This is the next little installment in my BJ!smut progressive drabble experiment. We pick up the action in the backroom of Babylon with Brian, who gets 800 words.

Enjoy!



Title: Untitled Progressive Drabble- Brian's POV in 800 words
Author: phobosgirl (phobosgirl@hotmail.com)
Date: 6/30/05
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Un-beta'd, all mistakes are mine alone.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters, CowLip does, and I want no fight with them!
Complete: doubtful

Just to recap, we left off here:

"He wiggles his bottom at me so slightly that only I would notice, but the signal is clear: get on with it. I chuckle under my breath, letting my tongue play behind his balls, tasting his strong, heady flavor.

He can’t wait any longer. One hand slips from under his head and finds it’s way to his muscled ass cheek. He pushes his ass out with an aggressive growl and spreads his bottom open for me. Suddenly, I find that I can't wait another moment, either, and I trace my tongue slowly up the split of his ass, pausing briefly to huff warm air over his hole.

He gasps loudly and I know I have him now."


Read the first part here and the second part here.


Brian in 800 words

It’s not the first time his tongue has been in my ass and if I have anything to say about it, it won’t fucking be the last, either.

I know that rimming isn’t about a power exchange, or if it is, I know a lot of queers who feel that the one doing the rimming is in the submissive position, but intimacy like this is always hard for me, even with Justin, and particularly in public. I trust him. It’s all these other fags I have my doubts about.

Yet here I am, giving in to him and letting everyone witness the power this former twink has over me. And all because he’s so adept at making me want to, so completely proficient at short-circuiting all my defenses with not much more than a pout and a long, slow blink. Well, that. And other reasons.

Fuck.

His tongue plays games with my nerve endings until I sink into the wall, wanting to take it for as long as he gives it. I know we’re being watched, that he’s being watched with covetous eyes and that I’m also being watched with burning envy and yeah, it ratchets up the heat in my belly a few notches. Justin knew it would, too.

I gasp quietly at the slow, almost tender lapping of his tongue, and try hard not to squirm. Thinking is almost impossible as he pushes me into a realm of pure sensation. I note the men near us, their bodies slick and gleaming, their stuttered moans and low shouts, that sensational awareness of rank animal fucking going on all around Justin and I. There's wetness, and his hands on my hips, and the cold of the cinderblocks under my forearms, and his harsh breath tickling my skin, and the sounds and smells of masculinity, come and sweat, and all of it, but mostly his incredibly perfect mouth, transport me.

Enough of this kind of attention and I could come without hardly touching myself, but he's not even trying to get me there, right now, he's just playing with me, his tongue barely penetrating me, just a slow tease designed to make me crazy.

I know him. I know this is his plan, and I know that he revels in this power over me, the power no one else has ever shared. The little fuck. If it wasn't so mind-blowing, him on his knees in this dark, dank place, his tongue playing tricks with my head, I'd swat him down a peg or two. But who the fuck cares when it feels this carnal and nasty?

I snake my hand back again, find his head, run my hands over and into his hair, tugging on the soft strands when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. My dick is leaking now, aching to be stroked, but I'll wait, drawing out the moment, until my hips finally begin to rock into his mouth. He gets the signal, like he always does with me, reads my body and demands with an unsettling ease, and pushes his tongue into me in short, firm stabbing motions.

Fucking Christ!

"Justin."

I'm barely aware that I've spoken, but even over the noise of the backroom and the faint thumping of the music coming from the dance floor, I hear him, his satisfied groan at getting me to say his name. It's out of my mouth again before I can call it back and I suddenly don't give a fuck who hears.

"Justin!"

I'm panting now and I ignore the plaintive crack in my voice and whether or not I'm being loud enough to draw attention for it, and bark a loud order in his direction.

"Reach around. Jerk me off, Justin."

He moans again, I feel the breath of it against my hole, feel the vibration through his lips and tongue, and when he touches my dick, I nearly shoot into his hand.

"Fuck, yeah!"

His grip is strong and calloused, all those hours spent drawing and carrying trays in the diner taking their toll on his soft skin, and somehow the scrape of his palm against me sends a dual signal of pain and pleasure to my brain that sizzles any defensive mechanisms I might have left.

I buck repeatedly into his fingers, pressing my mouth into my arms to stifle the moans that won't stop, and grip the back of his head hard to let him know that if he stops, I'll fucking kill him.

He doesn't even slow, though. He knows I want to come, he wants to make me come, and I love that he loves it so much. Knowing he's getting off on this nearly as much as I am is my undoing.

Shouting incoherently, I fill his palm with my warm come.

Next up: Justin in 900 words