Mon, February 06 2012
| TITLE: | Additional Risk |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Polly Anne Morris |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | Romance |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | NC-17, Adult-Slash |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | Phileas\Jules |
| DESCRIPTION: | . . . up in the bedroom. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
| PREVIOUS STORY: | Risk |
| DISCLAIMER:: | Sexually Explicit Slash. This narrative follows immediately after, and contains spoilers for, the action of "Risk". However, it gets considerably more graphically explicit than the previously cited work. Please be advised. |
Phileas Fogg slid the door to his cabin closed, and latched it. Turning around, he put his back to the door to contemplate the astonishing concept that confronted him: Jules Verne in his room, sitting there on Phileas' own bed, his hands to the mattress on either side and an expectant - uncertain, or moderately fearful, but on balance hopeful - expression on his face.
"There was something that you said you wanted to do, Fogg." Verne's voice still came a little choked in his throat, and Phileas could understand and agree with a whole heart. Yes. It was very sudden, and very different, and very difficult to believe; and still it was so absolutely what he wanted, what he'd tried to deny to himself that he wanted, what he'd been struggling against wanting for months and months and months now.
And hadn't Rebecca told him that he was an idiot?
"You're being very cruel and it's beastly of you," Rebecca had said, just before she'd left with Passepartout. This morning? Yesterday? "What possible reason could you have for treating Jules as though he cheated at cards? Phileas. You should be ashamed. I think that the two of you should take this opportunity to have a talk, and if you haven't sorted yourselves out by the time Passepartout and I return I will have something rather less affectionate to say to you. A word to the wise should be sufficient, Phileas, but I really don't know about you, lately."
"Yes, Jules, in fact there is. Or there are. It's only that I'm sorry, I can't help it, this is so wrong for you, and you're my friend. How can I even suggest such a thing. It will ruin you."
And he hadn't known what she'd been talking about, or he hadn't been able to admit that he understood what she was saying. Yes, he knew perfectly well that he was being beastly to Verne, but it was only because he wanted so much to - to do things that could only terminate what slight degree of friendship he was going to have left with Verne by the time this mission was over, and the whole thing made him miserable, utterly miserable, but what could he possibly ever do about it? The situation was intolerable. And his desires were bestial beyond description. They were. Verne was a nice young man, bright and creative and engaging, with his entire future ahead of him; Phileas Fogg was merely one tired and rapidly aging not-quite-as-young-man whose future had evaporated away years ago. There was no way in which he could engage with Verne and not do Verne a gross injustice.
But Verne was smiling at him, slowly and shyly, but very surely. "You're forgetting, my friend," Verne said. "It is my idea as much as it is yours. And I don't feel particularly ruined. Oh, except in a sort of a recently-well-exercised way, don't come down with a case of nerves on me, Fogg, or I don't know what I'll do."
That was a point, and Phileas had to acknowledge its justice. He had stood downstairs face to face with Verne and let Verne make a declaration, and he had profited from the way in which Verne had elected to emphasize it; if he cried shy of the engagement now it would be as though he had not wanted it in the first place. And he wanted it. He wanted it so much, so much of it, so much.
"My mistake." No, that was the wrong thing to say, it could be misinterpreted; Phileas hastened to explain himself. "An error on my part, Verne, you're quite right. I've spent my entire life doing what I ought rather than what I wanted. So now I want you to stand up, if you would. I've dreamed of this. How it might happen. How it could never happen. Let me show you with precision, you're an artist, you appreciate - precision - "
And Verne was mostly dressed, if somewhat casually, which was just perfect. Because Phileas had dreamed. He'd fantasized. He'd seen himself taking Verne by the shoulders to nuzzle down the side of his throat to that perfectly fascinating neck of his, Verne's throat, there were some knit garments that Verne wore from time to time that maddened Phileas almost beyond the point of coherence - in his dreams - but Verne wore a more ordinary sort of a shirt just now, and he'd pulled his braces back up to his shoulders, and there'd be an undershirt, and Phileas wanted them all.
"Just to touch you." Yes, he had confessed it to Verne, he remembered. "And give you pleasure. Let me just touch you. I'm not good for much else for the next few minutes anyway, I admit it, I hope that I shan't disappoint you, later."
Verne's face. Verne put his face up to the ceiling to enjoy the touch of Phileas' finger-tips on his cheek, his mouth, skating ever so lightly across the closed lids of Verne's earnest eyes. It was late, and Verne hadn't shaved in the morning; his beard was beginning to show, his moustache. Phileas had noticed that Verne hadn't shaved in the morning. Verne didn't have the same sort of an issue with his personal grooming as Phileas had - Phileas could not avoid a morning shave, every morning, if he hoped to avoid looking like a gypsy, or some other sort of disreputable character with a dirty face and a new growth of hair - and the evidence was not transparently obvious accordingly; but Phileas had noticed.
And he'd hated it. Hated it. Verne not shaving in the morning was an irresistible lure in Phileas' mind toward the concept of Verne having just got up, just gotten out of bed, and that in turn locked his mind down firmly on the thought of Jules in bed. Asleep. Rolling over in the sheets. Tucking one arm underneath the pillow underneath his head. Torture.
