Distance 

Disclaimer: Due South and its characters do not belong to me, more's the
pity.
 Rating: NC-17 for sexual situations and m/m thoughts. 

Distance 

by Sylvie Grenon 

He stared out the window, gazing at the empty, barren landscape, letting
his thoughts fly out on the heavy winds, over the too-may miles, towards
the busy, bustling streets of Chicago. Towards happiness, laughter, love.
Towards his home. 

The day's duties hadn't begun yet. It was dawn, that fleeting time before
the day's harsh realities and after the night's endless, horrifying
dreams; the only time in which he could let himself think these thoughts,
of what used to be, of what may never be again. The only time in which he
could dream of his love, of his warm eyes, of his bright smile, of his
tender words. Had he truly loved, before meeting this incredible man? Had
he even truly felt? Or had he merely existed in an empty wasteland much
like the one he was watching this morning, its wild beauty tempered only
by its deadliness. 

Tearing his eyes away he slowly moved back to the bed, noting absently how
untidy the covers were, all twisted up from his restless tossing and
turning. Peaceful sleep had long ago abandoned him. He gazed idly at the
bed for a moment, knowing he had time, that he wasn't needed quite yet.
His hand rose, unbidden, to run across his chest, fingers idly stroking a
hardening nipple, visions of other, more tender hands taking their place. 

With one swift movement he reached down to the waistband of his boxer
shorts, the only clothing he had slept in, and pushed them down past his
hips. Stepping out of them, he crossed over to the bed, laying back onto
the pillows, his hand automatically reaching for his hardening cock. 

He ran his fingertips lightly along the shaft, tracing the vein, circling
the tip before moving down again, to the base and further, gently fondling
the heavy twin sacs. With a low groan he moved his other hand to his
mouth, sucking his fingers in, then reaching down to flick and carress the
hard buds of his nipples, first one then the other, tugging and pinching
until they fairly ache with pleasure and almost-pain. 

The hand between his legs moved back up to grasp the shaft, and he moaned
again as he began to stroke in hard, quick motions, his body moving
instinctively in this well-remembered dance. His hips shifted upwards with
each stroke, his cock pushing up into his tight fist, the clear stream of
precum oozing from the reddened tip of his penis making his hand slick,
the friction smoother and more tantalizing. 

As his body moved towards completion, his mind was filled with other
images: his lover's lips on his, tongues intermingling, hands caressing
his body, hot mouth on his penis, hot, hard cock pounding into him, making
him moan, making his scream... 

He quickly sucked his fingers into his mouth again then brought them down
between his legs, bending his knees and parting them, his moistened digits
finding the hidden opening, tracing circles around it. As the stroking of
his engorged organ sped up he felt his balls begin to tighten, the
tingling, electric sensation heralding his climax, and he trust two
fingers deep into himself, fingertips caressing that small nub inside him,
crying out with the sudden intrusion, his muscles clenching and spasming
in time with his exploding cock. 

Waves of ecstasy shot through him as he spurted his blood-hot seed over
his hand, his belly, his chest, his back arching with each shocking pulse,
a voiceless scream wrenched from his throat: "Oh, God, Benny!" 

He lay there in silence for a time, his body shaking with his harsh gasps,
trying to catch his breath, trying not to let his emotions overwhelm him.
It was a lost cause. 

And as the hot desert sun rose in the morning sky, the heat quickly drying
the spilled semen on his body, Armando Langoustini wept. 

 

Please send feedback!