Disclaimer: this imagine is NOT MINE. Credit to the original author, Lene T. I got this from Donatella's Head.

Rating: NC-17

This fic has six parts

***

{part 1}

Mike held himself poised: the lube glistened on the head of his cock and in the cleft of Micky's ass.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" he growled, knowing the answer, and knowing Micky would lie to him.

"Yes," came the weak voice. Micky's head was still buried in the pillow, as if he could hide from the inevitable.

"Say it," Mike whispered, his breath hot on the back of Micky's neck.

"...fuck me..." he managed, as Mike's grip tightened on his wrists. Suddenly pain shot through his shoulder as Mike's sharp teeth bit down on his fair skin. "Fuck me!" he howled.

Then the familiar burning that never lessened as Mike pressed into him, stretching him wide, a slow, agonizing entry, until there was nowhere left to go.

Again Mike held himself still for as long as he could stand it, enjoying the contrast of the incredible heat he was buried in and the cool sweat breaking out all over Micky's slender body. He admired the bite mark he'd left on Micky's shoulder - very proprietary. He's have to do that again, in a more interesting place. Listening to Micky's ragged breathing, knowing how much he hated it like this - it was almost enough to make him come right then. But he wanted more.Mike started to move slowly in and out, almost gently, and was rewarded with a small moan from Micky. He continued for a moment, feeling the body under him relax into pleasure. Now.

"Do you like it like this?" he asked softly. He brushed stray curls away from Micky's face to get a better view.

"Yes - Mike - oh yes- "

"But wouldn't you rather have it *harder*?" He shifted his grip to pin Micky's hands above his head, stretching him out on the bed, making him completely helpless. One hard thrust and Micky gasped, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

"I - no, Mike - don't - " he started, but another, deeper thrust made him cry out. No choice now.

"Say it," Mike ordered

He hesitated.

"Say it!" And that big cock rammed into him again, unyielding, cruel.

"Fuck me harder! Harder! Harder!" he cried, in time with Mike's powerful strokes, the way Mike needed it to be, and Micky would rather have it this way than to be without Mike, or worse, to be with Mike when Mike didn't want him. Better to have those strong hands hurt him, if that was the only way they'll touch him; better to have kisses that bruised his lips than no kisses at all.

Mike's thrusts were getting faster and faster, still deep and hard enough to force a cry from Micky with each stroke, until suddenly he came, with a long throaty groan.

It was over. Micky lay still, his body trembling; he knew better than to move before Mike told him to. For the hundredth time he wondered if it was worth it: Could he continue to pay the price for the privilege of Mike's attentions?

{part 2}

It had all started so differently. He remembered that hot night a year ago: they'd invited dozens of people to the pad for an impromptu party, not an uncommon scene. Micky had recently broken up with the girl he'd been dating for a while; Janice was nice, but she'd gotten tired of waiting for band rehearsals to end and for Micky to stop flirting with all the girls in the audience when they played. There had been several interesting possibilities at the party that night, but no spark with any of them, and he thought he'd try being single for a while. He ended up sitting with Peter and Davy on the living room floor, passing around Peter's bottomless wooden pipe.It was late when Mike got in (late to his own party as usual, Micky thought), and he wouldn't say where he'd been. He quickly shed his leather jacket and joined the rest of them on the floor, looking pleased with himself. The pipe went around, and around, and at some point Micky realized that the party was over; everyone was gone except for Mike and Peter - even Davy had disappeared with a girl. Suddenly all he wanted to do was go to bed, but he could barely straighten his legs, and the mental image of himself crawling up the endless spiral staircase made him dissolve into giggles. "Micky, you should know better than to try to keep up with me," Peter sighed as he regarded his friend, who was now helpless with laughter.

Finally Mike offered to help him up the stairs and he gratefully accepted, knowing Mike would make sure he got to bed safely. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself be propelled across the floor, and when he opened them again he was lying in bed and the moonlight was streaming in through the window of their shared bedroom.

"Come on, Micky, don't sleep in your clothes, man," Mike said, pulling off Micky's shoes and socks. Micky's body felt like it was made of rubber; when he tried to imagine what it would be like to *be* rubber, like in a comic book, he started laughing all over again. Meanwhile Mike wrestled him out of his shirt and pants, complaining all the while.

Micky was sorry that was over - it had been kind of fun to lie there and let someone else do all the work of undressing him. None of the girls he'd slept with had ever been aggressive enough to take the lead: they always waited until he made the first move, and all the other moves too, come to think of it. What he wouldn't give for a simple fuck, without three hours worth of debate to make it happen...

Mike was looking at him curiously, a slight smile on his normally stone face. "Micky, are you OK, man? I've never seen you this wasted before." Micky felt Mike's gaze run up and down his nearly nude body and he realized that he how had a serious hard-on that was threatening to free itself from his tight white jockey shorts.

"I'm fine, I'm so fine, fine fine fine," he sang, making up the tune. "But I wanted to get laid tonight and I didn't. Is that where you were tonight, Mike? Out getting laid?" he asked, genuinely curious. He'd never known Mike to have a steady girl, but he must have been getting some action - after all, he was a good-looking guy, and he could be pretty funny when he wasn't absorbed in the band. The band was everything to Mike; Micky felt lucky that Mike had chosen him to sing his songs. If they made it, it would be because Mike made it happen. Mike deserved a girlfriend, one would who take care of him the way he took care of his bandmates. Poor Mike. All those thoughts tumbled around in his mind like a kaleidoscope until Mike sat down next to him on the narrow bed and laughed.

"Micky, shut up," he drawled, and then he leaned forward and kissed Micky firmly on the lips: the kiss tasted of smoke, and whiskey, and the sweet warm flavor of Mike's mouth. It tasted wonderful. It felt even better. Micky wanted it to last forever. But after a minute - or an hour, Micky couldn't tell - Mike pulled away to take a deep breath.

"Mike, are you - I mean, I didn't think -"

"Don't think anything," he said, as he relieved Micky of his underwear. "I take it where I find it."

Micky's brain struggled to unravel that one, but only for a second, because in the next second Mike's mouth was around his cock, giving him the best blowjob of his life. He shivered; he twitched; he moaned; and when one slim finger worked its way inside him he came hard, arching his back off the bed and into Mike's strong arms.

For several minutes all he could do was lie there and wait for his heart to stop pounding. It had been the most intense orgasm he'd ever felt, and not just because he was still high. When he opened his eyes, Mike was sitting next to him, just like before, just like nothing had happened.

"You OK, Mick?" he asked.

"Uh huh," Micky sighed, since actual words seemed to be eluding him. Mike smiled again, got up, and tossed a blanket over him. AS he turned to leave, Micky's mind finally slammed into gear and he blurted out "But Mike-"

"Micky, be quiet and go to sleep." And he was so surprised that he did.

Next morning - afternoon, really - Micky woke alone in the bedroom with the sun streaming in the window. Another day in paradise, he thought; if only my head didn't feel like it belonged to someone else. Staggering downstairs, he followed the smell of coffee to an empty pot and wanted to cry. Peter was still sitting on the floor, seemingly in the same position he'd been in last night. Davy was nowhere to be seen. And Mike was sitting out on the back porch, reading the paper and drinking the last of that morning's coffee. Had last night really happened the way he thought it did? Had Mike really...he could hardly put words to the memory that was arousing him again. He had to know now, before his imagination got the better of him.

Stepping out into the sun, he coughed self-consciously into his hand and looked out at the ocean. Mike glanced up from the paper for a second.

"About time," Mike muttered.

"I feel like shit. What happened last night, anyway?"

"We had a party, you got completely zonked, I put you to bed." Mike sounded bored.

"Oh. I thought there was something else..." he trailed off, convinced now that he had hallucinated the whole thing.

"Like what?" Mike asked, still focused on the paper.

"I thought you - when you helped me upstairs, that is - I thought you - uh -" This was getting ridiculous.

"Forget it. I'm never going to smoke that much dope again. Did you leave any coffee in the can?" Mike didn't answer and Micky started back in, annoyed as well as embarrassed now.

"Hey," Mike called. He waited until Micky turned to face him. 

"Did you like it?" And he did something so rare that Micky could count the number of times it had happened: he grinned from ear to ear. Which made Micky so much more embarrassed that he did something he never did: he blushed a deep red under his tan.

You're such a bastard, Mike," he said, slamming the door closed. Mike's laughter followed him through the house and back to his bedroom, where he thought he might spend the rest of his life.

{part 3}

A sharp slap on his ass jolted Micky from his bittersweet memory. Turning his head slightly, he could see that Mike was already dressed and ready to go.

"Come on, Micky, get up. We'll be late." Mike pulled his boots on and almost smiled to himself. The party they were supposed to be attending had started an hour ago, so they still had another hour or so before they'd actually be "late". Micky had thought it would be enough time for them to spend making love slowly and carefully, but Mike had had other ideas.

"No. I don't want to go." He pressed his face back into the pillow, not caring if Mike got pissed off.

"What's wrong, Mick?"

"I don't feel like going to a party. Just leave me alone." He knew he sounded like a sulky teenager, but he figured he was entitled to a little pity.

"Micky...Micky," Mike said softly, letting his hand run along Micky's smooth back. "Don't be like this, babe. You just gonna sit here alone all night and be miserable? That ain't no way to spend your time.

"Look at me." He turned Micky over and pulled him into a sitting position. "Tell me what you want."

"I just want -" And he realized he didn't know what he wanted. To stop having sex with Mike? No, he sure as hell didn't want that: most of the time it was too good to believe. A little less violence with the sex? But that was what made it so good, even if it meant he had to be Mike's boy toy sometimes, and he loved having this secret life of pain and pleasure with someone he could trust completely. What he really wanted was... "Can we skip the party and just go get a drink? Let's just sit around and...*talk*."

Mike laughed. "I'm buying."

Late that night Micky lay in bed alone, feeling as happy as he'd been in a long time. He and Mike had had a great time on their own, talking about music and the band and girls and a million other things that made him remember how sweet his life really was. He'd even told Mike about that new girl he'd been seeing, Christine, a tall blond chick who worked as a nurse at the county hospital and who didn't mind liberating prescription drugs once in a while. He'd have to clue Peter in to that. For some reason he wasn't sleepy, even though it was well past 2 am; he thought about waking up Mike, but he decided to take matters into his own hands and use the one sure-fire path to total relaxation. Quickly slipping off his underwear, he let his thoughts roam until he found a likely focus for his fantasy. Funny how he'd been thinking of the first time Mike has sucked him off; the second time had been so much better...

A few weeks had passed since that drug-soaked night and Micky was beginning to wonder if Mike even remembered what had happened. He'd been his usual self - intense, taciturn, in general about as cuddly as a cactus - and all four of them had been busy with a flurry of performances that put some much-needed money in their pockets. There was even talk of a recording session.

Micky bounced in the door after a date and was surprised to find Mike sitting on the couch, strumming his acoustic guitar. Mike had been gone a lot lately, sometimes on band business, sometimes just gone. He knew Peter and Davy were gone - they were double-dating the Delaney sisters. This was actually the first time they'd been alone since the party.

The last notes of the song he'd been playing faded away when Mike turned suddenly to Micky. "You never answered my question."

"What?"

"You never answered me." Mike fixed him with a penetrating gaze. "Did you like it?"

Clearly Mike hadn't forgotten, and he wasn't going to pussyfoot around the issue. Micky stared right back. "You know I did. Did*you* like it?"

"I'd like to do it again."

Micky took that as his cue and moved to sit next to Mike on the couch. "Does that mean you want me to stay here with you?" He couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth - he felt positively bold. Little shivers of excitement ran through him and came to rest in his cock, which was responding quickly to Mike's hungry look.

Mike put his guitar down carefully on the floor. "Micky. Last time was just fun, you understand? But I won't waste no time foolin' around. You want to do this, you do what I say." He grabbed both Micky's wrists easily in one hand, holding him tight, and tangled the other in Micky's soft brown curls. "All or nothing, babe."

Micky knew what that meant. Fear and excitement fought for space in his heart as he focused on Mike's lips. "Okay," he murmured.

The grip on his wrists tightened. "I will take you places you ain't never dreamed of. You're mine now," Mike breathed. His voice had changed subtly, now deeper and more commanding; it sent a sharp thrill through Micky's groin. The smile on Mike's face was cruel and confident. He squeezed Micky's wrists even harder, driving the point home, knowing how much it hurt as the small bones ground together.

"Please don't -" Micky started, the pain forcing tears to his eyes. Abruptly Mike released him and turned away.

"Then leave. Or stay. But do it because it's what you want to do." Mike's voice crackled with anger.

Micky sat perfectly still for a long minute.

"Well?"

"I'll stay a little longer," Micky ventured.

"How many minutes do you graciously offer me?" Mike spat.

"I only meant -"

"I'm sick of this. Now you have to ask me to stay." There was another, longer silence.

"I'd like to stay. Please," Micky whispered.

Mike turned back, deadly serious. He reached out to caress Micky's cheek and let his hand rest at the base of his throat. "You have to trust me. Will you?"

Micky felt hypnotized. What was he agreeing to? What the hell would Mike do to him? He'd never felt such a sense of danger before; but somehow it was turning him on so much he thought he might come in his pants right then. Mike was still waiting for his response: the fingers athis throat dug in ever so slightly.

"I promise - I'll do anything you ask," he said, and he knew there was no going back.

Mike looked him over, a long, appraising stare. "Take off your clothes."

Micky glanced nervously at the door. "But what if they -"

"Forget it," Mike said curtly as he started to get up.

"No! No, don't go - I'm sorry - " Micky implored, knowing he wouldn't get another chance to make a mistake. He frantically unbuttoned his shirt as he looked into Mike's dark eyes, trying to communicate his willingness to be obedient. Soon he sat naked on the wooden floor at Mike's feet, hoping he'd been fast enough.

Mike leaned back into the couch, letting the silence stretch between them. Finally, just when Micky thought it was all over, he said, "Lie down on the couch."

Instantly Micky scrambled to comply, putting some pillows under his head and his feet against Mike's leg. His erection, which had faded a little on contact with the cool air, began to rise steadily as he wondered what was in store. At least he'd remember it all this time.

Mike turned to face him, his expression unreadable. With one hand he traced a line up Micky's left leg, along his inner thigh, up his belly and chest till he stopped at his parted lips. Micky forced himself to lie still even though he was dying to move; he was rewarded with a long, deep kiss as Mike stretched out, still fully clothed, on top of him. Fingertips brushed his cheek, but when Micky moved to do the same, he was stopped cold.

"No." Mike pushed Micky's arms above his head and frowned. "Don't move. Not unless I say so."

Micky swallowed nervously and nodded. He was going to have to learn these rules, and fast, if he was going to stay in the game. Something in the back of his mind told him that he'd just stepped way out of his league, but the feel of Mike's mouth on his neck, soft kisses and sharp little bites, made him ignore everything but the desire racing through him. Mike moved lower, concentrating on one rosy nipple so tight and hard: first touching his tongue to the point, then covering it with his mouth and biting down hard, so hard that Micky yelped and tried to twist away from the arms that held him pinned to the couch; but then Mike sucked on the bruised flesh and the gentle warmth of his mouth felt a hundred times better than before.

The burning kisses continued slowly down his chest, following the treasure trail straight down to his stiff cock - but at the last minute Mike detoured around it and fastened his lips to a very tender bit of skin just inside his left hipbone. Micky moaned his frustration, then again, louder, when Mike's long fingers raked lightly across his balls. He pushed his hips up, desperate for more contact, but Mike wasn't about to give in now.

"Mike - please - please -" he groaned, clutching the pillow behind his head.

"Please what?"

"Oh, god, please! Just touch me - please touch me -" he begged, and saw Mike's face soften into a look of pure delight.

"Like this?" Mike asked. He touched his index finger lightly to the tip of Micky's cock, already wet with fluid; then he brought it to Micky's mouth, rubbing it against his lower lip.

"Suck it," he ordered, and once again Micky obeyed, eager to please. He'd never sucked a cock before, but he had a feeling he'd learn how pretty soon, and working on this finger seemed a good place to start. He closed his eyes and tried to do what he remembered Mike doing to him, first sucking gently, then nibbling delicately on Mike's fingertip, licking it like an ice cream cone, and finally sucking again, this time with determination. He was surprised at how much he enjoyed it, how sexy it was, and he was truly sorry when Mike pulled away.

"Very good. Don't forget how to do that. Now what else would you like me to do, exactly?" he drawled.

"Just - last time, like last time," Micky said, not wanting to say out loud what he'd been thinking about every night before he went to bed.

"Last time what?"

"Mike, you know what I mean," he said, dropping his gaze to where Mike's hand hovered near his throbbing cock

"I won't know unless you tell me," Mike replied, stern again. Now Micky understood: another game. He would have to force himself to say the words.

"I want you to - to - please -" - his voice dropped to a whisper - "suck my cock." He'd said those same words to a dozen girls and he'd never been embarrassed, but saying them to Mike was like confessing a mortal sin.

"Say it like you mean it, boy," Mike said. "Louder."

"I want your mouth on my cock and I want you to suck me hard and - and -"

"And? And what? Say it!"

"I want you to make me come!" he cried in desperation.