Verne opened his mouth and touched his tongue to the underside of Phileas' fingers as Phileas caressed Verne's lips; very gently, very sweetly, and Verne made his point. Oh, yes. He liked the way that Phileas touched him. The warmth of Verne's sensual gesture made Phileas shiver; and he wondered whether his body might not be even more vulnerable to Verne than he had thought it might be, even after the shattering pleasure they had taken together downstairs in the main salon just now.
Verne's shoulders, strong and broad and well-muscled. Phileas wanted skin. There were occasionally good excuses to lay hands on Verne's shoulders, occasions which only whet Phileas' appetite for the body of the man; he didn't understand it - he'd never had more than the most fleeting sexual interest in a partner of his own sex, and his obsession with Verne hadn't seemed to interfere with his ability to appreciate the more usually appropriate gender. Verne was something so unique in Phileas' experience that all that he could do was to surrender to the moment, stroke Verne's back and shoulders and trace the muscle of his upper arms down to his wrists beneath the palms of his hands and set to work unbuttoning. Verne stood patiently and suffered Phileas' attentions, his hands politely quiet at his sides: Phileas had said that he wanted to touch Verne, and Verne had paid attention. Verne was so attentive a man. And one to whom Phileas had paid such close attention, whenever he could be secure no-one was watching, and no-one was watching now because Verne's eyes were closed.
Verne's braces were down off his shoulders, Phileas had Verne's shirt undone and open, and there was a profusion of brown curling hair beneath the woolen weave of Verne's undershirt that had haunted Phileas' sensual dreams for weeks. If not for months. Phileas put Verne's shirt aside; he'd seen Verne in his undershirt from time to time, he knew the power of that somewhat short but very compact frame, and now it was to be his to let that body know how much Phileas appreciated its presence in the world. The undershirt was buttoned, of course, all of those little buttons. Passepartout when he unbuttoned Phileas when the situation required it did not ever once even touch the skin, and Phileas did his best to reproduce that professional detachment because he wanted to touch Verne's skin all at once when it was bared.
He got the undershirt undone, down to the intriguing place where it dove beneath Verne's trousers; and peeled it back away from Verne's strong rounded shoulders to sag around Verne's waist at the back. He could only hope that Verne would not take Phileas' cavalier treatment of his clothing amiss, but there was to be no getting rid of that undershirt until the balance of the garment could be unbuttoned and removed - and held Verne to him quietly, wrapped up in his arms, half-drunk on just the knowledge that the skin that warmed his body even through his own clothing was Jules Verne's.
Verne's breathing was calm and serene. But a little, just a little, quicker than it might have been before. Phileas took his time. His hands had stored up such a thirst for Verne's body that he could touch the man all night and not be sated, but there were other things he wanted to do - and other ways that he wanted to touch - and he dared not give Verne a chance to stop and think about what he was doing. Lest Verne should wake up from whatever mad dream Verne might be having too soon, before Phileas had at least once caressed him to joy.
He put Verne away from him at half an arm's-length so that he could look at Verne, petting his arms, petting his shoulders, trailing his finger-tips down the strong flat planes of Verne's breast. Verne wasn't hairy in the same way Phileas himself was, Phileas' body hair was strong and black and almost a little distasteful in its shameless profusion; Verne's body was much more tastefully furred than that. It was soft hair, curling, warm, and when Phileas touched Verne's breast he found Verne's nipples already hard and stiff beneath his hands. The room was not warm. That might have explained it.
If Verne was cold it was clearly up to Phileas to warm him, so he turned Verne's back to him and pulled Verne gently close to stand front to back and share his body's heat while he folded his arms around the front of Verne's body to descend, in his exploratory touching, down across the span of Verne's rib-cage and past the vaulted arch of his diaphragm to where the hair on his chest began to alter in its nature to the hair that would be found around Verne's belly, which was an entirely new wonder to explore.
There was a great deal of Verne's arms and shoulders to get his arms around; the angle was awkward, but Phileas would not have traded the strain of it for anything in the world. The one thing he'd feared more than anything was that Verne might be slight and slender, underneath his clothing, and that would have put Phileas in mind of boys, and he had never been able to muster an interest in sexually immature persons of either sex - the concept was too deeply abhorrent to him to be compatible with how he felt about Verne.
He need not have worried, he realized with gratitude and relief. Verne was not so tall a man as he was, and Verne was younger than he was, and Verne's experience of life was perhaps not yet so rich and varied as Phileas' own. But Verne was a man. There was nothing in the least bit child-like about his body, and his stomach, and his chest, and Phileas unbuckled the catch at the waist of Verne's trousers slowly, unbuttoning Verne's fly with meditative care.
Verne was erect, again, and Phileas had only just begun to touch him. Well. That was only going to contribute to the pleasure Phileas anticipated. Sliding his fingers carefully between the overlapping fabric panels of Verne's drawers Phileas touched his naked fingers to Verne's cock, astonished by the heat of it; and stroked it tenderly, just by way of an introduction, with his fingertips, up and down the hardening length of it as Verne stiffened and bit back a cry, trembling, pressing his back to Phileas' breast with something that was a little like desperation.
Oh. It was so good. Phileas kissed Verne's neck just at the shoulder, kissed his throat, sucked the soft hot pad of Verne's right ear-lobe between his lips into his mouth to hold it between his teeth and lick it greedily, knowing that his own breath in Verne's ear would only contribute to Verne's increasing distraction.
"I can't stand, Fogg," Verne said. For a moment Phileas was confused; the complaint was so reluctantly presented, and had no note of resentment or rejection in it anywhere. Verne sounded deeply sorry to disappoint - "I have to sit. Sit down. Or I'm going to collapse. God. To feel that, Phileas, you touching me."
Verne hadn't said he couldn't stand Phileas' depraved caresses. No. Verne had merely noted that he was not going to be able to keep to his feet much longer, not now that Phileas had slid his hand down flat between the still-buttoned portion of Verne's drawers and his bare skin to rub the entire length of Verne's erection against the palm of his hand and the flattened undersides of his fingers. That was a much more reasonable thing for Verne to have said, and Phileas endorsed the sentiment completely. He wasn't certain how much longer his own knees would support him before they buckled beneath him, and then he and Verne would both fall to the floor. That would be awkward, and potentially injurious to the balance of the evening's entertainment.
"Just step out of your trousers, if you can, Verne, and you can sit down, my God, what were you thinking of, walking about all of this time in stockinged feet? Didn't your mother ever tell you about wearing out your heels - " But it was just as well that they didn't have Verne's boots to deal with. Phileas helped, pushing the waist of Verne's trousers down his strong thighs, holding Verne to steady him as Verne bent to pull the tangle of trouser-legs free of his feet. There. There was only Verne's undergarment, left to see to. And his socks.
The undergarment was three parts fallen away already, so just before Phileas settled Verne back on the surface of the bed he tugged Verne's drawers down across his back-side so that Verne would sit skin to sheets. Naked in the lamp-light. Verne's drawers were warm with Verne's body heat, but they had been soiled in the course of the evening's events, the sort of indication that embarrassed every man on entirely too many occasions of his life; and there was spilt seed muddled in Verne's nether beard across his belly, as well, whose evidence of arousal and completion made it more difficult yet for Phileas to concentrate. He had the advantage of young Verne, to wit, the fact that he was not so young as Verne, and had safely escaped the worse part of the tyranny that passion exercised over all men in their earliest manhood; but he was a man still, far from immune to carnal appetite, and he had wanted Verne so much of late. It was almost too predictable: visual stimuli still had such power to rule his flesh.
Verne lay on his back on Phileas' bed, beautiful and golden in the lamp-light, watching Phileas with eyes that seemed so dark as to be almost coal-black. With desire; there was no mistaking that, not with the head of Verne's cock beginning to put back its hood and lift itself to seek for a caress. Phileas touched him, very carefully, almost afraid of how much it aroused him to stroke Verne's cock; and - crouched down at the bedside - lowered his head to touch the skin of Verne's belly with his lips, to taste the spilt seed that had caught against Verne's skin, to kiss the intriguing firmness of Verne's belly and clean the dried semen from Verne's body with his tongue.
Verne's entire body shook, and Verne cried out, and put his hand out with a warding gesture. "No, Fogg, please, you go to fast, I can't - you mustn't - it isn't fair, I want to touch you too - "
Phileas realized his mistake, even as he licked the sticky places on Verne's hot salty skin with greedy concentration. No. He had told Verne that he wanted to touch, and Verne had let him touch, and not denied him. To indulge himself to the extent of bringing Verne to climax, to gorge himself on Verne's body and all at once and without sharing his, it would not be well done. It was not the act of a gentleman. He had to think quickly if he was to avoid doing Verne an injustice. Verne was not a woman of convenience hired to serve Phileas' pleasure with no particular reference to her own: and if he let this happen it would be the same as treating Verne as just such a professional. It was too shameful. He could not let it happen.
"Oh, God," Phileas groaned, in an agony of conflict to realize what he had been doing. "Quite right, Verne, I'm so sorry, I can make it right - I hope - can you forgive me for being such a pig - "
To press down hard just behind the glistening head of Verne's erect penis would do the trick, but it would be a brutal and unkind thing to do. Though effective. To try to leash the dragon at the base of the penis was not so sure a thing, but not as painful, and if he could only manage it need not be something Verne would blame him for - Phileas lifted the hand with which he had been caressing Verne's cock, found the base of the penis where it surged from Verne's belly, hooked his little finger delicately around to push against the upper midline of Verne's scrotal sac as he pressed down with thumb and forefinger at the base of Verne's cock with careful but quickly increasing force.
Verne cried out again, and seized Phileas by the shoulders, and clung to him with his chest heaving; but then, after a moment, after several moments, Verne lifted his head sharply with an entirely different expression on his face - an amazed expression, an intrigued expression, that look of focussed interest that Phileas loved so much; and stared down at his lap. "How did you do that, Fogg? - What did you do? - Never mind, don't move. I'd like to just sit here for a moment and enjoy looking at your hands on my body. If you don't mind. That was close."
