Birthday Fic for Hils! "Second Year Itch."
Wellingbaum fic for hils, for her birthday! Honey, I hope you enjoy this, and I hope your birthday was as wonderful as you are a friend! I love you! Thanks to cinderella81 and dreamwvr73 for the beta.
Second-Year Itch
Author: Lexalicious70
Pairing: Michael Rosenbaum/Tom Welling
Genre: RPS, Humor, mild Hurt/Comfort, Smut
Rating: Hard R
Word Count: 3,198
Summary: It’s the start of filming for the second season of Smallville, but before the filming can begin, Tom has to come to terms with his bourgeoning crush on Michael, who has a slight problem of his own-an itch only Tom can reach.
A/N: For my darling, darling Hils, for her birthday! Love, here’s the RPS you requested, and I hope you enjoy it! I wish you all the best for the coming year, babe, and you know I love you like crazy!
Second-Year Itch
By Lexalicious70
Tom Welling, dressed in Clark’s customary shapeless jeans and blue-and-red flannel shirt, crossed the WB lot as he headed for the trailers where the actors of Smallville spent their time in between takes and when their characters weren’t needed on the set. Most of the trailers were dark and quiet, but the lights were on in the last trailer to the left, the one Tom spent more time in than he did any of the others, even his own-the one that belonged to his costar, Michael Rosenbaum. It was the first day of the second season of filming after summer break, and Tom always stopped at Michael’s trailer so they could walk over to the set together. Tom felt his pulse quicken its pace as he approached the trailer door; he had spent the summer nursing a deep crush on Michael that he hadn’t quite come to terms with, especially in light of his marriage to Jamie, his very female wife. Tom knew he was straight, but there was something in Michael, an energy, an undeniable magnetism, a combination of humor, intelligence, and sexuality that Tom found himself irrevocably drawn to. He was helpless in its wake, and to complicate matters further, he was pretty sure that Michael knew.
Tom climbed the trailer steps and raised a hand to knock on the door when he heard a muffled rasping and a string of curses from inside the trailer. Tom frowned.
“Michael?” He called as he knocked. “It’s me!”
The door’s lock pinged as it unlocked in reply, and Tom pulled it open. He paused as the sight that greeted him left him momentarily speechless; Michael’s head was freshly shaved and made up and he wore a pair of Lex’s black slacks and high quality black leather shoes, but he was shirtless, and Tom tried not to stare at his friend’s lean but very toned chest with its fair, freckle-dusted skin and small dusky nipples, like two drops of warm caramel. Instead of greeting him, Michael turned toward the nearest wall and shimmied against it back-first, bending his knees slightly and arching his hips forward. Tom swallowed and then managed a grin.
“Dancing for me? That’s not the greeting I expected, but I left all my dollar bills back at my trailer.” Tom patted his pockets with exaggerated motions and Michael scowled as he continued to shimmy against the wall.
“I’m not dancing, you bastard!” Michael said through gritted teeth. “It’s my back! It itches! Aghh!” Michael gave a frustrated, strangled sound as he leaned back further into the wall. Tom stepped inside and shut the door.
“I thought all you metrosexual men moisturized and took bubble baths for your sensitive girl skin,” Tom replied with a casual grin, and Michael scowled over at him.
“You’re the ex-model, pretty boy . . . oh God, why aren’t these fucking walls made of stucco?” He pulled away and turned, and Tom’s eyes widened when he saw Michael’s back. It was fair and toned as well, with a wide spray of dark freckles across both shoulders. However, on the horizontal above the small of Michael’s back were three angry, irregular blotches of red. Inside the irritations were small round welts, no doubt the source of the itch. Tom’s skin prickled just looking at them.
“Christ, Michael, what happened?” He asked, and Michael’s back arched again.
