Gemini (12 page)

He cries out and jerks, then he comes on the side of the bed, his entire body wracked with the shudder that passes through him. He drops one hand to his cock as soon as he starts to shoot, pumping hard, milking it. He's gasping and moaning, unable to say actual words.

I drop the brush and use that hand on my own cock, coming with a needy sound, unable to tear my gaze from my beautiful boy. He looks amazing, so full of life and pleasure, like a work of art. He's folded over the end of the bed, still trembling, tears on his face, still making those low moaning sounds.

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Gemini

by Chris Owen

"Jesus." Jamie's standing in the doorway, a towel around his waist, staring at Paul.

I look at him, meet his gaze when he finally stops staring at Paul.

"Jamie—" I don't know if he's going to be pissed or not.

Paul and I aren't usually this intense when Jamie's home.

"Fuck, Gent. Have you ever seen him look so gorgeous?

Christ."

I shake my head and go kneel behind Paul, gather him in arms. He's still out of it, trying to make his way back from wherever the hell he goes when we do this.

Jamie brings us some cream and together we tend to our boy's ass. Paul smiles at us and kisses me, then Jamie.

He doesn't say anything, just lets us take care of him, put him on the bed on his side. I lie down with him, careful to keep away from his ass, try to get as close to him as I can. I kiss his shoulder, and he smiles again, his eyes shining.

Jamie curls himself around me and I fall asleep with the heat of my boys surrounding me.

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Chapter Twelve

The boys were right; this sucks.

I'm still working afternoons at the parlor and pulling beer at the Razor's Edge on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights to make ends meet. The hours suck, the work sucks, the money sucks, and it's been going on for months. The only redeeming bit is that it's the Edge, and not somewhere else.

I like the place; it's just a dark beer room—pool tables at the back, a big square bar and a couple of TVs to watch the game on. It's not a dance club, so we don't get the college kids in pulling shit, and it's not a meat market, so we don't get every queer looking to get laid. That's not to say the college kids are totally absent—I usually wind up encouraging a couple of guys to take it back to the dorm instead of the back booths, and sometimes street kids come in to hustle, but it's an okay place.

Told Taff that if he's not careful the place will turn into a gay bar, instead of a gay friendly refuge. He said as long as the queens stay out, that's fine.

Because it's the Edge no one cares if my boys show up and hang out while I work. They sit at the back and drink their beer, and when I can I go over and we talk about their days—

that part's okay too. They shoot pool, and I get to watch them bend over a lot, which isn't anything to sneeze at. Half the time I drag them home, my dick hard enough to fuck them both into oblivion, the teases.

But right now they've sort of gone AWOL. It's past last call and the only people left in the place are Taff and about five of 108

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his buddies, all up in the front watching some soccer match in Europe. They're talking and smoking and just kicking back—

I'm cleaning. Fucking love this part of the job. Not.

I've got to gather up the glasses and bottles and shit, then run the glasses through the dishwasher; the rest is just wiping the tables and making sure the pool tables are locked down—you wouldn't believe how much money the tables make. Taff likes to mop the floor after everyone is gone; he says it's his Zen thing. I just roll my eyes and am glad it's not me. As long as the tables are clean and the chairs are off the floor when I leave, he's happy.

So, I'm wiping tables, listening to the dishwasher and the music. We've got the volume down so the guys up front can hear the game, and I can hear them cheering and cursing. I head over to talk to the boys, tell them twenty minutes until we can go, and they're not there.

The horny little shits.

I've been watching them all night, sitting across from each other, flirting and teasing. I thought they were teasing me, but I guess it got too much for them and they've slipped into the bathroom for a little relief. Can't have that, can I? Them getting off and leaving me like this just isn't right. So I go down the little hall to the men's room and swing the door open.

The stalls are empty, and the place is just as barren as my Aunt Mary. Which, while not a nice thing to say, is true. So I cross to the ladies'. Now, the Edge doesn't get many women, but we have to have a ladies room anyway; it's just a single 109

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stall though—the door locks and it's just a flush, a sink and a mirror.