"Wonderful woman in Smolensk taught me that," Phileas said, happily. "I've never tried to use it on somebody else, goes without saying, I suppose. Is it all right, Verne? Can we go on? Because you're quite right, I was getting ahead of myself, I do apologize. Very unthinking of me."
Verne made the damping motion with his hand, the quieting-down, soothing-away, letting-it-drop patting of the air with one flattened palm. "Just let me be quiet for a moment or two longer and I think I'll be all right. For a little while. But you, you'll have to pay reparations, Fogg, and for your forfeit I think you should stand there where I can watch you in the light, and take your clothes off. You have to take your hand away for that, don't you? So, I'll be sharing your penance, in a way."
The resilience of Verne's character was remarkable, and now in the middle of this truly unprecedented situation Verne's basic cheerful optimism heartened Fogg even in the face of this ordeal. "Well, I don't know about that, Verne," Fogg said, worried. "I don't know all that much about undressing, really, well, not myself. That's Passepartout's job, after all. Not sure I'll be able to avoid making a botch of it."
Reaching down for Phileas' hand Verne moved it carefully and gently away from its position; its mission was accomplished, he was not entirely flaccid, but he was clearly in no danger of a crisis in the immediate future. "Your pleas for understanding will avail you nothing, Phileas," Verne said. "And I'm just being practical. Really. You need to take your clothes off. And I need to catch my breath. You can sit here beside me to take your shoes off, though, honestly, Fogg, wearing your shoes to bed, didn't your mother ever tell you about boot-black on the sheets?"
This was complete and utter nonsense. But it did the trick. Smiling happily, Phileas straightened up to sit down on the side of the bed just along Verne's naked flank, and put one foot up on one knee - and then the other - to undo his laces and pull off his stockings. Even reassured by Verne's affectionate teasing, however, it was difficult not to turn his back to unfasten his shirt; Verne was watching him, drinking in his every move, and Phileas had to force himself not to hurry through the chore in order to be done with it as soon as possible. This was unexpectedly difficult; but at least he'd already taken off his neck-cloth. It was downstairs somewhere. Passepartout would probably find it in a day or three, Passepartout always did, and if it happened to be a neck-cloth of which Passepartout did not approve Phileas would not see it again until it turned up in a new incarnation as a dusting-rag. It had happened before on occasion. Passepartout could be an absolute tyrant where the articles of dress were concerned -
"Passepartout's going to know about this, isn't he?" Verne asked suddenly, as though he'd heard Phileas thinking. Phileas pulled his shirt-tails free of his trousers and shrugged out of the shirt, considering the question.
"There's no real hope of concealment. No. Not unless we never touched each other again after tonight, Verne, and even then it would be a near thing even if we did bring it off. I am not in the least inclined to consider never touching you again after tonight. I want too much of you, Verne, I want you for mine. I hadn't really begun to think things through, I suppose, I've been concentrating all of my energies on not doing something that would destroy our friendship."
If he thought about it, if he talked about it, he could successfully distract himself from the fact that he was unbuttoning the waistband of his trousers and unfastening his fly. Verne was watching him; Phileas looked at the wall, but then Verne replied, and the happy loving note in Verne's voice was irresistible, Phileas had to meet Verne's very intent gaze even if he was stooping to step out of his trousers as he did so.
"It's classic, Fogg, two people who each want the same thing, and each of them's afraid that if they try for it the other will reject them. It got so bad I almost wished that we could be stranded on some island or another, somewhere, and you'd hit your head or something and need nursing, so that I could hold you and touch you as much as I wanted without you ever realizing why. Well. Not exactly as much as I wanted, but they were pretty extreme fantasies to begin with."
Straightening up, Phileas considered his trousers, which hung loosely and limply in his grasp. Unlike his masculine gender. "If we're going to be confessing things to one another," he said, reluctantly, but wanting to respect what Verne had just told him. "I'll have to confess to you. After we got Rebecca to hospital, in Ankara, and Passepartout was working on the apparatus. Do you remember? I was drunk, you held me, I fell asleep? I made you sit there with me for hours, Verne, and I was drunk - yes - but I wasn't asleep. I was thinking about you. It was the first time I realized that I had been thinking about you. I didn't know what to do with myself, I was appalled, but I wasn't about to ruin the occasion by admitting that I had ulterior motives."
Stealing a glance at Verne - who was leaning up on his elbows, in the bed, now - Phileas was relieved to see Verne smiling. "I'm very glad to hear that, Fogg," Verne said. "I'm happy to hear that. I knew perfectly well that Passepartout would just have put you to bed and started in on the mending. But it wasn't going to stop me from taking advantage, and you're still dressed, you should put that right, at once."
Swallowing hard, Phileas turned his attention to his buttons. "Yes, but Verne, there is to be the issue, I'm afraid. Though we could talk about it later. I suppose."
"Well, what's Jean going to do?" Verne's question seemed to be rhetorical, and Phileas had to concentrate on his buttons. There were so many of them. "It's not as though he doesn't know much worse things about you than that you arouse me passionately. He's heard you sing."
