All right, here’s the chat-inspired PWP at last. If you weren’t there, then you missed a great chat! Somehow a simple comment about how cheerful we were being to each other just got out of hand. The image of our boyz in cheerleading uniforms got into my head, and then AC mentioned leather, and it was all over. I’m sure none of you will be surprised, however, to discover that the boyz only agreed to the uniforms in the first place so they could spend the whole story getting them off… The muses had been pretty quiet since I finished TTT. But I think they finally decided to adopt me, because one minute I was chatting and the next minute Methos had grabbed me by the ear, set me down in front of Wordperfect, and demanded that I get to work right away. I was still pretty into the novelty of actually having the muses talk to me at that point, so I did what Methos asked. Five days and a million story ideas later, I have decided that might not have been such a great idea. Okay. Not mine. Just borrowing them for awhile. (Actually, the question of who is borrowing whom is still under discussion.) Big thank you to Emma for the beta and the advice. Gracias, also to AC for the, um, technical suggestions, and for taking the blame for this little adventure. Also, to everyone who read this in any of its unfinished versions, thank you so much for the encouragement and advice. Feedback, as always, is appreciated. (n.memmott@gte.net) Enjoy!

T ugging at the bottom of a tight, sweater-style leather shirt, Richie eyed the image in the mirrored closet door with disgust. “How did I let myself get talked into this?” he asked the grinning figure behind him.

“It was AC’s idea, that’s all I know. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’m enjoying the view.”

“Yeah, well you don’t have to squeeze yourself into this stuff. The polyester we used to have was bad, but how am I supposed to breathe in these things?”

As he stared appreciatively at the way brief leather shorts were plastered to Richie’s sculptured posterior, Methos found that he was having trouble breathing, too. He tore his eyes away from the leather-clad cheeks only to find himself confronting Richie’s gaze in the mirror once more.

Richie withstood the heat of Methos’ gaze for one heartbeat, then another, but finally had to drop his eyes. There was simply no room in the leather confines for his body’s usual reaction to that look. Richie could feel Methos’ eyes on him, however, even though he couldn’t see them. All he could do was whimper when his erection stubbornly swelled in response.

“Look at me, Richie,” Methos demanded huskily.

Blue eyes lifted slowly to greet hazel ones. Their gazes remained locked when Methos’ arms reached around and pulled Richie back against him. Still their gazes held as Methos dipped slightly to kiss Richie’s skin above the v-neck. Richie’s eyes fluttered closed when Methos’ mouth rose to nibble on a sensitive earlobe, but a whispered command brought them open again.

“Methos,” Richie breathed. “What are we doing?”

“I love watching you respond to me. I want you to see it, too.”

“I don’t need to see it. I can *feel it.”

“Relax, Richie. Trust me.”

The tension left Richie’s body, only to return when Methos’ erection ground in a circle from behind. Richie watched his own eyes widen and his own Adam’s apple jump when he swallowed to moisten his suddenly dry throat. Seeing the evidence of his own increasing arousal was almost as powerful a stimulant as Methos’ hands and mouth.

Convinced that Richie was going to go along with his game, Methos turned his attentions to Richie’s nipples. After only a few strokes Methos and Richie could both see tight buds straining against their leather sheath.

Observing the pleased smile on his lover’s face, Richie asked, “You like this, don’t you?

Methos arched an amused brow and tweaked one of Richie’s nipples. “So do you.”

Watching himself gasp and squirm with pleasure as Methos’ fingers continued to tease, Richie had to admit that he was enjoying himself. Sweat had begun to form an uncomfortable slime on his skin beneath the shirt, however. He covered Methos’ hands with his own, holding them still until Methos focused on Richie’s face in the mirror. Taking their hands and placing them at the waistband of the shirt, Richie ordered, “Take it off, Methos.”

Lust flared more brightly in Methos’ eyes as he complied. He was in no hurry, however, and did no more than caress Richie’s sweat-slicked navel for a long moment. Richie raised his arms to encourage Methos to proceed more quickly, but his lover would not be rushed. At last a small sucking sound announced that the shirt had been lifted a little more, revealing the first ridges of Richie’s abdominal muscles.

As urgently as Richie wanted the shirt completely off, the sight of his muscles contracting under Methos’ touch fascinated him. The slurping sound began again, and Richie could see his ribs rising and falling with each panting breath. Seeing his nipples begin to peek out from under the edge of the shirt was too much. “Off, now!” he rasped sharply.

“As you wish,” Methos acquiesced, releasing Richie’s chest from the rest of its prison. Richie’s back was bare now, too, and Methos took a few moments to please himself with the taste of Richie’s upper vertebrae. A groan rumbled in Richie’s chest, but Methos sensed that his partner was getting restless. Angling his head, Methos murmured near Richie’s ear, “Tell me.”

“What?” Richie asked their image in the mirror.

