than they are in books!” he said, sounding
anxious. “They’re… aggressive and shit! One girl brought her own
condoms and her own lube and just… just… got on her hands and
knees, greased herself up and said, ‘Put it in there!’ And, well, you
know. That thing’s pretty much got a mind of its own… it went!”
Talker was giggling by this time, because Brian sounded so…
so… put out by being asked to ass-fuck a pretty girl! “Yeah?”
“Yeah!” Brain was laughing, but his ears were also pink. Talker
wanted to kiss him, badly, but not as much as he wanted to hear the
end of the story.
“So… how’d it feel?”
“Tight,” Brian answered promptly. “It was tight—and it felt really
good.” He shrugged. “But it was the last time I heard from the girl,
and she told me the sex was awesome, and she seemed to like it,
but, you know….” He shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t pressed
against the mattress.
“No. No I don’t.”
Brian sighed. “It was… it was like all the girls I was with. They
were fun, and I liked their company, but their touch didn’t… didn’t
make anything get warm. Didn’t make it pop or zing or ache.” That
hand moved up to Talker’s neck, so that his pulse throbbed against
Brian’s palm. “Didn’t make me feel any of the things I feel when you
touch me or smile or… you know, sing in the shower or leave your
Talker’s Redemption | Amy Lane
57
shoes in the hallway or have conversations with the rat when you
think I can’t hear you.”
“Mmm…,” Tate sighed, but better, and arched into Brian’s
touch. And then refused to give up his bone. “But, don’t you miss…
you know, fucking something?”
Brian grimaced and then turned pinker, which meant he was
about to talk dirty. Tate watched him try to find words with great
delight. It didn’t happen often. “You mean besides your hand or your
mouth or your thighs or pretty much any other alternative? Just
because it’s not… not… orificial sex doesn’t make it, you know,
unofficial sex, right?”
Talker couldn’t help it. He laughed, the sound shaking him from
his chest through his stomach to his balls. “Orificial sex?” he howled
when he could find breath. “Orificial sex? Oh. My. God! Is that like a
word you just made up or something?”
Brian’s ears went from pink to practically purple, and he buried
his face in his pillow in embarrassment, and Talker couldn’t help it—
he had to kiss that delicate shell of warm, embarrassed ear. Brian
wriggled underneath him, and he kissed it again, and then he used
the tip of his tongue, and Brian wriggled some more.
And then kissing Brian’s ear wasn’t enough. Tate moved to the
nape of his neck (still pink, but turning blotchy, like Brian was
aroused more than embarrassed) and nibbled on that for a minute.
They had managed a shower the night before, and Brian tasted like
shampoo and warm male. His hair was long enough to push aside
so it didn’t prickle, and Tate kept kissing down to the neckline of
Brian’s sweatshirt. Brian made a sound that was half giggle and half
sigh, and Tate suddenly needed… oh, God, he needed.
He groaned and arched his hips, grinding up against the
hollow made by Brian’s upper thighs and his tight little ass. Brian
groaned too, and pushed back, and Tate kept kissing his back. He
Talker’s Redemption | Amy Lane
58
rucked up Brian’s sweatshirt and played peekaboo with the pale
gold skin. Brian had three small moles on his back, flat and dark,
ranged unevenly around his backbone, and Tate kissed his way
between them in a game only he knew. He got down to the
waistband of Brian’s sweats, and Brian pulled up off the bed to give
him better access. Tate took it and shucked the whole works—
sweats, tighty-whiteys, sleep-socks—down to the foot of the bed
and off.
Brian started to roll over then, and Tate stopped him.
“Hold still!” he laughed, continuing
anxious. “They’re… aggressive and shit! One girl brought her own
condoms and her own lube and just… just… got on her hands and
knees, greased herself up and said, ‘Put it in there!’ And, well, you
know. That thing’s pretty much got a mind of its own… it went!”
Talker was giggling by this time, because Brian sounded so…
so… put out by being asked to ass-fuck a pretty girl! “Yeah?”
“Yeah!” Brain was laughing, but his ears were also pink. Talker
wanted to kiss him, badly, but not as much as he wanted to hear the
end of the story.
“So… how’d it feel?”
“Tight,” Brian answered promptly. “It was tight—and it felt really
good.” He shrugged. “But it was the last time I heard from the girl,
and she told me the sex was awesome, and she seemed to like it,
but, you know….” He shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t pressed
against the mattress.
“No. No I don’t.”
Brian sighed. “It was… it was like all the girls I was with. They
were fun, and I liked their company, but their touch didn’t… didn’t
make anything get warm. Didn’t make it pop or zing or ache.” That
hand moved up to Talker’s neck, so that his pulse throbbed against
Brian’s palm. “Didn’t make me feel any of the things I feel when you
touch me or smile or… you know, sing in the shower or leave your
Talker’s Redemption | Amy Lane
57
shoes in the hallway or have conversations with the rat when you
think I can’t hear you.”
“Mmm…,” Tate sighed, but better, and arched into Brian’s
touch. And then refused to give up his bone. “But, don’t you miss…
you know, fucking something?”
Brian grimaced and then turned pinker, which meant he was
about to talk dirty. Tate watched him try to find words with great
delight. It didn’t happen often. “You mean besides your hand or your
mouth or your thighs or pretty much any other alternative? Just
because it’s not… not… orificial sex doesn’t make it, you know,
unofficial sex, right?”
Talker couldn’t help it. He laughed, the sound shaking him from
his chest through his stomach to his balls. “Orificial sex?” he howled
when he could find breath. “Orificial sex? Oh. My. God! Is that like a
word you just made up or something?”
Brian’s ears went from pink to practically purple, and he buried
his face in his pillow in embarrassment, and Talker couldn’t help it—
he had to kiss that delicate shell of warm, embarrassed ear. Brian
wriggled underneath him, and he kissed it again, and then he used
the tip of his tongue, and Brian wriggled some more.
And then kissing Brian’s ear wasn’t enough. Tate moved to the
nape of his neck (still pink, but turning blotchy, like Brian was
aroused more than embarrassed) and nibbled on that for a minute.
They had managed a shower the night before, and Brian tasted like
shampoo and warm male. His hair was long enough to push aside
so it didn’t prickle, and Tate kept kissing down to the neckline of
Brian’s sweatshirt. Brian made a sound that was half giggle and half
sigh, and Tate suddenly needed… oh, God, he needed.
He groaned and arched his hips, grinding up against the
hollow made by Brian’s upper thighs and his tight little ass. Brian
groaned too, and pushed back, and Tate kept kissing his back. He
Talker’s Redemption | Amy Lane
58
rucked up Brian’s sweatshirt and played peekaboo with the pale
gold skin. Brian had three small moles on his back, flat and dark,
ranged unevenly around his backbone, and Tate kissed his way
between them in a game only he knew. He got down to the
waistband of Brian’s sweats, and Brian pulled up off the bed to give
him better access. Tate took it and shucked the whole works—
sweats, tighty-whiteys, sleep-socks—down to the foot of the bed
and off.
Brian started to roll over then, and Tate stopped him.
“Hold still!” he laughed, continuing
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