luninosity

Here's one more bonus scene for Sam and Leo! Essentially, pure loving mildly kinky sex - joy and exploration.

~

“Sam,” Leo said, softly. It was more an experimental sound than anything else; he turned a wrist, twisted, tested the tightness of the tie around his arms. Their familiar bedroom hummed with anticipation, snug and close and wicked. The sheets—new and clover-green, indulgently smooth, eager to fit Sam’s old cozy bed—lay cool against his bare skin. The air tasted sweet, like his own honey-vanilla lip balm, when he breathed. His cock ached, standing up stiffly, untouched.

Sam ran a hand over his stomach, sitting beside him. Sam was also naked, and thoroughly aroused; Leo gazed at that dark thick cock, the weight of it, the heft, and inquired, “Would you like to forgo any other plans and just fuck me now?”

Sam laughed. “We wanted to play with you a little, didn’t we? You still up for that, or maybe changing your mind? I’m good with something else if you say you want that.” His voice held affection, a caress, sure as his eyes and the bedside lights. The sun was out—it was a nice afternoon—but in here they’d closed the shutters, made the room private, set out certain objects.

“No stopping.” Leo wriggled in place, appreciating the petting. Sam’s hand flattened over his stomach, soothing. “I like sensation, and you said you’d had an idea or two. Show me.”

“My Leo.” Sam’s thumb rubbed along the crease of his hip. “Okay. You tell me if it’s too much. Say stop, if you need a sec, or mango if we’re stopping everything.”

“I promise I will.” He’d almost picked kiwi as a safeword, but had guessed that might be too worrying, or potentially confusing, if it sounded like he’d had a random allergy attack. This would be close enough. “You, as well. If we need it.”

“Yep. Palm trees.”

Leo did know why; he’d asked when they’d had the first discussion. Your socks, Sam had said. The fuzzy ones Colby gave you, after the kiwi—after. For comfort.

He tried to lean more against Sam’s leg and hip, beside him. “I love you.”

Sam grinned at him. Gold and heat in those eyes. “I know.” He also traced one finger along Leo’s dick, deliberate: teasing.

It wasn’t really dominance and submission, or mostly not, between them. Leo had looked a few things up, out of curiosity, and had concluded that while he was probably a bit of a masochist, or whatever it was when one liked being ecstatically swept out of one’s head by overwhelming sensation and stimulation, he wasn’t personally particularly transported at the idea of being given orders or waiting patiently or giving himself unquestioningly over to someone else’s command. He also liked doing things to Sam—taking action, making things happen, having ideas—and seeing those responses and reactions, when they switched. Leo had committed several combinations of fingers and tongue to well-practiced memory.

But he had said mostly, there, when trying to explain; Sam had listened, and nodded.

The part that flirted with the edges of submission was the part of Leo that collapsed into shy molten yearning when Sam told him that he was worth loving, that he was wanted. When Sam told him that he, Leo, was important, and therefore Sam was going to make him feel like the center of the universe, every drop of pleasure and anguish, every last exquisite burst of intensity. Because he deserved that.

Sometimes he wanted to shut his eyes, or to hide, when Sam told him so. But then Sam always told him to believe it, even if he had to not look, for a moment. Sam told him to feel it all, and to know it was real.

Sam said now, “I’ll buy us some actual toys, I swear,” and tossed a clothespin up and caught it, thoughtfully, with the hand that wasn’t teasing Leo’s cock. “We can do better than this. We’ll work out what you like.”

“I’m not opposed to kinky uses for household items. We can think about this every time we look at a hairbrush. Though—speaking of, is that one new?”

“Not exactly. I bought it in Atlanta, a couple years back, when I had an assignment and I forgot to pack mine. Only used it on that trip.” Sam picked it up, ran a finger along the side. The brush had a flat oval back and a more rounded handle in pale wood, with stiff dark bristles.

The bristles rustled at Sam’s touch. The sound resonated through the afternoon and scraped along Leo’s skin, a foreshadowing.

He shivered. Sam, watching, informed him, “We’ll make you feel it,” and leaned in to kiss him. Sam’s mouth was confident and warm and lightly coffee-flavored because he’d been drinking some earlier; he hadn’t shaved, and the light scratch of stubble sent thrills along Leo’s skin.

