Porn for Wednesday
:: Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, US Men's Swimming, R. Unbeta'ed.
8.13.2008 (08:21 AM)
"Shave Some Time Off"
Michael's hands were large enough to nearly engulf the white porcelain that showed between his spread legs as he sat on the closed toilet seat. It was cool under his palms. There was hip-hop on in another part the Beijing hotel room, playing through the speakers hooked to his Ipod, but he hardly heard it. The bathroom was filled with the soft schkk of a sharp razor against skin and shaving cream. Every now and again it would be broken by a quick run of water before quietly and monotonously resuming.
Fingers lifted and two wrapped around a loose brown curl shocking out from the head in front of him. Ryan, kneeling, only made a quick upward flick of his eyes before continuing to drag the razor from Michael's ankle to knee.
"We should shave your head," Michael said. "Probably cut your times down."
Ryan snapped his wrist over the bathtub to dislodge shaving cream from the razor. His attention didn't shift from Michael's leg as he murmured, "we should cut off your ears, in that case. You'd break every world record."
Michael laughed and pushed his fingers through the soft bush of slack curls; clipped nails found the ridges of Ryan's skull. There was a small sigh and the razor stopped moving. When the large hand closed and gave a light tug on brown strands, Ryan's face came up enough that Michael could fold himself down and fit them together, mouth to mouth.
The razor fell to the tiles with a soft sort of clatter that went unheard and Ryan's right hand left slick, white tracks up Michael's collarbone and around his neck. The give-and-take of lips was urgent, timing the minutes they had left until the next warm-up, the next press conference, the next race. Teeth clacked an erratic beat and tongues hardly had enough time to find that quietly bitter taste that comes after hard exertion before moving on.
Ryan came up to his knees even as Michael was moving to the edge of the toilet seat and wrapping long arms around his body, warm through his tshirt. Shaving cream smeared against Ryan's thigh and decorated his blue warms-ups with white. He was panting when they parted and Michael took a moment to put them forehead to forehead, his nose brushing the hot flush of Ryan's cheek. They breathed each other's air, smelling like chlorine no matter how many showers they took. The sharp odor of it made Michael's pulse pound harder. His body thrummed. This was a different sort of race.
Compared to the heat of his body, the back of the toilet was a cold bar under his shoulder blades as he leaned back. Fingertips flicked hair out of Ryan's shuttered eyes-he always looked shell-shocked, every time, like this was better than the final stretch for the wall when you know it's close-and dropped his hand to his pants. Michael slid his cock out of his pants; hard and flushed a deep red, it dripped at the head and left a smear of shine when he dropped it onto his stomach. The motion was an invitation in itself but he still reached and slipped his fingers into Ryan's hair, making a light fist in the soft curls.
He felt, more than saw, the pressure of hands on his knees, pushing them apart and then skimming upward, inward, brushing newly smooth skin until fingertips were circling the thick base of his cock and slipping down under his balls. Michael's hips canted to help the warm pads of Ryan's fingers find more skin, further, rocking up until they were jammed between cold porcelain and hot flesh, flicking across sensitive skin in a rhythm that was there without thought.
Michael's head dropped back against the wall with a dull flush of pain that was lost in the larger sluice of edgy heat radiating out from Ryan's fingers. Gooseflesh walked up his arms and the muscles of his stomach shuddered under the damp breath that was the harbinger of a warm, wet mouth. Michael's cock twitched with the sudden, tight anticipation of it. His balls drew up, nudged by the heel of a hand, and his own hand tightened, fisted, clutching. There was an answering hitch of breath that crashed across the head of his cock and it scattered his senses, leaving nothing but his pulse, the thud of it in his ears and, lower, where it became a sluggish, desperate throb.
He tugged Ryan's head down and moaned as damp lips and a smooth chin bumped against him. A dry, retaliating pressure far behind his balls forced a cracked sound from Michael's lips. His legs jerked and parted further; one knee banged against the tub's edge clumsily.
