The Shearing Gun (16 page)

I beamed in pleasure at him. I pulled my T-shirt back on and slipped into my coat. He was standing with his back to me, so I pressed up behind him and cupped his hipbone, loving the feeling of his weight pushing back into me. “When do you want me at your house, Quackle?”

I felt him swallow, rather than saw. “I’ll see my last patient at five thirty and then I have a bit of paperwork. I’ll be home by six.”

“I’ll be there at one minute past, then,” I promised throatily.

He groaned. “I need to shower, Hank. I’ve been dealing with sick people all day, so I need to wash. Besides, I have steak marinating at home. I owe you.”

“I don’t care about the food.”

“I do. Come at six thirty.”

He tore out of my arms and opened the door, so I couldn’t say or do anything more, and stood back to allow me to exit first. “Cruel bastard,” I murmured as I walked past.

I paid my bill, then hit the local shop for a couple of supplies before making for the pub. A couple of blokes provided conversation for forty minutes while I kept my throat from drying out with a couple of beers. If you asked me later to testify as to what we talked about, I would’ve been hard-pressed to remember. I just watched the hands of the clock tick.

Chapter 14

I
PULLED
up at the address Elliot had given me at 6:18 p.m. A slam of the car door—no one locks their car in the bush—six steps up the path, and I was banging loudly on his door.

“Come on, Quackle,” I muttered to myself, jiggling in one spot with impatience. Finally after what seemed to be hours, the doorknob rattled on the other side, and the wood swung open.

“I said six thirty….” he started.

I didn’t care. I tackled him, shoved him back against the wall, and kicked the door closed with one foot. I registered that the door snicked shut, gave a quick look to double-check we weren’t in view of any open curtains, and slammed my mouth down on his.

Bliss.

I’d spent fifty-four minutes kicking myself once I realized that I didn’t know what his kiss tasted like. I’d been in the second aisle of the local supermarket, grabbing some baked beans, when suddenly I thought about Elliot’s mouth. I don’t know how I arrived at that point—from looking at beans to kissing—something along the lines of beans, balls, dick, mouth. But there I was, looking at tins, and it came to me that I hadn’t once kissed the guy.

Idiot!

So I problem solved. I pushed Elliot against the wall and discovered for myself how he tasted. He kissed me back like a starving man. For long minutes all I could focus on was his mouth, his lips, his tongue. I didn’t care about anything else, only the taste and the feel. I shivered and reveled in the newness of the situation—that first contact of lips, the first taste of him, the first shy meeting of tongues, the kiss-until-we-need-to-breathe moment.

I was fishing and I was the one hooked.

“Hank….”

Damn man. He always wanted to talk. “Shut up,” I told him, and captured his mouth again with mine, diving back into the sensation. This time I remembered that I had other parts to my body—like hands that could cup jaws, fingers that could touch hair, arms that could wrap around a warm, willing body. I’d always liked the little fellas, the ones you could nearly wrap your arms around twice. The little ones that were small but strong when you pushed them down onto the bed and covered them with your bigger body.

“Dinner, Hank—”

“No.”

The guy was not being reasonable. He wanted to eat at a time like this? I needed more than kissing, but didn’t want to let go of his mouth. He was shorter than me, so I placed one meaty palm under his butt and hoisted him up. His leg went up over my hip, while I pushed him into the wall with my body weight.

“Hank, your shoulder. Be careful.”

That was the problem with screwing a guy with higher intelligence. They had so much brain matter that they could do two things at once. My brain was occupied at the moment, solely focused on things happening below my belt. Elliot was fiercely turned on too, by the feel of it, but he still had enough left-over brains to think about things like dinner and sporting injuries. I reached beneath his body and touched his balls.

His breath spluttered and he bucked into me. Yep—that shut him up. I slanted my mouth across his while I pushed my arousal against him. Our cocks rubbed together with several layers of fabric between them. It was agony and ecstasy all wrapped up together. It was wet but dry. It was great but not enough.