“You want me to touch you.”

“Yes,” Richie moaned.

“Tell me where.”

When Richie would have spoken, Methos pressed two fingers to Richie’s lips. “Better yet,” he amended, threading his fingers underneath Richie’s. “Show me.”

Richie shivered with desire as he considered Methos’ request. Carefully he lifted their joined hands to cup his own face. His head fell back as two palms and twenty intertwined fingers traversed slowly back and forth across his jaw. He sighed when a pair of first fingers began to trace the outline of his mouth, pressing the bottom lip a little farther down with each pass until the damp inner curve of it could be explored. Those same saliva-moistened fingers stroking the ridge of his nose tilted his head forward once more, forcing him to watch their movement in the mirror.

Methos understood the new wish in Richie’s eyes as soon as it registered, but made no move to fulfill it. Instead, he leaned toward the opposite ear and reminded his partner, “Show me.”

Four hands hovered in indecision until at last need overcame uncertainty and they made contact with Richie’s chest pelt. Richie was mesmerized by the vision in the mirror. He knew it was Methos’ hands he was feeling, but it was his own hands that he was seeing combing through his chest hair and squeezing his nipples. Growing a little bolder, he shifted their hands towards his stomach. Richie wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected, but the languorous orbits their Methos-directed fingers began to inscribe on his belly robbed him of breath. Without realizing it, Richie began clenching and unclenching Methos’ hands, and Methos responded by kneading Richie’s abdomen in the same rhythm.

“Look at me, damn it,” Methos demanded when waves of ecstasy caused Richie’s eyes to close tightly once more.

Richie’s eyes slitted open, and blue lasers fused with the passionate glitter of Methos’ own gaze. Deliberately keeping his eyes steady, Richie moved one pair of hands lower still, coming to rest on the leather cage binding his throbbing erection. He could not look away from the image of their hands, of his own hand cupping and stroking his arousal through the shorts. Although Richie had masturbated when the need arose, he had never openly watched his body flush with passion, had never watched his lips part to release the cries of pleasure he could hear echoing in the room, hand never seen the way his hips thrust greedily into the hand that caressed him and then back against the aching, boxer-clad cock behind him. He might have been uncomfortable, but the expression he could see on Methos’ face in the mirror seared away any doubt. Desire had sharpened the angles and deepened the hollows of the older man’s visage, and the breath Richie could feel on his right shoulder came in shorter and shorter bursts as Methos registered each nuance of Richie’s response. The sight of Richie in the tiny shorts had been enough to produce a physical response, but Methos was now nearing the point of orgasm even though Richie had for the most part touched only Methos’ hands. The realization that Methos’ arousal could be fed simply by touching him, by pleasing him and seeing his pleasure, was a revelation to Richie. To test his theory he began to add verbal encouragement to the visual feedback Methos was getting. “God, Methos. That feels so good.”

Richie grinned to himself when Methos’ eyes narrowed briefly in satisfaction. Moving their free pair of hands so they could caress his balls, Richie continued his passionate litany.

“There, Methos. Right there.”

“Methos, don’t stop. You’re killing me!”

“Faster, Methos. Please.”

When Richie could see and feel that he was on the verge of coming, he brought their play to an abrupt halt. Fighting for air, Richie brought their hands to the button that held the shorts closed and echoed his earlier command. “Take them off, Methos.”

It was not an easy task to manipulate the button with their fingers tangled together, but it did eventually slip free. The zipper was easier, and once it was down they both paused to admire the sight of Richie’s gloriously erect penis framed by the leather. Peeling the shorts off the rest of Richie’s body proved the most difficult undertaking of all. The semen leaking from Richie’s cock and the sweat dripping from his pores made their hands slippery, and they did not have the same leverage as with the shirt. Dozens of largely ineffectual tugs finally got the leather past the globes of Richie’s buttocks, but his stance was too wide to allow them to slide off of his legs. Struggling to keep their hands together, they maneuvered so that Richie could close his legs almost all the way. Then Methos carefully raised a foot and pushed the shorts downward. When the shorts were pooled at his feet, Richie gingerly lifted each foot in turn and stepped out of the material. Methos would have closed the distance between them, but Richie shook his head. “You, too.”

This time it was Methos who closed his eyes as Richie reached to lift the waistband of Methos’ boxers away from his enlarged member. Once the cloth was safely below the tip of the sensitive flesh, Richie wanted to make sure Methos was watching in the mirror before he took them down further. “Look at me,” he urged. When Methos obeyed, Richie settled their hands just inside the fabric on Methos’ hips. It was awkward as Richie bent at the knees and Methos bent at the waist so they could lower the boxers together, but their mission was accomplished.

After they were both naked, Richie was more than happy to have Methos’ erection snuggled against the cleft of his bottom. “I love feeling you against me,” he told Methos’ reflection.

