Of Spatulas and Men
Author's webpage: http://www.skeeter63.org/jayci/
Author's disclaimer: The characters from the TV series "The Sentinel" are not my property, and I am not making money off of them. That's all I have to say.
I wouldn't have thought it possible. Not in a million years. Not even knowing Sandburg as well as I do. Not even knowing my weakness for Sandburg as well as I do. Not even if you had asked me minutes before this whole thing happened. Because, I know me. Plus, he had been drinking. I mean drinking. To say he was toasted was an understatement. Blair was sky-high. No matter his intentions, what could he possibly do? I'd probably be tucking him in, wiping up drool from the corners of his mouth before he could even get his clothes off, right?
Suffice it to say that I'm stubborn, pig-headed, even. Sometimes I have to learn lessons the hard way. And every lesson learned tonight was obviously on the hard side.
Despite matching Joel Taggert drink for drink, Blair was hard. And it seemed he had a whole game plan, and showed no signs of softening up till he saw things through. How does he do that?
And me? Hell yeah, I was hard. I had no problems with my boner. It was out there. And everything Blair said, and everything he did, just seemed to add another inch. How does he do that?
And the table was hard. That's right, the table. The damned kitchen table. Though when we started, I wasn't bothered by it, at least not the hardness of it, but now I'm reminded how hard it really is. My back is killing me. Of course, the fact that there's stuff crusting, gelling, and hardening between my skin and the surface of the table isn't helping at all.
Add to that, my partner, one Blair Sandburg, has finally succumbed to the effects of all that alcohol and passed out on top of me, so I'm sure that I'm totally stuck to the table. I won't even think about how stuck to me he's going to be. I'm going to have to dial touch way down just to get loose, and there's no way Blair is coming loose except with soap and water, not without relieving him of a whole lot of chest hair. It's going to be a long walk to the bathroom, seeing as how I'll be wrapped in Sandburg doing his best impression of a corpse. I'm talking dead weight. And to top it off, I have to make sure that I don't trip on that damn spatula when I get us up from here.
How is it that Sandburg is always able to get me in situations like this?
The guys have just left and I'm eyeing Jim Ellison. I've been eyeing him all night, and with every beer I've polished off, and every poker hand I've won, I've eyed him more. Shit, if the guys had just up and walked out en masse fifteen minutes ago, I probably wouldn't even have noticed. I've been checking him out so hard, it's a good thing that I'm not Superman, because Jim would have laser burns. In fact, I don't even need to be Superman to utilize x-ray vision. My mind is having no trouble seeing through his shirt...or his jeans as he goes about locking up. I am in there, and it's looking fine. Mighty fine.
Nothing like bluffing Simon out of a hundred bucks, a number of beers coursing through your system, and the knowledge that you're going to be left with the sexiest man alive at your disposal, to make a man feel good.
So, I've been eyeing him. And he's been eyeing me - with that smug Ellison look on his face. Yeah, that's Jim. Cocky. I see the wheels turning. That self-satisfied expression that says, 'You're in over your head, Sandburg, and you'll be sorry.' That smirk that says, 'Stare at me with those hungry eyes all you want, won't be anything happening here, tonight.' That totally smug smile that says, 'You, my little guppy, will be lucky to make it to the bed before you fall flat on your face.' I said cocky, right? That's okay. Let him underestimate me. I like reminding him who he's dealing with. I like cocky. In fact, I'm counting on him being cocky, in a big way.
I have to give him credit, he's holding up pretty well. I'm cleaning up, throwing away empty bottles, tossing out the crumbs from the chip bowl before I put it in the dishwasher, but I'm watching him. I'm trying to stay close without being too obvious about it, so that I can catch him if he collapses. He's staggering a little and his eyes are half closed, but he seems to be holding up.
Then, he looks at me, silly smile on his face, hooded gaze, and purposefully, slowly undoes the buttons on his shirt. Instantly, I'm hard. Okay, now I'm thinking maybe there is going to be a little action tonight. It's still amazing how quickly he can get me going. Like flipping a switch. If they could manufacture that electricity that flows between us, there'd be no energy worries in the world.
I'll admit it. I had been too sure of the situation to even be horny. Thinking more about whether I'd be holding his hair back while he tried to puke up all of that beer, to even think we'd be doing the wild thing. I know better than to call him on how much he drinks, and he rarely overindulges. So, if he sometimes gets a little drunk, well, it just makes him wild, and I love wild Blair doing the wild thing. But tonight, yeah, I thought he had crossed the line. But there you go. One look, one unbuttoned shirt and wham! Instant hard-on brought to you by Blair Sandburg. Don't laugh, I know it sounds like a commercial they'd play during a soap opera, but to me, it's damned amazing.
I've got him. Oh yeah, I've got him. From carefully concerned to hopelessly horny in the time it took me to open my flannel shirt. Damn, I love that man. And as much as I want to go to him, to get an up close and personal view of what he's showing me in the crotch of his jeans, I have some stuff to do. It wasn't really a plan. At least not until a minute ago when I was watching him clean up, wiping down the table, straightening the chairs. I'll admit it's sort of a power play. Just a little reminder to Detective Ellison about who he's dealing with. The chance to cross one of his invisible lines and take him with me, kicking and screaming. So what? You learn to do those things when you deal with someone that seems to have a physical advantage over you. And who says kicking and screaming has to be bad? You know, I've been pushing back since the day I met him, but still he tends to forget that. Good thing I love the guy. I'd hate to take advantage.
So now, I'm feeling the ache. My jeans are tight, and I'm wondering what to do. Blair just gave me the once-over, sending blood to my cock and heat through the rest of me, and then he walked away. So, I'm wondering, do I just let this thing loose? Jump on in? Jump on him? Or do I wait to see what he wants to do. I'm gripping the back of a chair, knuckles white, and he's rummaging in the refrigerator, and at first I thought he just needed some water to dilute some of that beer in him, but then he started rummaging through the kitchen cabinets and drawers. Okay, he's back.
And he has a plan.
I can tell by the way that he stops and waits, giving me just enough time to protest. There are a million ways he can push me, but I know he doesn't want to do it physically, not while he's intoxicated. So if I protest, not back away, but say something, he wants his brain to have time to counteract. He steps a little closer, a bit steadier on his feet now, but his eyes are still half closed. He hasn't lost his buzz, and he surely hasn't lost his purpose.
I'm being tested. I know that it must be a test from whoever watches down on us, whoever gave their blessing for us to even have made it from partners to friends to lovers, and as my dick grows another inch, I know I've passed. Because I'm not going to fight it. I want to say something. I'm standing there watching him with his arms full of all this stuff, and I want to say something. But if Professor Sandburg is grading tonight, I plan on getting an 'A'. If he was sober, I would have pushed it, fought it a little, at least enough to redirect some of that focus. But despite the look in his eye, despite the fact that he has certainly surprised me so far, I know he'll come down from the alcohol eventually, and in the meantime, he has a plan - and I want in. Even if it involves my favorite spatula.
I can see the struggle on Jim's face when I come back to him. He's trying to think with his brain, but his dick is winning. And that's what I was counting on. That kind of cockiness. It's actually funny, and I would be laughing - I mean rolling in the aisles, except that I'm striking a delicate balance as it is. I'm feeling no pain, but I know how quickly that could change. And I still have things to do. But really, it's funny. Jim likes his things. Jim likes his things in their place. Neat, orderly, compartmentalized. That's Jim Ellison. Not that he can't be wild. Don't ever think that. But wildness has its place, too, and that place does not include the table behind him, or the spatula in my hand. But it will tonight.
Let me just explain one thing. This spatula. It's not one of those wide pancake-turner things. It's one of those utensils that you use to scrape bowls. Sturdy, round handle about 7 inches long, rubberized blade on the end. Jim uses it when he bakes. He hides it. He doesn't put it with the rest of the kitchen utensils in the caddy on the counter. He hides it. The rubber blade is rounded on one side to scrape bowls, and squared on the other side to scrape pans. I know all this because he told me. He dragged me in the kitchen the day he bought it and explained it all to me. How it was perfect, and intended for one purpose, one user only. I'm surprised he didn't have it gold plated and engraved with his name. And even though I promised I wouldn't touch it, having to practically swear on Naomi's life that I especially wouldn't ever use it to scrape out the blender when I make my shakes, he hid it. But I found it. I won't tell you how many times I was tempted to use it, wash it and then put it back. But that would have been just secret satisfaction. Uh uh, I'm taking Jim with me and he's going to love it.