My taste buds were revving, and with the single brain cell I still had rattling around in my head, I formulated an image of what I wanted. I wouldn’t be able to verbalize it, but I could see it in my mind. It involved my mouth, Elliot’s dick, and a lot less clothing.

As a boy, wanting a hardened cock in my mouth was the first inkling I had that I was gay. Growing up on a farm that held three males and a whole lot of nothing didn’t really provide opportunity to see a lot of the female form. I had a handful of girls at the school and about three single women in the town to judge my interest on. Of course, my childhood example of heterosexuality had been my father, who packed up his heart and his sexual interest and buried them with my mother, so it wasn’t like Paul and I had a role model.

Paul constantly groused about the lack of good women in town—or perhaps just the lack of good women with loose morals who would be willing to sleep with him. So, by the time I was sixteen and still hadn’t found my interest sparked, I didn’t worry much.

Then one day we were in the changing rooms after the game, and Simon MacAllister was checking out his injury. Footy players traditionally wear extremely short shorts, which I am eternally grateful for as a fully grown gay man in Australia. Simmo had ended up at the bottom of a tackle, and his opponent had taken the opportunity to use his teeth on the inside of Simmo’s leg—waaay up high. So, I’m sixteen and tired from four quarters of full-body contact tackles, and Simmo stands next to me, holds his junk out of the way, and inspects the full set of teeth marks on his thigh.

Rory Stevens was standing on the other side of him and made some rude comment, to which Simmo turned around, aimed his extremely generous cock in Rory’s direction, and gave it a couple of pumps. Rory yelped and cried, “Get that monster away from me, you dickhead!”

I immediately wished Simmo were aiming it toward me. I remember thinking that if there were no one else around, I would grab that monster and suck it in with pleasure.

And that was it.

Like a freight train, the knowledge that I wanted to suck his dick—and virtually every other dick in my immediate vicinity—hit me. I wanted dick. I liked dick. I was gay.

Nine years later, in the foyer of a brick veneer rental, I
knew
for sure I was gay. And I still wanted dick. In my mouth. Right then.

I lowered Elliot to his feet and sank to a kneeling position in front of him. He had ditched his skin-tight jeans—which I felt a little sad at—but had showered and replaced them with elasticized cotton khakis, which, when I simply yanked them down and exposed his rock-hard flesh, I decided I preferred.

Elliot groaned but didn’t move, so without hesitation, I nearly threw my face at him, and got up close and personal with his package. Did I mention I loved dick? I rubbed my cheek against his penis and buried my nose in his pubic hair. With my hands I impatiently pushed the material away and then cupped his balls, pulling on them slightly the way I liked to do to myself. Elliot cried out with pleasure.

“Hank, I’m rapidly approaching critical here.” It was a warning I heeded.

I looked up at him through that stupid lock of hair that was always getting in my eyes. “You clean?”

“Of course. I’m a doct—” The rest of his sentence was swallowed as I did some swallowing of my own.

Now I don’t profess to be an expert in the art of blow jobs at all. Not enough practice, you see. But what I lack in technique, I make up in enthusiasm. And from personal experience, it doesn’t take much to give a good blow job. As long as the person on the end of my dick is using spit and no teeth, it pretty much ranks as good.

I took my first taste of Elliot and moaned loudly. There should be a lolly flavored like that taste of precome and man. It would sell like hotcakes. Elliot was correct when he said he was nearly at critical, because it took a single lick and two bobs of my head and he was coming. And, whoa—did he come. I sucked in a mouthful, and as I was swallowing, he ejaculated the rest onto my face. I didn’t care, and buried my face in the sweet spot between his dick and his balls as he shuddered.

