He'd told me there'd be a party tonight, and I'm none too surprised when he calls me from the University. His voice is a little furry, and he's sniggering into the receiver. I can hear the clatter of ice in plastic cups, some kind of jungle music, a jumble of conversation and Blair, smiling as he says my name.
"Jim, man, could you come and get me? I have seriously exceeded my two drink minimum."
And so I pull up in front of his office and watch him weave toward the truck and clamber inside. The cushion seems slippery for him, and his fingers scrabble, dent the vinyl as he tries to hold himself up on the seat.
He smells like sweat and hand rolled cigarettes, ink, about nine different perfumes and hard liquor and... some kind of candy. Something minty, but it's like fruit punch, too...
"Blair, what the hell have you been drinking?"
"Rotgut, man. The cheapest hooch Fitch could lay his hands on. Whoo! I am flyin'!"
I can't help but smile at him. He's suspiciously vivacious. An experimental sniff confirms it: he's playing up the alcohol.
"What the hell kind of drink smells like... gin... and..." I take another deep drag of Blair's scent and hazard a guess. "And-- Kool Aid!?"
He laughs. "You are sharp, Jim-- you're right on. It was Sharkleberry Punch, actually. We were drinkin' Velvet Crushes, and I think my face is numb."
I tweak his nose.
"Can you feel that, Chief?"
He grins at me, and the guy is lit up, he's like one of those Christmas Luminaries, you know, those white paper bags with candles inside? He's aglow, and he lays his hand on my knee and squeezes it.
"Can you feel that?" he asks, voice a little rough from the gin, and it's like a contact high. Whatever Sandburg's feeling is slipping right into my bloodstream, and I nod a little, feeling my cheeks get hot.
"How about this," he whispers, eyes bright, and he's folded his hand around mine and settled it right on the bulge building behind his fly.
Jesus. I love it when he's like this.
"All systems are go, Sandburg," I assure him, feeling my own dick try to stand up as I knead his lightly.
For a moment his eyes slip shut, and the red tip of his tongue dabs his lips.
Only rigorous self-discipline, and the fact that there's a crowd of Sandburg's academic cronies milling around not 10 feet away, keeps me from stretching over and licking his lips for him.
Then, Blair removes my hand, places it on the steering wheel and pats it reassuringly. He smooths his palm along the inside of my thigh, and the drag on the denim is sending little electric shocks to my groin.
I tighten my hands on the wheel until my bones creak.
Hands off, Ellison. Unless you and the kid want to be the next guest stars on "True Crime: Prime Time".
"Keep those engines, revved, Jim, 'cause I've got something special in mind."
Whatever it is, I'm looking forward to it.
The streetlights keep winking in the window, and Jim is carefully obeying all posted speed limits, even though I can see the muscles in his jaw twitching to the rhythm I'll just bet you he's feeling in that monster erection of his.
I chuckle to myself a little, and he throws me this warm glance, and every line of his body says he's just bursting with anticipation.
He's so easy.
Not that he's a slut or anything like that, Jim Ellison's charms are hard to come by, believe me, but once you get past all those gates and walls and emotional moats chock full of alligators, once you get him to lower the drawbridge already, it takes almost nothing to get him 0 to 60 in 1.2 seconds.
Intent on driving, focused on the goal of getting us home post-haste so we can rut like lunatics on every reasonably horizontal surface we can lay our hands, or any number of other body parts, on, Detective James Ellison is an eyeful.
He's got no idea how beautiful he is. I mean, sculptors would break their fingers in frustration. They could never capture the tough chin, the straight line of his nose, that high forehead. Hey, so he's got a bald spot-- Venus de Milo is a double amputee, and nobody complains. The man is a living, breathing work of art.
He's not half the egotist he'd like me to believe he is. It's a lot of bluster and some thinly disguised self-esteem issues. He knows he's got a bod and a half, but he blushes like a cherry tomato when I tell him I think he's beautiful.
And he is, man. He is.
And you know I'm not just waxing rhapsodic over his buff-itude. Jim has got to be the kindest person I've ever known. A hardass, yeah, but a kind one. Steady and loyal, that's Jim. When he decides to take an interest in you, he's in it for the long haul.
I mean, I helped him out a little on what, three cases, and then he lets me move in? Who the hell does that? Granted, my building had just been immolated by gang thugs, and I had to persuade him a little, but still. It was a pretty amazing act of goodwill.
He pulls into the driveway and I beam at him from my side of the truck, waggling my brows at him, and giving him my best Lewd and Lascivious look. It always makes him grin and shake his head. And walk with a kind of John Wayne swagger that says his jeans are fitting pretty snug.
He says he likes the way I smell after I down a beer; I'm not sure if Kool Aid and gin holds the same appeal, but he knows me. He knows I get cuddly as hell after a few cold ones.