"Oh, now, that is a low blow, Verne - when you know perfectly well that the whole idea - " The slander touched Phileas' vanity in a tender place, and he paused with his buttons open half-way down his chest to protest from the heart. Verne was grinning ear to ear at him, though. Teasing him. But perhaps the point was there: given that sodomy was a crime in England - and that what he had in mind for Verne was just that, sooner or later, if what they were doing now might be possibly and willfully interpreted as something less illegal - what did he face?
He could be imprisoned, Verne deported, but Verne could only be deported if they were caught in the act, and Passepartout already knew things about him that would get him a capital sentence in at least five, possibly seven, nations in Europe alone. With everything that he had done in service of Queen and country in his emphatically chequered past, what was a little dabbling in sodomy, especially in his class?
That the partner he desired was French might be taken as exceedingly poor taste amongst the friends and acquaintances of his student days, but was hardly likely to be remarked upon as unusual or particularly louche. Phileas Fogg was a man with so ambiguous a reputation that blackmail was not a serious issue: Phileas had thought that through before. "I really don't have the slightest idea how Passepartout might feel about all this, Verne. Really." He didn't particularly want to confess that to Verne under any circumstances, but particularly not here and now; because he knew very well that Verne considered him to be shockingly aristo in some of his habits, and not knowing more about the man who did him body-service was one of those habits. When to Phileas not knowing about Passepartout had more to do with respecting the distance that was between them, man to man - his buttons were all undone. There was to be no getting around this. Phileas pulled his union suit down and away from his shoulders, pushed it down to his ankles, stepped out of it, and straightened up entirely naked to meet Verne's eyes. "I'll just have to work it out as it develops. I suppose."
Verne wasn't meeting his eyes.
Verne was staring at his body in the lamp-light, and Phileas had to suppress a shiver of shy diffident timidity to be examined by his lover, his had-just-become lover, with so passionate a stare. He was not at all the same sort of man that Verne would have seen in his looking-glass, all his life. He was taller and rangier, the iron-hard muscle that clothed his long bones had never seemed to him to be aesthetically pleasing in the least, his figure had been designed by the Fates to look tolerably well clothed and altogether too plain unclothed, and - his coloring being darker - his body-hair was coarse and black and almost shockingly animal in its profusion, though that did offer the benefit of at least partial concealment to some of the more ugly of his scars; and yet Verne did not seem in the least bit disappointed to be looking at him, and some anxiety in Phileas' stomach dissolved away into surprised gladness to be desired by Verne even after Verne had seen him in as basic and unadorned a state as that of total nudity.
"And in the mean time," Verne said. "There's a bit of legal trivia I learned, Fogg, don't laugh, I do go to classes. I do. We may as well be hanged for stealing sheep as stealing goats, the Scottish say, so I've been told. Come here. I want some of that, Fogg. I want all of it, and I'd like it now."
Even in the dim light there was no question about what Verne meant. He was looking at Phileas' body. That was what he wanted.
Phileas reached out a hand; Verne took it. It was an awkward fit trying to share that narrow bed with Verne but the moment skin touched skin Phileas forgot everything, concern about Passepartout, everything, and lost himself in Verne's hungry kiss forever.
Fogg put his drawers away from him, letting the fine woolen fabric drape to the ground from the fingers of his left hand; and straightened up, looking at Jules. Stark naked. As long as it had taken Jules to become accustomed to the idea that he was desiring the body of his friend - un ami, and not une amie - the visual impact of nearly two full meters of Phileas Fogg in the altogether was both terrible and splendid. Against the alarming pallor of Fogg's thighs the black hair that lay flat along his flanks was that much more obvious, and it wasn't that there was a very great deal of it, merely that it was so unambiguously unfeminine. Jules hadn't really grasped the span of Fogg's shoulders, or the astonishing length of his legs. His arms. His hands. Jules held out his hand; Fogg stepped forward to take it, uncertainly. But Fogg's clasp tightened with renewed confidence once Fogg held Jules' hand in his. It was all right. It was going to be all right.
Fogg started to stoop to the bed, to lie down, but Jules was in the way and Fogg seemed to be confused about that in some sense. It wasn't so very luxurious a bed to begin with; part of the Aurora's original furniture, perhaps, and sized for a man of somewhat lesser height - the mysterious Baron von Bresslau, of whom Jules had heard. Jules lay on his back in the bed for a moment or two, for fun, enjoying Fogg's mild confusion over how to lie down in a bed that was already occupied.. Surely Fogg would have experienced no such awkwardness if it had been a woman in his bed.
Or would he have?
"Really, Verne, one isn't quite sure how to approach this, exactly - "
Jules relented, and shifted his weight so that he lay on one side at the far edge of the bed. "Come and lie down, Fogg," Jules said, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone of voice. "It'll be just fine. You'll see. Come on."
As close as Fogg stood to Jules, Jules could see Fogg's virile member against the dark tangle of black hair on Fogg's belly. For a man with as much to him as Fogg the focus of Jules' interest made actually rather compact a presentation; almost as if he could have it all in one hand, Jules mused happily, cock, testes, belly-fur. At least now. At least while Fogg was no more than half-erect.
Seeming to overcome the awkwardness at last Fogg found a way to angle into bed, lying on his side facing Jules, propped up on one arm. Jules pulled the covers up from the foot of the bed and draped the bed-linen across Fogg's broad chest.
"My fantasy," Jules explained, a little hoarsely, when Fogg looked from the white top-band of the sheets in Jules' hand into Jules' eyes, raising an eyebrow quizzically. "Time has stopped on the Aurora, and I'm the only one it doesn't seem to have affected. I don't know why you've gone to bed without your nightshirt, but it's a fantasy. I come into the cabin because I can't see you breathe, it alarms me - that's my excuse. I realize you're breathing, but very, very slowly. So you'll never even know. I pull the covers down. Slowly. I look at you."
He could hear the tremor in his voice; he was close to tears - for no particular reason he could guess, unless it was just that having so much of what he'd only ever dared to dream about terrified him. Fogg seemed to understand perfectly. Fogg put one hand out to Jules' face, and leaned in to kiss him very tenderly. How could he ever have found Fogg's mouth cool and uncomforting? Fogg was so loving with him now that Jules forgot all of the pain of former longing in the blissful present.
Skin. Hot, and soft over hard muscle, and a very great deal of it.
Slipping his arms around Fogg where he lay Jules held Fogg firmly to him; and caught his breath, swamped by sensation. Skin to skin from shoulder to thigh, his thoroughly aroused cock throbbing with the maddening stimulation of Fogg's own sex against his. Almost too much. Jules couldn't keep his hands quiet; he stroked his palms across Fogg's broad-shouldered back with restless greed. Fogg's shoulders. The back of Fogg's neck. Fogg's collarbones against Jules' thumbs as he savored the heat of Fogg's shoulders beneath his hands. The hard roundness of Fogg's arms at the top of the shoulder, and there was something interesting about the flesh between Fogg's arm and his body, what was it?
Jules stroked the sides of Fogg's flanks as far north as they went and nestled his fingers curiously - in the spirit of scientific inquiry - into the intriguingly musky nest of Fogg's armpits. Fogg stiffened in surprise, and Jules felt Fogg's erection harden. Oh, this was interesting. Jules would never have thought of that particular spot as erotic in any sense, but if it made Fogg writhe - it was erotic enough for Jules -
Touching him. Just touching him. Fogg drew back and away from Jules, till he lay on his back half-propped up on his elbows. Jules wasn't about to lose his place, and followed Fogg's retreat implacably, admiring Fogg's flushed skin in the lamp-light. Stroking him. Fogg's breath started to come ragged in his throat, his body tense: some men, Jules mused, knew how to get the most out of a good tickle, and Fogg was clearly one of those men.
The touch of Fogg's hot hungry tongue against Jules' skin had almost ruined him, just now.
Jules decided to find out how Fogg might feel about it, and now might be a good time to initiate the experiment because Fogg was distracted. Trembling. Breathing hard. And just because Jules slid his fingers up so very lightly, rubbing Fogg's tiny nipples with his thumbs as his fingertips made circles against the smooth flesh beneath Fogg's upper arms.
He'd already shifted his weight to lie on top of Fogg, more or less, in order to avoid being knocked off of the bed to the floor as Fogg fought to contain the tension of his body in response to Jules' gentle teasing. So Jules had a good position; and Fogg had put his head back till it pressed against the head-board, panting.
Jules kissed Fogg's throat up close beneath Fogg's upstretched chin; and Fogg groaned aloud.
Encouraging.
Jules blazed a trail, carefully, methodically, down the impossibly long arc of Fogg's throat that he had studied so often surreptitiously, so alive to the play between fabric and flesh that the hint of a gap between silk and skin could destroy his composure, and the chance glimpse of the hair on Fogg's chest on the occasions when Fogg's neck-cloth had been discarded for one reason or another could fuel lascivious fantasies for days. Fogg tasted of salt, that was to be expected, but also wonderfully of whatever it was that gave Fogg his own personal scent - the fragrance of his body, subtle but perceptible even beneath the perfume of his toiletries and the clean smell of laundered clothing and bleached linen.
Fogg's broad chest, heaving a bit just now it was true but for what Jules could only describe to himself as the best of all possible reasons.
Fogg's belly, between his ribs and his hip-bones, the muscle writhing beneath Jules' tongue; ticklish, yes, that was one of the things that Jules could call it, wonderfully responsive to the touch of his mouth either way; and there was Fogg's masculinity, his sex, which had crowned full erect whilst Jules had been exploring and stood out firm and fully engorged from Fogg's body with the stones in Fogg's scrotal sac hard and hot beneath an experimental caress. What had Fogg been about? Tasting the spilt seed on Jules' belly? Two could play that game.
Jules took Fogg's erect cock into his right hand, tenderly, learning its girth and heat, testing its form and fit within a firmly closed - but not too firmly closed - fist, rubbing around the head of it - all of those places that he could predict would madden his lover with the sweet sensation it provoked - with the thumb and index finger of his hand. Fogg almost stuttered, in his gasp for breath. It was a very encouraging sound, a cheerful sound, a sound that spoke to Jules' own body of passionate helplessness to resist the pleasure Jules was giving him; and if he ran his index finger lightly around the place where Phileas' cock-hood had pulled back from the head of Phileas' cock he could get that sound from Fogg again, and again, and again. Jules knew how good it felt to do that, in solitary play. He'd learned that well enough even before fantasies about Phileas Fogg had come to occupy so prominent a place in his imaginative life. To hear Fogg's wordless response to how good it felt to him seemed to exert an almost equivalent effect on Jules' own cock in turn.
Fogg wore spilt semen on his body. Jules hadn't realized that Fogg had spent as well as Jules himself, downstairs, but it delighted him to understand that it had happened. He cleaned Fogg's skin carefully, where he found the trace, wondering at the flavor of it in his mouth; this was reality. It was really happening. He was in Fogg's bedroom, on Fogg's bed, or half-way off Fogg's bed just now; and Fogg lay naked and receptive beneath his hands, and Jules had the taste of Fogg's spend in his mouth, if made subtle and diffuse by having dried on Fogg's body.
Jules knew what happened next, in his favorite fantasy, but as he had protested Fogg's indulgence he knew he had an obligation in turn to consult his lover's preference. This was too good. This was too magical, and too miraculous. He didn't want to let it finish without ensuring that it would be something fully satisfying to both of them. He was not going to have his way with Fogg; he and Fogg were going to enjoy each other. It wasn't exactly as he had fantasized it, no, because he'd never been able to go quite so far in his dreams as to imagine Fogg embracing him as eagerly as he wanted to embrace Fogg. That didn't make the breach of fantasy disappointing in the least: only more wonderful even than Jules had ever dreamed.
Jules set foot to flooring and shifted himself up along the bed once more to find Fogg's mouth and kiss him, to share the taste of Fogg's own spill with Fogg. Holding Fogg's cock, to warm and comfort it. It was a bit of a stretch. Fogg was taller. But Fogg rose up from the pillows to meet him, and kiss him with passion that was beginning to share in the nature of the frantic. Just a bit.
"I'd like to take you into my mouth, Fogg," Jules said at last. Fogg's body bucked beneath Jules' hand, when he said so, but Fogg himself seemed to rule his desire with a stern act of will. "But I denied you the same thing, just now. How shall we manage this, my friend?"
"I've never done any such thing in my life," Fogg said. His voice was very hoarse, very thick: panting, Jules supposed. "I'm rather concerned that I'll get it wrong, somehow. But I've seen pictures. We could give it a try. On the floor, I'm afraid, Verne, Jules, if I'm to take your staff into my mouth we really should be on a first-name basis, don't you think?"
It was a good point. But Jules didn't have much focus to spare to think about it. Fogg had sat up, not completely, shifting his legs off of the bed, sliding down to lie on his side on the floor with his back to the bed, staring down at Jules' hand around his cock as though he could not believe the intensity of the sensation that the movement created in his body. Jules could sympathize completely. When he'd asked Fogg to stop, when he'd asked Phileas to stop, and Phileas had, it had still been almost more than Jules could bear to look down at his own body and see Phileas' hand there.
On his side, on the floor, and Jules to follow Phileas' movement and keep his hold of Phileas' cock had to crouch down on the floor beside him; Phileas put out his hand to Jules' back, to Jules' backside, and pulled Jules' buttocks up toward his head encouragingly, and suddenly Jules understood what Phileas hand in mind. He'd seen pictures as well. They'd seemed so improbable to him, at the time, and the entire concept made such absolute good sense here and now that Jules almost could have laughed. But settled down on his side facing Phileas instead, facing Phileas' cock, and Phileas arranged Jules' body on the floor so that he could lower his head and kiss Jules' belly once more while Jules was free and in position to address Phileas' sex at the same time.
Oh, it was bliss.
Phileas had the height to bend down over Jules' body; Jules let him take the lead. He didn't doubt but that Phileas had had the pleasure of a lover's mouth to stroke his cock more times in his life than Jules ever had, he could afford to let Phileas show him what was nice and what was better and what was beyond nice to sheer transcendent delight. And yet Phileas didn't move to take his target, not immediately; no, Phileas explored with his tongue, taking the measure of Jules' sex with meditative care. It wasn't fair. Jules couldn't really keep up. Jules pressed his forehead to Phileas' thigh, still holding Phileas' cock, and all but wept with arousal as Phileas made a thorough survey of the environs in which he found himself.
When Phileas took Jules' stones into his mouth and sucked at them - so softly, and with so electrifying an effect - the sensation galvanized Jules into action at last. That felt so good. It was indescribable. The only chance he had of showing Phileas how pleasurable it was, was to return the favor in kind. Carefully - because he was shaking with arousal, and he shared in Phileas' stated uncertainty, fearful of making the wrong move - Jules opened his mouth, and tried to draw Phileas' balls into a warm soft suckling embrace that would reproduce that to which Phileas was treating him even now to maddening effect. It wasn't easy. There was a lot of Phileas there to embrace, and to hazard the chance scrape against a molar or an inadvertent and unwelcome pressure would be disastrous. He couldn't quite manage it, he had to alternate, but from the way in which Phileas' hips jerked as Jules fit his lips around first one and then the other of Phileas' stones his inability to caress both at once did not materially impact the pleasure it gave Phileas to have the attention.
But Jules was losing focus.