Sam said, “Can you turn over, for me?” and Leo moved promptly. He knew what Sam wanted—himself face-down, wrists bound, hips lifted, arse presented, cock swaying between spread thighs. He knew what he looked like; he knew he wanted this. The knowledge of joy ran hot in his veins.

Sam touched him first, hand gentle, stroking his hip, his backside. And then, seamlessly, the quick glittering first impact.

Wood, polished and flat. Not cruel—Sam didn’t want to truly hurt him—but enough strength to snap stars into supernovae under Leo’s skin, behind his eyes. He gasped, because yes, yes, please; Sam did it again, the other side, matching.

Leo trembled. The brush wasn’t that large, but it felt huge; the hardness and flat smack was something he’d never done, all new, exploding through him. His cock seemed to stiffen more, if that were possible: dripping and needy.

Sam whispered, “Okay?” Obviously he knew Leo hadn’t done this before, though they’d both wanted to now. In fact neither of them had done precisely this before; Sam had, while being more experimental—in college, and some scattered one-night-stands while on assignment—both taken and given a spanking or two, but only with hands. Sam had tested the flat of the brush on his own leg, after this had first come up: studying the swing and consequences.

“Very okay,” Leo whispered back, once he could. “More.”

Sam traced a heart over his right hip, next to the burning spot. And then did precisely as asked.

More. Measured. Precise. Using those sturdy muscles. The sound, the heat, the ache, swirled and sang inside Leo’s head. He heard himself moaning, felt himself pushing back into the next swing, and the next. Rhythm. White and gold. Beat upon beat upon heartbeat. Rushing through his body, his skin, his thoughts.

His legs quivered. Sam clearly noticed. An impact or two landed across Leo’s thighs, the backs of them, and a bit more to his inner thighs. Leo could hear himself panting.

His wrists were tied, but his fingers curled into the flat green of the sheet. The sheet let him cling, a comfort. He felt the fabric over his skin, knew it, sank into the sensation the way he never had before. Every small feeling grew bigger, magnified, swelling, while he grew small and safe and surrounded by immensity.

Sam’s hand found his cock, where it bobbed above the bed. A tug, a stroke. Leo felt his own wetness, felt the strength of that grip. He moaned. He couldn’t talk.

The impacts paused. The thud and thunder echoed in Leo’s thoughts; he let Sam turn him, ease him down to the bed, touch him. Sam whispered, “Still with me?” and touched his shoulder, asking. Leo gasped as his skin, super-heated, met the sheets; and then squirmed against them.

“Leo.” Sam’s voice was calm but intent on him, on the answer. “Still good?”

“Mmm. Yes. Everything’s very…bright.” He tried to focus; the world had gone blurry, melting, soft as candy-floss in rain. “Lovely.”

“Okay. More?”

“Yes, we said, didn’t we?”

“Okay.” Sam stroked his stomach, avoiding the stiff rod of need that Leo’s cock had become. Sam’s cock was upright and eager as well, Leo observed hazily; but they’d had an idea or two to test out, and this would be the next one.

Sam found the clothespins. “We talked about you maybe getting some piercings…could be fun…for now, though…see how you like this.”

The bite of it clamped across his nipple. Left. Then right.

At first the feeling did not quite register. Reaction mired in the candy-floss and sugar.

And then it did.

Leo opened his mouth and couldn’t get words out. Sam had moved lower, doing more. The pins bit and flared: his inner thighs, nipping soft vulnerable skin. His backside and the backs of his thighs burned from the spanking, sweet and vicious.

It was—

So much. So unyielding, pinching, crushing sensitive nerve endings—Leo’s nipples felt like fire, and his thighs echoed the shriek of it, and it hurt, it hurt—but that wasn’t bad, it didn’t feel wrong, so much as just—too much, too hard, a wall of sensation slamming into him, when he’d never done this or felt this before—

He felt his muscles tense in anguish, hands jerking above his head in their tie. He couldn’t breathe. He finally gasped, “Stop—”

Sam froze.

“Please,” Leo begged. He was crying. Confusingly, his prick was also leaking, throbbing, spilling drops of need; his hips twitched helplessly, unbidden, out of his control. He thought he might be about to come, or to die, or to pass out. “Wait—just—take them off for a moment, off, please, I can’t—”

Sam’s hands were quick. Immediate. Taking the cruel delicious implements away. Sensation coruscated through Leo’s nipples and thighs and even cock, though Sam had not put a clothespin there.

“I’m sorry.” Sam’s hand was tender, caressing sore spots, soothing. “I’m so sorry. Too much?”

“I—I don’t know, I don’t know, Sam—Sam—”

“I’m here. I’m right here.” Sam’s fingers undid the wrist-ties, too: not panicked but swift. “Breathe for me? In, and out…look at me, Leo, come on.”

Leo shut his eyes, felt himself shaking, opened his eyes again. Found Sam to look at: made of rich earth and steadiness and worry, framed by bedroom walls. “I’m…okay. Excellent, actually.”

Sam’s expression said that no one including the clothespins believed that.

“I am,” Leo reinforced. Still breathless, still off-balance. But not in a bad way. Different. A discovery. “I didn’t say mango.”

“You said stop.”

“I did, but…just for now, I think.” He meant that; he reached a clumsy hand down, wobbling a bit, and found Sam’s. Then put it on his cock. “Feel that? I…think I liked it.” He knew Sam would feel the truth of that, the way he was practically on the brink; not quite the shocking overwhelming tipping-point, but it wouldn’t take much.

Sam’s fingers stroked him, consideringly. Sam’s eyes were dark gold, concerned but not frantic, studying his face. “You say what you mean.”

Leo nodded.

“You said stop for a minute. You need a break?”

Leo nodded again.

Sam kissed him, lightly. Not a demand, not dominance: full of wonder, and reassurance, a promise of love and steadiness. Sam’s hand petted Leo’s hip, and then—slowly—drifted up. Rested over Leo’s left nipple, while Sam’s tongue plundered his mouth.

Leo felt the heat of it, inside and out. He made a happy acquiescent sound; Sam pulled back, dove in to drop one more quick kiss on his mouth, threw him that beloved grin. “Got an idea.”

“I like you having ideas.”

“Yep. Stay still for a sec—no, not tying you up, put down your hands. Just stay put.”

Leo stuck out his tongue. Sam laughed.

And then Sam’s fingers slid between Leo’s spread legs. Slick with lube. Pressing into him, opening him, stretching him. The invasion was welcome and inarguable and splendid; Leo murmured, “Are we just going with the fuck Leo senseless option, then, I’m on board…” and pushed back hungrily, taking more, feeling himself yield and give way for Sam.

“I mean,” Sam said. “Yeah. But I’ve got plans.” His fingers crooked, curling, searching—finding that spot, making Leo moan and arch. The fingers paused. “Feeling good?”

Leo swore raggedly at him. “Don’t stop—”

“You wanted more. But I want you to feel good, too.” Sam moved the fingers, slid them out of him. Found something else. Held it up. “Good idea?”

“Oh fuck,” Leo said, “fuck yes, God yes, absolutely yes, go on—”

Sam was holding the hairbrush. The one that’d just pounded him and spanked him and left him dizzy and tremulous. Sam was looking at the smooth curved wooden handle, and at Leo’s body.

“Thought you’d like that,” Sam said, “knowing how this felt, on your skin…and now inside you, where I’m going to fuck you with it…”

“Oh God,” Leo breathed. “Yes, please. Fucking hell. Now.”

Sam laughed. And proceeded to do just that.

Thickness. Solid wood. Gliding into him. Slick with lube, of course; the point wasn’t to hurt him. The handle wasn’t as large as Sam’s cock, but it was hard and relentless and decently long. Leo felt it slide into him, back out a fraction, in again: Sam really truly fucking him with it, pushing the length deeper, in and out and in.

