Once a Nerd Ch. 02

I set some 'sad boy' music [as Jacob calls it] to play on my phone at a low volume, Mac Demarco and the like, and curiosity drives me back over to the end table in the living room. I return to the kitchen with the decanter in hand and fish a clean tumbler out from the cabinet. Pouring myself three fingers of the stuff, that first sip has fire licking down my throat and settling behind my breastbone. I'd like to think I've got a good tolerance, but within a minute or two of that first pull, I'm feeling pink in the face. Goddamn, no wonder he's sleeping like the dead over there. Laughing to myself, I wash my mitts and get dinner underway.

Homemade meatballs [courtesy of Sam's seasoning cabinet and the Panko I was stoked to find] get rolled out between my palms, and those aforementioned veggies [a yellow onion, a package of portabella mushrooms days away from spoiling, and a green bell pepper] fall prey to my fine-tuned knife skills. I sear up the meatballs in some oil before removing them, still underdone, from the pan. In that same pan, I get the sauce going--sauté the diced veggies to tenderness, add in the crushed tomatoes, and season her up. The meatballs get added back into the sauce and finished off that way.

All the while, the pasta is boiling in a different pot until al denté, and I'm slowly polishing off that first glass. Christ alive, this shit is strong. I couldn't tell you anything about it beyond that--far be it from me to know the difference between scotch and bourbon, but it's kicking my ass either way. I could've bent Sam in half and fucked him full, and if he'd had more than three glasses of whatever the fuck this is, he might not have even woken up for it. One is more than enough, I decide by the end of it.

Once everything is finished cooking, I plate it up and set to restoring Sam's kitchen to rights. I don't want to attach any extra burden to a gesture like this, so I replace everything as I'd found it and rinse off all the pots, pans, and cutlery I'd used before arranging them neatly in his dishwasher [aside from the knife]. Checking the time, it's now close to eight. I return to where Sam's barely moved on the couch and debate how I should go about waking him up.

Needless to say, my inhibitions are rattled loose with the liquor, because this time around, there are no second thoughts when I strip him of both the blanket and his shorts. Splitting his legs around my shoulders, I drop my head between his legs. His soft cock lays innocuously across his lower belly, and my mouth actually fuckin' waters over it. I brush some butterfly kisses up and down its warm, clean length and do some perimeter work: kissing, sucking, and biting at the joints where leg meets groin, the bottoms of his thighs, and his hairless, velvety balls. His breathing gets a little faster, but beyond that, nothing.

His cock, however, that's starting to wake up. I take the whole thing easily while it's still mostly soft, sucking and swallowing around it until it stiffens up and puts some tension in the back of my throat. Without coming off of it, I drop my hand beneath his balls, feeling out for that pliant opening. Just like before, he takes three fingers smoothly. Whatever he'd done to stretch himself out, it worked wonders. I set a hard, shallow pace, thrusting into him knuckle-deep, all the while sliding my mouth up and down his pretty, pink cock. Finally, there are signs of life.

"Nngh--!"

Sam shifts beneath me, and it's the confused, stilted movements of someone coming out of sleep to sensations they don't yet understand. His thighs tighten around my ears, and his back bows off the couch. The dual stimulation is forcibly dragging him out of that deep, drunken slumber. His sleepy moans are growing louder, clearer. To really wake him up, I curl my fingers inside of him, massaging his prostate. His cock twitches in my mouth, and the taste of pre-cum is heavier on my tongue. He yelps, and I startle at the feeling of his fingers scraping through my hair. Glancing up, Sam is blinking dazed, lusty greens back at me. He's red in the face, biting hard into his bottom lip.

"Dean..." He whimpers.

God-fucking-damnit.

I come off his cock and lean forward on my knees, bracing myself against the armrest above his head with my free hand. "G'morning, Sammy--" I breathe, before kissing him stupid. I fuck my tongue into his mouth at the same rate and rhythm as I fuck my fingers into his greedy hole, and each time I drag against his prostate, I drag the point of my tongue across the roof of his mouth. It tastes like whisky, sleep, and cum. He's shaking madly beneath me, struggling to be an active participant in the kiss. His hands have a widespread grip at the sides of my throat, and his frantic whisper is pressed to my jaw: "Dean--nngh! I'm...I'm gonna cum, please--!"

