"You ready, Chris? The dinner starts in a half hour."
"Ugh, yeah," Chris calls from the bathroom. He wipes some post-shower condensation from the mirror's surface and peers at his reflection with a grimace. He dabs at the small cut on his jaw with a wad of toilet paper. "Sorry, I cut myself shaving."
Karl laughs, bending forward from the edge of Chris' bed to tie his shoelaces. "How did you manage that? Do I need to monitor you while you're shaving, now? Make sure you don't bleed out in the sink?"
"It's an old razor. Jeez."
Chris huffs and splashes on some aftershave, wincing at the burn. He checks his watch, curled on the edge of the sink and ticking precious seconds away. Karl's already dressed and ready to go and Chris hasn't even decided what to wear yet. Chris grabs the fresh pair of underwear he brought in with him earlier—fucking tighty whities, his next to last pair, seeing as how he hasn't had time to do laundry in weeks—and pulls them on quickly, adjusting himself. He has to admit, they are pretty cozy.
When he walks into the bedroom, he spies Karl sitting on the mattress and flicking through TV channels, tapping his foot impatiently.
"I know, I know," Chris groans. "I'll be ready in ten minutes. Five minutes."
"Should've gotten dressed earlier, you know how Zoe—"
Karl turns his head to look at Chris and cuts himself off with an absolutely strangled noise, the likes of which Chris can't recall ever hearing from Karl's mouth. Chris stops dead in his tracks and blinks at Karl in surprise.
"What?" Chris asks. He touches the cut on his jaw self-consciously. "I thought it stopped bleeding."
"What," Karl says, his voice veering more toward a lusty pant than regular speech, "are those and where did they come from?"
Chris' brows knit in confusion before he realizes Karl is staring at his briefs, of all things. His awkward, snug-fitting Fruit of the Loom briefs. "They're underwear," he says slowly. "And they came from Target. I think."
"They're..." Karl begins. Then he's up on his feet and barreling toward Chris, so fast that Chris loses all sense of time between the moment Karl stands and the moment his big hands land on Chris' hips, steering him back against the wall. Chris hits the plaster hard and realizes a moment later that the breathy gasp he just heard came from his own mouth. When he looks up, Karl's eyes are wide and dilated, his plump lips wet and parted. He's fucking hot for it. For white cotton briefs. "I need to suck you," Karl growls. Chris' stomach bottoms out completely with a rush of want.
"Jesus," Chris says. "Be my fucking guest." His hips twitch under Karl's hands and Karl forces them still.
"No, it's..." Karl peers down at the briefs again and shudders, actually shudders at the sight of them. He drops to his knees suddenly with an audible thud. Chris can't help but look on slack-jawed at this sudden turn of events. Karl hooks his fingers carefully, almost reverently, around the elastic—one hand over the waistband, the other curling under the ring around Chris' thigh—and he touches his nose to the cotton, breathing in. He lets out a low groan. "So hot," Karl whispers, shutting his eyes. "You don't even—you're so—"
Chris tentatively rests a hand on Karl's shoulder. "Karl," he says, not quite understanding. But then Karl starts mouthing at Chris' rapidly hardening cock through his underwear, tracing its shape with insistent pulls and drags of his devilish lips, and Chris loses all coherent train of thought. He hits his head against the wall and outright moans when Karl starts working his tongue into the equation—hot, wet swipes that dampen the fabric and make it cling to Chris' skin. Chris' wants to buck, wants to force his cock right down Karl's waiting throat, but Karl won't let him move a centimeter, just keeps teasing him, and that's even better.
Pretty soon, Chris' cock is straining to free itself from the soaked cotton, the reddened, wet head peeking out from above the waistband. Karl moans loudly when he notices and paints the tip with maddening, kittenish licks that make Chris' eyes roll back in his head and the muscles in his stomach quake.
"Fuck, please, Karl, f-fucking...god," he gasps. Karl glides his hands over Chris' trembling thighs and tongues his heavy balls through the wet crotch of the underwear. Chris starts to feel it build, an earth-shattering orgasm building right in the pit of his stomach. He manages to hold off long enough for Karl to drag his tongue all the way up the underside of his aching, cotton-covered cock, and then when Karl sucks the glistening head between his lips, Chris is a goner. He buries one hand in Karl's hair, bunches the other in Karl's T-shirt, and releases what feels like multiple streams of come into his mouth.
Somehow, Chris manages not to slide down the wall and melt into a puddle on the floor. He even regains enough brain power to realize that Karl is jacking himself furiously now that he's finished Chris off, his nose still buried in the cotton of Chris' underwear. Chris licks his lips and tugs on Karl's hair, hard enough to make Karl gasp.
"My briefs wrapped around your neck," Chris growls. Karl makes a choked noise that sounds like a sob. "Stuffed in your mouth," Chris continues, watching Karl's hand speed up on his cock. "My fucking tighty whities shoved down your throat while I take you from behind and fuck you—"
Karl shouts something unintelligible and grabs Chris' ankle tightly. A moment later, Chris feels wet warmth on his leg and realizes that Karl came on him.
"Oh, fuck me," Chris whispers. He lets out a faint, bubbly laugh. "That was so fucking hot...I don't even care that I have to shower again."
"Fuck the shower," Karl murmurs, biting lightly at Chris' thigh. "And fuck dinner. Call Zoe. Cancel. We're staying in and doing that."
"Which 'that'? I offered more than one suggestion."
"Any of 'em. All of 'em." Karl kisses Chris' spent cock through his briefs and stands on wobbly legs, his dick hanging out of his jeans as he goes over to the bed. Karl grabs Chris' phone and tosses it to him. Chris catches it easily and Karl smiles. "Go on, call."
"Okay, okay," Chris says. He searches his recent call log for Zoe's number and glances up at Karl with a smirk. "Tighty whities, huh?"
Karl rolls his eyes. "I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable and psychological explanation for it," he says, shedding his shirt. "But fuck if I know and fuck if I care." Karl removes his jeans and underwear—blue boxers, Chris notes—and shifts to his knees again on the mattress. He arches a brow. "Now hurry up and cancel, then come here and cram those sodden briefs into my mouth."
Chris nods and swallows hard as he dials the number.