerking off all over it. The thought of it turned him on.
"Didn't I tell you to stop wearing my clothes?"
Not turning, Justin raised his right hand and flipped him off.
"Wrong answer, twat."
Justin stopped, turned, and regarded him coolly. "Perhaps you didn't hear me." He raised his left hand and repeated the gesture.
"We'll see who fucks who!" Brian leapt off the bed and ran into the bathroom. He reached Justin in three long strides nearly knocking him off his feet.
"Watch it, asshole!"
The momentum slammed them both against the far wall, but Brian recovered quickly and pinned Justin's hands above his head. "Why are you wearing my shirt?"
Justin looked up at him calmly. "Uh, because you like it?"
Brian held him in place, not willing to concede that Justin, as always, was on to him.
"As much as I'm enjoying this, I really need to piss."
Taking the out, Brian graciously let him go. Justin gave him a sympathetic smile and walked over to the toilet where he positioned himself to take his piss. Brian, not willing to give up yet, stepped behind him and reached around to snatch Justin's cock out of his hand.
"Let me help you with that," he drawled, and gave Justin's dick a little squeeze.
"I thought you said you had to piss." He squeezed again.
"You're distracting me." He could feel Brian's erection against his lower back.
"Let's see if this helps." Brian reached over to the sink and turned on the tap.
But the old trick worked, and Brian was soon waving Justin's cock around using the stream of piss to slice crazy zig zags through the bowl water.
"Watch it. It's gonna get all over the floor."
"Nah, I have incredible cock control. It's one of my super powers. Look, I can spell my name." To his credit, a fairly legible "B" appeared briefly in the water.
"Do you actually work when you're at the office? Cause I think you just sit around and come up with this lame-ass shit."
"You better recognize." Brian completed his "R" with a flourish.
At this, Justin laughed. "Are you watching Cribs' again?"
"You gotta admit, some of those places ARE fabulous."
Justin finished peeing in the middle of the "A" and waited while Brian milked his dick and bled out the final drops. Brian gave it a small shake and held it, feeling it slowly fill his fist. He pulled Justin back roughly and spoke seductively into his ear.
"You know, one of my tricks once told me that I have a real sense of cock. What do you think? You think I could break into the top five? Hearing is sooo overrated."
Justin laughed and elbowed him in the ribs; Brian grunted and pinched him on the ass.
"Turn around, Justin." Brian's voice had gone quiet, and Justin thrilled at the change in timber. He studied Brian, waiting, watching, and Brian didn't disappoint. He squeezed his dick one more time, then brought his hand up to his mouth.
Justin stood transfixed as he watched Brian lick his fingers clean of urine. The small intimacy left him breathless. Brian regarded him steadily. "Taste, on the other hand, is a definite keeper."
Smiling wickedly, he wiped his hand dry on the $480.00 shirt, reached down, grabbed Justin's dick again and dragged him into the bedroom.
"C'mon Taylor, we have homework to do!"
Justin had to jog a little to keep up. Like a fuckin' pull toy, for fuck's sake.
Brian threw himself on the bed and Justin, having no real say in the matter, fell with him.
"Fuck, Brian. One of these days you're gonna yank it off, and don't come crying to me when you do."
Brian chose to ignore this remark and instead picked up the red dildo and pointed it at Justin.
"Was it good?"
"What do you think?"
"Yeah, but you really wanted *my* dick up your ass."
"Well, it's your lucky night Sonny Boy."
Justin smiled softly. "It's always my lucky night."
And it was.
After they roused themselves, Brian ordered takeout from the new Vietnamese restaurant down the street. They'd eaten there last weekend, and had not been disappointed. After the delivery guy had come and gone, Justin walked into the kitchen looking down at his stomach. Brian was busy sorting through the containers on the counter.
"Christ Brian, look at my stomach. It looks like I have the fucking measles!"
Brian glanced over, nodding thoughtfully. "Or worse."
He pulled Justin close to him, and rubbed his hands up and down his abdomen, increasing the pressure with each pass. They both looked down at Brian's hands as they moved up and down Justin's body.
"Why are you complaining? You know you like it."