Ryan's one hand fumbled, adjusting around the base of his cock, pulling the flushed organ up from sweat-stuck skin as he pushed back against Michael's restraining hand enough to make room for himself and it.
It wouldn't last long.
Michael opened his eyes, twisted his head against the wall so that he could watch Ryan's mouth open with a jerk like he was grabbing a breath before a turn. A gulp of air, a slip of pink when his tongue wet kiss-dark lips. Michael could feel strands of hair press lines into the pads of his fingers, felt the shift of scalp over skull as he pushed Ryan down, fighting how his eyes wanted to close to enjoy each slick inch because more than that he wanted to see.
Wanted to see Ryan's cheeks hollow out and then feel the delicious suck that accompanied it. Wanted to see the sheen of spit on his cock every time Ryan pulled away, and then how much easier his lips slid when Michael pushed him back down to cover it again.
A give and take. Ryan gave, Michael took. Michael pushed, Ryan yielded. Fingers dug pressure points against a warm scalp and a throat opened with a fluttering ease.
All of that and it was Michael caught like a swimmer in a riptide, fighting to keep his place even as he was being pulled into deeper water. Ryan was dragging him under with each quick bob of his head, each teasing wiggle of his finger that threatened pleasure and maybe discomfort but more, more, more.
Ryan fought the push of Michael's grip and pulled off to the very top, sucking tight and short around the head of the medallist's cock until Michael's toes had curled down onto the cool tile of the bathroom floor. His mouth was open, small noises trapped at the back of his throat until he spilled over the edge and the waiting sounds became a broken huff and a long, shaking moan.
A careful, mindless sort of strength kept Ryan from moving and there was a grunt of complaint to which Michael only bared his teeth in an absently wicked grin. Fingers curved over the back ridge of the other swimmer's skull until he was spent and then slipped away, limbs lax and heavy. He watched through eyelashes as Ryan leaned to the side and spit into the shaving-cream spotted bathtub, white among the white.
"Bastard." He backhanded spit and semen from the corner of his mouth with a disgusted look on his face. Michael closed his eyes and smiled wider as Ryan added, "I hope you take silver."
8.13.2008 (08:21 AM)
"Shave Some Time Off"
Michael's hands were large enough to nearly engulf the white porcelain that showed between his spread legs as he sat on the closed toilet seat. It was cool under his palms. There was hip-hop on in another part the Beijing hotel room, playing through the speakers hooked to his Ipod, but he hardly heard it. The bathroom was filled with the soft schkk of a sharp razor against skin and shaving cream. Every now and again it would be broken by a quick run of water before quietly and monotonously resuming.
Fingers lifted and two wrapped around a loose brown curl shocking out from the head in front of him. Ryan, kneeling, only made a quick upward flick of his eyes before continuing to drag the razor from Michael's ankle to knee.
"We should shave your head," Michael said. "Probably cut your times down."
Ryan snapped his wrist over the bathtub to dislodge shaving cream from the razor. His attention didn't shift from Michael's leg as he murmured, "we should cut off your ears, in that case. You'd break every world record."
Michael laughed and pushed his fingers through the soft bush of slack curls; clipped nails found the ridges of Ryan's skull. There was a small sigh and the razor stopped moving. When the large hand closed and gave a light tug on brown strands, Ryan's face came up enough that Michael could fold himself down and fit them together, mouth to mouth.
The razor fell to the tiles with a soft sort of clatter that went unheard and Ryan's right hand left slick, white tracks up Michael's collarbone and around his neck. The give-and-take of lips was urgent, timing the minutes they had left until the next warm-up, the next press conference, the next race. Teeth clacked an erratic beat and tongues hardly had enough time to find that quietly bitter taste that comes after hard exertion before moving on.
Ryan came up to his knees even as Michael was moving to the edge of the toilet seat and wrapping long arms around his body, warm through his tshirt. Shaving cream smeared against Ryan's thigh and decorated his blue warms-ups with white. He was panting when they parted and Michael took a moment to put them forehead to forehead, his nose brushing the hot flush of Ryan's cheek. They breathed each other's air, smelling like chlorine no matter how many showers they took. The sharp odor of it made Michael's pulse pound harder. His body thrummed. This was a different sort of race.