And it's locked.

So I bang on the door and flick the outside light switch off and on a couple of times. I'm leaning on the wall across from the door when they come out—Paul licking his swollen lips, and Jamie tucking his dick back into his pants.

Both of them are flushed and grinning and Paul pushes me into the wall and shoves his tongue in my mouth, letting me share the taste of Jamie's come.

"Evil," I say, rocking into him. Fuck, I'm hard. "Just evil."

Jamie leans on the wall beside me and licks my ear. "Got an idea, pretty boy. We're gonna play."

I sort of rub harder on Paul and smirk. "Yeah, we're gonna play. As soon as I finish up and we—"

"Nope, now." He's grinning at me and Paul looks positively demonic.

I push Paul away and stare. "No, we're not." No fucking way am I playing games right there. Not with Taff and his buddies up front.

"It'll be fun," Paul says, and he walks to one of the pool tables and picks up a cue.

I'm still standing in the hallway, trying to will my boner to go away. Hard to think when Paul's giving a stick of wood a hand job.

"It's like this," Jamie purrs at me. "Me and Paul are gonna shoot some stick."

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I nod, watching Paul practically hump the pool table, his ass pointed at me, his hands working the stick like he'd like to do something really naughty with it.

"And you, pretty, are gonna fuck him for me." He says it and then he's gone, leaving me standing there almost shooting in my pants.

"No, I'm not," I say. But I'm walking toward the table and checking out the line of sight from the front of the bar. Damn.

Paul's bent over the table, lining up a shot, and Jamie's on the other side picking out a cue. I stand right behind Paul and press my cock on his ass. "You want this?" I ask. Seriously. I know my baby has some kinks, but fuck, this is just stupid.

And I'm just stupid and horny enough to do it.

"Oh yeah," he sighs, his voice real husky and low. He pushes back and adds a wiggle, settling my dick right in his crack. "Want to."

I look up. I can see the TV on the wall, can see the tops of six heads and I can hear them all talking. Can't make out words, but I can hear distinct voices, and all it would take is just one of them standing up to get a drink—or worse, walk back to take a leak—and we'd be caught.

I open my mouth to back out, tell the boys we'll play at home, when Paul looks over his shoulder at me and says, "Be so sexy, Gent. Want to ride you with them there, clueless."

And somehow I've got my hand in my pants, stroking my cock.

Jamie grins and comes around to us, rolling one of the pool balls across the table with the palm of his hand. He looks me in the eye and winks. "Got another surprise for you, pretty."

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He glances toward the front where we're being ignored by the men cheering some play on the TV. Jamie edges Paul back from the pool table and undoes his pants for him. "Baby's all ready for you."

I stare at him, not exactly sure what he means. Lack of blood in my brain makes me a little slow. Sue me.

Jamie's got his hand on Paul's dick now, stroking him nice and slow. "Should have seen him," he says as Paul's pants fall around his ankles. "Stretching and slicking himself, riding his own fingers while he sucked me—"

I sort of phase out right about then, just rip my pants open and kind of tremble until I can get a rubber on. Then I just grab Paul's ass, part his cheeks fairly roughly and push right in. Jamie steps to the side and looks to the front of the room again when Paul moans and I gasp.

He's slick and fucking tight, can't spread his legs because of the pants around his feet, so I'm just pushing in with short strokes, eyes glued to the front where Taff and the others are. Paul's head drops down, he's not even pretending to line up a shot now, and he starts to curse.

I thrust hard, bury myself in him, and he grips the table.

"No, no, no, fuck, not yet—" and then he shoots, coming as soon as I'm in him. His ass clamps down on me and he just fucking writhes on my prick.

I keep moving, keep fucking him, hands tight on his hips, sliding in and out and fucking nailing his sweet spot. He's trying to be quiet, but it's not easy—for me either.

Jamie's standing beside us and when I look over at him he's got his dick out, hard and red and sweet, his hand 112

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working himself fast. His eyes are wide, darting from Paul's ass to the front of the bar, and I look over at the men, feeling powerful and nasty and about ready to blow.