That brought the smile back. "Well, now, maybe I will." He took a moment to survey the scene before him, his gaze lingering on all the delicious details; Micky was acutely aware of how vulnerable he was, naked, aroused, and helpless to move. He'd never seen Mike look at anyone the way he was looking at him, and he felt selfishly proud that he was the object of Mike's smoldering desire.

Micky closed his eyes and spread his legs even wider, offering himself, and willing Mike to release him from his sweet torture; and finally, finally, those lips closed on him, embracing him completely -

But only for a moment, and then he was left alone again, thrusting up into empty air. He wanted to cry. Mike had ordered him not to move, but how could he stay still when every cell in his body was screaming for release?

"Please, no more." he pleaded.

Then he drew his breath in sharply as Mike's finger slipped inside him, slowly at first, probing carefully deeper until it reached its goal: a place Micky hadn't known existed inside him but which was suddenly the center of all his pleasure. A magic button. Mike seemed to know exactly how to push that button; with his finger pressed completely into Micky's body he started to stroke that sensitive spot gently, watching the tension in Micky's face dissolve into an expression of sheer astonishment at how incredibly good it felt.

Very soon Micky didn't care about anything but the finger on his button and the orgasm he felt building in his balls and his spine. His hips moved automatically and his cock slapped his belly with each jerking motion. Just a little more, a little more, oh god don't stop now.

"Micky," Mike called softly, slowing his magic massage. "Open your eyes, babe."

"Huh? What?" Confused, he tried to focus. "If you stop now I'm going to die. I mean it."

Mike laughed. "Just wanted to make sure you were still with me. You get your wish now." And with that he bent his head to work on Micky's shaft, moving in a rhythm to match the strokes of his finger. Micky felt himself begin to tremble all over and then he came explosively, with another jolt every time Mike touched him deep inside, and the warm mouth on his cock stayed with him, sucking every last drop out of him, until he just couldn't come any more. A stray thought darted through his mind, wondering how many cocks Mike had sucked to get this good at giving head.

When he could breathe again Micky looked around and was mildly surprised to find that nothing had changed. It was only his own reality that had just been altered. While he pondered this Mike slid up next to him on the couch to deliver a lingering kiss.

"You are somethin' else, babe," he said. "Don't never change."

"Uh...OK. Can I move now?" Micky's arms were really starting to ache, and he felt glued to the couch: god knows what the other guys would think had taken place there.

"Here." Mike drew him into an embrace. They stayed like that for a few minutes; Micky could feel the sizable bulge in Mike's jeans pressing into his thigh.

"Mike? Do you want me to, uh, you know."

"Not tonight. You gave me what *I* really wanted. We got time for that later. We got all the time in the world."

Micky didn't really understand but right then he didn't really care, and so he let himself be held in comfortable silence while he thought of all the places he'd never been to.

{part 4}

     Micky sat down on the couch and looked around the room again. He was bored. It was four o'clock, and he didn't need to be at the club till seven, when he would meet the guys for a soundcheck and dinner. A two week stint as house band had plenty of advantages to make up for the lousy pay: free food, free drinks, and the luxury of just showing up and playing without having to drag the equipment in and set up every night. Just show up on time and play till two, thank you and don't forget to tip your bartender. Almost like a real job. No wonder he was bored.

At least he was getting laid. Between fucking Christine, his girlfriend, and the occasional, unexpected, but always amazing blowjob from Mike, he felt well taken care of in that department. In fact, the more he had of it, the more it seemed to be available: there were two girls at the club who had clearly shown interest. Maybe tonight was the night to accept an invitation.

It was too cold to go back out on the beach, plus he didn't feel like getting back into his wet trunks. The TV was broken. He'd finished reading all the books they'd found in a box outside the library. Sighing, he picked up the stack of magazines next to the couch, knowing what was there: Mike's car monthlies, six copies of a music rag that they'd been mentioned in, Peter's assorted literary journals...he'd been through them all before. But there was something new, hiding near the bottom of the pile. "Razzle"? The girl on the front cover smiled at him and seemed happy without her shirt; the ones inside seemed happier with no clothes at all. Suddenly he wasn't bored anymore.

Micky wondered why it wasn't up in the bathroom cupboard with all their other porn, and then as he turned the page to the centerfold he knew. There she was, looking as luscious and lusty as she had when Davy had introduced her last weekend - Donna? Dinah? No, Deanna, that was it, and now he knew why Davy kept telling them she was a model, and understood Peter's surprised expression when she'd handed him her "portfolio". He hadn't realized it was a skin magazine, from England no less. Maybe she really was English, although with that weird accent she could be from another planet.

But, oh, those mind-blowing tits. They looked even better than he'd imagined, round and firm and squeezable. He guessed that Davy was doing just that right now; who knows, he might even get the chance to do it himself. Davy wasn't usually too selfish about his casual partners, and Micky doubted there would ever be anything serious between them.

In the meantime, he had this picture of her naked, bending over slightly so that her long curly black hair framed her face and her breasts, looking straight at the camera like she had just seen her favorite lover. An artistic triumph. And here Micky was alone, conveniently wearing nothing but a towel with a bottle of suntan lotion sitting next to him. So he sank back into the pillows and imagined what it would be like to spend a few days with his face buried between her creamy white thighs.

Which was just when Mike walked in. Micky had been so lost in his fantasy that he hadn't heard Mike's truck pull up, and now he was caught in the act. He hurriedly tried to pull the towel over his crotch but it didn't do much to hide his raging hard-on. He thought vaguely that Mike might be angry with him - for what, he wasn't sure - but instead Mike smiled, dropping his keys on the table.

"What are you up to, Mick?" he asked casually.

"Oh, nothing, just.you know.playing solitaire," he said, pushing the magazine back on the floor. That would be funny if it weren't so pathetic, he thought.

"Don't let me stop you," Mike said, falling into the chair opposite him.

"Since when did solitaire become a spectator sport?"

"Since I said so." He settled back, eyes half closed. When Micky hesitated, the smile vanished and his voice became dark and commanding.

"Micky. I said do it." It was clear that refusing wasn't an option. I shouldn't be doing this; it's not right; why does he want to watch me jerk off? Mike's eyes were intense, focused only on him; Micky could almost taste Mike's need. And just like before, that thrill of fear and desire shot through Micky and took care of any fears he had about performance.

Well, he thought, here I am in the spotlight. Better put on a good show. He took the bottle and poured a generous amount of lotion into his hands, made a big production out of warming it between his palms, then twitched aside the towel to reveal his very erect cock, its rosy flush contrasting nicely with his tanned hands and body. Slowly he began to stroke himself up and down the full length of his shaft, pausing at the bottom to massage his balls; all the while he was very aware of Mike's unblinking gaze fastened on him. He'd never touched himself in front of Mike before, never been allowed to; strangely, he didn't feel embarrassed, just nervous about doing it right. He wanted so badly to please.

He blew out a long sigh, closed his eyes and moved his hand a little faster, falling easily into the familiar rhythm, a squeeze here, a feather touch there, all working steadily towards a rapidly building climax. He held an image of Deanna in his mind, her tits pressed against his chest and her full sweet lips covering his as she wriggled in his lap.

"Tell me, Micky," Mike demanded. "Tell me what's in your head."

Micky struggled to make the words come out in order. "...Davy's girlfriend...she's so sexy...I - I just want to get inside her - she's hot and wet - ohhhh - I could fuck her hard - so hard - god, the way she'd come - oh - I - " and he came himself in three long waves of sensation that left him weak and giddy.

Across from him Mike sat unmoving, seemingly unaffected by what he'd just seen except for his rigid cock pressed tight against the front of his jeans. As Micky lazily wiped sticky drops off his belly, he wondered why Mike was such a freak when it came to sex. When he was in the mood, he wanted Micky to be naked as soon as possible, yet he'd never so much as unbuttoned the top of his shirt. In the years they'd lived together in the house he'd never even seen Mike in his underwear; on the hottest day of the year, on the beach, Mike would still be wearing his jeans and checkered shirt.

Every time Mike had blown him, Micky had wanted to get him off in return, but Mike had always put him off with some variation of "not yet". He was obviously turned on, but why didn't he want to get his rocks off? Micky decided he'd had enough of that shit - time to do something about it.

He stretched luxuriously and gave Mike his best slow, sexy smile. "Well?"

"Well what?" Mike's voice was strained.

"Is that what you wanted?" Micky dropped down on all fours and crawled across the floor to kneel in front of him. "Don't you want more from me?"

"Not now, babe-"

"Bullshit." Micky reached between Mike's legs to stroke the impressive bulge staring him in the face. "Let me. Please. Let me taste you. I want to do it. I want to so bad," he whispered.

Mike stared back, struggling to resist. "Micky, you are such a whore."

"Then I'm your whore, aren't I?"

That did it. Mike slumped back in the chair and reached for his belt buckle. "OK, then, get to work. But close your eyes. And keep 'em closed."