“I went down to Mexico with a buddy of mine to the beach this last weekend . . . we goofed around, body surfed, stuff like that. I fell asleep on a towel in the sand, but it wasn’t big enough and I rolled off it. When I woke up, I had all these bites on my back. The doctor says they’re from sand flies. Harmless, mostly, but they itch like hell!” Michael tried to reach first over one shoulder and then up around his back, but the bites were out of reach either way. Tom watched, his green eyes sympathetic.
“Don’t you have any calamine or cortisone?” He asked, and Michael nodded.
“The doctor gave me a tube of this extra-strength itch stuff, but I can’t reach.” Michael rotated his shoulders and Tom watched the play of good muscle under the freckled skin. Michael had reddened the skin a little by rubbing it against the wall, but it was obvious he’d done little to relieve the itch.
“Come here, let me see,” he said, and Michael went to him with the willingness of a man who trusted his friends unconditionally. Tom turned him around, his big hands splaying out across Michael’s bare shoulders. They rose up into his touch almost automatically. Tom ran a hand over the blotches and could feel the prickly heat emanating from them. Michael leaned into the touch.
“Scratch ‘em for me, Tommy. They itch so damn bad!”
“If I do, they’re only going to itch more. Where’s the cream the doctor gave you?”
Michael went over to his jacket that lay slung over a chair in the corner and pulled out a medium-sized tube of medicated cream. A pharmacist’s label covered one side of the blue and white container. He tossed it to Tom.
“Looks like crab medication,” he laughed, and Tom grinned.
“You would know.”
“I know because I went to college, you dick. Those frat houses can get pretty tacky.”
“And how many times did you go diving for shellfish in the frat house pool?” Tom asked, and Michael kicked at him.
“I’ve seen the medication, I’ve never had them!”
“I’ll be sure and tell TV Guide the next time they ask me about you.” Tom looked the tube over. “We have a scene to film in an hour, and you’re only going to itch worse in Lex’s clothes and under the set lights. Come on, I’ll help you.”
“You don’t have to, Tommy.”
“I know. But I’m not going to spend the next twelve hours watching you do different variations of the pee pee dance.” Tom nodded to the couch. “Lie down.”
“I love it when you push me around,” Michael breathed as he mock-widened his lapis-colored eyes, and Tom grinned as he gave Michael a shove in the rear with one big booted foot as his friend laid belly down on the couch. He pillowed his cheek on his folded-up-arms, careful not to smear his makeup, knowing that Natalie, his makeup girl, would give him hell for it. Tom glanced at the tube in his hand.
“It says non-greasy, and that it doesn’t stain or smell. So it’s got more going for it than you do!”
Michael gave a sarcastic and mocking bray of laughter as he rolled his eyes.
“Quit being a fucktard and help me, will you?”
“Okay,” Tom grinned, but he felt his hand shake a little as he spun the cap off the tube. He filled his palm with a sizeable dollop of the beige cream, spread it on both hands, and slicked it over the bumps and red skin. Michael hissed at the contact, and Tom hesitated.
“It hurts?”
“No, it’s cold!”
“Oh. Sorry.” He bent over again and then shook his head. “Hang on . . .” He swung one long leg over Michael and folded it in to place his knee between Michael and the couch, and then lifted the other to place it Michael’s other side until he was straddling his hips. Michael arched into him and Tom bit back a gasp at the motion until he realized that Michael was only adjusting to the press of his weight. He took a deep breath and continued to spread the cream along Michael’s back, the angle much easier now. The older man sighed and relaxed under Tom’s big hands.
“Ohhh, that feels better, Tommy. Been driving me up the wall.” He arched back again and Tom lifted his hips so the small of Michael’s back wouldn’t bump against his groin, where things were starting to gear up despite his best efforts to remain detached about the contact. He worked the cream in until it was no longer visible, and saw that the affected skin was already a bit less red.
“How’s the itching?” Tom asked, mostly to distract himself from how firm Michael’s muscles were under the fair skin.
“Better. God, I was ready to head for the zoo with a sharp stick to poke the bears with so they’d claw me.” He arched his hips back again, and this time the motion had nothing to do with adjustment. “But I knew I could count on you, Tommy.”