The real Methos responded by pressing forward slightly with his hips and using their hands to press Richie’s hips backwards. He did not wait for Richie to indicate his desire, but closed one set of hands firmly around Richie’s cock and resumed the rhythm they had interrupted.

“Holy shit,” Richie choked as the pleasure engulfed him once more. This time he could see the moisture leaking slowly from his penis, could watch it darken as blood continued to rush into it. He was going to fly apart soon, he knew it. He could see it. But another thought managed to burn through the passionate haze in his mind. There was one thing he still hadn’t observed first hand. The tightening of Richie’s hand on Methos’ brought the motion to a halt, but the increased pressure on his erection made Richie cry out. Seeing the strain etched into every line of Methos’ features, Richie hurried to explain. “I want to see it all,” he admitted. “If we’re really going to do this, then I want to see everything.” When a bolt of heat flashed in Methos’ eyes, Richie knew his partner had correctly interpreted the request. Still, he needed to say it out loud. “I want to see… I want to see you inside me. I want to see you taking me.”

Richie’s words sent a vicious stab of desire straight to Methos’ groin. Direct hit, his inner voice groaned. He should have known his brat wouldn’t stay shy very long. Inexperience sometimes made Richie uncertain at first, but damn if he didn’t jump in with both feet once he got the hang of things. Methos fought desperately to control the urge to bury himself inside Richie then and there. He carried Richie’s hands to his mouth instead, kissing each knuckle before freeing himself to fetch the lube. His step lacked its usual cat-like grace, and Methos barely avoided a collision with the large leather chaise lounge set against the mirrored wall on his left. Catching sight of his heavily aroused body in the reflection on the wall, Methos wondered that he was even able to stand upright, let alone walk.

Bracing an arm on the chaise lounge, Methos rifled through the drawer of a nearby end table for the container of lube that should have been there. But it wasn’t there, he realized after a thorough search. There was no need to panic — the drawer was only one of many lube storage facilities throughout the house — but Methos was curious to know where this particular tube had disappeared to. He turned around, scanning the twin window bays now to his left. One bay held the weight bench, but they’d taped some lube to the bottom of that right after they moved in.

The bed was directly across from him, but both bedside tables had their own supply.

There was the time, all right quite a few times, that they hadn’t made it to the bed. But the lube wasn’t on the short, wide staircase, either.

Methos’ gaze continued right. The closet? Admiring Richie who was still waiting in front of the mirrored doors, Methos thought that this was the most passionate use they’d ever found for the closet. No lube there. Yet.

Finally Methos’ eyes returned to the chaise lounge on his right. Memory stirred, and he bent to lift a chenille pillow from its resting place on the lounge. There was the missing lube, nestled comfortably on the black leather. A wicked grin spread across Methos’ features as he recalled how the lube had gotten there.

Richie, who had turned to see what was keeping Methos, chuckled as memories of the chaise lounge’s ‘christening’ washed over him. But that was almost a month ago. Apparently it had been awhile since they’d used the furniture properly.

Looking at the chaise lounge, Methos’ mind filled with images of Richie bending over him, gazing down at him as their hips moved in unison. Sharp knives of need began to pierce his insides once more. In an effort to quiet them, Methos focused on a point farther down the length of the wall instead. It wasn’t until he saw Richie’s profile reflected there that he absorbed the fact that this wall was a mirror, too. He could see Richie in the closet doors and on the wall above the chaise lounge. An idea began to take shape through the fog of desire in his brain. He held his hand out to Richie. “Come here.”

“But Methos, I want to…”

“Relax, Richie,” Methos interrupted gently. “Trust me.”

Disappointed, but willing to go along, Richie crossed to stand next to the chaise lounge.

Smiling at the downcast expression on Richie’s face, Methos turned him to face the closet doors. “You’re still going to get your wish.” Rotating them both to the right, Methos added, “But you’re going to see twice as much.”

Already racing, Richie’s heartbeat doubled its rhythm upon hearing Methos’ words. When Methos adjusted the pillow on the chaise lounge and said, “Kneel here,” Richie’s heart seemed to stop altogether. It resumed its rapid pace with his next gasping breath, freeing Richie to obey Methos’ command. Resting on the soft pillow, he waited to see what Methos was going to do next.

His eyes on Richie’s in the mirror, Methos slowly opened the tube in his hand. Their gazes held as he began to coat one finger with the lubricant. Swatting a playful hand on Richie’s bottom, Methos signaled for Richie to straighten up. He teased the rim of Richie’s tight opening with the gel-coated finger before slipping the tip inside. Watching the expression on Richie’s face change with the slightest movement of the invader just barely inside him, Methos knew this was just the beginning. “Look at the closet,” he reminded Richie.

Richie looked to his left and was stunned by the vision he saw. Him, on his knees. Methos standing behind him. A finger disappearing inside him. