It may sound silly, but the first time Martin sees Jon's dick, the first thought that crosses his mind is oh, good, I know EXACTLY what to do with one of these.
He's never blown someone else's T dick before, but it's not hard to figure out; all he has to do is what he wishes Jon would do to him. What he hopes, god willing, Jon is going to do to him, if Martin does a good enough job down here. It's easy. It's fun. It feels as natural as a fish in the water, as a bird in the air, as a greyhound set loose on a racetrack. Unclip the leash and watch him run, baby.
The abrupt transition from ambiguously romantic work-buddies to ambiguously romantic fuck-buddies isn't something Martin really saw coming, but, in hindsight, it feels like a natural progression of events. They'd been shooting the breeze, like they sometimes do, and had somehow gotten onto the subject of HRT, alternately bragging about the fun parts and commiserating about the pain-in-the-arse parts. Martin had made some comment about going into T heat, following his bi-weekly injection, and Jon had said, with feeling, "God, don't I know it."
There had been a weighty silence. Jon had looked at Martin, and Martin had looked at Jon, and, well. One thing had led to another, and now Martin is in Jon’s bedroom. Jon’s thighs are on his shoulders, Jon’s hands in his hair, Jon's dick is in his mouth, and Martin is going to fucking town.
It's a highly educational experience. In the span of the past half hour, Martin has learned two important new facts about Jon.
Fact number one: Jon, given sufficient incentive, is a screamer.
Fact number two: Jon, under these particular circumstances, is a multiple orgasm-er.
That's not a trick Martin’s ever been able to pull off - he's usually more of a one and done kind of guy, or at the very least a "gimme fifteen minutes to recover" kind of guy - but it's a talent he very much appreciates in someone else. The first time he feels Jon go rigid against him, contractions fluttering against Martin’s tongue, Martin licks him through it until he judges that Jon seems good and done, and then tries to pull politely away - only to feel Jon’s legs lock down around his back, Jon’s hands pushing Martin’s head right back down, to the tune of "don't stop, god, Martin, please don't stop."
Jon can be a very persuasive man, when he wants to be.
So this is where Martin lives, now. He feels like he's entered some kind of oral zen state, ascending to a higher plane of existence where the only things that matter are Martin lapping at Jon’s hole, Martin sucking on Jon's labia, Martin swirling his tongue over Jon’s adorable little dick while Jon’s thighs shake around his ears. Jon is light enough that Martin can actually lift him a little, bringing his hips up to get a nicer angle for fucking Jon with his tongue, and the first time he does it Jon makes a sound like Martin’s just murdered him. Martin really digs the audience participation.
And then Martin has a third fact to add to his growing list of new discoveries about Jon, because now Martin also knows that Jon is a hair-puller. It's a good kind of pain. An occupational hazard kind of pain. The kind of pain a man is proud to experience. Martin’s jaw and tongue are getting sore, and that's a good pain too. He never wants to stop. He’s so excited about his life and general situation right now that he keeps flexing his hips against nothing while he works, and it’s a good thing he doesn’t have a cis dick, because if he did he’s pretty sure he’d be one light breeze away from creaming his jeans right now.
As things are, he just feels...y’know. Soupy.
It takes three consecutive orgasms before Jon is finally ready to tap out, unhooking his legs from around Martin and squeezing his thighs together to protect his delicate parts, as if he hadn’t been forcibly grinding Martin’s face into them mere moments before. Martin grins the biggest, smuggest grin, wipes his chin, and sprawls out next to Jon, propping his cheek up on hand while he takes in the view.
Jon looks good like this, all disheveled and sweaty and satisfied. He looks really, really good. Martin starts to palm himself through his jeans, trying to relieve some of the building pressure, only for Jon to lay a hand on top of Martin’s hand and say, in a winded voice, "Don't you dare. Give me a few minutes to rest, then I'm going to make you see God."
He wasn't joking. After a few minutes of lying spread-eagled, breathing heavily, Jon turns back on like a switch flipping and cups a hand around the back of Martin’s neck, dragging Martin into a kiss like it’s his mission in life to turn Martin into a puddle via aggressive tongue action. Particularly the parts of Martin that are already a puddle, and have been from the first moment Jon’s clothes came off. Then it’s fucking showtime.
Martin isn't a screamer; a Catholic upbringing and a lifetime of quiet, shameful wanks will do that to a person. He is, however, learning that he is capable of whimpering. And mewling. And, on one occasion, sobbing, because Jon’s approach to eating out is less "oral zen" and more "oral Art of War." The man is merciless. As soon as he gets Martin out of his pants, Jon seals his mouth between Martin's legs, hooks two fingers up him without so much as a how-do-you-do, and proceeds to give both Martin's dick and his g-spot the workout of their lives.
It's good. It’s really good. Oh no. It's actually too good, shit, fuck, he needs to-
"Jon, Jon, wait, please," Martin hears himself say plaintively, "Jon, I'm gonna come-"
Jon makes a sort of hmm? sound, sending vibrations through Martin’s dick that make Martin’s eyes squeeze tightly shut. Martin can literally hear Jon’s prim, mildly condescending voice in his head, saying yes, Martin, that's the idea. Martin takes a deep, shuddering breath.
"Jon, I can't do the multiple orgasm thing, and I'd really like this to last longer than a minute, so maybe tone it down a bit, down there?"
Jon finally relents, easing his pace from "sprint" to "marathon", and Martin breathes a sigh of relief. And then a sigh of pleasure. Lots of sighing going on here, generally. A little bit of moaning. It's happy noises time for Martin.
“Why did it take us so long to start doing this?” says Martin, still reeling with disbelief at his good fortune. “We could have been doing this the entire time. What was wrong with us?”
“Clearly we have a lot of work to catch up on.” says Jon, and Martin doesn’t know whether to laugh or groan, because Jon would phrase it that way, wouldn’t he.
And then Jon sucks Martin’s dick back into his mouth, rolling his tongue against it like it’s a piece of candy, and Martin stops being alive for a little while.
Some time later, after Saint Peter has kicked Martin’s soul out through the pearly gates and back into his body, Martin squeezes Jon a little tighter against his side, because it never even needed to be discussed that cuddling was going to be a mandatory part of this arrangement. He can see Jon staring at him, out of the corner of his eye. Martin looks at Jon and tilts his head curiously.
“So,” says Jon, with a considering expression. “No multiple orgasms, huh?”
Martin feels a slow smile spread across his face. “I don’t know. Maybe I could be convinced.”
Jon convinces him.