“Yeah, of course,” Tom smiled, but even he could hear the tremor in his voice. He swallowed hard. “I mean, we’re pals, right?”
“Best pals,” Michael replied in a sleepy-sounding voice, and the low, throaty sound of it made Tom’s chest feel crowded. He swung a leg over and slid off the couch. Michael glanced up, and Tom went over to the sink.
“All done,” he smiled as he washed his hands. Michael sat up.
“Hey . . . I’m sorry. If you don’t feel the same, it’s cool.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Tom replied as he kept his gaze averted.
“About us being best pals.”
“Don’t be an ass. Of course we are.”
Michael got to his feet. The itching on his back had faded thanks to the cream, but now he was itching someplace else, an itch that had been ignited by Tom’s touch. He thought he’d felt his younger co-star respond to his signals all the previous year, and the slightly less subtle signal he’s given with his hips just now, which, if Tom’s reaction was any indication, had been too much of a signal. He knew that he had to proceed with caution.
“I appreciate you taking care of me.”
“You would have done the same,” Tom replied, and Michael nodded.
“Yeah, course.” He walked up the two risers into the kitchen area, giving Tom room to move but hovering on the fringe of his personal space. Tom still hadn’t turned from the sink, and Michael’s stomach did a sudden lift and drop as he realized that Tom hadn’t run because he was frightened but to hide the fact that he was aroused. Hope glowed in Michael’s chest. He reached out and touched Tom’s hand. “I’d do pretty much anything you asked me, Tom.”
The words hung heavy in the air between them, like the smell of the chemistry two highly compatible people made in a small space. Tom shifted his weight.
“How’s your itch?” He asked, and Michael tightened his grip on Tom’s big hand.
“Actually, I think I might need you to scratch it for me some more.” Throwing caution to the wind, as he so often did, Michael tugged Tom forward as he turned him with the other hand, stepping forward to press his groin into Tom’s very muscular left thigh. Tom cursed softly and Michael reached up to bury a hand in Tom’s hair as he pressed his lips to Tom’s. The sensation of the two soft, red pillows of flesh were hotter than any fantasy Michael had ever entertained about them. Tom made a sound of profound surprise against Michael’s mouth and pulled back. The motion snapped Michael out of his reality and he looked up into Tom’s stunned green eyes. A pin of doubt began to replace the glow in Michael’s chest.
“Tom-”
His next words were cut off as Tom’s big arms encircled his lean waist and he was pulled up against his co-star’s big frame. His lips were then claimed by Tom’s own, over and over, and Michael had to remember to breathe in between kisses as the young man devoured his mouth, murmuring words against his lips. Michael kissed him back, petting Tom’s soft black hair. He envied it briefly, remembering his own dark russet head of hair, and then Tom was moving them back over to the couch. He pushed Michael down and dropped to his knees. Michael watched, his arousal spiking as Tom’s big hands fumbled at the belt he wore, and then undid the button and fly of the slacks he wore. There was no time for hesitation, for questions; Michael lifted his hips as Tom slid the slacks and white boxers down to puddle at Michael’s ankles, revealing an erection that was already standing up stiff and hard. Michael looked down at the young man kneeling between his knees, knowing he was straight and very married; yet, Michael’s own fluid sexual nature reasoned that even though people insisted on labeling themselves as either straight or gay, some chemistry just couldn’t be denied. Michael knew that they were helpless to stop this, even if they had wanted to.
Tom reached out and gripped Michael’s erection, the first male flesh he had ever touched other than his own. It was hot and smooth, like a heated metal rod sheathed in silk. At its base was a thick spiral of wiry, dark roe hair, neatly groomed. Tom grinned a little at that.
“You’re such a metro,” he murmured, and Michael gasped laughter.
“Deal with it,” he replied, his thighs tensing as Tom began to stroke him, and he bit his lower lip as the big, warm hand began a lazy slide up and down his stiff length. His hands tangled in Tom’s thick hair.