It was easier, Micky thought, to do this with your eyes closed anyway. Mike guided his hand to the right place and at last Micky had what he wanted. Mike's cock was thick and hard, rooted in a nest of sweaty curls, standing straight and tall. Micky stroked him a few times and then experimentally touched his tongue to the silky head; Mike sighed and Micky took that as encouragement to continue. He opened his mouth and let the head rest on his tongue, then slowly drew it in to take as much of the shaft into his mouth as he could - which wasn't much, since it was big to start with and seemed to be getting bigger. How the hell was he supposed to take this up his ass? Maybe there was magic involved; anyway, he'd worry about that later.

In the meantime he focused on not gagging, and keeping his front teeth out of the way. He rolled his tongue around, exploring textures and tastes, discovering a ring of tight skin just below the head - Mike was uncircumcised! Micky filed that fact away for future reference. He still wasn't sure if he was doing it right, although he was getting turned on again himself. He could hear Mike's breathing get deeper and more ragged when he moved smoothly up and down, so he closed his lips tightly around the shaft and sucked hard.

Mike's hands gripped his shoulders, forcing Micky's head closer; then he gave a stuttering gasp and came in a great gush of hot liquid. Micky had no choice but to hold still till Mike was done and then, very reluctantly, he swallowed, and let Mike's still-hard cock leave his mouth.

Fastest blowjob in the west, Micky thought: that couldn't have lasted more than a minute. The last time Mike had done him it seemed to go on for hours. Next time he'd do better - that is, if Mike gave him the chance.

The taste lingered in his mouth - salty, sweet, bitter - and he wondered if his own come tasted like that.

"Mike?"

"Just a minute." He felt Mike shifting in the chair and heard the zip go up. "Look at me, babe."

Micky thought he had never seen Mike look so tired.

"Was it good?"

"A little too good. You OK?"

"Better than OK," Micky laughed, and then turned serious. "I want to do it again next time." No response. "Please."

"Micky, I can't -" he broke off.

"Can't what?"

"It's...not easy for me." He fixed his gaze on the arm of the chair, speaking carefully as if he had just told Micky some terrible secret. Micky had no idea what he was talking about, why it was so hard to let Micky blow him, so he decided the best thing to do was to accept it and wait for more to be revealed.

"It's OK. I just want you to be satisfied."

Mike smiled at that. "Don't worry about that, babe. I find you very.satisfying."

A few weeks later they hit the road for a week of one-nighters up the California coast, which meant a lot of driving on narrow, winding roads during the day and a lot of fresh faces to choose from in the evenings. They all got laid every night - well, Micky assumed the others were getting some action, but he was too busy fucking college girls in closets and cars to know for sure. All he did know was that as soon as the gear was packed up, the four of them took off in separate directions and eventually ended up staggering in to their cheap motel rooms in the early morning. It was exhausting and scary and it was the most fun he'd ever had.

The last gig was in a seaside town called Santa Cruz: they had to play outdoors on the boardwalk until very late, then get up early the next day to drive back to LA for an opening slot at the Whisky. For once they decided to skip the sex and drugs and just try to get some sleep in the free room they were given.

Which turned out to be less than ideal, in that it was one big room with two large double beds. It wouldn't be the first time they'd had to double up, but Micky thought it might just be the perfect opportunity for a little surprise.

The room was hot even with the windows wide open and yet there was Mike, wearing his pajamas, while Davy and Peter had already stripped down to their underwear. Micky went into the tiny bathroom and spent a long time washing up, fussing with his hair, and generally wasting time until the others might be asleep.

He'd timed it exactly right. All three of them were dead to the world, and Davy was snoring. Even better. Micky padded quietly to the bed containing the object of his plan: Mike lay on his side, the sheet pulled close around him, his lips slightly parted, his black hair curling delicately around the ear that was visible. For once he didn't look pissed off about something; in fact, he looked kind of cute. Gee, Mike, Micky thought, girls might like you if you'd just lighten up a little.

Micky slipped into bed next to him and very carefully began to slide his arm around Mike's narrow waist. Pleased that he'd managed to do that much without waking him, he reached down and let his fingers brush Mike's crotch gently but insistently. Mike began to stir as his cock responded to the overture, and frowning, he mumbled, "No.Nona, cut it out."

Nona? Who the fuck was that? Never mind, Micky decided, there'd be time for a quiz later on. He slid his fingers into the waistband of Mike's underwear and in one quick movement curled his hand around that beckoning erection. Mike gave a little moan, then jerked awake as he realized where he was and who was holding on to his dick.

"Micky!" he hissed. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Shhh, you'll wake them up," Micky whispered. He shifted his hand even lower until he had Mike, quite literally, by the balls.

"You stop this right now or - " Mike's frantic whisper turned into a strangled sigh as Micky caressed a particularly sensitive spot between his legs.

"If you don't stop making noise they'll wake up and want to know why I'm holding on to your huge hard-on." Micky put his lips close to Mike's ear. "So why don't you just let me." He began to stroke Mike's very warm shaft while he sucked on a delicate earlobe. This was way more fun than he'd thought it would be.

Mike grabbed his wrist painfully hard and tried again: "Micky, I mean it - " But he froze into silence as Davy sat up, punched his pillow, and settled back to sleep again.

"Shhhh." Micky continued his slow caresses, feeling Mike grow even hotter and more stiff in his hand. Knowing how turned on Mike was got him hard, too, but he ignored it and concentrated on Mike. Deep down he knew he wasn't really forcing Mike to do this - Mike could have easily twisted his wrist hard enough to break it - but the danger of being caught was real.

Right now it looked as though he'd given up fighting. Mike's eyes were shut and his lips were pressed tightly together as if he were trying very hard to do something, or not to do something. Micky rolled him on to his back and with practiced skill pulled his pajama bottoms and underwear down to his knees, exposing him to Micky's hungry gaze. Mike drew in his breath sharply when the ocean air, a little cooler now, made contact with his skin. Resuming his firm grasp on Mike's cock, Micky tried to figure out why Mike as so paranoiacally modest. He looked good in his clothes; he looked very good out of them. His skin, without the benefit of the sun, was the whitest Micky had ever seen, and seemed translucent in the moonlight. When he moved the muscles rippled under his skin, not an ounce of body fat anywhere on him. The fine black hair on his flat belly ran down into a generous thatch around his cock, where Micky let his fingers wander. Better get this show on the road, he decided, and curled over Mike's half dressed body to take his pulsing erection into his mouth.

This time he was prepared, and, remembering what had set off Mike's rocket last time, he avoided long deep strokes and instead licked and nibbled around the satiny head, up and down the rigid shaft, and finally pressed his tongue flat against Mike's hefty balls. God, he tastes good, Micky thought; I never thought I'd want to do this and now I don't want to stop.

Davy's snoring was loud enough to drown out any noise from their side of the room, which was a good thing, since Mike was getting so close to the edge that he couldn't keep quiet. When Micky raked his nails lightly across his scrotum, Mike sighed; when Micky wrapped his hand firmly around the shaft he bit back a moan; and when Micky touched his tongue delicately to the slit, wet with fluid, he actually whimpered.

Micky paused for a moment to study Mike's face: he was totally lost in the moment, living in the rush of sensation. I did that, he realized; it's hard work but for once I made him feel the way he makes me feel every single time. He had a sudden pang of sadness and didn't know why.

And just like before, he opened his mouth wide to finish the job, and just like before, it took only a few seconds before Mike's hips rose off the bed as he erupted in a trembling orgasm. But this time, after he'd made himself swallow the hot thick liquid, Micky rolled his cock around in his mouth until it was soft, not wanting to let go.

Davy turned on his side and quit snoring, so Micky moved as quietly as he could to pull up Mike's clothes and lie down next to him. The sweat shone on Mike's forehead; impulsively Micky leaned over to kiss it, tasting salt. Mike slowly opened his eyes.

"So? What was that for?" he whispered.

"Cause I'm your whore," Micky replied, grinning. Mike stifled a laugh.

"I will get you back for this."

"Oh, good," Micky sighed, and soon fell asleep. But Mike lay awake for a long time.

{part 5}

The truck rattled over the broken pavement, sending Micky up in the air each time they hit a pothole. He'd never been to this scary part of LA before and wondered how Mike knew where the hell he was.

"Where are we going?"

"Shut up," Mike answered curtly, pitching his cigarette butt out the window into the night. That was another thing - since when did Mike smoke? Once they'd gotten into the truck and driven away from the club he'd ignored Micky completely.

The evening had started out so well. A night off from playing, and they were invited to the opening of a new club where the drinks would be free and the music very very loud. Micky felt restless and horny and neglected. The affair with Christine has petered out shortly after she'd latched on to someone new at the hospital, a weird-looking foreign guy in the lab with no sense of humor; that was the end of his regular sex, and of free drugs, too. Mike had started a new sideline fixing motorcycles, which meant more money coming into the house; but he was away a lot and when he was home he was dead tired. Or maybe he wasn't gone much more than before, but it was just that Micky noticed it now. In any case, Micky's personality demanded that someone pay attention to him.

He put on the new white trousers he'd bought that very day. They were so tight that underwear was out of the question; besides, he thought he looked sexier without it. He spent some time in the bathroom arranging himself, then rubbed his cock through the front of his pants and stepped back to admire the effect. A perfect and enticing package.

Back in the bedroom, Mike watched him pull on his shirt - a purple paisley number with bell sleeves and a big loose collar - and said, "I sure wouldn't mind unwrapping that later." He came up behind Micky, standing as close as he could get without touching him.

"I thought maybe you weren't interested anymore." Part of Micky was happy that Mike still wanted him, but mostly he was annoyed that Mike thought he could just pick up where they left off without even an apology. For what, he wasn't exactly sure, but he knew he deserved one. And in any case, he was going to get laid tonight, whether by Mike or someone he met at the club. It was just a matter of time.

"I'm always interested, babe." Mike tried to press Micky's ass back against his hips but Micky pushed him away and finished dressing. "And just why are you acting this way, exactly?"

"Maybe I want something new," Micky answered: it was half a lie, just to piss Mike off, but half true, too. The last few times they'd been together had been completely predictable; Mike had gotten him naked immediately and sucked him off, and that was that. Sure, they were still the best blowjobs he'd ever had, but he was starting to miss giving something back. He'd given head to Mike exactly twice and still hadn't seen him completely undressed, much less been allowed to touch him during sex. And the novelty he'd found so exciting was gone. He wanted more.

Mike regarded him coolly. "What I got for you is so new it don't have a name."

"Prove it," Micky tossed over his shoulder as he went downstairs.

"Prove what?" Peter asked, looking up from his seat on the couch. Micky hadn't meant for anyone to hear that, but he decided to use it to stir up some trouble.

"That Mike can still pick up chicks. I said he wouldn't get laid tonight and he thinks he will."

"Are we having a contest?" asked Davy, joining the conversation. He too was dressed to the nines, and even Peter was resplendent in a red silk tunic. They turned to look at Mike as he came down the stairs: at least he had put on a clean pair of jeans, and had even managed a bolo tie with his white shirt.

"Yes," Micky said in his best announcer's voice. "The contest is on, gentlemen. Whoever gets laid first tonight is the winner, the big winner, and gets bragging rights in this house for an entire week, along with an all-expense-paid trip for two to fabulous Las Vegas."

"Based on what he's wearing tonight, I think Micky will win," Peter stated.

"Based on what he's wearing tonight, I think Micky will get arrested," Mike deadpanned.

That brought general laughter, but Mike looked directly at Micky and let his anger show for just a moment. Good, Micky thought; at least I'm getting some kind of reaction out of him. About fucking time.

Later, at the club, things had gotten nasty. They'd staked out a prime table and used it for a home base between drinks and dancing and seeing and being seen. Mike didn't dance, so he stayed put and observed the scene when he wasn't deep in conversation with people Micky didn't know. For his part, Micky was attracting a lot of attention and eventually settled on a beautiful blonde woman named Natasha who danced so close to him that her perfume rubbed off on his shirt. He knew Mike was watching him and didn't care.

At some point they all ended up at the table and threw back a round of shots. "So, who's winning?" Davy asked, looking smug. "I've got my ticket to Vegas."

"Hey, not so fast - mine is ready to go right now," Micky said, glancing in Tasha's direction. He pulled his attention away from her breasts and looked directly at Mike. "Guess you lose tonight, partner."

"Yeah, Mike, when was the last time you got any? Didn't you used to have a girlfriend once upon a time?" Davy couldn't resist rubbing it in. Mike rolled his eyes and ordered more shots.

"I don't think Mike ever gets laid. He's too uptight," Micky said. Mike shot him a warning glance, clearly marked "entering dangerous territory". Davy and Peter, sensing that the conversation had just taken a strange turn, waited to see if Micky would continue baiting Mike

"Or maybe he just quit liking girls. Maybe he's crossed over to the other side."

"Mick, you shouldn't say that. Mike has lady friends," Peter said, trying to prevent a fight.

"How would you know?" Micky asked, incredulous. Peter and Mike exchanged a look.

"We have.mutual friends," Peter said. "You don't know them."

"You mean that motorcycle crowd? Maybe that's where all that extra money comes from - engine repairs and blowjobs on the side!"

Silence descended on their table amidst all the noise and music. Davy tossed down the rest of his drink and stood to leave, shaking his head. "I dunno what your problem is, but you're on your own, mate," he said, and got the hell out of there.

"Very uncool, Micky," Peter said. "You really need to learn some manners. And we have a far more pressing matter: we're out of meth. Mike, I was hoping you could speak to our mutual friends about it." He slipped Mike a handful of bills under the table. "I'd do it myself, but...you know."

"I'm on it." Speed was Mike's favorite drug. He stuffed the money in his pocket and walked around the table; at the very last moment he paused and dug his fingers into Micky's shoulder. "And you're coming with me."

Eventually they pulled into the parking lot of a bar - a biker bar, from what he could see. Loud music blared from the open windows, punctuated by screaming laughter and the sound of bottles breaking. Five or six big leather-clad guys sat on their Harleys in the lot, talking quietly. They nodded in a familiar way to Mike as he approached; obviously they were on good terms.

"She up there?" Mike asked, jerking his chin upwards, towards a dimly lit door at the top of a flight of wooden stairs outside the bar.

"No, man, gone for the weekend." The one who answered him, an older dude with a beard, looked Micky up and down. Mike, in his jeans and fringed jacket, didn't stand out here, but Micky must have looked like he just stepped out of the circus. He tried to look nonchalant.

Mike nodded his thanks and started up the stairs.

"Hey, man, I hope you're gonna share that," the dude called, and the rest of the group burst out laughing.

"Fuck you, Bear," Mike said, not even turning around. He unlocked the door with a key from his ring - why did he have a key to this place on his ring? - and walked straight through the apartment, leaving

Micky to close the door. It was clean but cluttered with bike parts, drug paraphernalia, and clothes - women's clothes. It didn't belong to the guys downstairs, then. Maybe he really did have a girlfriend, and this was where she lived? The vodka he'd had wasn't making him any less confused. They were supposed to be scoring speed, and now they were in some weird biker place where no one was home and the music thumped beneath his feet and just what the hell was going on anyway?

"Mike?" he called, peering tentatively into a dark room lit by a tiny lamp on the floor, where he could just make out a bed. Suddenly a hand grabbed the front of his shirt, yanked him through the doorway and slammed him against the wall. Mike gripped his arms hard and lifted him clear off the floor till they were eye to eye. He was well and truly pissed.

Oh, shit, Micky thought. I think I'm gonna die.

"Don't you never, ever do that to me again." His voice was low and dangerous. "Do not talk about who I fuck or what I do in bed or *anything* like that ever again. You understand me?" Micky nodded, too scared to do anything else.

Mike let him drop to his feet. "And what kind of other shit are you trying to pull on me? Dancing with that girl like you were gonna fuck her on the dance floor? You *are* a fucking whore, Micky, and now I'm gonna treat you like one." He grabbed Micky's ass in both hands and squeezed hard. "And this whore needs to be taught a lesson."

He kissed him harshly, forcing his tongue between reluctant lips, grinding his hips against Micky's. The kisses turned into sharp bites on the tender skin of his neck while Mike's hands worked to untie the silk scarf Micky had used as a belt. For one crystal clear moment Micky felt completely sober and he understood that this was a bad place to be, a bad time to be there, and that bad things were going to happen to him. He had asked for it - more than asked, he'd sent an invitation special delivery - but now he had to get out. He gathered his energy and concentrated it into one frantic shove designed to push Mike far enough away that he could run out of the place and not look back till he saw the lights of Hollywood. But it didn't work; fear had drained his strength; and Mike easily pressed him back against the wall, then cuffed his sharply on the side of the head. Micky saw stars

"No use fighting. Ain't worth it," he snapped. Dragging Micky over to the big, low-slung bed, Mike cleared it with one sweep of his arm and shoved him face down on the sheet. The clothes he'd chosen so carefully were stripped off and flung into a dark corner; and when the fog faded from his brain he realized his hands were tied tightly together and then to the frame at the head of the bed. I guess Mike really is a cowboy if he can truss me up with a silk scarf, Micky thought inanely; he could do anything to me and I can't stop him. And he knew what 'anything' meant tonight: Mike was going to fuck him. The thought sent shivers up his spine. He was naked and helpless and Mike was going to ram that big hard cock into him till he begged - and he'd probably be begging for more. Mike's fingers inside him, touching that secret spot, that was incredibly hot - but, oh god, what he could do with that cock, deep inside, pinning him to the bed when all he could do was lie there and be fucked...He had never been more afraid or more turned on.