He heard himself make a sound; he wasn’t sure what. He felt it. He saw Sam watching it: watching him getting fucked by a brush, an object, the handle sliding into his stretched hole. The brush sticking out, visible, between his thighs. Filthy and obscene and decadent and so good, himself like this, on display for Sam, being used and getting fucked, however Sam wanted to fuck him, because Sam loved him and knew he needed to feel everything, all of it, to be on display and shameless and needy and coming apart on the steady pumping rhythm of a fucking hairbrush inside him—

He felt his body tighten, clenching. Sam made a pleased sort of sound—and stopped. Brush shoved into Leo’s body. Leo’s hole fluttering around slick messy wood.

Leo might’ve been begging. He was certainly whimpering.

Sam found the clothespins. And they fastened back onto Leo’s chest, pinching his nipples.

The hurt seemed less, this time. Or perhaps it was simply that he was expecting it; or it was the way his entire body felt good, aglow, radiant. Deep thick light like scorched honey, fire that turned the world to caramel.

Sam was watching him, intent. Leo nodded: yes, yes, please, so good, yes this.

Sam whispered, “You’re so beautiful,” and rested a finger on Leo’s chest, between the twin starry throbs. “So beautiful, doing this—taking this, for me, for us…everything you want, everything you deserve, because you do, and I get to give it to you.”

Leo whispered back, “Love you.” His thoughts were full of sparkles and caramel-dust and halos, the sort that ringed lights and stars and comets.

Sam murmured, “If I fuck you with this brush, will you come for me?” and nudged it, a push, a question on the edge of a demand.

Leo heard himself say the yes. Tiny, pleading, needing. His hips jerked, silent and desperate. Firework fuses simmered under his skin, across his chest, along his straining cock, inside his hole, where the hardness teased him.

“So good,” Sam told him, “you’re always so good for me, Leo, like this,” and fucked him tenderly with the brush and played with one of the clothespins, gazing down at him; and Leo’s eyes were hot and wet with tears, emotion, sensation, all of him collapsing and giving way and taking what Sam was doing to him, because Sam believed that Leo deserved to feel so good and so full and so loved…

He came without real conscious thought, simply shattering apart, breaking into incandescence. He felt his body arch and stiffen and spasm, felt the slick wet spurts of his own release against his skin. More heat. More sharp-edged white light. The tears along his eyelashes, also wet and hot. All of him pouring out.

Sam talked to him softly—Leo couldn’t understand words at first—and petted him, caressed him, did not remove the clothespins but ran a hand along his prick and rubbed a thumb over his dripping slit, and wrung another weak dribble out of helpless flesh. Leo felt his muscles tighten and ripple around the unflinching brush-handle inside him, and he sobbed in pleasure, because he felt so much and Sam had told him he deserved this, he was good, Sam wanted to give him this.

He was aware that he was feeling lightheaded, drowning in sensation. He cried a little more as Sam took away the clothespins, as too much feeling flooded back. He couldn’t imagine how reddened his nipples must look, how well-used. He imagined Sam looking at him, seeing that.

His cock twitched again, feebly. He trembled in something like an echo of climax, release, embarrassment, happiness.

Sam said something, gently. And then again, more forceful. Leo shut his eyes to feel even more, and moved aimlessly against the sheets.

Sam moved; weight shifted. The stiff unyielding length of the brush-handle slid out of Leo’s body; the bristles skimmed his thigh. He felt the wetness of lube trickling after; he felt too empty, abruptly. Stretched. Hollow. Not right.

He sobbed with need. Tried to move a hand, a plea. Sam did something with the brush, came back immediately, returned to petting him. Deliberate, gradual, grounding. Anchoring. One hand slid between Leo’s legs, found the opening of his body, caressed his rim: where he must be pink and soft and loose and wet, having just been fucked by a brush until he came all over himself.

Sam whispered, awe in his voice as if he’d just seen the first-ever sunrise, “You’re so wonderful. I always thought so—I think so, every day, every time you make things happen, you make the world light up. And this, you like this, you giving me this…knowing you trust me with this, and you’ll let me make you feel beautiful and loved and important, because you are, Leo, you are, you’re the whole world, all the stories and all the colors in it. I love you so much.” His fingers traced Leo’s hole, slipped inside, only partway: offering fullness.

Leo blinked again. Tried to focus. His mouth said Sam, without sound.

