Framed-Post 513-Brian's POV
I've now written a prologue to this entitled Embark.
for 1daftpunk….he knows why….
it doesn't matter where you've been
as long as it was deep
"Good evening, Mr. Kinney. Today is Wednesday, February 9, 2011. The time is five fifty-four p.m. The current temperature is thirty-nine degrees. Possible light rain. Please use caution and increase following distance. You may enter your destination now.”
"Thank you. Home is entered as your destination. Have a safe trip.”
"At this time, there is one new message available. Press or say-"
"Today, five forty-six p.m. Hey, it’s me. I’m here, earlier than I thought. I have the key you gave me, but I can’t get the deadbolt open. Plus, I thought you told me the alarm wouldn’t be on, but something’s flashing in there, and I’m afraid to go in, so, um, I’ll just wait for you. Hurry. It’s cold. I took a cab…..I might go to the neighbor’s if you’re going to be a while.”
“DIAL JUSTIN. CELL.”
"Thank you. Dialing.”
“Hey. I’ll be there in….ARRIVAL TIME."
"Estimated arrival time thirty-six minutes."
"What the fuck was that?”
“The car. It knows the traffic patterns. I don’t.”
“Did you go next door? The alarm isn’t on. It just looks like it is. It’s a cover.”
“The dead bolt sticks. Put the key in and lift up a little.”
“I got it. Damn, that thing’s stubborn.”
“I’ll be home soon. Make yourself comf--…..at home.”
"As reported yesterday evening, three armed suspects escaped from ………”
"The President will meet with Iranian leaders today to finalize……..”
ever since I met you,
seems I can't forget you,
the thought of you keeps runnin' through the back of my mind
You knew eventually he’d come back, when he made it big, when he could afford to paint anywhere he wanted and dealers and art critics and art lovers near and far would come to him and not the other way around, so you kept the country manor, and the loft, and the club so you’d have your home, your fuck pad, and your playground. Everything you’d need to keep you busy until he got back.
He was right. You’re Brian Kinney. You need a change of scenery now and then. Keeps you young.
But you also need him. And he knew that, too. So he did what he had to do and came home.
But this time, you were going to make sure that he didn’t leave again. Because you’re Brian Kinney, for fuck’s sake—whatever that means—and, goddamnit, you’re going to get what you want.
You’ve spent years in this house now, you know every nook and cranny, but he doesn’t. He never saw the whole place, never saw the things you did for him all those years ago. You made a point not to show him then. It just would’ve made it harder for him to go.
Now you want to make it easy for him to stay.
Or impossible to get away. Call it what you want.
The first night he’s back, you fuck. Almost everywhere.
In front of the fire. He’s on his knees, facing the flames. His hair, his face, burning up in the afterglow.
In bed, on his back, like the first time, and what you feared might be the last, and so many others. You see them all in your head.
He sucks you off in the shower. You’re both trying to cool off.
It doesn’t work.
You rim him in the sauna. He didn’t know the house had a sauna. The sweat on his body tastes so good, you jerk off while you’re eating him out, everything about him, the way he smells, the way he tastes, magnified in the moist, heated room.
It feels so good to be in his ass again, where he wants you, where you belong. And you could give a fucking shit if that makes you a lovesick letch. He’s yours. He’s home.
I guess you're just what I needed
"Good evening, Mr. Kinney. Today is Thursday, February 10, 2011. The time is five-o-four p.m. The current temperature is forty-one degrees. Heavy rain. Please use extreme caution and increase following distance. You may enter your destination now.”
"Thank you. Home is entered as your destination. Have a safe trip.”
"At this time, there are no new messages."
“OLD MESSAGES. PLAY.”
"Yesterday, five forty-six p.m. Hey, it’s me. I’m here, earlier than I thought. I have the key you gave me, but I can’t get the deadbolt open. Plus, I thought you told me the alarm wouldn’t be on, but something’s flashing in there, and I’m afraid to go in, so, um, I’ll just wait for you. Hurry. It’s cold. I took a cab…..I might go to the neighbor’s if you’re going to be a while.”
"Due to extreme precipitation in our area, flash flood warnings have been issued for all surrounding areas--”
“NATIONAL. MUTE. TRAFFIC.”
"Current destination delayed by fifty-four minutes due to weather and road conditions.”
every time I'm near you,
I get that urge to feel you
just touching you and loving you makes everything right
The second night is so cold and pouring rain, that it takes you an extra hour to get home. You care because he’s there, waiting for you. You call him as you inch forward in traffic from the comfort of your silver Mercedes S-class electric hybrid with heated seats, lumbar support, global navigation, CNN on mute in the dashboard, and your cigarette laying comfortably between your fingers. His voice fills the car as he tells you what he’s done all day, what’s for dinner—some meat thing, some random vegetables, some casserole thing he’s trying for the first time so, “Please try it before you complain about it and yes, your drink will be ready when you walk in the door.”
“Did you just come?”
You reach for a disposable come towel. You’ve evolved. Arrived. The next step will be to have a hand that comes up out of the seat and just does this for you, perhaps ‘Thing’ from The Addams Family. Like he didn’t do that for Gomez or Morticia. Probably Morticia. Gomez was a fucking nut job. And besides, so what if you masturbated while he was talking about cream of mushroom soup? They’re sort of similar.
“Huh?” He sighs and then scolds you.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t do that while you’re driving.”
“I wasn’t.” He ignores that.
“You could get hurt. I don’t want you to have an accident.”
“I’m not even moving. I’m going like two miles an hour.”
“So you were.”