“So good, Tommy. So good . . . nothing to it, right? Just two pals who love each other. Oh,
God . . .” Michael moaned as the stroking increased, and although Tom’s touch was inexperienced, it was eager and sincere. Michael’s hips began a slow roll as the rhythm settled into something a bit steadier. His erection quivered in Tom’s big fist. Michael’s head thumped against the back of the couch and he had just one fleeting moment of guilt for Natalie’s makeup job after all before most of the blood in his body went down south, turning his cock into iron and drawing his balls up tight against his body.
“Tom,” he moaned, and Tom’s green eyes lifted to his for just a moment before his body swayed forward. Michael watched, as if hypnotized, and then he wailed softly, briefly, as Tom’s tongue flickered out and tasted the weeping head of his erection. Pulsing tremors surged up and down its length, and Tom grinned almost triumphantly.
“Been wanting that,” he said softly, and the visage of his costar, dressed in Clark Kent’s clothes and projecting that aura of innocence he always did when he was inhabiting Clark was almost too much for Michael, and his thighs trembled.
“Tom . . . you . . .”
“I know.” Tom paused and grinned again with the manner of a man who couldn’t quite believe what he was doing, but was enjoying it just the same. “I know. Shut up.” He laughed, and then the mirth dropped from his expression as his hand began to move faster, his eyes glued to Michael’s erection and the reactions he was milking from it. He watched it quiver and jerk as he slid his hand along it, and then leaned in to lap up the beads of liquid that formed at the tip every few moments. Michael was breathing hard now, his fair skin flushed, his caramel-drop nipples tight and erect. He stroked Tom’s hair and then hesitated before he brought his hands to his own chest and rolled his thumbs and index fingers over them. Tom glanced up, and Michael caught his gaze, his own expression fevered.
“I’m gonna come,” he groaned, and Tom paused long enough to undo his own fly. He hauled out his own erection, and Michael’s eyes widened at its size and length. Apparently, the big hands and big feet indicator was accurate; his friend had one of the biggest cocks he’d ever laid eyes on. “Christ,” he managed, and Tom flashed him a knowing grin before he wrapped his free hand around it and began to flog it in rhythm with Michael’s. Michael watched, the sight arousing him just as much as the sounds and touches, and then his groin was filling with tension and sensation as everything coiled, paused, and then let loose with such intense bursts of pleasure that Michael bit down hard on his lip to keep from crying out. He pinched his own nipples as Tom stroked him hard, leaning forward to catch several ribbons of come with his tongue as Michael spurted hard over his hand. Some dripped from his chin in a sight so erotic that Michael’s cock gave one last eager pulse before everything faded away and left him boneless. He laid there, sprawled and panting as Tom licked his lips and worked his own erection. Michael reached forward and ran his hands through Tom’s hair with affection.
“That’s it Tommy . . . come on . . . come on, yeah!” He grinned as he watched Tom shudder and moan as his thick pole jerked and began to spurt over his own hand and the dust ruffle of the brown couch. He finally wound down and let go of his drooping erection, panting as he wiped off his chin with his other hand. Michael chuckled.
“Messy. I like it messy.”
“This from the guy who’s closet is neater than my mother’s.” Tom replied, and cleaned himself off with a clump of tissues from the box on the end table nearby.
“I said I like this messy. My clothes are a different matter.” He smiled as Tom handed him several tissues. “Thanks. Uh, are you okay?”
Tom nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. I admit, I’ve never done anything like that before, but . . .” he zipped up his jeans and lifted his eyes to Michael. “It’s not like I haven’t done this in my mind a thousand times since we’ve met.”
“I know what you mean.” Michael tucked himself away but was loathe to move from the couch. He felt absolutely fluid. Tom saw the sated look in his eye and chuckled.
“You do realize that we have to leave this trailer and film our scene in about thirty minutes.”
Michael reached up and tugged Tom down next to him on the couch. Tom landed with a thump and a grin, and Michael’s heart seemed to glow as he saw the promise of a future in that smile. He cupped Tom’s chin and kissed him.