“Hey, hi, you’re here.” Sam was settled against him, a solid grounding weight. Sam’s arousal was blatant—thick, pressed into Leo’s leg—but unhurried. “You’re okay.”

Leo nodded again.

Sam paused. “Though—are you? You’re crying, a little. And kinda quiet. For you.”

Leo considered words, peacefulness, the high-flying weightless serenity of Sam’s fingers in his body and the euphoric throb throughout his muscles, bones, self. He could come again, or dissolve into contentment, or lie still and let Sam talk to him and kiss him; he would love all of that. “Only…happy. Warm. Safe.”

“Safe.” Sam turned that word over, lingered on it, examined it. His fingers moved, keeping Leo’s body pleasantly occupied. The light from the window, behind him, came in through closed shutters. It ringed him in gold, painted his shoulder in amber. Artwork. A vision.

“Safe,” Leo said. He could do words, from this gilded shining tower of clouds. “Protected. Yours. Where I should be. Are you going to fuck me?”

“Thought I was. Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“Yes, fine, agreed, but I mean you. You know. For…feeling good.”

“Yeah.” Sam leaned over to kiss Leo’s shoulder, a stretch given where his other hand was. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. And I like feeling used.”

Sam hesitated.

“Not the word.” Leo waved a hand weakly, let it flop back to the bed. “I can’t think. Your fault. I mean I like feeling…how much you like me.”

“I love you,” Sam said.

“So yes, fuck me. Now. When I’m feeling…like this. Do it however you want.”

“Giving me orders,” Sam said, amusement glinting in those treasure-box eyes, in the twist and shove of his fingers into Leo’s body. “Of course you are. My Leo. Can we make you come, again?”

“Honestly? Probably not. That was…a lot, just now. But I’ll feel you. And I want to feel you. And I’m feeling marvelous.”

“I can tell. Look at you…” Sam’s gaze traveled along him, all over him: reddened sore nipples, the pink mark on his collarbone from kisses, the spent sticky length of his cock, the splashes of a long drawn-out climax. Sam’s breathing shifted; his body shifted too, eager.

“Yes,” Leo begged. “Please.”

Sam played with his hole another moment or so, watching: exploring him, teasing him, adding more lube and studying the glide of fingers in and out, while Leo quivered with something between shyness and exposure and delight at being so thoroughly wanted. Sam touched his inner thigh, over a sensitive spot. “Pink, here…that was too much?”

“No, just get me used to it. We can do that one again. I like it.”

“My Leo,” Sam said again, quick and lucent with happy desire; and then slid the fingers out and moved between Leo’s lax and willing thighs.

Sam’s cock was big and hot and silken-hard, a contrast with the stiff brush-handle, another sensation and a familiar one. Sam fucked him fast and fierce, as if overcome, unable to hold back; Sam’s hands gathered Leo’s legs, pushed them up, over Sam’s broad shoulders; Sam was saying his name, gasping, pounding into him. Leo sighed softly, awash in rapture.

He wasn’t sure he could come again—that’d been so much, and he was tired—but he felt so good, too: so nice, so easy, being claimed and desired and filled up with Sam’s cock and Sam’s love of him and Sam’s undeniable want. The motion felt good. The thrust and drag and friction inside his body felt so good. He gazed up at Sam, drowsy with gold-limned contentment.

Sam’s hand found Leo’s half-hard cock, flopping on his stomach with each thrust. Sam closed that grip around him and pumped his length, roughly, and Leo cried out as the sensation peaked, snapping from lulling bliss to crystalline spikes.

Sam groaned, and thrust, and slammed in so deep—and his hand squeezed Leo’s cock, and his release flooded into Leo’s shuddering body, so thick and warm and good—

Leo moaned, helplessly, nothing left of his thoughts, mouth hanging open; and his body shook and spasmed, and a spatter of wetness jerked from his slit, across Sam’s hand and his own stomach. He felt Sam’s hips rock into him, felt the last pulses of that climax deep in him.

The world shimmered, dark and gold as storms, muffling as velvet. Leo lay absolutely limp, spent, tranquil, much loved. Sam’s weight covered him; Sam’s mouth pressed kisses along his jaw, his throat. Sam’s breath was real and tangible and glowing against his skin.