He’s right. You shouldn’t. If you died like this, it would humiliate him. You glance at your muted in-console television. You can see it now: “Justin Taylor, New York’s best kept, non-secret, sublimely handsome artist, whose most recent show just finished last week in SoHo, tragically buried his obscenely wealthy, and even more handsome partner, Brian Kinney, last Thursday. Kinney was apparently pleasuring himself to the ingredients of an original Taylor casserole when his barely broken-in, recently upgraded, limited-edition Mercedes drove off the highway and flipped over a guard rail. The two had just reunited again after a six year hiatus. Taylor, unfortunately, is no stranger to tragedy having been……”
“Are you going to answer me?” You want to tell him that that tone of voice he’s using is unacceptable. But actually, it’s making you hard. You haven’t been scolded in that, Brian, how could you? way in so long. Now you’re horny and nostalgic.
It’s so fucking fabulous to be in a non-relationship again.
“Thanks,” his voice has softened, “I’ll see you when you get home.” He hangs up.
Thirteen minutes later, you come again listening to the Dow Industrials, but thinking about whether or not he still has on the same really thin, clingy pants he had on this morning when you left for work, when he wasn’t wearing any underwear….
Fuck it. Maybe there’s a grace period.
his heart's beating like a drum
'cause at last he's got his girl home
relax, baby, now we're all alone
He greets you at the door when you get home, and you pull him close, the icy raindrops from your raincoat soaking through his long sleeve gray t-shirt. He shivers as you kiss him. He tastes like wine. Red, his lips are stained.
After you eat the amazing dinner he’s cooked, you help him wash the dishes, your arms wrapped around him from behind, and he tells you to be careful, that you’re going to make him break something. He looks like a four-armed dish washer in the reflection in the window and you both laugh. You press your erection into his ass. He tells you that you can’t fuck him until everything’s cleaned up.
“That’s fine. I can wait. I’ve got a surprise for you.” He gives you a curious grin, tilting his head back.
He washes faster.
Once you’ve extinguished the lights downstairs, your eyes covet his ass as he leads the way to the second floor like he’s lived here forever. A puddle’s formed in the foyer underneath your raincoat, but you both ignore it. He walks into your bedroom and turns on the fireplace. You watch him, smiling. He stands in front of you, loosening your tie, the flames the only light in the large room.
“We need to relocate,” you tell him as you take his hand and lead him down the hall to a closed door. There are so many doors in this house, so many opportunities. His expression is curious as he watches you remove a key from your pocket. It’s so quiet that you hear it slide inside the doorknob. The knob turns and the door pops open. The look on his face is priceless.
“Oh my god.” The room looks exactly how it looked six years ago. It hasn’t been touched. “When did you do this?”
“After you said ‘yes’ and before you left for New York.” His mouth won’t close.
“I never told you.”
“Or showed me.” Your hand presses into the small of his back, urging him inside his studio.
“Timing wasn’t right.” He steps inside the room as if it’s fragile. Your black Prada loafers thunk on the linoleum.
“It’s incredible. It’s everything….everything I want….everything I use.” You know. You paid attention. Even looked at everything he was using in that hovel before he left. His creative energy was soaring there. It made you hard. He stands by one of the easels. “You know I’m going to be really messy in here, right? There’s going to be paint everywhere.” His arms spread wide to illustrate his point. You laugh.
“Everything’s washable. Even the walls.” You touch them. So does he.
“And I don’t want a cleaning lady in here. I want it to be messy. My mess.”
You roll your eyes, “That’s fine.” You’ve seen it this way for six years. You’re more than ready for this.
“I might even get paint on the windows, Brian,” he says as he looks out on the backyard. He hasn’t smiled like this since you told him he could have his magic Chinese wedding flowers way back when. He’s so fucking happy. He looks back at your face and you raise your eyebrows. No objection from you. “So this is really mine.” He looks like he’s going to jump out of his skin.
You walk over to him and wrap your arms around him from behind, breathing into his ear, “You just have to accept the terms of our agreement.”
“I knew there was a catch.”
“There are several.”
Your hand moves down over his chest to the front of his pants. His rubs down your arm, covering your hand and pressing it against him, moaning quietly as you kiss his neck, the side of his face. His eyes close. The recessed lights in the vaulted ceiling are dim enough not to compete with the moonlight streaming in through the windows.
You unzip his pants as he whispers, “What are they?” and your fingers slips inside his fly, inside his underwear, causing him to hold his breath for a second when your skin touches his. He gets weaker in your arms, holds onto you tighter. Your fingertips gloss over his dick and he leans his head back, nuzzling your neck. You feel his body stiffen in anticipation.
When your hand disappears and returns with his, guiding his fingers to mimic yours, you feel the disappointment in his body. It arouses you; you know you cause it, but you'll also take it away. You concern yourself with relieving him of his pants and underwear, turning him around to face you as he steps out of them.
“You and I are going to have a conversation,” you say motioning to the table behind him, the 'horizontal easel' you bought him so many years ago. He likes to paint on huge, flat surfaces, and there are added features to this art table that he doesn’t even know about yet. It’s a lot bigger than it looks.
You surprise him by picking him up and sitting him on the edge and then pull his gray t-shirt over his head. Standing between his legs, it’s time to kiss him, to get this moving.
He makes such a beautiful subject.
You nudge him on the chest and he lies back, giving you a wary look. “Bend your knees.” You plant his feet on the end of the table, apart, and stop for a moment just to admire his fucking beautiful body, trailing your hand up and down his inner thigh.
