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The Wager

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"You're taking this bet very seriously," David whined. This was a designer shirt and, when he'd put it on this morning, he didn't expect to be rubbing his back up against the bark of a tree, in a shrouded woodland behind a country pub. He was in charge of driving - in fact, he could see their ruby-red Triumph Vitesse peeking out from between the leaves, still in the car park with two suit jackets slung in the back - and, anyway, this meant that Paul was the one drinking. And a few foamy-headed beers had produced a predictable result. Well, Paul could be thoroughly insatiable at the best of times.

"I'm a sore loser - what can I say? I need to be punished," Laidlaw growled. He was the expert who had made less at auction that day and, therefore, he had lost the wager. Harper had laid down the rule that whichever team made the least profit that day would have to do a forfeit, and Paul's forfeit was that he'd have to kiss David on the lips - or at least that's what David knew he'd be able to get away with saying on camera, and in front on the celebrity on-screen partners. David was terribly competitive, and he knew that this would ensure he'd win either way. Paul confirmed his suspicions: "You knew I'd be thinking about this all the way through, willing my items to tank," he snorted.

"I knew no such thing-- oohh. Hey you - be careful with that," David's tone changed as Paul clambered to his knees, slipping the end from his friend's belt, feeding it through the buckle and undoing the clothing. "How will you explain the grass stains?" he laughed, nervously.

"Beautiful summer's day," the auctioneer shrugged, "I'll say we played a game o' cricket."

"You-- You certainly know how to handle my balls," David uttered, as one hand leaned against his crotch and the other one pulled down his zip.

"No need to lower the tone," came a warning.

"Lower the tone? You're the one with my bloody thing in your mou-- Ohh, fucking hell... P-- Paul," Harper was cut off by his own inability to speak. As for Laidlaw's tongue - well, that was rolling all over the tip of his lover's cock, a small, wet nub - drenched in saliva - roaming the end of the antiques dealer's throbbing arousal. David ran a hand through Paul's hair, holding his head dear and close to him, aiding the motion of those lips - more often the source of a beautiful Scottish brogue, and not a pleasure such as this - to slide over and over his erection.

"You," Laidlaw paused - signing off the session with a quick flick of the tongue, which forced Harper to choke back a groan, "Made the wager."

A whimper danced on the air, "I only insisted that you kiss me."

"Kiss you where?" and the two of them erupted into stifled laughter. And then the kneeling man began to clamber to his feet, and the recipient's laughter evolved into more of a disappointed chuckle. But he needn't have worried, for Paul hadn't done with him yet. "I see," he grinned, dusting off his trousers, "It's a kiss that ye want, is it?" The devilish smirk on his face was a dead giveaway that he wouldn't stop at that.

A hand closed around David's hard cock, and the organ was still dripping from oral lubrication - so, each and every touch was torture, the grip slippery and smooth over the shaft, and picking up speed with it. David threw his head back against the rough, uneven surface of the tree, and closed his eyes - peeking out of them for a second to check if anyone could see the pair of them through these bushes, and he prayed that they would be deep enough in the undergrowth to go unseen. He grunted and immediately berated himself for it - they were trying to keep a low profile. Luckily, he would have no more trouble in keeping himself silent, as Paul captured his quivering lips in a kiss the minute his whole body began to shudder, his orgasm imminent.

He wasn't sure which sensation to focus on, and trying to focus on both made his head spin, when trying to choose between the feel of Paul's tongue in his mouth, or the eruption of his pulsing cock, all over the fingers responsible for the mess.

"That's one thing about me," Paul whispered, sensually, in David's ear. "I never welch on a bet, sweetheart."

"Can we... er... make it part of the bet that we go somewhere a little less outdoors next time," David timidly glanced around.

"Problem is," Paul simply had to point out, "That I bet you couldn'y wait 'til we found somewhere more suitable."

"I wouldn't make any more bets if I were you. Because we all know I'm going to fleece you at the next auction, Laidlaw..."