“Thirty minutes, hmmm? Plenty of time to find out what other itches we can scratch.”
THE END
Second-Year Itch
Author: Lexalicious70
Pairing: Michael Rosenbaum/Tom Welling
Genre: RPS, Humor, mild Hurt/Comfort, Smut
Rating: Hard R
Word Count: 3,198
Summary: It’s the start of filming for the second season of Smallville, but before the filming can begin, Tom has to come to terms with his bourgeoning crush on Michael, who has a slight problem of his own-an itch only Tom can reach.
A/N: For my darling, darling Hils, for her birthday! Love, here’s the RPS you requested, and I hope you enjoy it! I wish you all the best for the coming year, babe, and you know I love you like crazy!
Second-Year Itch
By Lexalicious70
Tom Welling, dressed in Clark’s customary shapeless jeans and blue-and-red flannel shirt, crossed the WB lot as he headed for the trailers where the actors of Smallville spent their time in between takes and when their characters weren’t needed on the set. Most of the trailers were dark and quiet, but the lights were on in the last trailer to the left, the one Tom spent more time in than he did any of the others, even his own-the one that belonged to his costar, Michael Rosenbaum. It was the first day of the second season of filming after summer break, and Tom always stopped at Michael’s trailer so they could walk over to the set together. Tom felt his pulse quicken its pace as he approached the trailer door; he had spent the summer nursing a deep crush on Michael that he hadn’t quite come to terms with, especially in light of his marriage to Jamie, his very female wife. Tom knew he was straight, but there was something in Michael, an energy, an undeniable magnetism, a combination of humor, intelligence, and sexuality that Tom found himself irrevocably drawn to. He was helpless in its wake, and to complicate matters further, he was pretty sure that Michael knew.
Tom climbed the trailer steps and raised a hand to knock on the door when he heard a muffled rasping and a string of curses from inside the trailer. Tom frowned.
“Michael?” He called as he knocked. “It’s me!”
The door’s lock pinged as it unlocked in reply, and Tom pulled it open. He paused as the sight that greeted him left him momentarily speechless; Michael’s head was freshly shaved and made up and he wore a pair of Lex’s black slacks and high quality black leather shoes, but he was shirtless, and Tom tried not to stare at his friend’s lean but very toned chest with its fair, freckle-dusted skin and small dusky nipples, like two drops of warm caramel. Instead of greeting him, Michael turned toward the nearest wall and shimmied against it back-first, bending his knees slightly and arching his hips forward. Tom swallowed and then managed a grin.
“Dancing for me? That’s not the greeting I expected, but I left all my dollar bills back at my trailer.” Tom patted his pockets with exaggerated motions and Michael scowled as he continued to shimmy against the wall.
“I’m not dancing, you bastard!” Michael said through gritted teeth. “It’s my back! It itches! Aghh!” Michael gave a frustrated, strangled sound as he leaned back further into the wall. Tom stepped inside and shut the door.
“I thought all you metrosexual men moisturized and took bubble baths for your sensitive girl skin,” Tom replied with a casual grin, and Michael scowled over at him.
“You’re the ex-model, pretty boy . . . oh God, why aren’t these fucking walls made of stucco?” He pulled away and turned, and Tom’s eyes widened when he saw Michael’s back. It was fair and toned as well, with a wide spray of dark freckles across both shoulders. However, on the horizontal above the small of Michael’s back were three angry, irregular blotches of red. Inside the irritations were small round welts, no doubt the source of the itch. Tom’s skin prickled just looking at them.
“Christ, Michael, what happened?” He asked, and Michael’s back arched again.
“I went down to Mexico with a buddy of mine to the beach this last weekend . . . we goofed around, body surfed, stuff like that. I fell asleep on a towel in the sand, but it wasn’t big enough and I rolled off it. When I woke up, I had all these bites on my back. The doctor says they’re from sand flies. Harmless, mostly, but they itch like hell!” Michael tried to reach first over one shoulder and then up around his back, but the bites were out of reach either way. Tom watched, his green eyes sympathetic.