You’ve got him exactly where you want him.
He examines the ceiling, notices the additional track lighting that’s not on right now, that he didn’t even notice before. “The lighting in here is incredible, Brian.”
“The better to illuminate you with, my dear.” He laughs, aroused nervousness. You wait where you are for him to look at you again. His head finally stops perusing the room.
“Are you going to give me a pelvic exam or something?” Nervous humor with a smile.
“You should be so lucky.”
The heat kicks on. He changes the subject.
“I can’t wait to use this room.”
“We’re using it now.”
He jumps a little when you reach under the table and pull the horizontal metal bar underneath it out and up. It clicks into place, a loud, hollow sound in the studio.
“Is that for--?”
The drawer underneath the table opens smoothly. Hand-crafted. You remove the four soft, black, leather cuffs inside it and lay them on his stomach. He toys with one of them and gives you a coy smile.
“It’s not for paper right now, is it?”
You take the cuff he’s playing with away from him.
He moans a little when you fasten it around his ankle because you’re also lightly kissing the inside of his leg. He stops fiddling with the remaining cuffs and moves his right hand to his cock, his left over his head, wrapping it around the edge of the table. His back rises off the table just a little. You raise your eyebrows at him and cuff the other ankle, threading the descending rings from both of them through the bar and then clicking it back into place. He realizes within a few seconds that he can move his legs back and forth all he wants, but he can’t straighten them. You touch his knees, and they fall wide open for you. You smile and lean down and kiss his fingers wrapped so desperately around his cock as you raise his knees again, a mild warning leaving your lips,
He exhales in frustration and watches you like a hawk as you walk to the other end of the table, standing over his head. His eyes plead with you as you stroke the side of his face, your hand firmly grasping his left wrist. You pretend not to notice that he’s stroking faster. He knows his time is running out; he doesn’t need you to remind him. The third cuff comes off his stomach with no mention of his frenetic activity. It’s fastened and you take your time raising the bar, sliding it out, getting it ready. His cuffed hand rubs your stomach through your dress shirt, an attempt to soften your resolve, his breathing getting heavier. You lift the last cuff off of his stomach with one hand and clasp his working wrist with your other.
“No, please, let me finish," he whispers as the last cuff is fastened and his arm is unceremoniously lifted over his head. The rings thread easily through the bar once again and it clicks securely into place. He stares up and back at you, not quite at your face, more at your black-patterned necktie. You stroke his hair. His cock leaks on his stomach, abandoned. When you begin to stroke the side of his face, he leans into your hand, "Brian."
“You’re beautiful, Justin.” He closes his eyes. Your fingers comb through his hair as his face warms your palm. “I want you to have everything you want.” He smiles into your palm. “And to the extent that anything you want is something that I can give you, you’ll have it.” He opens his eyes and looks up at you.
“You mean like I want world peace, but that’s not your forte?”
“Exactly, but I’ll do what I can. Finance some freedom fighters or whatever.” He laughs a little.
You’re both quiet for several seconds.
“But I want some things, too.” His eyes open wider.
“You do?” You walk away and pick up a wooden stool and bring it back to the side of the table where you sit, where he looks at you.
“I want you to stay.”
“Is that why you cuffed me to my very own art table?”
“It’s an anvil of a metaphor, but it gets my point across.” He nods, studies your face.
“I came home because I’m ready……because I love you, Brian.”
“I know you did. I just want you to know—." Your voice fades away and you look out the window.
“What? You want me to know what?” Your words, your plan, are failing you.
“Do you mind if I smoke in your studio?”
He laughs a little again, “No, go right ahead.”
It’ll be the first cigarette ever lit in this room, you think to yourself, as you light up. Just lighting it calms you. You cross your legs, the back of your hand laying over your knee, the cigarette now pointing toward the immaculate floor. You’ve gone this far, just keep going.
“I want you to know that I need you in my life, that I want you here. Having you here makes me feel alive again.” He stares at you. You smoke and gaze in his general direction.
He’s chained to the table, yet you feel trapped.
He’s twenty-seven, you’re thirty-nine. You’ll die first anyway, of all of your hopeless addictions, hell, maybe even cancer. Who knows? Then he can go find someone more….like him. You know, when he’s like fifty-five or some shit. Knowing him, he’ll just be starting to look thirty by then.
You feel like you’re alive again, yet you’re obsessed with dying.
You backtrack, “I think I’m just being selfish, Justin.”
“That’s ludicrous. You’re the most unselfish person I know.” He tries to motion to his studio as an example, but it’s kind of difficult at the moment.
“Yeah, well, I am now.”
He sighs, “I see.”
“I asked you to marry me before because I wanted to make you happy, and even though we didn’t go through with it that was okay because you were happy." You stop and look right at him, “I can’t function when you’re not happy.” He scoots closer to you, to the edge of the table, the metal rings clinking on the bars as he moves. You move your stool to be closer to him, offering him the last drag off your cigarette before you kill it and then laying your right hand on his chest.
“That doesn’t make you selfish.”
“Yeah, well, that was then.” His brow furrows. “And this is now. Now, I want things. I’ve never wanted things before.”
His eyebrows heighten, “What do you want, Brian?” He looks almost concerned, like you have a disease. You agree with him, your chin resting on your hand on his chest.
“I want you to smile all the time. I want to come home from work to some fabulous dinner you’ve made, but that we don’t eat because it’s been fifteen and a half hours since I’ve fucked you and you can’t wait any longer so I fuck you on the stairs. Then I want you to show up unannounced at my office the next day and demand that I take you to lunch because we skipped dinner last night, but instead we go to the loft and fuck…”
“I see a theme here.”
“It’s a very thematic fantasy.”
“I can tell.”
“I want to watch a John Wayne movie marathon with you while you bitch and moan the whole time because you hate westerns, but you sit there with me anyway and suck me off at least once an hour.”
“Can I have popcorn with obscene amounts of butter?”
“Yes, as long as you wipe your hands before you blow me.”
“I want to fuck you while you cook, while you paint, while you use your electric toothbrush. I want to fight with you, break shit, and have to spend a thousand dollars replacing crap just so you’ll calm down. I want to argue with you over how to decorate the five empty rooms in this place that I’ve never touched and then just give in and let you do what you want.”
“You’re asking a lot.”
“I know. And during all of this, I want you to be deliriously happy, completely fulfilled, and insatiably horny.”
“Hmm.” His legs have fallen toward you and you realize that you’re caressing his hip, well, his ass, really. “I think I’m fine with all of that.”
You feel relieved.
And then selfish, all over again.
“You are? If you want to get officially married or whatever, we can do that. It’s fine with me.”
“I think we just did, Brian.”
He raises his head a little and you kiss him. It starts out as nothing, but then it turns into something, your left hand supporting his head. It’s soft and sweet and so fucking good.
"Mmm, that was the best kiss I’ve ever had,” he tells you when it’s over.
“I love you, Justin.”
He grins, almost satisfied, “Yeah, you do.”
outside it's cold, misty and it's raining
they got each other, neither one's complaining
You stand up, pushing the stool away, and his knees point to the ceiling, your movements so quick, they startle him. You nudge him back to the center of the table. You resume your earlier position at his feet, opening another drawer, noticing the goose bumps forming quickly on his legs. His feet slide together out of instinct. You find it endearing.
“The most beautiful piece of art I’ve ever seen is you when you come for me,” you tell him, your hand slowly massaging behind his closed calves. “So I think we should christen this studio with that.” Your hand moves up his calves, behind his knees, and down the back of his thighs, where it stops. “Don’t you agree?”
He’s already way past agreeing.
You continue lightly rubbing his thighs, right above his ass. Time to hammer out the finer points of your agreement.
“Now, if you renege on one of my requests, say, refuse to blow me during a John Wayne movie marathon,” your hand moves down to his ass and he exhales, “then I’ll start taking your paints away.”
He presses his ass into your hand. “My paints away?”
“Yes, for instance, for that offense, you’ll lose the color red.” He licks his lips.
“Oh, what if I don’t fuck you on the stairs? If I actually want to eat the fabulous dinner I slaved over all day long?”
He laughs at you, “That’s stupid. If I still have blue and yellow, I can make green.”
“Fine, then no more yellow.”
He repeats, “No more yel-low,” letting the end of the word slide off of his tongue like he’s high. Your hand slides between his legs and they open for you, just like always. “Well, I think that’s appropriate because I’ll be really sad then, and all I’ll have left will be cool, sad colors.” He watches the lube come out of a mysterious drawer.
“If you don’t come to my office, make a scene, and demand that I take you to lunch because I fucked you for dinner the night before,” your slick finger parts his ass and presses outside his asshole, “I’ll take away your brushes, one by one.” He moans your name when he thinks you’re going to finger him, but you don’t.
He stares at his arms over his head like they’ll give him what he wants.
“Fine, I’ll finger paint.”
His ass is so tight around your fingers. He arches, moving on the table in a vain effort to fuck them. You stretch him a little, spreading your fingers inside him, and he responds like a five-year-old who’s just been given a brand new pony, “Yes, god, yes.” You start talking again, his ass squeezing your hand in frustration.
“I want lots of fucking and lots of drama. You’re in charge of the drama.” He pulls himself up on the table a little by holding onto the bar over his head and then pushes back down on your hand. You admire his ingenuity.
“Fine Brian, you can have all the drama you want.”
“All great drama leads to great fucking, Justin.” He immediately looks at you.
“Like now? I would like that now.”
You smack him on the ass.
When he hears you unzip your pants, he breathes a short-lived sigh of relief. You’re inside him so fast, it makes your head spin, that thick, wet, fast sensation of pushing inside him that you’re fucking addicted to, pulling him by his bent thighs beyond the edge of the table, his feet now resting on the bar itself. The fuck is so hard, so what he deserves, so what he wants, that you don’t even realize that he’s sliding the bar over his head out of its holder until it crashes on the floor—right as you’re coming.
“Fucking Christ, Justin.” You’ve never been frightened during an orgasm before. That was kind of….exhilarating. His hands are free and wound in your hair as you pant out your ecstatic fear on his stomach. “Goddamn.”
“I wanna go to bed.”
Your heart won’t stop racing. He’s thrown his wrist cuffs on the floor. You free his feet, zip your pants halfway, and carry him three doors down to the bedroom. Lightning crackles as you walk through the doorway.
“That’s probably not a very good sign,” he says, laughing in your ear, as you lay him on the bed. The storm’s getting worse outside.
He watches you as you undress with purpose, laying your clothes on the end of the bed. The room's warm from the fire, and he meets your kiss hard when you lie on top of him. You feel a sense of foreboding about this fuck that’s about to happen, a sense that it’ll destroy you—shred you, like a very top-secret, confidential document.
You can’t wait.
Your entire body prickles all over at the thought of getting back inside him, and when you do, seconds later, it’s almost refreshing, like ice cold water on the hottest day of summer. You feel it all the way down to your toes.