He shook for a moment while I licked at his sack, then sank back against the wall. Now that I’d had my taste, I wanted my pleasure. I knew what I needed and hoped Elliot wouldn’t be too grossed out. I stood and opened the zipper of my jeans, letting my cock fling free. I madly jerked with my hand as I shuffled my weight against Elliot’s chest. He brought his hands up and flicked at each of my nipples, and that was it. I was coming. I pointed my dick and sprayed spunk at Elliot’s cock and balls. The white gleamed against the darkness of his bush and looked as pretty as a picture. I admired the sight for a couple of seconds, then dropped my hands to him and rubbed it in.

I don’t know why I had the urge, but I wanted my spunk coating his genitals. I rubbed it all around his crotch area and smiled at the sight. I stepped back and admired my handiwork—the newbie doctor of a small town, limp with pleasure, his pants around his ankles, wearing my come.

Suddenly fishing was my favorite pastime.

“Fucking hell, Hank. You… ahhh.”

I grinned madly and straightened my clothes. If I could make Doc Elliot speechless, then I was good. “Yep,” I answered. “And I really enjoyed it.”

I’d never known that a man could frown and smile at the same time. Doc Elliot could, though. “You were supposed to wait for dinner!” he scolded me.

“Sorry,” I apologized in mock repentance. “It’s still a couple of minutes until six thirty. Would you like me to leave and come back again? I would, however, suggest you pull up your daks before you let me in, or else I’ll get all sorts of ideas.”

He flushed bright red under my bemused gaze and hurriedly pulled his trousers up over his nakedness. “I don’t think you need any more ideas in your head, Henry Woods. I’m going to chuck a boner every time someone knocks on the front door for at least the next two months. Imagine how embarrassing that’s going to be.”

I chuckled and asked for directions to the bathroom. I smirked at him and cupped his arse as I walked past him. “I like knowing my spunk is all over you, but I think I got some of yours in my eye.”

We sat down over steaks for dinner and chatted away like old friends. It surprised me. I thought moving things to a sexual level would mean a change in our friendship, but it didn’t. He asked about the farm, and I told him about all the elements I was battling to bring a crop in—insects, moisture, salinity, wind, birds, rabbits. I then asked him about medical school and was horrified by his descriptions. The sheer workload and responsibility would have a lesser man crushed in two days.

It was nice. The times I’d spent with young guys like Dom, they often felt the need to constantly hang on my arm or sit on my lap. Elliot simply slouched in the chair across the table from me and sipped his water. He’d explained he was on call that night, so his phone sat on the kitchen bench and not a drop of alcohol passed his lips.

Ultimately we finished eating and began to stare at each other. The heat began to build once again.

“I don’t suppose you can stay the night?” he asked me.

“Too dangerous,” I replied.

He nodded. “Can I interest you in a tour of my bedroom, at least?”

I licked my lips. I was already half-hard. “Is that going to be all we do in your bedroom? Tour?”

“God, I hope not.”

“Lead on, then.”

I followed him down the hallway to the back of the house, where his bedroom was located. One of the things I love about gay sex? There is no umming and ahhing. Not really. Of course things can play out whichever way you like, but in my experience, it was do-you-want-to, yes-please, great-let’s-strip. There was enough dim light spilling into the room from the hallway that we didn’t bother with the overhead light. I stepped out of my clothes and watched avidly as Elliot stripped off his. He pushed back the quilt and blankets, so we had a large expanse of mattress to use, then crawled onto the sheets and lay on his side.

He looked up at me. “God, you’re gorgeous.” I appreciated the comment and stopped to flex a moment. He gave me a wicked grin. “And conceited, obviously.”

I looked him over, taking in my fill of his naked form and liking what I saw. He didn’t have abs of steel, but there wasn’t any spare fat on his form. He was trim without being muscled. I liked it.

“Touch yourself,” I commanded, and watched with lust as he rolled onto his back so he could use both hands. With one hand he began jacking himself, sliding up and down his shaft with slow and measured moves. His other hand went to his chest and rubbed his thumb against his nipple. I didn’t know where to look first. That hand on his cock was mesmerizing, but I wanted to see his face as well.