It was so confusing, the taste and feel and fragrance of Phileas' sex in his mouth, in his face, the sensation of Phileas' tongue and lips against Jules' own masculine gender; it was increasingly hard for Jules to sort the two sorts of delight - passive, and active - one from the other and keep track of what he was doing.
His body began to shake.
Phileas lapped Jules' cock with his tongue, taking it into his mouth a fraction at a time, and Jules could only tighten his grip on Phileas' cock in turn - in large part to prevent himself from taking Phileas' head between his hands, and losing himself in selfish exploitation - and devoured the plummy head of Phileas' cock with frantic desperation. He was so close to complete annihilation. And he so much wanted Phileas to like it. He fought to take Phileas' cock into his mouth, but his own hand was in the way, and he could only tongue the pressure-ridge behind the head, the penis' eye, as persuasively as he knew how, tasting something from the eye of Phileas' cock that was a little bit like the semen that had dried on Phileas' belly, knowing from that evidence that Phileas was going to spend.
The realization seemed to calm him, somehow, and Jules managed at last to understand that he could not have Phileas in his mouth because he had Phileas in his hand. He relaxed his fist; and had his lover's sex deep into the back of his throat in an instant. It wasn't what he would have thought it would be like. Nothing could have prepared him for the experience of a man's cock in his mouth. But Phileas was loving him, there were things Phileas was doing with his tongue that were as intoxicating as they were indescribable, and knowing that the blunt hot pressure at the back of his throat was the head of Phileas' cock - and how his own cock felt, in a similar position - made everything seem so rational, so right, so perfect and so pleasurable that Jules was happy to return the favors Phileas demonstrated with a willing heart. Happy beyond measure to have evidence that Phileas was every bit as delighted by Jules' caress as Jules was by that of Phileas.
Jules could not keep the incendiary charge from going off for very much longer. He had already done all that he could to damp his powder, to walk with his lover step by step, so that they could have a truly shared experience. This was too much. Phileas did something that Jules could not even comprehend to Jules' cock with his tongue, and the spark jumped from the striking-panel to the detonation cord and flashed up and down Jules' spine like lightning.
It was the end. He had no hope of holding out for the fraction of a moment longer. Phileas had been about to spend; it was to be now or never, and Jules wanted Phileas' spend, he wanted it, he didn't stop to think about whether he had anticipated that Phileas should spend in his mouth because he didn't have time to think. He was going to die. He was going to die within the next heart-beat, with his next breath, Phileas' caresses were destroying him, and he was going to spend whether Phileas found his own completion or not. It was unthinkable that he should spend, and not Phileas. Jules was as frantic to avoid that as he was to lose himself in the unfathomable pleasure of Phileas' tongue, of Phileas' mouth, and without thinking about it Jules opened his mouth yet one fraction wider and sucked against Phileas' cock with greedy desperation.
Phileas' hips bucked and rocked against Jules' body, but he was not going to be held from his purpose by a bruised nose. He could remember - barely - his instinct to take Phileas' head between his hands, and hold it to him; the concept was the same. Jules held to Phileas' hips with merciless strength, so that the thrust of Phileas' hips could only be within Jules' mouth no matter how powerfully the reflex spasms came. Jules held him. Jules held Phileas close and tight, and sucked his virile member with a bottomless and loving thirst, and within only moments Phileas spent.
Jules held him.
Phileas spent, his seed spilling into the back of Jules' throat as Jules suckled at Phileas' cock to encourage it, welcoming the spend because it meant that Phileas had had pleasure in Jules' untutored and amateur caress. The velvet feel of the back of Phileas' mouth against the underside of the head of Jules' own cock was no longer bearable to Jules, he spent in turn, blinded with the ecstasy of the sensation, completely destroyed by the combination of the physical stimulus and the knowledge that its source was Phileas. Phileas Fogg. His mouth, his tongue, his lips, Phileas whose cock Jules sucked to joy, Phileas who had had wanted for so long and who gave him unambiguous evidence of how much he wanted Jules in turn.
For as long as he could concentrate his focus Jules held Phileas in his mouth, tenderly, and swallowed him clean. Then lay his head down once again against Phileas' thigh, and hugged Phileas' body close; kissed the point of Phileas' hip, and fell asleep there, with his cheek pillowed on Phileas' buttocks.
He only half-way felt Phileas stir, after some time, and shift his weight - slowly, so carefully - and half-lift, half-push Jules up onto the bed.
He only almost realized that Phileas was lying down beside him, at his back, sliding one arm beneath Jules' head to pillow it - the pillows having gone away somewhere - and pulling the bed-covers up around Jules' naked shoulders with his other arm, holding Jules to him.
It was not a dream. It was not a fantasy. There was too much concrete evidence, his body knew what it had felt and touched, tasted and sensed. Phileas Fogg. Phileas Fogg had loved him, had welcomed love from him, and lay with him in bed - in Phileas' bed - in his cabin on the Aurora, spent, exhausted, and if he shared Jules' own feelings happy.
With Fogg's bare chest warming his back, Fogg's sex against his buttocks, Fogg's cheek resting against the top of Jules' head Jules lay in Fogg's arms and soaked it all in until morning came to wake them both to see what could be made of their future.
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