You’re holding him so tightly that he probably can’t breathe, but he can come, and he does on the third thrust, and you feel it seeping between you, sealing you together. It incites you.
Sets you off.
You’re going to fuck the ever-loving shit out of him.
The next kiss is even harder, and he grabs your face, trying to keep you still for a minute, until his wave is over, his fingers digging into the back of your head. He needed to come so badly.
You’re going to take him there again, a little faster this time.
He groans almost in agony when you start fucking him a little harder than he expected and it’s the most beautiful fucking sound you’ve ever heard, his body battling with urges to shut down and get back in the game at the same time.
“I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you, Justin,” you breathe into his ear. His fingernails slide out of your hair and dig into your shoulders, your upper back.
“Fuck you so hard. Get ‘em up,” you push his legs, folding him in half, giving you the access you want—a nice, clean fuck. You’re so deep inside him………"Jesus fucking Christ.” His whole body spasms for a second, a nice, tight clench on your dick. He’s getting hard again. “God.”
He kisses you, tells you he loves you, clinging around your neck.
You wrap your arms underneath him for leverage, tuck your head in his neck, and push inside his hot little ass so hard and so fast, “Is this how you want to be fucked, Justin?”
“From this day forward?”
“To have to hold?”
“For better or worse.”
“For richer or poorer?”
“Yes. Fuck me, Brian.”
“In sickness and in health.”
“On the top or on the bottom?”
“Even chained to my own easel.”
“Orally or anally?”
“Yes, Brian. Upstairs or downstairs, front yard or back yard, here, at the loft, at your office, on Mars, underground, at the bottom of the ocean, to love and to cherish, for as long as we both shall—"
“Choose to find the arrangement mutually beneficial and personally satisfying.” He’s such a smartass. “For the rest of our lives, Brian, but only if you fuck me like you promised!”
A clap of thunder.
"I think I married a slut."
“Brian Kinney, don’t say that to me on my wedding night.” You kiss him, an apology of sorts. “Takes one to marry one.”
"Think of my status in the community if I go through with this."
“Think of your status in this bed if you don't."
“I feel at least partially responsible for making you into the whore that you are.”
“Oh, you are. Because of you, I’m a connoisseur of cock.”
“That’s so true. And you have the hungriest ass I’ve ever met.”
“Again, your fault.”
“I’m a whore-making machine.”
“It’s your legacy.”
“Of all the whores I’ve made, Justin, you’re my favorite. You came out the best.”
“I love you, too.”
“The Bride of Kinney. It has a nice ring to it.”
“Speaking of rings……”
“A pretty new ring for your cock, that’s no problem. Now shut up, so I can finish off your ass.”
"Don't tell me to shut up on my wed-"
oh my darling, oh my baby
you got the moves that drive me crazy
And although you know that you’ll never be finished with his ass, you finish for the moment, the sound he makes when he comes during those hard, final thrusts propelling your orgasm out of you and into him. You want to give it to him, want him to have it, to keep it for you. It’s not safe with you right now. If he gives it back, you’ll use it again for evil.
You want him so bad.
You hold him in your arms afterwards, kissing him, loving the fact that you’re both so sweaty and sticky in this hot room that you feel like one person, like you’re still fucking. His hands are all over you, touching your chest while he kisses your neck, your jaw. He should be sleepy, but he’s not.
Wedding night jitters?
“Mmm, I want you to fuck me again.”
“There’s a big surprise.”
“I’m just trying to be the slut you always wanted.”
“Oh, you are. Believe me, you are.” He looks at you like that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said. “However, I’m almost forty, so you’re going to have to be a patient slut.”
“I can be patient.”
That is such bullshit.
His fingers trace the outline of your biceps. You work out like a fiend. It shows.
“I’m your wife now and I’m twenty-seven, which means I’m close to hitting my sexual peak again.” And you paid for his education.
“Being my wife doesn’t suddenly make you a woman.”
“I’m just pretending.”
“Well, don’t pretend to have your period or I’ll pretend to live at the loft one week out of every month.”
“Oh my god, I can’t wait to see the loft again. Are you ready yet?” He thinks you're Captain Refract-o.
And proves your point.
“Did you know that your ass tastes like candied walnuts?” He looks at you like you’ve lost your fucking mind. Perfect. You’ve distracted him.
“It does not.”
“It most certainly does. It always has. Roll over, and I’ll prove it to you.” He does. He’s always rolled over quicker than second place at a dog show. When your tongue dips between his cheeks, he buries his head under his pillow.
“Oh my god.”
“So sweet.” His legs spread as you move to kiss between them and then work your way back to his perfect, pink hole. “This, Sunshine, is what marriage is all about.” Your tongue coats him, enjoying the tight skin prefacing the warm, moist interior of his bottom. When your tongue's finally inside, he moans your name into his pillow.
“Brian, god. Oh my fucking god.”
“Are you peaking yet?”
You knew it.
Right on schedule.
He pushes up on his knees when he feels you move, knowing you’re going to fuck him, gets his ass ready for you. The second you start to penetrate him, he finishes it for you, pushing back on your cock and taking you all at once. Nice. You press on his lower back as he starts fucking himself on your cock and you watch him, watch his perfect, greedy, little ass swallow you whole.
If you'd known marriage was so ridiculously raunchy, well...
His hips roll into your cock, his back arching, his head buried in his hands in the sheets.
“C’mon Justin,” you slap him on the ass. He speeds up, grunting into his hands. You’re getting close, but not close enough. He’s trying to hold off his own orgasm.
