m/m relationship

SPRING CYCLONE

a seasonal PWP
by James Walkswithwind

	Tomorrow it would be raining.  It wasn't the scent of approaching thunderclouds,
nor the weight of the increased humidity that warned him of the imminent
storm.  If he'd cared to notice he could have easily read those signs.
Standing here, alone, window propped open wide the signs were there to
be read.  He wasn't reading them;  he knew about the storm, though. 
It was inevitable-  the afternoon had been spent washing the Riv, twice
soaped and thrice waxed and buffed.  
	It had to rain.  
	Even he knew enough about the perversities of weather to predict rain
for the morrow;  he didn't regret the afternoon, though.  Couldn't, and
not for the expected reason that had they not washed the car it would
not rain, thereby making it necessary to wash it later, after which it
would rain...  Had the clouds been curling up overhead when they got
out the rags and chamois he still would have encouraged the activity.
For, though early spring and still not quite warm, washing a car led
to shirtlessness and laughing play.  Stripped down to shorts, he'd had
nearly two hours of unrestricted indulgence-- staring, lusting, even
the occasional bear hug as the thrown rags and stealthily directed hose
got them to wrestling and jostling for the upperhand.  He had been casual,
oh so casual about it all.  Never groped openly for any of the more enticing
bits, but contented himself to friendly grabs, here and there.. a hand
sliding down bare chest and across shoulders, once even grabbing those
legs, as he'd crouched by the wheel with a brush.
	He smiled.  No, he'd not have missed washing the car for 
anything, short of a tornado-- and it'd have to have been next door to
convince him to stop.  Sighing now, he remembered the feel of his friend's
skin beneath soapy fingertips.  He shivered as he thought of fingers
slipping across his body, in other circumstances, in other places.  How
easily he could slide his fingers down, around..  He gave himself a shake
and opened his eyes.  
	Not to stop the daydream, but rather to move now, sit while his legs
could still carry him.  He found a seat in the chair behind him, away
from the window where he could not quite look out; but then he didn't
need to look out.  What he wanted was inside, and he closed his eyes
again.  Bare skin, pale from winter and looking oh so delicious.  He
wondered what it would taste like.
	It wasn't something he could conjure up.  No matter, there were plenty
of other things to enjoy, to indulge in, to distract him... Once this
afternoon he'd looked up to see a soaked chamois trailing over his shoulder,
plastered against his back, the dark gold setting off the pale white,
and the dark brush of hair scattered across his friend's chest. His fingers
had curled around his own cloth, wanting to peel the chamois away and
run his hands through that dampened hair.  Then he'd had to look down,
quickly; now he imagined his fingers going towards the cloth, pulling
it down, letting it fall to the ground at their feet.  
	The trail of soap bubbles along his forearms would be brushed 
away, smoothed into the skin as he kneeded his fingers along his lover's
arms.  Turning to the side, bringing his lover with him, he'd push them
both against the shining fender of the Riv, the smell of fresh wax filling
his lungs.
	The scent of the soap, too, and the fresh spring aroma of trees and
grassy lawns struggling to find themselves in the sun, all of it masking
the smell of his lover's arousal; he'd lean forward then, and place his
nose right into the crook of his lover's neck, and breathe deeply.  The
lack of detail in his dream didn't bother him, the fact that he'd be
standing there, pressed so close was enough.  He'd bring his hands down
his lover's sides, until he found the soaked waistband of his shorts.
	There he'd let his hands rest while he.. while he.. he wasn't 
sure what to do next.  Kiss him? Look at his eyes?  He could feel his
erection nearly full, sitting here alone in his room.  What did he want?
He searched his memory, his imagination, feeling nothing strike sharply
at him.  The smell of the wax came back to him, and he wondered. 
	What *did* he smell like?  When he was an hour out of his shower and
the scent of soap had worn away, yet before he'd had a chance to work
up any kind of sweat.. what did he smell like?  He thought back-- had
he ever been close enough to discover?  Smelled and not quite noticed
the aroma he was breathing?  Would he taste the way he smelled, would
they both be salty or sweet or tangy, or would one and the other not
match, thereby giving him twice the discovery to anticipate?
	He could see himself, walking behind him, bending close to the 
back of his neck and touching the skin with the tip of his tongue, taking
a long, deep sniff to compare.  He knew what his friend would do-- turn
around, looking at him like he'd lost his mind, for what sort of person--
lover or not, targets the back of a man's neck?
	He'd just smile, and move to another spot-- his hands, next, 
taking each one and giving them the same comparing treatment, a lick
and a sniff.  Then his thighs-- not high enough for the scent of his
groin to distract him, then up to the small of his back, inspecting,
learning, enjoying..  He shivered again at the thought of so much freedom,
and then let himself move on in his dream. Pressing his face close to
now-aroused genitals, not yet touching, then standing slowly and tasting
his mouth for the first time...
	He wanted it, he wanted so badly...  he squeezed his eyes closed as
he came, hands gripping the wooden seat of the chair, gritting his teeth
so he would not cry out.  It was only when he relaxed, felt his body
trembling in aftershock, that he realised he'd never touched himself.
He smiled. 'If you can do that to me in my dreams, love, what will you
do for me when I touch you for real?'
	Taking a deep breath, he stood up and went for a washcloth, 
lightly tracing his fingers along his stomach.  He smiled in mellow consideration
of his dreams.  Would he have the courage to really do those things,
if he ever found himself with the chance?  Or would he be overcome with
the need to feel, and press their bodies close, reaching for orgasm before
either had the time to do more than register the fact that they were
together, naked, making love?
	Maybe he'd have the courage.  Maybe he wouldn't.  Maybe he'd 
never find out.  Maybe he'd have years to work his way up to it, celebrating
an anniversary by indulging in daydreams.  Maybe he'd only indulge in
daydreams.
	Maybe next week, they could wash the car again.

	Two men, two rooms, two single beds. Lying in the darkness 
falling asleep smiling.  One dream.

The End

James Kythe Walkswithwind     
jkw@u.arizona.edu	                        Practise Humility      gila@jbx.com