Let's see how he likes me liberally sauced.
There's a spike in my boxers they could nail railroad ties down with, but Blair looks like he's walking on slinkies.
He slides one arm around my waist and leans his head against my arm as I steer us up the stairs. I rest my hand on the back of his neck and he nuzzles my sleeve. Now he's got his hand in my pocket and hey he's getting playful... I fish for my keys and let us in, and he stumbles a bit when I step inside.
He takes a few steps back, and tries to focus on me. Maybe I was wrong; maybe he is as drunk as he thinks he is. The muscles in his neck are as soft and loose as mozzarella on hot slice of Mario's Pizza, and that's probably why his head is wobbling like that.
"Jim. Jim. You're gonna have to help me with my clothes, man?" and his head falls back and he laughs at the ceiling, and I feel a laugh rumble around my chest, too.
So I crowd him until he's half sitting on the kitchen table and start unbuttoning his shirt. He watches my hands for a while, as if he's never seen anything so fascinating, and then he's whispering to me, the Blair Babble he brings out when he's going to spring something new and cheerfully perverse on me. He lifts his chin to smile at me, and I lean my forehead against his to help prop his head up. Christ! Sandburg's breath is something else, practically toxic with gin, so strong it's making my eyes water, or maybe that's the breathmints... Whatever the hell it is, I dial down smell so he won't knock me over, and finish peeling him out of his clothes.
Meanwhile, his hands are everywhere, plucking at my shirt, curling in the waistband of my jeans and wiggling in my pockets. He's laughing again, and he sounds so pleased with himself, I have to ask.
"What's gotten into you, Sandburg?"
"Hey, I'm gettin' lucky. Luckier, and you, you, Jim Ellison, are gonna be so! glad you met me? Okay, man. Too many clothes. But when you're out of 'em," and he pats the hard, polished surface of my hard, polished kitchen table. "Just hop up here, Jim. We're gonna go for a little spin on the Blair-O-Matic."
In daylight, and wearing more clothing, I'd knot my eyebrows up and give him fifty reasons why I was gonna do no such thing.
But here, inhaling the heady fumes pouring off of one soused Blair Sandburg, I just shuck my shorts and sit on the table. It's chilly, and my ass is going to stick to it. But toasted Blair is a force to be reckoned with, and always worth the effort, so I play along.
"No no no, man. Lay down. Relax."
I nod a little and try to let my hands fall open, try not to think about how ridiculous I feel stretched out on my own kitchen table.
His hands are warm, and he rubs slow circles over my chest, circles that make my nipples pucker, circles that swoop down my belly, close, close, but not actually touching the tent pole between my legs.
It's actually very relaxing, and so it's not too hard to keep my eyes closed, even though I can never get enough of Blair sans the sixteen layers of flannel he's always walking around in. I hear him snap his fingers, like he's forgotten something, and a moment later, I can hear him messing with some kind of cloth.
Apparently he's rolled up one of his shirts, because he's cradling my neck and slipping something soft under my head. It smells like Blair, it was the shirt closest to his skin, I can tell, because the signatures of all those perfumes and tobacco products are hardly there, and I take a deep breath, enjoying the warm BlairScent.
I gasp a little when he closes his hands around me, and God, what he does to me?
I dial up the amazing sensation, let it roll over me, and wonder how I got so lucky.
It should be a new holiday. Feast of Jim. Up there with Lupercalia and all those fertility festivals of the ancient Greeks.
I always get a kick out of the way he's so willing to do what I ask him to do. Even when he digs his heels in, rolls his eyes, bitches about it, I know that nine times out of ten he's gonna fold like an origami paper crane.
Hey, don't look at me like that. I'd never abuse the power, okay? And believe me, he is gonna love this.
For a minute I wonder if Leonardo da Vinci had bondage fantasies, because Jim looks like nothing so much as Universal Man, spreadeagled like he is on our sturdy (very sturdy, I hope) kitchen table.
I smile a little, lay my hands flat on either side of his hips bend over and swallow him whole.
Blair doesn't disappoint, I'll tell you that. He's been kneading my thighs, crooning all sorts of encouraging nonsense at me, and I'm ready to come or go blind trying.
Just as I'm resigning myself to begging, he goes down on m-- o my god Oh My God OH MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL--!!
It's like I just got painted with Vicks Vapo Rub. I'm curled up, pushing the kid's mouth off me, cupping my burning/freezing dick in my hands, trying not to gibber.
"Whoa-- Hey! Chief! Time out! What the hell did you do to me!?"
For a moment his eyes are huge and round and hurt. He looks as if any second now his lower lip's gonna quiver, but then he blinks, gets his Thinking Cap on and then, before I know it, he's doubled over, gasping in helpless hilarity.
My innocent bystander cock is hurting like a son of a bitch, and my sense of humor is not being appealed to, here.
"Hey, Sandburg, you wanna let me in on the joke?"
He spreads his hands on my thighs, still hiccuping, and manages, "Jim, Jim, I am sorry, I had no idea, I forget how sensitive you can be, I mean, I knew you were sensitive, I just didn't consider the 'pleasure-into-pain' response, right? Fitch gave me a couple of Altoids to cover the gin, but I completely forget the unbridled power of peppermint? Oh, man, believe me, I'll make it up to you, okay? Are you all right? Do I need to break out the first aid kit? Jim, man, I am really, really sorry--"
His cheer is morphing into a 5 star guilt trip, complete with luxury accommodations and I want to head him off at the pass.
The burn is already fading to an oddly pleasant tingle, and my hard-on is still ready to go, so I take Blair's hand, curl it around my throbbing penis, and whisper in his ear.
"I'll live, Sandburg. But not for much longer if I don't come soon."
And I stroke his hand up and down the slick erection, my hand wrapped around his.
It's like I'm possessed sometimes. The way my moods can just cartwheel from "Pity party!" to "Hey baby, wanna take a ride in my love ma-CHEEN?" baffles even me.
But I don't dwell on it, because Jim's only been ready to go since the truck.
I've been in Seduction mode all freakin' day, man, since I was shoveling my Corn Bran this morning.
It was a vision. I could just see Jim laid out on the table, face flushed, mouth open from moaning, and I popped a woody then and there. And I'd been trying to keep that dog down since 7:30 AM, and I'll tell you, the leash is ready to snap.
No time like the present. It's now or never. Carpe Diem. Make hay while the sun shines. Whatever. Any cliché that applies, I just wanna make Jim yell.
He's flat on his back again, and I grab the lube and the three pack of Sheiks I had in my pocket and prep him.
One finger, and he's nodding, real slow, like he's listening to a lecture only he can hear, and then two and he's squirming a little, those fast shallow breaths coming between his teeth. Three fingers inside, slippery with lots of goo, and his head is rocking now from side to side, he's gripping the edge of the table with both hands to keep himself from wiggling right off of it-- that should do it.
I climb on the table, careful not to tip it, and I kind of scoot under his thighs, and he gets shoved forward until his head is hanging off the edge. I check to see that his neck is still cushioned by my shirt, and enough of it his under his shoulders that it probably won't slip, but at this point, I'm not going to worry about it.
Jim lifts his hips, and I shove forward, and sink in, and I am in the promised land--
I'm kneeling and he's got his legs wrapped around me, those killer thighs just crushing me, but man, like the song says, it hurts so good, and I'm drunk, so I'm loose as a goose, and I'm flexible, right, and I'm starting to think maybe we should install those Olympic rings above the bed, get into some real acrobatics, and oh, Jim is tight and I am in so deep, and I mean in every possible way, and he's grunting and saying my name like it's the only word left in his vocabulary, and that's just fine by me, because he is my whole world, everything is Jim right now, at this moment, in this place, in my mind, in my heart, in my Jim?
He comes about four strokes before me, with a sharp exhalation and a fountain of stuff. Then he lifts his head. His eyes are closed, and his chest is heaving, and I can feel him concentrate, and I watch his flushed face as he bears down on me, and I grab his hands, squeeze my eyes shut and just explode.
I'm pretty sure the kid's passed out. I want to laugh, but I'm a little sore, and I also don't really want to wake him.
I like his weight one me, like his sweat drying on my skin. I like everything about him, in bed and out of it.
Not that this table bears any resemblance to a bed, but Sandburg was right, it was a wild ride. As promised. And Blair is a man of his word. Unless he's obfuscating for the greater good.
That makes me want to laugh again, so I do, and he lifts his head, gives me this lush, sleepy smile.
"Hey, man. How you doin'?"
"Just fine. Just fine," and he nods, kisses my chest and tries to push himself up on his arms.
"That was fun!" he says, and then he slips, grabs for the table so he won't fall off, hops down and cracks a yawn. He stretches elaborately, and says, "I'm thirsty, you thirsty?"
I sit up and rub the back of my neck.
"Yeah. And you need water, Sandburg, or you're gonna have a hell of a hangover in the morning."
He waves away my warning, comes back to the table with two glasses.
Clinking his cup to mine, he takes a swig, and lets out a happy, satisfied "Ahhh!"
After a while he starts to look thoughtful.
"What are you thinking about, Jim?"
I'm thinking I'm gonna need to sanitize this table in the morning, but I say, "How glad I am I met you."
And he grins so hard his eyes fill up, and he flings his arms around my neck, hugging me tight.
"Ditto, man. Ditto."