“Don’t you have any calamine or cortisone?” He asked, and Michael nodded.
“The doctor gave me a tube of this extra-strength itch stuff, but I can’t reach.” Michael rotated his shoulders and Tom watched the play of good muscle under the freckled skin. Michael had reddened the skin a little by rubbing it against the wall, but it was obvious he’d done little to relieve the itch.
“Come here, let me see,” he said, and Michael went to him with the willingness of a man who trusted his friends unconditionally. Tom turned him around, his big hands splaying out across Michael’s bare shoulders. They rose up into his touch almost automatically. Tom ran a hand over the blotches and could feel the prickly heat emanating from them. Michael leaned into the touch.
“Scratch ‘em for me, Tommy. They itch so damn bad!”
“If I do, they’re only going to itch more. Where’s the cream the doctor gave you?”
Michael went over to his jacket that lay slung over a chair in the corner and pulled out a medium-sized tube of medicated cream. A pharmacist’s label covered one side of the blue and white container. He tossed it to Tom.
“Looks like crab medication,” he laughed, and Tom grinned.
“You would know.”
“I know because I went to college, you dick. Those frat houses can get pretty tacky.”
“And how many times did you go diving for shellfish in the frat house pool?” Tom asked, and Michael kicked at him.
“I’ve seen the medication, I’ve never had them!”
“I’ll be sure and tell TV Guide the next time they ask me about you.” Tom looked the tube over. “We have a scene to film in an hour, and you’re only going to itch worse in Lex’s clothes and under the set lights. Come on, I’ll help you.”
“You don’t have to, Tommy.”
“I know. But I’m not going to spend the next twelve hours watching you do different variations of the pee pee dance.” Tom nodded to the couch. “Lie down.”
“I love it when you push me around,” Michael breathed as he mock-widened his lapis-colored eyes, and Tom grinned as he gave Michael a shove in the rear with one big booted foot as his friend laid belly down on the couch. He pillowed his cheek on his folded-up-arms, careful not to smear his makeup, knowing that Natalie, his makeup girl, would give him hell for it. Tom glanced at the tube in his hand.
“It says non-greasy, and that it doesn’t stain or smell. So it’s got more going for it than you do!”
Michael gave a sarcastic and mocking bray of laughter as he rolled his eyes.
“Quit being a fucktard and help me, will you?”
“Okay,” Tom grinned, but he felt his hand shake a little as he spun the cap off the tube. He filled his palm with a sizeable dollop of the beige cream, spread it on both hands, and slicked it over the bumps and red skin. Michael hissed at the contact, and Tom hesitated.
“It hurts?”
“No, it’s cold!”
“Oh. Sorry.” He bent over again and then shook his head. “Hang on . . .” He swung one long leg over Michael and folded it in to place his knee between Michael and the couch, and then lifted the other to place it Michael’s other side until he was straddling his hips. Michael arched into him and Tom bit back a gasp at the motion until he realized that Michael was only adjusting to the press of his weight. He took a deep breath and continued to spread the cream along Michael’s back, the angle much easier now. The older man sighed and relaxed under Tom’s big hands.
“Ohhh, that feels better, Tommy. Been driving me up the wall.” He arched back again and Tom lifted his hips so the small of Michael’s back wouldn’t bump against his groin, where things were starting to gear up despite his best efforts to remain detached about the contact. He worked the cream in until it was no longer visible, and saw that the affected skin was already a bit less red.
“How’s the itching?” Tom asked, mostly to distract himself from how firm Michael’s muscles were under the fair skin.
“Better. God, I was ready to head for the zoo with a sharp stick to poke the bears with so they’d claw me.” He arched his hips back again, and this time the motion had nothing to do with adjustment. “But I knew I could count on you, Tommy.”
“Yeah, of course,” Tom smiled, but even he could hear the tremor in his voice. He swallowed hard. “I mean, we’re pals, right?”