He heard the awful hiss of Mike's belt being drawn through the loops of his jeans and his fear went into overdrive. Before he could prepare himself, the belt whistled through the air and connected with his tender ass, leaving a red-hot welt angry against the pale skin. Micky howled, and screamed louder when then next stroke fell, wanting to drown out the crack of the leather each time it scored him. Six strokes and it was over; he'd survived his lesson, and waited, breathless and stunned and properly obedient, for whatever came next.

Mike knelt next to him on the bed and observed his handiwork. Gently he caressed the six red stripes marking Micky's round, tight ass cheeks, skimming his fingers over smooth skin crisscrossed with streaks of crimson; then he bent his neck and softly, very softly, he traced the marks with his tongue. It stung sharply, and Micky flinched, but then the air was cool over the wetness and it felt much better. Mike grew more passionate, licking and sucking the delectable flesh, covering him with rough kisses. He pulled Micky up by the hips to give him a better angle of attack, and then carefully parted his firm cheeks to reveal the center of his attention.

Micky waited impatiently for whatever was coming next, gasping as he felt Mike's breath on his sweaty skin, then moaning loudly in unbelievable pleasure as Mike's tongue worked its magic on him, circling the entrance to his body for a while before he moved lower to suck on his balls, each in turn. Mike took his time, and Micky knew that he was pausing every few minutes to watch his victim writhe helplessly, firmly tethered to the bed. Micky felt Mike lean over the edge of the bed to rummage around in a box on the floor till he found some things - Micky couldn't see what - and then he casually slid his index finger deep inside, making direct contact with that magic button, making Micky gasp. Soon there were two fingers, then three, stretching him, working his asshole, caressing that spot on every stroke. Mike reached between his legs to squeeze his cock, urging him on, and Micky responded, spreading his legs wider.

"Gonna grease you up," Mike informed him. The lube was cold on his skin as Mike's fingers finished their preparations. Then the fingers were replaced with a firm pressure that meant business.

"You are so ready to be fucked. You slut." He pressed a little harder. "Tell me what you want. Give it to me, boy," he commanded.

"Do it, please do it," Micky moaned.

"Do what?" Mike wasn't going to make it easy.

"Fuck me, fuck me right now," he pleaded, meaning it, but hating to have to say it all the same.

"You want to be fucked hard?" he asked, bringing his hand around to stroke Micky's rock-hard erection again.

"Yes, yessss..."

"You want me to fuck your brains out?"

"Please, please, just do it." Micky panted, out of his mind with desire andanticipation.

"So good." Mike said to himself, and drove his slippery cock through the tight ring of muscle and into fantastic heat. Micky cried out: he couldn't help it, it hurt, but he willed himself to relax. Mike pushed harder, sliding in an inch at a time, and Micky could feel himself being stretched to the limit by Mike's thick rod, filling him and possessing him.

"Oh sweet jesus," Mike murmured, buried up to the hilt in Micky's ass. He held still, getting control of himself, then rocked his hips slowly, letting his cock slide in and out just a little. Under him Micky clutched the bed; it was wonderfully terrible, every movement a burning ache that ended in a dose of pleasure as Mike's cockhead pressed against that special place inside. The rhythm got faster as Mike fucked him harder, thrusting deeply and groaning with excitement. The pain got worse and Micky couldn't stop himself from tensing up and holding his breath to keep quiet.

Mike pushed his fist under Micky's nose. "Breathe deep."

Micky heard something snap in Mike's hand as he obeyed and in the next second everything became a blur of sound and motion: a cold kerosene smell filled his head and the temperature seemed to rise twenty degrees; blood roared in his ears and pounded through his body. It was like the highest drop on the fastest roller coaster, like a Marshall amp feeding back at top volume directly into his brain, like strobe lights going off an inch in front of his face. For a moment he had the distinct impression that he was rising above his body, suspended in midair for a split second, and then falling, falling, slamming back into reality and coming hard into Mike's hand, clenching around the cock that pounded into him faster and faster until Mike reached his climax and collapsed on top of him. The rush faded away into a hum and then to a very pleasant languor: he was feeling no pain, and he tasted both relief and regret when Mike finally slipped out.

Micky lay flat on his stomach, eyes focused on the knots at his wrists. His hands were beginning to go numb; all the twisting around he'd been doing had pulled the scarf even tighter. As if sensing this, Mike moved to untie him from the bed, keeping his hands bound together, just a little looser. Obviously he wasn't done with this scene.

"What did you give me?" Micky asked idly. He still felt slightly euphoric from whatever he'd inhaled.

"Amyl." Mike showed him the broken capsule. Incredibly, he was still fully dressed, his untucked shirt the only evidence that he'd just fucked Micky half to death. Mike pulled him up so they were sitting face to face.

"You liked that." A statement, not a question.

"Yes."

"You never said stop." Mike seemed to find this very amusing.

He was right. Micky hadn't said it, hadn't even thought it. As scared as he'd been, he hadn't wanted Mike to quit doing whatever he was doing. Why was that? Why -

His train of thought was interrupted by someone pounding on the door of the apartment.

"Mike! Let us in, you bastard! Open up!" The noise got louder.

"Now what?" Mike muttered to himself, getting up. He stopped at the bedroom door and turned to Micky. "Just be quiet and stay put. Don't unlock the door till they're gone. I mean it." He turned the lock and closed the door quietly behind him.

More knocking, and then kicking. "Just a goddamn minute!" Mike yelled.

Moving as slowly as he could, Micky found his pants on the floor and struggled into them, wanting to feel a little less vulnerable. The knots in the scarf weren't coming undone any time soon, so he figured he might as well sit near the door and listen to what went down in the next room. He saw Mike's belt on the floor next to him and hastily kicked it away.

He heard the door open and the sound of heavy boots on the wooden floor.

"Bear, T.C.," Mike said casually. "Nice to see you again. What do you want?"

"Beer," a gravelly voice answered.

"There's a bar downstairs full of beer. Ain't good enough for you?"

"Down there we have to pay. Up here is free." Micky recognized Bear's voice.

"Don't matter to me," Mike said. "If there's beer you can have it. Just take it with you."

"That's not being very friendly. Who's your friend, Mikey?" T.C. asked.

Mike ignored this. "Hey, T.C., are you holding?" The refrigerator door opened and Micky heard a happy shout from Bear; then everything disintegrated into a jumble of noise as voices lowered and the clank of bottles got louder. Something metallic hit the floor and chair legs scraped back and forth.

"Are we done here? This ain't no party," Mike said wearily.

"Come on, man, the fun's just starting," Bear laughed. "Find your pal and give him a drink. He is a dude, right? Kinda look like a chick to me."

"Bear, what do you want?" Micky could tell that Mike's very small reserve of patience was about to run out.

"Hell, right now I want a blowjob! That whore of yours has a real wide mouth and I want some of that!"

Oh shit, he's talking about ME, Micky realized. He tried to communicate telepathically through the door: Mike, please save my ass before I get gang-raped by a bunch of horny bikers; they'll rape me and kill me and I'm too pretty to die

Mike groaned. "First of all, he's not a pro, and second, he sure ain't interested in you, pindick. Nona says you can't keep it up for more than five minutes, anyways."

T.C. guffawed and Micky heard something - a bottle? - fly across the room. Bear's boots thumped across the apartment and stopped just outside the bedroom door. Instinctively Micky scrambled back, wishing he was anywhere else, or invisible, or at least a lot bigger and without his fucking hands tied together.

"Listen, you son of a bitch, cut the shit and tell me where he is. You owe me," Bear said angrily; he cursed again when he realized the door was locked.

"I owe you a good ass-kicking, but I been too busy to attend to it." Mike's voice was just a little too cool. "And speakin' of that, Bear, you should get your brakes checked. I don't recall if I checked them myself when I worked on your hog. You know how they can go just like *that*." He snapped his fingers to emphasize his point.

Micky could feel the tension in the living room right through the door. The silence stretched out for a long minute. Finally T.C. laughed in a friendly way.

"Sorry, dude, you lose this round. You should learn to take care of your toys. Let's go before he really does kick your ass." Bear moved away from the door and Micky blew out a sigh of relief.

"Don't forget your beer, thanks for stopping by, I'll leave a note in the fridge," Mike said over the noise of bottles and boots.

"Fuck you," Bear snarled.

"Yeah, fuck you too," Mike replied, and then the door banged shut.

"Jesus goddamn Christ," Mike said - to no one, Micky hoped. Water ran somewhere for a while, then the doorknob rattled. "Micky, open up. They're gone."

Micky edged slowly toward the door, still full of adrenaline and not quite ready to believe they'd left.