I walk around him and put everything on one end of the table, then turn back towards him. He's watching me, and I notice he has finally let go of the chair, although he's working his fingers a little, probably trying to get some blood back in them. That's good. He'll need his hands. He's waiting for me, and that's good too. I take off my shirt and lay it over the back of a chair. The first thing he does is take off his pants.
Blair turns my world upside down. I mean, I'm dropping my pants on the floor and he's laying his clothes nicely across the back of a chair. And it's finally kicked in that his plan is not only going to include the stuff he put on the table, but the damned table, too. But do I open my mouth? Only to suck in a breath when my boxers snag on my cock as I pull them off. What could I say anyway? My dick is quivering and pointing straight at Sandburg like a divining rod that just discovered the ocean. Right now, whatever he says is okay by me.
We're both naked, standing on opposite sides of the table, and its time to finally lay it all out there. We both know what's coming. It doesn't take that much imagination. I'm hard and I'm ready - ready to play.
"Come here," I say. My voice seems rough. Drunkenness or desire? I guess it's a mixture of both. Doesn't matter, it makes Jim's dick jump, so who cares.
He walks towards me, and I'm in awe...again. I never get tired of watching Jim in motion. But then again, I never get tired of looking at Jim standing still, either. Or laying out waiting for me, ready for me. I step closer to him, and push him until he backs into the table.
"You might want to dial down, man." I push him again until he's lying on his back, and grin at his reaction as his bare skin touches the cold surface. "I meant touch, Jim."
Since I've pointed out Jim's little quirks, I think it's only fair to reveal something about myself. And that is my ability to theorize. Despite the drunken fog and the sexual haze that my mind is working through, some part of it is still theorizing. I know that most times, Jim thinks that's a pain in the ass, but in this, it's going to be a good thing.
Because tomorrow, after he's thought about it, he'll realize that this was not just a drunken act of sexual craziness. That I wasn't just trying to push him. That the table and the spatula are symbolic - an indication that I recognize that he loves me and trusts me. So if sometimes he gets knocked out of his neat, little boxes, I'll be there - by his side - in the shit with him. Good times and bad times. And just plain wild times.
Tomorrow, when he's cleaning this table, I want him to have to do more than just wipe away a sweaty butt smudge and some streaks of cum. I want him to have to put some elbow grease into it. I want him to have time to think about how we were there, and what we did, so that when he's done, he'll see that a table is still just a table, a spatula is still just a spatula, but we have each other, and life is damned fine.
Okay, so it's a lot to get from screwing on a piece of furniture, but trust me, Jim will get it.
So as I arrange him the way I want him, letting my hands get their fill of how good he feels, I feel good.
I pick up the spatula and look at the stuff that I have lined up. No crazy Sandburg concoctions, just the same things other people like to pull out when they want to get creative with food, except maybe one thing. But that one's my favorite, and really sort of appropriate.
I take the lid off of the bowl, and scoop up a spatula full of cookie dough. At least he won't be able to say I didn't use the right utensil.
Blair doesn't believe how beautiful he is, just like he doesn't believe how strong he is. But I know. I see it every day. Strong inside and out. Beautiful inside and out. And he affects me like no other person in the world. Go ahead, tell Simon, tell anybody, that I was lying bare-assed naked on my table. No one will believe you. Well, if you tell Simon that Sandburg got me here, he'd probably believe that. Cause only Blair could have me here, like this - hands gripping the table tightly on the sides, toes curled and gripping one end, knees in the air and spread apart, everything exposed, while I wait to see what he'll do with a spatula full of cookie dough.
Hell, at least he used the right utensil.