“Best pals,” Michael replied in a sleepy-sounding voice, and the low, throaty sound of it made Tom’s chest feel crowded. He swung a leg over and slid off the couch. Michael glanced up, and Tom went over to the sink.
“All done,” he smiled as he washed his hands. Michael sat up.
“Hey . . . I’m sorry. If you don’t feel the same, it’s cool.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Tom replied as he kept his gaze averted.
“About us being best pals.”
“Don’t be an ass. Of course we are.”
Michael got to his feet. The itching on his back had faded thanks to the cream, but now he was itching someplace else, an itch that had been ignited by Tom’s touch. He thought he’d felt his younger co-star respond to his signals all the previous year, and the slightly less subtle signal he’s given with his hips just now, which, if Tom’s reaction was any indication, had been too much of a signal. He knew that he had to proceed with caution.
“I appreciate you taking care of me.”
“You would have done the same,” Tom replied, and Michael nodded.
“Yeah, course.” He walked up the two risers into the kitchen area, giving Tom room to move but hovering on the fringe of his personal space. Tom still hadn’t turned from the sink, and Michael’s stomach did a sudden lift and drop as he realized that Tom hadn’t run because he was frightened but to hide the fact that he was aroused. Hope glowed in Michael’s chest. He reached out and touched Tom’s hand. “I’d do pretty much anything you asked me, Tom.”
The words hung heavy in the air between them, like the smell of the chemistry two highly compatible people made in a small space. Tom shifted his weight.
“How’s your itch?” He asked, and Michael tightened his grip on Tom’s big hand.
“Actually, I think I might need you to scratch it for me some more.” Throwing caution to the wind, as he so often did, Michael tugged Tom forward as he turned him with the other hand, stepping forward to press his groin into Tom’s very muscular left thigh. Tom cursed softly and Michael reached up to bury a hand in Tom’s hair as he pressed his lips to Tom’s. The sensation of the two soft, red pillows of flesh were hotter than any fantasy Michael had ever entertained about them. Tom made a sound of profound surprise against Michael’s mouth and pulled back. The motion snapped Michael out of his reality and he looked up into Tom’s stunned green eyes. A pin of doubt began to replace the glow in Michael’s chest.
“Tom-”
His next words were cut off as Tom’s big arms encircled his lean waist and he was pulled up against his co-star’s big frame. His lips were then claimed by Tom’s own, over and over, and Michael had to remember to breathe in between kisses as the young man devoured his mouth, murmuring words against his lips. Michael kissed him back, petting Tom’s soft black hair. He envied it briefly, remembering his own dark russet head of hair, and then Tom was moving them back over to the couch. He pushed Michael down and dropped to his knees. Michael watched, his arousal spiking as Tom’s big hands fumbled at the belt he wore, and then undid the button and fly of the slacks he wore. There was no time for hesitation, for questions; Michael lifted his hips as Tom slid the slacks and white boxers down to puddle at Michael’s ankles, revealing an erection that was already standing up stiff and hard. Michael looked down at the young man kneeling between his knees, knowing he was straight and very married; yet, Michael’s own fluid sexual nature reasoned that even though people insisted on labeling themselves as either straight or gay, some chemistry just couldn’t be denied. Michael knew that they were helpless to stop this, even if they had wanted to.
Tom reached out and gripped Michael’s erection, the first male flesh he had ever touched other than his own. It was hot and smooth, like a heated metal rod sheathed in silk. At its base was a thick spiral of wiry, dark roe hair, neatly groomed. Tom grinned a little at that.
“You’re such a metro,” he murmured, and Michael gasped laughter.
“Deal with it,” he replied, his thighs tensing as Tom began to stroke him, and he bit his lower lip as the big, warm hand began a lazy slide up and down his stiff length. His hands tangled in Tom’s thick hair.