"I do." Justin agreed softly.
"Why?" Brian placed a finger under Justin's chin and tipped his face up so he could look into his eyes.
"You know why."
"Tell me anyway."
"Because it reminds me I'm yours."
Brian smiled and kissed the top of his head.
After dinner, Brian wandered over to Justin's desk to look at the artwork. "Is this the assignment?"
Justin looked up from rinsing glasses and watched as Brian sat down to look at his drawings. "Yeah."
After a while, Brian put the drawings down. "They're good."
"Will you get them back?"
"Why, you wanna buy one?"
"Not sure yet."
Brian gave them one last look, then walked into the kitchen to stand next to Justin who was busy eating the rest of the noodles. Brian opened his mouth, and Justin fed him the last bite.
He was generous like that.
"So, you have one left to do."
"Where do you want me?"
Justin grinned. "On the couch. You can watch TV, read, sleep, whatever."
Brian lay down and allowed Justin to pose him. As Justin fussed with his armpit hair, combing through it, to get it just so, Brian couldn't resist teasing him a little. "What would your mother say if she knew her wasp of a son gets off smelling men's armpits?"
Justin stopped what he was doing and stood up, pretending to think about Brian's question.
"Well, let's see, probably the same thing she'd say if she knew that her son fucks himself in the ass with a twelve-inch dildo that his lover gave him for Valentine's Day, or the same thing she'd say if she knew that you like to spank me while I'm wearing leather pants that are pulled down just enough to reveal my perfect white ass, and that I LOVE it, or how about, the same thing she'd say, if she'd been at the baths during one of our standing-room-only fuck-fests?"
Justin waited, hand on hip, daring Brian to come back.
Brian regarded him in mock seriousness. "Hmm, you make a valid point."
"Why don't you just shut up, and let me work?"
Brian stuck his tongue out, but he did shut up.
Justin set his easel up and rolled his chair over. He sat, arranged his work area and began to draw. Brian, deciding he could use the rest, closed his eyes. Three hours later, Justin was done. He put the pencil down and flexed his right hand as he studied the finished product.
It was easily his favorite of the five. Brian, oblivious to the creation that had just taken place, slumbered on.
The drawing was basically an anatomy study of the shoulder, armpit, biceps and triceps. However, no one who was to look at the finished drawing later, would call it anatomical in nature. On the contrary, it had a tinge of the fantastical.
This was largely due to Justin's depiction of the armpit hair. Some would say that it looked like a tangle of seaweed at low tide. Others, that it reminded them of a heath filled with grasses, or perhaps a sea full of curling, roiling waves. Everyone would agree that the drawing evoked a sense of the primitive, of nature in the raw.
The subject -- a mythic untamed hero.
Justin closed his eyes, and as always, gave silent thanks that he'd fully regained his ability to draw.
He stood up and moved to Brian's side, quietly dropping to his knees. It was rare that he got to watch Brian sleep. Brian didn't sleep as much as Justin, and was usually up before him and asleep after him. He dipped his head close to the source of his inspiration and breathed deeply. It smelled musky, damp and wild, and Justin's cock responded like it always did.
He couldn't explain his intense reaction to Brian's smell, except to say that it was from the gut, a purely visceral thing. Sure, he was attracted to other guys and their smells, but nothing like with Brian. It had been that way from the start. Brian had been sweating profusely that first night, more than likely from the alphabet cornucopia of drugs he'd ingested. But, whatever the source, it had sealed Justin's fate.
In the morning, he'd stolen Brian's underwear in an attempt to take the smell home with him. He'd laid in bed, countless nights, with his small prize pressed tightly to his face. Over time, the smell had faded, but by then, he'd managed to snag the real thing.
Justin wanted to fuck Brian tonight, and he knew that Brian would let him. He leaned down and gently kissed him awake.
Brian opened his eyes and smiled sleepily. "All done?"
"Yeah, let's go to bed."
"I gotta take a shower first. I stink."
"No. No shower. I want you like this."
Brian started to protest, but stopped when he saw the look in Justin's eyes.
"Whatever you want, Sunshine."
He was accommodating like that.
"There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so," - Hamlet
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