You meet him hard when comes back, holding his hips, angling at his prostate, and he tries to pull away. You thrust into him a few times, take him right to the edge, and let him go, with a warning, “Let’s go.” He pants, catches his breath.
He’ll ride your cock all night long like this if you let him. He loves it a little too much.
Now he moves with purpose as he takes you and you keep your hands lightly on his hips, ready for him the minute he’s about to come because he’ll do what he always does……take himself right to the edge and teeter. But you don’t let him. You wait for that thrust, the one you know's doing him in and take it from him, before he realizes it’s even gone, before he realizes,
“Brian, no,” that he’s coming all over the sheets.
And while he’s coming, you press him down as hard as you can and pound him into the mess he’s making. And you come inside him while he’s still begging you to stop. And you pull out fast and roll him over and fall on top of him, kissing him, telling him he does taste like candied walnuts, sweet and salty, and he kisses you back and says that maybe you’re right, but he doesn’t know because he can’t think right now, and come to think of it, he doesn’t think he’s ever even had a candied walnut.
You tell him that’s ridiculous. Of course, he has.
“Shh. I don’t wanna talk about nuts.”
“Because you are one.”
Your sleepy slut nut.
my baby takes the morning train
6:38 a.m. Friday morning
You stand in the kitchen drinking your coffee and skimming the newspaper while he bustles around doing god knows what, but you don’t really care as long as you can just watch him over the rim of your coffee cup in those absolutely delicious, light gray, cotton, thin, clingy pant things he’s wearing again with nothing on underneath them. He sticks his head in the refrigerator and you adjust yourself.
Fucking wedded bliss.
He resurfaces with orange juice and a wall-to-wall smile on his face, “Brian! Look! There are deer in the backyard!”
He leans over the kitchen sink and stares at them, babbling about how amazing it is, “ohmygodhecan’tbelieveit, blah blah blah.” You move in behind him and stick your hand down his pants, a possessive fondling of his ass, quickly assessing your fuck-to-time ratio. You can do it. He leans forward to get a better look, and,
“Guess what we’re having for breakfast, Sunshine?”
“You could say that.”
“You have no appreciation for nature-in your own backyard.”
“I like my nature in the kitchen.”
This feels pretty fucking natural to you. You lower his brilliant wardrobe selection and his feet come off the floor, his toes resting lightly on your shoes. Your hands hold firm underneath his bottom, your thumbs pressing into his tight flesh as you keep him spread and still. He braces himself against the sink, hard, when you come, his fingers slipping on the wet surface and accidentally turning on the water for a second. Your hand moves underneath his damp shirt and you pull him back against you and kiss him.
“Hurry, I don’t want you to be late.”
So you do, pulling up his clingy pants when you’re done and letting him straighten you back up. He walks you to the front door, ready to tell you good-bye, and you pull him up, almost off his feet again, and kiss him.
He confesses in your arms, “I missed this so much when we weren’t together.”
“The successful fuck in the morning. I love when you smell so good, like you’re going to conquer the world, but you conquer me instead.”
“Not instead, just first. Gets me going.” You put on your overcoat. “Nice way to start the day.”
“I’ll see you tonight. I can’t wait.” Your reply is another kiss that neither one of you wants to end. He pushes you out the door. “Be careful.”
if you really need me just reach out and touch me
come on, honey, tell me so
Good morning, Mr. Kinney. Today is Friday, February 11, 2011. The time is seven eleven a.m. The current temperature is thirty-six degrees. Due to overnight precipitation, the roads will be slippery this morning. Please use caution and increase following distance. You may enter your destination now.
Thank you. Kinnetik is entered as your destination. Have a safe trip.
"At this time, there is one new message available. Press--"
”Today, six fifty-seven a.m. Brian, it’s Cynthia. Your nine o’clock got pushed to nine thirty after you left last night. Otherwise, you’re schedule’s the same. Staff meeting at ten thirty then, I guess, instead of ten. See you when you get in."
"Thank you. Incoming call….Home."
"I’m still horny.”
“Don’t move; I’ll turn the car around.”
"It’s all right. I’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure? It sounds serious.”
“But what? What’s wrong?”
"I’m not wearing those pants you like anymore.”
“Why not? I like those pants.”
"No, I mean I’m not wearing them anymore right now. I took them off. They’re on the floor.”
“Oh……..I misunderstood. Where are you?”
“On your side of the bed. Smells like you.”
"Is there bad traffic right now?”
“Not at all. Smooth sailing. Think I’m the only guy going to work today.”
"I like being married.”
"Feels really good.”
“You sound like you feel really good.”
"I went in the studio and looked in the drawer…….from last night.”
“You did, huh?”
"Found something I think is for me.”
“It’s for you.”
"I love it.”
“Is it inside you, Justin?”
"It might be.”
“All of it?”
“Get on your knees for me, Justin. All the way in.”
“Talk to me.”
"I’m there. Almost. Oh, fuck..”
“Just like last night, Justin, use the bed instead of me.”
"I am. I am.”
“Are you hard?”
“I want you hard.”
"I want you to come home.”
“I want you to come.”
“I want you to come for me, Justin.”
"I want you so bad. I want you to come home and fuck me like this. Please.”
“I’m gonna wear your ass out when I get home tonight, Justin. C’mon. Come for me.”
"Oh shit. Fuck, Brian, fuck. Oh god, it’s everywhere. All over. Jesus………….oh my fucking god……oh god….uh.”
“Justin, you okay?”
"Did I just fuck myself with my brand new, twelve inch, acrylic dildo on our telephonic honeymoon?”