“So good, Tommy. So good . . . nothing to it, right? Just two pals who love each other. Oh,
God . . .” Michael moaned as the stroking increased, and although Tom’s touch was inexperienced, it was eager and sincere. Michael’s hips began a slow roll as the rhythm settled into something a bit steadier. His erection quivered in Tom’s big fist. Michael’s head thumped against the back of the couch and he had just one fleeting moment of guilt for Natalie’s makeup job after all before most of the blood in his body went down south, turning his cock into iron and drawing his balls up tight against his body.
“Tom,” he moaned, and Tom’s green eyes lifted to his for just a moment before his body swayed forward. Michael watched, as if hypnotized, and then he wailed softly, briefly, as Tom’s tongue flickered out and tasted the weeping head of his erection. Pulsing tremors surged up and down its length, and Tom grinned almost triumphantly.
“Been wanting that,” he said softly, and the visage of his costar, dressed in Clark Kent’s clothes and projecting that aura of innocence he always did when he was inhabiting Clark was almost too much for Michael, and his thighs trembled.
“Tom . . . you . . .”
“I know.” Tom paused and grinned again with the manner of a man who couldn’t quite believe what he was doing, but was enjoying it just the same. “I know. Shut up.” He laughed, and then the mirth dropped from his expression as his hand began to move faster, his eyes glued to Michael’s erection and the reactions he was milking from it. He watched it quiver and jerk as he slid his hand along it, and then leaned in to lap up the beads of liquid that formed at the tip every few moments. Michael was breathing hard now, his fair skin flushed, his caramel-drop nipples tight and erect. He stroked Tom’s hair and then hesitated before he brought his hands to his own chest and rolled his thumbs and index fingers over them. Tom glanced up, and Michael caught his gaze, his own expression fevered.
“I’m gonna come,” he groaned, and Tom paused long enough to undo his own fly. He hauled out his own erection, and Michael’s eyes widened at its size and length. Apparently, the big hands and big feet indicator was accurate; his friend had one of the biggest cocks he’d ever laid eyes on. “Christ,” he managed, and Tom flashed him a knowing grin before he wrapped his free hand around it and began to flog it in rhythm with Michael’s. Michael watched, the sight arousing him just as much as the sounds and touches, and then his groin was filling with tension and sensation as everything coiled, paused, and then let loose with such intense bursts of pleasure that Michael bit down hard on his lip to keep from crying out. He pinched his own nipples as Tom stroked him hard, leaning forward to catch several ribbons of come with his tongue as Michael spurted hard over his hand. Some dripped from his chin in a sight so erotic that Michael’s cock gave one last eager pulse before everything faded away and left him boneless. He laid there, sprawled and panting as Tom licked his lips and worked his own erection. Michael reached forward and ran his hands through Tom’s hair with affection.
“That’s it Tommy . . . come on . . . come on, yeah!” He grinned as he watched Tom shudder and moan as his thick pole jerked and began to spurt over his own hand and the dust ruffle of the brown couch. He finally wound down and let go of his drooping erection, panting as he wiped off his chin with his other hand. Michael chuckled.
“Messy. I like it messy.”
“This from the guy who’s closet is neater than my mother’s.” Tom replied, and cleaned himself off with a clump of tissues from the box on the end table nearby.
“I said I like this messy. My clothes are a different matter.” He smiled as Tom handed him several tissues. “Thanks. Uh, are you okay?”
Tom nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. I admit, I’ve never done anything like that before, but . . .” he zipped up his jeans and lifted his eyes to Michael. “It’s not like I haven’t done this in my mind a thousand times since we’ve met.”
“I know what you mean.” Michael tucked himself away but was loathe to move from the couch. He felt absolutely fluid. Tom saw the sated look in his eye and chuckled.
“You do realize that we have to leave this trailer and film our scene in about thirty minutes.”
Michael reached up and tugged Tom down next to him on the couch. Tom landed with a thump and a grin, and Michael’s heart seemed to glow as he saw the promise of a future in that smile. He cupped Tom’s chin and kissed him.
“Thirty minutes, hmmm? Plenty of time to find out what other itches we can scratch.”
THE END