Lunch Break

James works in a frame store, and hates it. He'd rather be out taking pictures. But it's a steady paycheck and a discount on mat board for his photos, and it's close enough for him to go over to Kris' apartment during his lunch break. Kris has a small place but no roommates, and James has a key.

Kris is a slacker but he needs to make his rent like anyone else, and although he works as little as he can get away with, he's still gone a lot. Sometimes he's home, and then he and James fuck and nap and eat lunch, and sometimes James takes pictures of him, and sometimes they don't do much of anything.

Most times, though, Kris is out and James has the place to himself. He watches TV and takes pictures of the apartment and the views out the windows, and he flips through Kris' books and makes himself lunch, although now that Kris has gone from vegetarian to vegan there's less for James to eat, and he's starting smoking one defiant cigarette before he has to go back to work, sitting by an open window and blowing the smoke out over the fire escape.

And sometimes, like now, James is too restless or too bored to do anything except sit on the couch and stare at the walls and think idly about jerking off. He wants Kris to be home, wants Kris to fuck him, but Kris is out and James is twitchy, and masturbating calms him, centers him. He can think about Kris' ass and cock, his hands and his mouth and the way his pale blond hair falls in his pale green eyes when he leans over, when he moans and whispers crazy poetry in James' ear.

There is a box of tissues on the stereo, a tube of lube in the bathroom. James likes quiet during sex, likes to listen to his breathing, his partner's breathing, the sounds two boys make while they fuck. He thinks about timing his camera to photograph himself, but changes his mind. Too much pressure. He unzips his jeans, makes himself comfortable on the broken-down couch, kneads his cock through his Jockeys almost distractedly. He's not a hurrier, he likes to take his time.

James slouches, spreads his legs, rubs his cock harder. He likes the friction of cotton on skin, the slowly building warmth, the stretch of fabric as his cock fills and hardens. Kris likes the main event. James likes the foreplay. But Kris can make the main event last. Kris has patience too.

James can hear his breathing getting shallow. He wriggles out of his jeans and his Jockeys, stops long enough to squirt lube on his hand, and closes his fingers around his erection. He shuts his eyes and strokes. Up and down, up and down, a steady hand and a tight grip. He pictures Kris on his knees, James' cock in his mouth, those pale green eyes looking up, a grin curving his lips. James moans, strokes harder.

His mouth is dry, and behind his closed eyes Kris pushes him down on the bed and strips for him. Behind his closed eyes Kris is naked, long cock and ass the right size for grabbing, nipple rings glimmering in the sunlight a shade darker than his hair. Behind James' closed eyes Kris climbs on top of him, grinning widely, and James grabs that ass and pulls him down and kisses him hard, and Kris' hand works its way between their bodies to take their cocks together and stroke.

James pictures Kris leaning over him, balls deep in him, fucking him slow, ducking his head to lick at his nipples, and now James runs his free hand up under his t-shirt to pinch first one nipple and then the other, and he moans again. He concentrates on his rhythm, on the feel of his cock in his hand, the solidity of it, the heat, the way the veins pulse and the shaft throbs and the way it makes him shudder when he circles the crown, stroking the head with his thumb. He can feel his heart racing under his other palm.

James is close now, he can feel it building in his spine, in the base of his skull. His hand moves faster, pulling his orgasm out of him, and he can hear his heartbeat in his ears and he can feel it in his cock, and he slides further down on the couch and moans and the images in his head, behind his eyes, are so damn gorgeous, sunlight and shadow on skin, and in his head he and Kris are no longer just two boys but a fucking work of art, heat and sweat and breathy words, multidimensional, technicolor, beauty in motion.

He's forgotten the tissues. His hips rise off the couch, pushing his cock into his hand, and he comes with a deep groan, shooting over his fingers and onto his thighs.

"Fuck." A voice, familiar and serious and hot. James opens his eyes and smiles, surprised because he didn't hear the door, but pleased because of who it is. What good timing.

"Hey, Kris. I was just thinking about you."

(fourth place in the DIY contest at Torquere Press)