“Well, technically, yes, I guess you did.”
"Jesus, I am so fucking embarrassed.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about. You just gave new meaning to ‘rush hour’ and made my morning.”
"I’m afterglowing all over the place right now. I just want you to know that—all by myself.”
“I’ll honeymoon you properly tonight. I promise.”
"I might still be lying right here when you get home.”
“Not a problem.”
"I love you, Brian Kinney.”
“I love you, too, you little slut nut.”
"This conversation has been archived.”
“ACCESS ARCHIVE. TODAY.”
"Today’s archive: One conversation archived. Hom-"
"It’s me. I know. I’m still horny. Don’t move; I’ll turn the car around. It’s all right. I’ll be okay. Are you sure? It sounds serious. Yeah, but…. But what? What’s wrong? I’m not wearing those pants you like anymore. Why not? I like those pants. No, I mean I’m not wearing them anymore right now. I took them off. They’re on the floor. Oh……..I misunderstood. Where are you? On your side of the bed. Smells like you. Hmm. Is there bad traffic right now? Not at all…….”
"Mr. Kinney, you are now one mile from your destination. Weather reports indicate a sixty percent chance of precipitation today. Have a productive day."
This is why you love this car.
so I'd like to know where you got the notion
He shows up unannounced outside your perfectly polished, perfectly clean, streak-free conference room doors at Kinnetik at eleven ten a.m. in his thigh length black leather jacket with a bag of candied walnuts in his hand, dangling the keys to the ‘vette in the other and a beautiful smile on his face. The bizarre expression on yours makes everyone in your full staff meeting turn around to see what you’re looking at. He waves.
And then walks right in.
“Hi, Justin.” Cynthia.
“Brian, may I speak to you for a minute?” Justin.
He shakes the bag of nuts. You realize then that it’s open. A few of them fall on the floor.
Ted remarks, “Oh, I love those things. May I have a couple?” He shakes his head, still smiling, but looking at you.
“I’m sorry. I’d love to share, but I bought these for Brian, for our hone—"
“Please excuse us for a minute.” You motion for him to lead the way into your office. The minute you round the corner, he kisses you. He tastes like those fucking walnuts.
“Hi,” he smiles, “I’m hungry. Take me to lunch.” You look down and realize he’s wearing those gray, thin, clingy pants and sneakers. He looks like he’s in his pajamas.
“My meeting will be done at noon.”
“No, now.” He puts a walnut in your mouth. It’s delicious. He bought the really expensive ones.
You look at the watch you forgot to wear this morning, “Can’t you give me forty-five minutes?” A glance into the conference room confirms that everyone is looking in your direction. You push him over a few feet. He mistakes it for affection and puts his arms around you.
“I’m hungry now. I can’t wait. I have needs.”
“Plus, I picked up your extra-strength Viagra like you asked me to.” He starts to take his new dildo out of his coat pocket. You cover it with your hand. “Want another walnut?”
“They’re really yummy.”
“Give me five minutes.”
You poke your head back in the meeting, “Ted, review financials with everyone and then we’re adjourned until one.” He follows right behind you.
“Until two. Adjourned until two.”
Everyone looks at him and then you, like they’re afraid of him. Fine. “Until two. We’ll adjourn until two.”
“Bye, everybody.” He’s so proud of himself.
everybody have you heard
he's gonna buy me a mockingbird
"Good morning, Mr. Kinney. Today is Friday, February 11, 2011. The time is eleven thirteen a.m. The current temperature is forty-six degrees. You may enter your destination now."
“What the hell's going on in here?”
"Thank you. Arrival time is six minutes.”
“Holy shit. Who is that?”
“That’s my car.”
“I know……do you really want lunch?”
“Is Thai okay? The usual?”
"Confirmed. Thank you.”
You reach over and put your hand on his upper thigh, under his jacket, wrapping it tightly around his leg. He shifts a little in his seat as it slides upward, the fabric of his pants soft in your hand.
“Brian, you’re driv—"
”Incoming call: Zeal.”
He stares at the ceiling in bewilderment. You don’t move your hand.
"Brian, it’s Gabe. Early lunch today?”
”No problem, but listen, the ice machine is definitely on its last leg—"
“Which one? The kitchen or the bar?”
"The bar. That custom one. I’ve got to replace it soon, and I think it’s been discontinued.” You squeeze his leg, smile at him. He looks like he’s in the twilight zone.
“Okay, Gabe, do this: call Ruben over at Babylon and tell him you need theirs from behind the bar. They have the same one. Tell him to go ahead and replace that one because they have a lot more space behind the bar than you do. Tell him not to worry about the budget. I’ll transfer it. Then call Emmett. If you don’t have his number, get it from Ted. Emmett can find any queer piece of kitchen equipment you need, trust me. We’ll go with another manufacturer. If we can’t find one to fit that space, we’ll have to renovate that bar, and I don’t want to do that.”
"I was hoping you’d let me have Babylon’s. I’ll call Ruben. I don’t know why I didn’t think about Emmett. I guess that’s why you’re the boss.”
“You’re a smart man, Gabe.”
"I must be, you’re always telling me that. Before I go, this isn’t what you usually order for lunch. It’s correct?”
“Lunch for two.”
”And at the loft? Oh, wait, did Justin make it back?” Your fingers wander to his crotch. He’s hard.
“Oh, he made it on his back…. and on his knees, and on the floor, in front of the fire, and in—" He gives you a dirty look.
”Oh, okay, Brian. I get the picture.” He laughs. ”Just bring lunch on up then, as usual?”