I dialed my touch back up, because I don't want to miss anything, but not too high, I don't plan on zoning, either. I keep a tight hold on the table, because I don't want to touch him yet. I think that if I touch him, feel his skin come alive beneath my fingers, I might come. That's how on edge I am. Or he might come. He looks like he could shoot bullets across the room, right now. And I don't want that. I want him to see this through.
He spreads the cookie dough across my lips, his eyes looking straight into mine. And it's the intensity of the blue that makes my dick grow this time. Blair-blue. Color as an aphrodisiac.
Then, he brings his face close to mine, the tip of his tongue peeking out, and I'm shaking with the anticipation of contact, holding on so hard I'm afraid I might break my toes. But at this point I'd be willing to sacrifice them, because despite my resolve of a minute ago, my hands are on him. I'm cradling his face in my hands... okay, I'm grasping his face in my hands and I feel like I'm being attacked. I mean, his hair is pulling at my fingers, his tongue is stabbing at me, breaking through the dough to get at my mouth, and then he's really kissing me. It's a crazy sugar and chocolate chip kiss, but that's the only thing sweet about it. It's all rough passion, and I'm holding onto his face, and he's inside my mouth spreading chocolate around, mixing it with the taste of all the beers he's had, and my hips are in the air, ass way off the table, because my dick is looking for the rest of him.
He breaks free of me and steps back, wobbling a little. I think it's just from the kiss, because I'm dizzy too, and I'm lying down. Just a little lack of oxygen. He closes his eyes for a minute, then looks at me, looking me over. Head to toe and everything in between. There is so much electricity coursing through me, my hair is standing on end. I'm watching him too, wondering what he's thinking. Thinking about what's coming next.
Well, next he grabs himself. Tight. His fist is gripping his cock so hard, it looks like the head will pop. I don't know whether he did it to tease me, or to keep himself from coming, but it's got me moaning just the same. All I can think of is how I wish that was me around him. My hand. My ass. Me.
Blair takes a deep breath, and smiles as he scoops up some more dough. And I think, 'Fuck it'. Bring it on. Whatever Blair wants - Bring. It. On.
So when he slathers dough along the sensitive skin of my side, and then nibbles it off - I hiss in pleasure. When he spreads strawberry jam over my nipples, and then licks every part of my chest except the tips standing up begging for attention - I tremble in anticipation. When he finally sucks each nub, and then gives me a sticky kiss on the lips - I groan into his mouth. When he scoops up half-melted ice cream and lets it dribble from the end of the spatula onto my navel - I bite my lip, holding my breath at the sudden cold. When he laps it up, chasing the drops that run towards my back with his tongue - I gasp at the sudden heat. When he covers my balls with honey, and licks them clean - I whimper.
I'm not proud. I'm his, and he knew that even before I let my ass hit the tabletop.
He's pushing on me, getting me to roll over. I ignore the squishing as I get situated, because my cock rubbing against the table is commanding all of my attention. Blair slaps me on the ass with the spatula a couple of times, sticky sounds that leave a slight sting. I'm not sure whether he's trying to get my attention, or see the muscles in my ass jump, or see me hump the table, but since it accomplishes all three, I don't worry about it. Win-win situation.
When he finally gets to the chocolate sauce, and pours it in a line down my back, I'm very tense. He scrambles on top of me and follows that chocolatey trail with his tongue, all the way to my ass. And when he's slurping at that little indentation, that spot where the sauce just starts to dribble down in the crack of my ass, I come. My hips were already moving. Once his mouth activated the nerve endings running down my spine, my hips started moving. I humped the table and chanted his name the whole time. It got a little loud at the end. Okay, a lot loud. But that's important - that he knows I know that it's him making me lose it this way. That he's the only one who could actually make me enjoy lying on this table, in a pool of cum - at least the only one that would get to live to tell about it.
I am loose. Totally loose. Strike three - I'm out. Call the players in from the field. Sandburg is on his own. I couldn't possibly do more than just lay here. Good thing I'm ass up.
