Maddoggin'
originally published in Gay Flash Fiction, Issue 12, January 2009

Trembling with the thrill still coursing through their bodies, laughing with it, dripping delight and white-water, they climb out of the river, drop their boards, shake themselves like the mad dogs they are.

Johnny throws back his head and howls to the mid-afternoon sun on its slow approach to dusk, hours to go before it sinks into the horizon. Seb looks at Johnny, face upturned, glistening with unshaken water. Johnny's howl echoes in Seb, shivers in him, and Seb wishes he'd howled too.

Johnny turns from the sun to beam at Seb. "What d'you reckon?" He shields his eyes and squints up, and Seb isn't sure if the question is for him or the sun. "Go again?"

"Yeah," Seb says, consulting only the radiance of Johnny's face.
***

Seb wonders how they can still be alive after that; wonders how they could be anything but.

The second run was madder than the first. The thrill still thrilled, and Seb is surprised because they say your first time is always the best, don't they? That there's never anything like it. But this was, not a duplication of the first run, but akin in thrill. And so when Johnny asks, Seb has to say that yeah, it was even better the second time, and Johnny's grin flashes and holds.

They drop their boards, drop themselves. The flood of adrenaline, once as mad as the rapids that consumed them and left them whole, ebbs, trails a wake of warm shivers in their blood. They stretch out in the grass, shining in the sun, lower now, still beaming down, absorbing the traces of the river clinging to them. They shiver in the warmth, offer their bodies to the shivers and the sun.

Seb rolls onto his side, curls up, tucks himself into warmth, drifts. . .

. . .doesn't know how long he's been drifting before he feels a shiver again: a touch, warmer than the sun: fingers on his skin, tracing the waistband of his swim trunks, which cling to him, wet and warmed in the sun. The fingers, Johnny's, are warm too.

When Seb's breathing changes, coaxed up out of the drift by Johnny's fingers, one fingertip slips inside, turns and traces the length of the waistband, smooth nail brushing over skin; once; twice; and Seb's breath shivers; and the finger slides in deeper, urging the waistband down with each stroke across. Keeps on until the trunks are drawn half-down, cutting across Seb's arse. And Seb shivers and breathes.

Johnny's breath on Seb's neck is warmer than Johnny's finger on Seb's cleft. And then, heat: "Can I fuck you, Seb?"

"Yeah," Seb whispers. Twists his hips as Johnny slides the trunks down, rocks back onto his side, uncurls under the caress of Johnny's hands, adjusting his legs to draw off the trunks completely.

At the urging of Johnny's hand on his hip, Seb rolls onto his front. "Here." Johnny lifts him, slips an improvised cushion of abandoned t-shirts beneath him; hands back on Seb's hips, sliding over his arse, down to his thighs, spreading his legs.

Eyes closed, Seb rests his head on his arms, exposed and basking.

Johnny's fingers are slick when they touch him now, but it is not the new coolness that makes Seb shiver as they trace, probe, enter: one slick fingertip worms inside, circling, opening. Johnny's other hand caresses Seb's arse, slides down to his thigh, coaxes Seb apart a little more. A second slick fingertip joins the first, corkscrewing deeper, slickening Seb up; nudging his prostate, sliding across it, relaxing and arousing and intensifying: Seb closes his eyes and listens to the white-water rush of his blood.

And then Johnny's fingers are gone and his cock is there, pressing, pushing in; Johnny's cock, slicked up and wrapped in latex. Seb grins, twists, looks over his shoulder. "Were you counting on this?"

"Just hoping for it, man," Johnny smiles, thrusts, "just hoping." Leans in to kiss Seb, and, oh!, Johnny's cock is there inside him, and Johnny's tongue is inside Seb's mouth, and Seb opens and pushes back and with and they're moving together, Seb and Johnny, and Johnny's mouth is gone from him and Seb is breathing in moans, breathing moans into the sun-warmed grass, grass against his lips and eyelids and he twists again, opens his eyes:

"Wait. Wait, Johnny."

Johnny stops, still there. "You okay? Am I hurting you?"

"Yeah, no." Seb tries to catch up to his breath, his heartbeat. "Just. Want to watch you," blinks, "want to touch you."

Johnny's brow smoothes and his mouth curves up in a smile, comes open: "Yeah."

Seb's own smile is interrupted by a soft gasp at the loss as Johnny pulls out. He lets Johnny turn him onto his back, helpfully lifts his legs and holds himself open, eyes locked with Johnny's, following Johnny's down when Johnny has to look to position himself; watches Johnny sliding back into him, looks up to find Johnny watching him watch: smile and gasp and smile.

Johnny rolls his hips and Seb arches, rolls with Johnny's thrust, feels the thrust ripple out inside him, ripples lapping at the edges of his nerves, shivering him. Johnny reaches for Seb's cock and Seb reaches for Johnny's face, fingers to lips and Johnny's mouth opens, Johnny opens for him, takes him and sucks strong and wet and warm, and in the heat of maddoggin', Seb forgot about how cool or warm the water was 'cos he was so hot from the thrill; and this is like that, he's flooding with something finer than thrill; thrill and more and other, and Johnny, inside him, expanding him; he's expanding with Johnny, inside himself, outside of himself, beyond, riding the finer-than-thrill waves out to meet bright hot the sun; there; oh here.


:: © 2009 Mallory Path ::
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.
If you reprint/repost this material, either altered or unaltered, please:
(1) link back to the original work here, and (2) let me know where to find it.


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