Erotic short. Two travelling salesmen do battle with a creaky guesthouse bed.
Rated E. 900w, M/M, wrestling and banter and handjobs, just short and silly!
“Come closer, liebling,” Selig said, and Chaim did as he was told, although it was hardly as if he was doing it only because he was being instructed. Selig’s chest was not just handsomely hairy and a pleasure to look at, but was very warm and inviting and gloriously soft, offered a wonderful succour against the cold bite of the room they were sharing, which seemed to fit a lot of very cold air in it for being so small and poky, with a tiny window and a too-big crack under the closed door.
Selig’s lips were an inch away from Chaim’s, and their noses brush against one another – Selig’s nose is not nearly as comfortingly warm as his chest and belly is, and Chaim automatically leans away from the sting of it, which makes him laugh and grip Chaim around the middle and roll him over, the bedclothes tangled around them and the ancient bedframe creaking protest under their shared weights.
“Why is it that every guesthouse we stay in is more miserable than the last?” Chaim asked, keeping his voice pitched low so that it didn’t carry down the corridor – they were capable of fucking quietly, but he already didn’t like how much noise this old bed was making, knew they’d have to be careful not to be too rhythmic about their movements or be found out.
“Because we’re skinflints, and not particularly discerning ones,” Selig answered plainly, making Chaim laugh.
“Are we skinflints, or do we just lack money?”
“I’d rather think of us as the former,” Selig said. “It makes us seem engaged and ambitious, rather than tragic and meandering.”
“Tragic,” Chaim repeated. “Are we tragic?”
“Weren’t you listening, liebling? We are no such thing: we are ambitious. Enterprising. Adventurous.”
“I think I like the idea of being adventurous even less than I like being tragic.”
“It doesn’t sound like you like being anything.”
“Perhaps I don’t.”
“I will reduce you to nothing, then,” Selig offered, and mouthed along the side of Chaim’s neck, gripping him under the thighs whilst pulling him close, and the weight of his body was braced over Chaim’s, their bellies pressed against one another’s, filling their lungs with the same air. He didn’t grind against Chaim’s body but kept their bodies pressed tight together, even as he pulled Chaim up under the knee and manhandled him onto his side.
“Going to crush me to dust?” Chaim asked, leaning back and into the tight embrace of the other man’s arms banded around his middle, and Selig chuckled as he pushed his knee between Chaim’s, his cock pressed between Chaim’s arse cheeks but not actually thrusting, not rubbing, not pressing in, even, was just a presence there, warm and aggravatingly, provocatively solid.
“I had something more liquid in mind,” Selig murmured, and kissed the nape of Chaim’s neck even as he slid his hand under the curve of Chaim’s belly and gripped at his prick. Chaim grunted at the roughness of Selig’s palm, the textured drag against his prick and the squeeze of the grip around him. His body was stiff as he tried his hardest not to thrust and buck his hips into Selig’s hand, trying to keep the awful fucking bed they were in quiet, and at the same time clenching his jaw and trying not to moan too loudly. “Do you think that old lady downstairs is gonna flick her bean tonight, thinking of those big handsome boys fucking in the tiniest coffin bed her worst guest room has to offer?”
“I think you’re being far too optimistic if you think she thinks we’re boys,” Chaim bites out, and then gasps at the far too loud smack that Selig rewards him with against his thigh, flinching and making the bed creak loudly, although at least now as they kick and shove at one another, Selig’s hand all the while squeezing and pulling at him, it sounds more like two idiots roughhousing in a too-small bed than it does two salesmen falling afoul of the Buggery Act.
He comes with his face pressed against his own forearm, Selig’s body on top of his, Selig laughing right into his ear, stifles his own noises until someone downstairs bellows something incoherent through the stone and boards and knocks a broom handle against the ceiling to tell Selig to shut the fuck up and stop laughing so loudly.
He doesn’t stop, of course, until Chaim shoves two fingers into his mouth and makes him gag on them, and Selig stares at him with his eyes wide and offended and his mouth still grinning.
“You’re making too much noise,” Chaim hisses, his voice quiet but uneven as Selig keeps on squeezing at him, and Selig worries at his fingers with his teeth, waggling his eyebrows in the dark of the room.
The noise he makes when Chaim grabs at his prick is strangled and wet and his eyes nearly cross, and Chaim stifles his laughter against the inside of his elbow as he makes the other man take his turn.
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