"Come on, Micky, it's just me. They won't come back. Let me in," Mike coaxed.

Micky turned the lock and opened the door just a crack to see Mike smiling at him, seemingly unruffled by what had - and hadn't - happened. Mike looked down at Micky's pants, zipped but not fastened; he hadn't been able to manage the button with his hands tied.

"Going somewhere?" Mike asked

"Going somewhere?" Mike asked.

"Jesus, Mike, who are those guys?" Micky demanded, his voice shaking.

"They're just punks. Don't you worry 'bout them." Mike began to untie the scarf around Micky's wrists.

"We don't need this no more, do we?"

"No. I won't..." he trailed off. His hands were still trembling as Mike threw the scarf on the floor. Mike noticed and took him by the shoulders.

"I won't let nobody hurt you. Never. You understand me?"

Micky nodded. "But...why did you let them in? And who's Nona?"

Mike cocked an eyebrow at him. "Any other questions?"

"Yes! Whose apartment is this? And how do you know those guys? And why do you have a key? And -" The rush of words slowed down a little as Mike slid his arms around his waist and began squeezing his ass. "And are we staying here all night? And - and - " He swallowed and took a deep breath as Mike pressed their hips together. "And are you gonna fuck me again?"

"Hell yes," Mike growled.

Mike fucked him twice more than night.

The first time was on his back on the floor: slow, slow, and torturous, as Mike brought him to the edge of release again and again and then backed off, leaving him close to tears, needing to come just to stay sane. He understood that it was another lesson; and when Mike finally allowed him to come, he was grateful.

The second time was around dawn, as the pink light started to filter in through the dirty blinds; Mike sprawled him over the back of the couch in the tiny living room. This time it was effortless. After a minimum of preparation Mike slid into him smoothly, completely, and began to move back and forth a little at a time. Curiously, Micky wasn't terribly aroused, probably since he'd come twice already - unlike Mike, who was as hard as ever and didn't seem the least bit tired. It felt good; yes, it felt very very very good to relax and let Mike do what he wanted. Little explosions of pleasure raced through him, mini-orgasms of heat: he'd never felt anything like it before and it delighted him. There was no desperate rush toward the goal of coming; in fact, there was no goal, no destination, just Mike fucking him and him being fucked and enjoying it so much that it could have gone on forever in that moment. He was so high on this feeling that he was suddenly very aware of Mike, his breathing, his hands tight on Micky's hips, and the hardness that joined them. He could tell Mike was getting close now - the thrusts were faster, deeper, his panting turned into moans, and at the end he threw his arms around Micky's waist and pulled their bodies tight together.

Micky was sorry it was over. He was not sorry that he'd provoked Mike, or that they'd come to this place, or that he'd lost his virginity yet again. His world has just taken one more hairpin turn; it was a damn good thing that Mike was the best driver he knew.

"Mike?" he asked softly.

"Hmm?"

"Who's Nona?"

{part 6}

       The next several weeks glowed white-hot for Micky; his life seemed to be roaring through the present, firing on all cylinders. The band was doing better than ever, Mike being suddenly inspired to write excellent new songs; they had money; they had friends and even groupies; and for once they were all getting along, rehearsing with a minimum of bitching and fighting. They were in the groove. Even the weather was perfect. And Mike was fucking him at every opportunity.

Somewhere inside he believed that everything was perfect *because* Mike was fucking him. Certainly he thought they were perfect together, in bed anyway: they seemed completely in tune as to when, how often, how much, how hard, and how fast. Sometimes, when they couldn't manage it for a couple of days, he jerked off while imagining his ass stuffed full of Mike's cock.

And, strangely enough, the girls were swarming over him. At first he had thought he might be giving off some kind of queer vibe that would chase them away, but it was just the opposite: the more he had of Mike's intense desire the more intensely desirable he became, and soon he had his pick of women whenever he wanted them, almost Davy-level. Mike didn't seem to care how many girls he did, never asked about his conquests; when the coast was clear he would make a move, and Micky never turned him down, no matter the time or the place. Sometimes Micky would come home very late after fucking some sweet young thing's brains out, only to have his own brains fucked out in Mike's bed. And sometimes Mike would stay out with whoever he stayed out with, and announce his return in the early morning hours by giving Micky a first class blowjob as the light crept in through the windows. Life was pretty damn good sometimes.

Like now, for instance. Micky collapsed on his blanket, dripping wet from his morning swim - except that it was now two in the afternoon. Oh well, it still counted as morning since he'd only woken up an hour ago. Last night he had finally gotten to go with that red-haired woman, Kira, and she had shown him a thing or two. There was certainly something to be said for older women, even when they did look like lesbians. He closed his eyes. Maybe she liked girls too; maybe she'd let him watch...

His thoughts were interrupted by a disturbance in the sand next to him as someone sat down.

"Whore," Mike greeted him.

"Freak," Micky replied, just as pleasantly. "I bet you've got long sleeves and jeans on. On the hottest day yet." He opened his eyes to check. "Man, you are a freak."

Mike gazed out to sea. "Swimming suits are for pussies."

"Did you come all the way out here to tell me that?" Micky loved it when Mike was in a playful mood. He must have good news.

"No, I came to tell you that Davy went to his girlfriend's and will meet us at the gig tonight, and Peter went to the movies and won't be back till six." Mike continued to regard the waves thoughtfully.

"It would appear we have the house to ourselves." Micky tried to sound casual.

"Looks like," Mike drawled, the epitome of nonchalant.

"Well, then," Micky said.

"Yep," Mike agreed. Now it was a game of who would make the first move, one they'd played many times; Micky had won it often by casually removing some piece of clothing, after which Mike would just pounce. Today he didn't care about winning, but instead took a moment to observe Mike's strong profile as he stared serenely ahead, a tiny smile resting in the corners of his mouth, black hair moving gently in the warm wind. Mike's full, pouting lower lip would taste sweet with sugary coffee and salty with sweat and the sea breeze and Micky decided he wanted to spend a good part of the afternoon kissing those beckoning lips.

Micky got up, gathered his towel, and started back up the beach.

"Where you headed?" Mike called.

"I'm going back to the house to get laid. You coming along?"

When he came out of the bathroom, having changed his wet shorts for dry ones, Mike was lying on his bed, still fully dressed except for his bare feet: he'd taken his boots and socks off and looked rather proud of himself for doing it.

Micky folded his arms and tried to look stern. "If you don't take that shirt off right now, you're not getting any."

Rolling his eyes heavenward, Mike sat up and lazily complied. "You're damn lucky I don't have anything better to do," he grumbled.

"What could be better than this?" Micky asked, running his hands up Mike's chest to his shoulders, impressed with the strength he knew lay hidden in that lean frame.

"Nothing on God's earth is better than this," Mike said, and said it so seriously and with such force that Micky drew back, startled, laughing a little to cover his unease. Mike continued to gaze calmly and intensely at him and suddenly it was hard to breathe. The message was clear enough, one that required a response, or at least an acknowledgement: Micky had been in this situation before and knew exactly what to do: he avoided it. But he did it with such easy grace, such practiced skill that his non-answer seemed to be all answers, or at least the answer Mike was looking for, or so he hoped. He lowered his eyelashes and let an earnest expression transform his face, then played his ace, the line that had worked for him so many times before.

"I'm only as good as you make me," he breathed, and finished the sentence with a deep, searching kiss that would put an end to any conversation.

They stayed that way for a long time, lost in silent kisses that flowed together slowly, each moment an exploration of taste, touch, awareness. The insistent tongue thrusting against his own reminded Micky of the growing erection he felt pressing against his hipbone, making him even more determined to get all of Mike's clothes off for a change.

Although his own cock was threatening to rip a hole in his shorts, Micky forced himself to breathe, to wait, to be in the moment. He curled up next to Mike and concentrated on doing just one thing. With great care he sucked gently on one perfect earlobe, then let his teeth graze the soft, sweet flesh. When he drew back and blew a little puff of air across the wet skin Mike shivered with pleasure. Micky traced the edge of his ear with the tip of his tongue and let the motion take him down to the pale tender spot just behind the jaw line, where the taste of sweat was stronger. He let his hands play with the waistband of Mike's underwear for a little while before he unbuckled the belt and unzipped his jeans, giving that considerable hard-on a little more room to breathe.

"Turn over," he murmured, and Mike obliged, stretching his long body the length of the bed and settling down with a happy sigh. Micky knelt between Mike's legs and slid his hands along the back of his thighs until he could squeeze his wonderful ass with both hands. Sitting behind the rest of the group gave Micky a perfect vantage point from which to judge asses, and he'd long ago concluded that Mike's was the best: high and firm and surprisingly well-rounded for someone so lanky. He wondered whether Mike knew how fantastic his ass looked when it was covered by the soft worn denim of his favorite jeans, the same jeans that showed off his basket to anyone who cared to look.