His ear is a major erogenous zone, so I bite, suck, and tongue the shit out of it while encouraging him to let it all out. "Go ahead, baby, I wanna feel your ass squeeze my fingers til' they're numb, cum just like this, you can do it--"

He screams through his teeth and pinches his eyes shut, tears darkening his thick lashes. He cums unbelievably hard on my hand, and as I'd prophesied, his ass clamps down on my fingers with all the natural force of a Boa constrictor suffocating a meal. If that was my cock, no doubt I'd have busted from the pressure of it.

"Good, good job, baby, you did so fuckin' good..." I praise him through the aftermath--sweetly, softly. He sobs from the chest as his body begins to melt back into the couch, his breathing evening out. I relieve him of the discomfort of being bent in half, sliding his legs off of my shoulders, and pull my fingers from where they'd been plugging him up. He does little more than exist in boneless, post-coital bliss for another moment, and I'm content to let him do it. My cock might be screaming behind my fly, but this was about him. It's not always about receiving, fellas.

"Sorry," He rasps. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"Nah, don't sweat it. That shit you were drinkin' would've put a horse on its ass."

He huffs, chagrined. "No kidding, my tolerance isn't what it used to be. What time is it?"

"Little past eight?"

He looks at me strangely. "What time did you...get here?"

"Little after six."

"Why didn't you wake me before now?"

"You were sleepin' too good, didn't want to."

He regards me with an expression I've never seen before on his face, before the indications of recent cooking carry over from the kitchen--the aroma of spiced, ground beef and hearty tomato sauce. He turns to look over the back of the couch. "Did you cook?"

"Mmhm." I puff my chest out. "I figured you hadn't eaten yet."

His eyelids fall like shutters, his face and throat brightening with a flush. He's well and properly flustered, and I did that. "Thank you. Ah, I guess I should change." He says, cringing at the mess he'd made on his stomach and shirt.

"Oh! No, wait, I brought something for you to wear."

"Christ, you didn't." He's aghast, surely imagining a set of slutty lingerie or a played-out maid's costume.

"Yeah, hang on, you're gonna love it." I tug his shirt over his head and scrub away the excess of fluids from his stomach, chest, and groin. He mumbles something about being a 'grown man' which goes ignored.

I leave him on the couch just long enough to return to the foyer, where I'd left the article atop his entryway table. Coming back around the couch, I unfold it for him to see what I'd brought. He balks, before flatly refusing:

"Fuck no, absolutely not. You've lost your mind if you think I'm wearing that--"

"Come on! It's going to look so good on you, please!"

What is it, you ask? Totally harmless, innocent--it's just my jersey. "Look, I could've brought my jockstrap too, but I decided to spare you that humiliation. We both know it wouldn't fit you."

He sputters. "Your jersey won't fit me either!"

"I know, that's what makes it so hot. Come on, Sam, please?"

It takes a few minutes of back and forth, refusal and begging, but he eventually caves.

"Jesus Christ..." He grumbles, poking his head and arms through the large holes. I shove my knuckles in my mouth to keep from swearing, because it's...so much hotter in reality. It's hanging off of him in all the right places, the hem resting just below his upper thighs. To have him wearing my number, my colors--the jersey I've sweated in, bled in, won countless games in. To have Sam wearing it, and nothing else, makes me feel like a sex-starved beast. It takes everything in me not to twist him around and shove his face in the cushions. I want that fabric to bear the stains of our coupling, to make it even more meaningful when I put it on for a game.

"Goddamnit, that's...the best thing I've ever seen. Please, never, ever take it off."

He looks away, blistering with embarrassment and arousal. He pauses, then brings the collar to his nose. His mouth drops around a startled, strangely pleased sound. "Did you...you didn't wash this?"

"Nah." I grin. "I wanted you to wear it like that."

He scowls at me, and I know he'd rather die than admit what a turn-on it is. Then, he's brushing past me to round the couch.

"Are we eating or not?"