WARNING: This following scene (after the italic font) is graphic (NC-17!)
If you're curious but don't want to read it, the low-down is that Zach is frustrated at the business-like relationship (and sex) he has with Mikey. But Gentry isn't the solution... he's part of the problem!
“You know; I have a bed.”
“I know. But I wanna fuck you here.”
“Fine, I’ll let you.”
Zach groaned inwardly.
He knew what that meant… that afterwards, Mikey would roll back and limply demand his turn, because he never gave anything for free. A part of Zach was sickened by this unwritten “one for one” rule— of politely going along with sexual kinks rather than desiring them. Like the plush pig, letting someone use your body was a gift which upset a very delicate balance of control. And since he didn’t like owing anybody anything, Zach strove to maintain a positive balance.
Though occasionally… he wished he could stop thinking about it.
“Who said anything about letting?” he murmured, snapping the waistline of Mikey’s boxers down. Mikey jumped slightly, then went rigid as they were abruptly yanked down, and the cold air swept over his rigid sex.
“What if I just wanted to fuck you?” Zach pushed him against the sink, covering those blank white hands with his own, pressing the reddened palms to the marble countertop, “Don’t you want it?”
“Please don’t call it fucking---“ Mikey sighed, “it’s making love. Say it after me.”
Zach made a face and pulled away. He couldn’t stand those kinds of terms, not from anyone, not even—
“Turn around,” He said dryly, “and lean against the sink.”
Mikey spun to face him, and grinned a little as he leaned back with his elbows propped up on the marble counter. He impishly watched Zach slide to his knees, and inhaled sharply when those strong, dark fingers gave his erection a firm tug, and rubbed his thumb over the damp opening. Mikey’s stomach quivered and he grunted in pain, arching his back as Zach’s palm rubbed over the head of his weeping erection, and down the shaft. Slowly, deliberately. There was nothing teasing in his strokes, just his steady hand and firm strokes that came with it.
Above all things, it was consistant.
Zach approached sex the same way he approached everything else: thoroughly. But a grudging part of him was aware that this was not the same as homework… when he had sex, he actually got something out of it.
His tongue darted out over the heated skin, swirling around the swollen head.
Yet, some days, fucking Mikey felt more like servitude— Zach often found himself going through a checklist. Kissed? Check. Fingered? Check. Came? All right, A+.
Zach kissed his tip, and sucked it between his lips.
“Mm… Gods, Zach…”
But it would be illogical to have a boyfriend if you weren’t attracted to them. And Mikey was, by definition, a good boyfriend: he never hit him, never cursed, had a nice smile and held his hand when they walked to class.
“…don’t stop... Gods!”
Yeah. Mikey was a nice guy, Zach reasoned.
Though niceness aside, he preferred to fuck him from behind; shoving his face down so that he could fantasize…
Close his eyes and picture that robust body… battered yet intimidating, with its broad shoulders and powerful arms… the arched curve of his back and limbs which tensed from the slightest of touches. The sharp smell of chlorine and the dampness of his skin, the way his fine red hair stuck to it when he sweat.
Then it got good… real good.
Zach closed his eyes and started to thrust faster, a moment strained by Mikey’s plea:
“Fuck… pull out, you’re starting to leak.”
Zach jolted back to reality and pulled out, then irritably fell back against the door with crossed arms. Mikey cursed.
“Fuck. Too late. Quick, hand me a towel.”
Zach stiffly pulled it off the rack and dropped it into his hands.