We need to do this fast, I know. Any time now one of them is gonna look up, one of them is gonna hear us—all I can hear is my panting, Paul's near-constant moaning, and Jamie's hand working his cock—and sure as fuck one of them is going to hear. But part of me wants it to last, to make it go on as long as I can.

I drop a hand to Paul's prick, still hard and getting harder again, wet with come, and start to pull him off. There's sweat dripping off the end of my nose, I'm so hot, and I just keep going, keep working him. I'm in my groove, the slide and grind and oh fuck yeah like that is taking over.

"Getting close," I grunt, and Jamie, I swear, whimpers.

He starts babbling about how we look, about how we're gonna get caught and for fuck's sake, pretty, just shoot.

I grin at him and say, "You first."

His eyes roll back and I look down at his crotch, watch him spurt his load all over Paul's leg, Paul's pants, and the floor.

Then quick as anything he's doing up his pants and he's on his knees, licking his own come off Paul's leg. I just about go over.

I'm waiting though, waiting for Paul; I want him to come on me again, want to feel him dance on me. I plough into him, fucking him hard and fast, just Goddamn nailing him to the pool table.

"Oh fuck, Gent. Oh Christ," Paul moans, then he's spraying the table again.

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Somehow, on a wing and a prayer I guess, I hold it. I freeze, feeling him around me, smelling them, waiting. I decide I must be a sick fuck after all, 'cause I want to get caught now, I want them to see us. Want someone to see me doing Paul over the pool table.

Then it happens. There's fire in my balls, my cock is throbbing and I can feel it. Going to come any second, no matter what I do. And a guy in front stands up and looks back at us.

I blow so hard there's funky lights behind my eyelids.

I don't think I even finish shooting before I pull out and Jamie's helping Paul pull up his pants.

Taff wanders back about eight seconds later. "You about done for the night?" he asks, looking at Paul. Paul looks totally fucked. I guess I do too.

"Yeah," I say, cool as anything. Except I'm leaning on the pool table, 'cause I can't fucking stand.

"Okay," Taff says, looking a little puzzled. "Don't bother locking the tables down, the boys and I are going to play for a bit, I think."

I sort of swipe the edge of the table with the rag I'd been using for the bar tables. "Okay," I say, hoping to fuck I got most of the come off. I drop the rag and push it around with my foot too, get the stuff on the floor. Christ.

"Your boyfriend all right?" Taff asks. "He looks like he's drunk. He didn't have that much."

I glance over at the boys as they pull on their coats. "He's okay, I think. Maybe the flu."

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Taff nods. "Take him home and put him to bed. Tie him there if you have to."

Tie him ... oh shit. "Yeah. I'll do that."

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Chapter Thirteen

I want to say 'blame it on the book' or 'it was Paul's fault', but that would imply that I was reluctant, or that we did something that would make me feel like we shouldn't have.

And that's not the way it was. So maybe it's better to say that it wouldn't have happened if Jamie didn't bring the book home and Paul's eyes didn't glaze over the way they did.

Paul and I are in the kitchen getting supper together when Jamie gets home from work. He's really late, more than an hour after we expected him, and he looks really tired. We fuss over him for a bit, make him eat supper and take a long shower, then we all curl up on the couch to watch TV. We're just getting into the Bruins game when Jamie remembers his present.

"Hey! Got a book from work you guys might like to look through," he says as he climbs out of the pile. Paul and I just kind of shrug and get closer together, share a kiss while Jamie gets this book for us to see.

He's right, it's something we like to look through. Big coffee table book of photographs. Nice naked boys with hard cocks and tan skin, and oh yes, look. They're fucking. Twos and threes, just what we like. So we flip through and critique their technique, make notes on stuff we haven't gotten around to yet. Then we see the picture that makes Paul groan in a needy way and I tear my gaze from the page to look at him.

He's staring at the book and I swear he's flushed and breathing fast already. I take another look at the book and 116