Blair climbs down and bites both of my asscheeks. Not gently either. Then he's growling at me to turn over. Not an easy task considering what I'm covered with, and what's already starting to dry, but hey, I'll give it a shot. But my take on that is, 'You're missing your chance, Chief. Giving up that easy access'. When I see what he's doing, though, he's got my undivided attention.
A bottle of oil and a spatula. I'm thinking it can't be what I'm thinking. But the pinch hitter is up, the home team's back in the game. I'm hard as a rock again.
How does he do that?
We're about to cross the line, now. We're about to cross way over the line. Welcome to the majors. I'm standing between Jim's legs, with the bottle of oil, and the spatula, too. His dick is hard, so if he's taking guesses, he's not afraid of where he thinks we're going. You know I'm hard, have been for what seems like hours, and my hard-on hasn't got near enough attention. That's about to change.
My fingers are slippery, and Jim is tight. And the combination is awesome. I'm pumping two fingers in and out of him, and giving his dick a workout with my throat, and we're both making these grunting sounds. I'm humping against the edge of the table, finger-fucking and dick-sucking and all of a sudden, I know I'm near the end. Too much foreplay, too many beers.
Time for Plan B.
Yeah, the original idea had been to loosen Jim up, open him up, and really put the spatula to use. But I'm too close to coming, and this is not one of those nights where I'll be putting in repeat performances. So, bye-bye spatula. I push it to the floor. Hello, Sandburg. It's my turn.
Of course, under the influence is not exactly the best time to make plans. I'm at the crucial moment and am only now realizing that the freaking condoms are far, far away. I remember after that one time, Jim said we were going to tuck packets all around the house, but we never did. Well, turnabout is fair play. Just this once. I know Jim's not going to stop me now.
So I'm using a chair to help me get in position, and I'm hard, and Jim is slicked up, thighs in my hands, and I'm pushing and sliding and sliding and pushing and I remember a golden rule.
Never drink and drive.
There's a reason you don't get behind the wheel under the influence. No matter how in control you feel, you're never at the top of your form. I'm pushing and sliding but I can't get my shit in there. Jim is jerking, and I know he's trying to help, but it's not helping. At all.
Time for Plan C.
This was my show, and I'm determined to ride it out. I grab the oil, just pour some in the general area of Jim's groin, and hold on. So, now I'm slipping and sliding and pushing, but that's the idea. My cock is gliding through whatever spaces it finds. The crack of Jim's ass, the crease of his leg, slipping on the table, whatever. I'm going to come. Jim has to take care of his own stuff this time, because I've got a death grip on his legs, trying not to slide off the damn table. He fists his erection, and decides he has a way to really help me along. I call out, 'Oh shit', before he even touches me, because I know what it will feel like and how it will end. Jim twists my right nipple between his fingers and I spill my load somewhere on his ass/balls/table, my breath coming in harsh gasps.
I don't know what plan that was, but I like the results.
I collapse on top of him, but then my face is in a wet spot, and I am not so drunk that I think that's good. I pull up a little and get more on top of him until his arms come around me. His eyes are closed, but he's smiling. I whisper to him. "Man, that was great." Okay, it's barely a whisper, but the man is a Sentinel. Plus that's all I have the energy for. Goodnight, Jim-boy.
So, I'm stuck to a table, with a passed out anthropologist draped over me, and I am feeling good. Okay, my back really does hurt, and I'm scared to move, but I have Blair here, so that makes it good. I take a minute to dial down touch, easing myself up slowly, bringing Blair with me. He mumbles, he drools, but he doesn't wake up. What the hell, I still love him. The list of reasons why gets longer everyday. For me, life with Blair Sandburg is as much of the good life as I need.
Damn. He's heavy, and my back is really killing me. He'll owe me a massage tomorrow, after his hangover wears off, after I get this damn table clean. I get us both up, keeping an eye out for an oily spatula, almost tripping on my stupid jeans, and head us towards the bathroom.
I'll have to clean the spatula, too. But I don't think I'll be using it when I bake anymore. I think the next time Blair goes to look for it; he'll have to look upstairs - in the nightstand drawer.
Oh, we're not finished with this. Not by a long shot.