Compared to the heat of his body, the back of the toilet was a cold bar under his shoulder blades as he leaned back. Fingertips flicked hair out of Ryan's shuttered eyes-he always looked shell-shocked, every time, like this was better than the final stretch for the wall when you know it's close-and dropped his hand to his pants. Michael slid his cock out of his pants; hard and flushed a deep red, it dripped at the head and left a smear of shine when he dropped it onto his stomach. The motion was an invitation in itself but he still reached and slipped his fingers into Ryan's hair, making a light fist in the soft curls.
He felt, more than saw, the pressure of hands on his knees, pushing them apart and then skimming upward, inward, brushing newly smooth skin until fingertips were circling the thick base of his cock and slipping down under his balls. Michael's hips canted to help the warm pads of Ryan's fingers find more skin, further, rocking up until they were jammed between cold porcelain and hot flesh, flicking across sensitive skin in a rhythm that was there without thought.
Michael's head dropped back against the wall with a dull flush of pain that was lost in the larger sluice of edgy heat radiating out from Ryan's fingers. Gooseflesh walked up his arms and the muscles of his stomach shuddered under the damp breath that was the harbinger of a warm, wet mouth. Michael's cock twitched with the sudden, tight anticipation of it. His balls drew up, nudged by the heel of a hand, and his own hand tightened, fisted, clutching. There was an answering hitch of breath that crashed across the head of his cock and it scattered his senses, leaving nothing but his pulse, the thud of it in his ears and, lower, where it became a sluggish, desperate throb.
He tugged Ryan's head down and moaned as damp lips and a smooth chin bumped against him. A dry, retaliating pressure far behind his balls forced a cracked sound from Michael's lips. His legs jerked and parted further; one knee banged against the tub's edge clumsily.
Ryan's one hand fumbled, adjusting around the base of his cock, pulling the flushed organ up from sweat-stuck skin as he pushed back against Michael's restraining hand enough to make room for himself and it.
It wouldn't last long.
Michael opened his eyes, twisted his head against the wall so that he could watch Ryan's mouth open with a jerk like he was grabbing a breath before a turn. A gulp of air, a slip of pink when his tongue wet kiss-dark lips. Michael could feel strands of hair press lines into the pads of his fingers, felt the shift of scalp over skull as he pushed Ryan down, fighting how his eyes wanted to close to enjoy each slick inch because more than that he wanted to see.
Wanted to see Ryan's cheeks hollow out and then feel the delicious suck that accompanied it. Wanted to see the sheen of spit on his cock every time Ryan pulled away, and then how much easier his lips slid when Michael pushed him back down to cover it again.
A give and take. Ryan gave, Michael took. Michael pushed, Ryan yielded. Fingers dug pressure points against a warm scalp and a throat opened with a fluttering ease.
All of that and it was Michael caught like a swimmer in a riptide, fighting to keep his place even as he was being pulled into deeper water. Ryan was dragging him under with each quick bob of his head, each teasing wiggle of his finger that threatened pleasure and maybe discomfort but more, more, more.
Ryan fought the push of Michael's grip and pulled off to the very top, sucking tight and short around the head of the medallist's cock until Michael's toes had curled down onto the cool tile of the bathroom floor. His mouth was open, small noises trapped at the back of his throat until he spilled over the edge and the waiting sounds became a broken huff and a long, shaking moan.
A careful, mindless sort of strength kept Ryan from moving and there was a grunt of complaint to which Michael only bared his teeth in an absently wicked grin. Fingers curved over the back ridge of the other swimmer's skull until he was spent and then slipped away, limbs lax and heavy. He watched through eyelashes as Ryan leaned to the side and spit into the shaving-cream spotted bathtub, white among the white.
"Bastard." He backhanded spit and semen from the corner of his mouth with a disgusted look on his face. Michael closed his eyes and smiled wider as Ryan added, "I hope you take silver."