Micky tugged the top of Mike's pants down a little so that he could see the place where the curve of his ass began: smooth and white and flawless, skin that had never seen the sun. A little more and he could see where the lovely dark cleft started that would lead him to the deepest treasure. And then when he had pulled jeans and underwear over the highest point of the curve, he sat back and tried not to laugh.

"Uh...Mike?"

"Hmmm. What?"

"Do you know that there's a great big red lipstick kiss on your ass?"

"WHAT?" Mike twisted around frantically, trying to see, then jumped up and stormed into the bathroom.

Micky gave up trying to control himself and fell over sideways on the bed, laughing uncontrollably. Nona. It had to be. Mike had finally told him that it was her apartment over the bar, that she was the one he was with when he wasn't home. If Mike was willing to stay with her, and she could put up with him, she must be something else. Clearly she had a wicked sense of humor.

"GODDAMN IT!" Mike roared, making Micky laugh even harder; the water ran in the sink for a while, and then Mike came back in, looking royally pissed. He threw himself down on the bed again, fuming.

"Didn't come off, huh?" Micky observed.

"I'm gonna kill her. Fucking weapons-grade cosmetics. She musta put glue on her lips or something," he muttered.

"Aw, come on. I like it. It's...kinda cute." Micky pulled down his jeans again to trace a circle around the mark. Nice lips, he decided.

"Don't never say that word to me again. I mean it."

Micky leaned forward and pressed his lips to the red kiss print. She had picked the perfect spot for it; he wondered what she'd been thinking, and doing, and wearing, when she'd managed to pull off this trick. In addition to annoying Mike, which was always fun but not easy to do, she'd also managed to send a friendly hello to Micky. He was certain she'd meant to do that, and he liked her even more. Funny how he'd never felt jealous. It was more like meeting another member of the cult and realizing there was someone else as crazy as you. It felt good.

Micky's erection, having faded a bit from hilarity, was recovering quickly enough in the presence of Mike's bare ass. Time to get down to business, he decided, and quickly pulled off the rest of Mike's clothes. He stood up to shuck his own shorts and then once again forced himself to go slow, to fight the urge to hurry up and fuck. Mike had turned on his back again, waiting patiently for Micky's return as he stroked his half-hard cock back to glorious fullness. His face and chest were flushed with a rosy glow and his cock was even redder, the slick head emerging from the sheath with each stroke of Mike's hand. He looked relaxed and aroused and pretty damn sexy lying there, watching Micky through half-closed eyes. Hallelujah, Micky thought; finally, a naked Mike all to myself.

He laid down on top of his lover - and when had he started thinking of Mike that way? Oh well, too late now - and reveled in the feeling of skin against skin, smooth and warm. The sparse black hair sprinkled over Mike's body was silky, and highlighted, rather than hid, his best attributes. Brown nipples, hard and pointed now, a flat tight belly, and the thin dark line of fur leading downward: seeing all of him like this was almost unbearably erotic. Mike twined his long legs in with Micky's and kissed his chin.

"It is lazy and sinful to spend the whole afternoon in bed fucking," Mike said, pushing his hips up a little to press their cocks together.

"Whores don't care about sinning. And as for lazy..." He attacked Mike's mouth with renewed energy, kissing him hard and nipping delicately at his lips. Mike continued to rock his hips gently, creating just enough friction to be interesting.

"I want to suck you," Micky said into Mike's mouth. He could feel Mike's lips curl up into a smile.

"We can do it together." They'd never done a sixty-nine before and Micky was thrilled that Mike suggested it. Soon he had reversed himself and tried to concentrate on giving good head, which was awfully hard when Mike was using his magic on Micky's cock. He didn't want to come now, and he didn't want Mike to come either, so he gathered his self-control and teased instead of delivering, playing with the flared ridge of the cockhead and sucking at the slit. Mike took his cue and did the same, then ran his tongue along the underside of Micky's shaft and lapped at his balls. It became a game of follow-the-leader. Micky began to swirl his tongue in complicated patterns up, down, and around Mike's shaft; Mike could copy them exactly, and responded with designs of his own, going lightly, carefully, but always touching exactly those places that Micky loved the most.

Micky could feel the pressure starting to build and decided, regretfully, to leave his position between Mike's legs; but before he did he took one last plunge, licking his way down as far as he could until, with Mike's balls resting against his cheek and his tongue tickling the very sensitive point just behind them, he caught the unmistakable scent and taste of pussy. Faint, but there it was, lingering sweetly in the dark secret places between his legs. He licked it up greedily, wondering when he'd get to taste the real thing.

He pulled away from Mike and righted himself so that they were lying side by side. Mike moved to climb into his usual position but Micky shook his head no. "I want to get up on top of you," Micky said, reaching for the lube Mike had thoughtfully left on the nightstand. Mike looked genuinely surprised, and delighted, as if he'd just gotten an unexpected present.

"Won't say no to that, babe," he drawled, putting his pillows behind his head. Micky spread the lube generously on Mike's cock, standing stiffly upright; then he maneuvered himself into position, straddling Mike's slim hips, and slowly, very slowly, began to lower himself. They'd been fucking long enough that he didn't need much prep anymore, and the head slid in easily enough, but once the shaft began to penetrate him Micky sucked in his breath sharply: it had never felt quite like *this* before - god, that cock felt huge, like a steel pole inside him, and he gripped Mike's shoulders to steady himself.

"OK?" Mike asked breathlessly.

"Just...just a minute....wait..." he panted, eyes screwed shut, as he adjusted to this new sensation. Relax, he told himself, and in a few moments he could feel the muscles stretching and he knew he could go on. An inch at a time, little by little, and soon Mike was all the way inside, rubbing deliciously against the bundle of nerves there. Micky looked down to see the place where their bodies met, brown hair brushing against black, his cock curving away from Mike's body and bobbing gently as he moved. He felt filled, fantastically filled; blossoming heat raced through him, making his mouth go dry. His body was urging him to move, so with great caution he moved his hips in a circle, slowly, until he could sway back and forth, and with every movement he was aware of Mike inside him, part of him, touching everything all at once. He'd just settled into a rhythm when under him Mike suddenly stiffened: he threw his head back, fingers clutching Micky's thighs, and let out a long moan of pleasure.

Dammit, I wanted this to last, Micky thought; the one time when we *don't* have to hurry and he shoots it off like a rocket. He slowed his motion, waiting to see what Mike was going to do.

"Don't stop," Mike panted, sliding his hands up to Micky's hips.

"Didn't you come? How can you stay so hard – ohhhhhh - " Mike drove up into him forcefully, then began fucking him in earnest, bending his knees to get maximum leverage. Micky surrendered himself to the rush, throwing his head back and chanting in time with Mike's thrusts: "Yes, yes, *yes*, *yes*, *yessssssssssss*..." It was so good to cry out, to make a joyful noise: Mike once told him that most of the songs he wrote were only for Micky to sing, because his voice was special, and now he could finally use his voice to let his lover (those words again!) know how good it was.

"Mick – come on me – I want to see it – "

Mike's hand was around his cock, cool and slippery with lube, and with his ass filled, and his pulsing erection in a masterful grip he exploded, over the edge and into orbit.

Micky opened his eyes to see Mike watching him hungrily, eyes wide and shining. The little pool of liquid on his sweaty chest was smaller than Micky thought it would be – funny, it always felt like gallons coming out but it never amounted to more than a teaspoon. Mike was still moving inside him, slowly now but still steady, still stiff and wide and tall.

"Jesus, Mike," Micky puffed, still recovering, "Don't you ever get tired?"

Mike laughed. "Hell, babe, with you I could go for a month a Sundays and never quit." His gaze traveled up and down Micky's body and then he closed his eyes, grinning. "One more time."

Micky almost laughed at that – it was Mike's favorite phrase at rehearsals – but he gathered up his strength and worked it, following Mike's rhythm, making sure that big cock was in him as deep as could be, and Micky knew he wasn't going to come again so soon but it felt good all over again, so good, and watching Mike get lost in his pleasure was another trip, and then the thrusts got faster and faster and Mike grabbed him hard again and shouted "Mick – oh – damn – *Micky* – " as he arched his back and drove home for the last time.

That night Micky was reminded of how they'd spent the afternoon every time he shifted on his seat. He ass was sore, his cock was sore, and he felt deliriously happy for reasons he didn't want to examine too closely. He and Mike were playing it as cool as could be in front of Davy and Peter, but every time he glanced over at Mike's wonderful ass, he couldn't help but think of the red lipstick kiss still planted on the right cheek, and it almost made him lose his place, more than once. So he thought about Mike's songs, Mike's beautiful songs, and poured all his energy into singing better than he thought he ever could.