Sam said something else after a while, and tucked his face into the crook of Leo’s neck, breathing there; and then pushed himself up. “Leo. Can you look at me?”

Leo could, fuzzily. He wanted to.

Sam met his eyes for a minute, and seemed reassured by that; Leo wriggled under him just to feel him, but that made Sam say, “Oh, fuck, sorry—too heavy, too much, I know—” and move: sliding off him and out of him. “Don’t move, don’t—I’ve got you, stay still—”

Sam’s hands were splendid and skilled. They acquired a towel and handled cleanup and cleaning Leo’s exhausted body: lube, release, messy fluids, sore spots. Sam found the good salve, the one Jason’s stuntperson friends made, and treated those sore spots, carefully. His breathing was a bit uneven as he did that part.

Leo lifted his head to look. He couldn’t move much, having thoroughly dissolved into sugared oceans, but he discovered some surprise. “I thought they’d be…more red.”

Sam set a salve-shiny finger beside his right nipple. Which was pink, yes, visibly more so than usual, and tender; but not crushed or scalded or on fire. “Of course that’s the first thing you say when you wake up.”

“I’m not awake yet. Only pretending. Good dream. The way that felt…”

“Yeah, well. You recover quick, and they weren’t on that long, probably, compared to, like, people who do this a lot.” Sam tapped the finger in place. “You awake enough to talk, in this very good dream?”

“Oh, I think so. Come hold me?”

Sam promptly did: wrapping both arms around him, pulling him in close, heedless of salve and sticky places. Leo, head nestled onto Sam’s shoulder, said, “That was spectacular and we can do it again.”

“Yeah. But not, like, every time.”

“Agreed. It was…so much.” He poked Sam’s ankle with a toe. “And I like getting to fuck you, as well. That’s very spectacular also.”

“Agreed,” Sam answered, a comfortable echo. “I like you fucking me. But this…yeah. When you need it. When we need it. Or just when we want to.”

“I’ll order us more hairbrushes.”

Sam laughed, shaking them both.

“I do feel wonderful,” Leo said, into the heat of Sam’s skin, the line of his collarbone, the sureness of him. “That was…something I’d not known enough to know I could need. But I did. I do. Especially with you telling me I could have it, and I deserve it.”

“At your service.” Sam kissed the top of his head. “Any time. Ten times a day, I said once.”

“Ambitious of you.”

“Not sex! Or, sure, sex too. If you’re up for it. But—”

“I know.” Leo settled more against him. Felt his own heartbeat, his pleasure, his peace. Matching Sam’s. “You telling me that—what you tell me, when I need to hear—yes. Yes. I know.”

“More than ten times, then. Eleven. Twenty.” Sam kissed him again. “You did say stop, in there…” It was a question, though not an apprehensive one. Sam trusted him.

“I did.” Leo nestled into being petted, hair being played with, one of his hands on Sam’s chest, in the scattered delicious hair there. Not too many strands, but delightful for sensation. Sam lay there and indulged him. “It was just too much, all at once. I wasn’t ready. I’ve absolutely no problem telling you to stop, if something’s not working. I like feeling good, and I want us both to feel good, not the opposite.”

Sam made a small noise, agreement and something else; Leo inquired, “What?”

“You,” Sam said, tipping Leo’s chin up so their eyes met. “You make everything easy. We both should feel good, so of course you’ll say stop if we need to, and it’s not a big deal, and we’ll get back to having fun. Simple.”

“Well, it is. Or it should be.”

“I love you so much,” Sam said. “I didn’t know how much I could want something—someone. Or I forgot I could. With you I want everything. And it’s all new. And it’s all fun.”

Leo traced a heart on Sam’s chest, over Sam’s heart: matching. The hairbrush and clothespins had ended up on a tray on the dresser, he noticed: sitting there satisfied, having found their purpose, ordinary and mundane and magical and brand-new. “I love sex discovery adventures with you.”

Sam burst out laughing. Squished him tighter, an exuberance of joy. The sunbeam had traveled upward; it streaked their summer-green pillows and the old oak headboard with clear vivid gold. “All the adventures. With you. How do you feel about vibrating cock rings?”