“And put it away for me, if you don’t mind.”
"Yes, sir……welcome back, Justin.”
“Brian! I can’t believe—"
“Just a minute. EDIT.”
"Conversation onscreen. Please specify parameter.”
“Justin, can you look at the screen for me and tell me what time it says next to Gabe saying he’d call Ruben? I left my glasses in the office.”
“The numbers out to the left?”
“ARCHIVE ONE SEVENTEEN AND DELETE.”
”Conversation archived. Mr. Kinney, you are now one mile from your destination. Have a productive day.”
“What was that?”
“I saved it. It was a business meeting. He’s my employee. The relevant points go in his file.”
“You own that restaurant?”
“I most certainly do. Gabe is my restaurant manager.”
“Holy shit. What else do you own?” You tighten your grip around his cock, now wet through your very favorite pants, and raise your eyebrow at him.
I never knew love before,
then came you
He’s quiet as a mouse in the elevator, and you notice that he’s not shaking his bag of walnuts in your face anymore. He walks inside looking around for proof that things are different or maybe the same, you can’t be sure. There’s a hint of amusement on your face as you watch him give the place a quick once-over from where he stands at the counter. His head inevitably turns around to look back at you and you immediately begin unbuttoning the buttons on his jacket. He stares at your fingers like they’re amazing. You lay his jacket on the bar and motion toward the bedroom, almost having to push him, he’s in such a daze.
He sits on the bed, your bed, in his white t-shirt and his pants and takes his shoes off while you stand beside it and loosen and remove your dark brown tie, your coordinating shirt and hang them in the closet. When you start to unbuckle your belt, he lies back on the bed and just watches you, like he’s never seen you undress before. You close all of the panels to the bedroom because lunch will be here soon, remove and hang your pants, and he immediately props himself up on his arms and bends his knees like a crab when you climb into bed.
You smile at him, kneeling between his legs, your fingers wrapping around the elastic of the pants of your dreams and making them disappear. He’s hard and wet and so fucking hot. You pull him down on the bed a little as you lift his legs and his lips are parted as you hold his thighs against you and push inside his perfect ass. One smooth stroke. Just like pulling into your heated garage at the end of day—a nice, warm, snug fit.
He moans, grabbing your legs, his t-shirt bunching up around his arms as you fuck him. He licks his lips, once, twice, makes that face like he’s concentrating, his eyes never leaving your face, and your hands move down his legs and up his torso of their own volition, pulling his shirt over his head. Your arms wrap around each other at the same time. His hands and feet are warm on your back, and you listen to the little noises he makes and make a wish that they never stop.
But they do and he holds his breath for a second when he hears the door open, and then remembers that it’s just lunch, and you both lie perfectly still, just staring at each other, his eyes so dilated, until it closes again. He exhales and then you slide your fingers through the back of his hair and kiss him.
His fingers rub softly behind your ears and then straighten in your hair, pulling your face back to his. Hard.
You wonder if you’ll ever be able to satisfy him; he looks so insatiability desperate.
You’ll die trying.
No matter how many times it takes.
His legs tighten around you as he feels you grab him, clinging to you, as he licks the sweat off your neck. Your stomach flutters as his fingers massage his cock and your abs at the same time, your name the only word you can understand coming out of his mouth.
Everything’s wet, slick, and hot, and like summertime you think, the sheets clinging to you and they’re not even on you, and, “Justin,” he comes, shaking, and you feel it like it was you, not him. And you’re trying to decide, and then,
“Fuck me, Brian.”
And your hips feel like they jack hammer inside him, even when you come. You can’t stop.
“I can’t stop.”
And you fall on top of him, your face on his, his feet caressing the back of your legs.
Minutes later he’s wrapped in your arms wrapped in the sheets, fucked, kissed, and dozing off. You stroke his hair and glance at the clock: 12:38 p.m.. He shifts in your arms and you pull the duvet on top of both of you, breathing him in. He finds your hand under the covers and winds his fingers through yours, pushing back against you, breathing a soft moan into your pillow. You tuck your leg over his and his breathing slows down, his body feeling heavier in your arms.
Six years was more than worth the wait. It dawns on you as you look out the window at the cold, gray Pittsburgh day that it’ll probably storm again tonight, and you smile, your lips in his hair, because you could care less if it pours rain every day from now until the day you die.
Because you, Brian Kinney, finally own the sunshine.
if I were the King of the world
tell you what I'd do
I'd throw away the cars and the bars and the wars
and make sweet love to you
"Good evening, Mr. Kinney. Today is Friday, February 10, 2012. If you’re receiving this customized greeting, it’s because you forgot that today's our one year anniversary. But I forgive you because you’re a very busy man and because you fucked me so hard this morning that I slept until noon. I don’t know what got into you. For dinner tonight, you’re having an exquisite fellatio appetizer, followed by Twink casserole topped with candied walnuts and a nice tossed salad with our exclusive House dressing. Hurry home. I’ll be waiting……in the studio. And please be careful Mr. Kinney, it looks like rain…….. Happy Anniversary, Brian. I love you.”
Lyrics were taken from Just What I Needed, The Cars*; Then Came You, The Spinners with Dionne Warwick*; Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?, Rod Stewart*; Rock Me Gently, Andy Kim; Morning Train, Sheena Easton; Rock the Boat, The Hughes Corporation; Mockingbird, Carly Simon & James Taylor; Joy to the World, Three Dog Night. All songs are listed in order of appearance. *Some song were used more than once.
I'm actually sequeling this now. It starts here: Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Post 513-Prologue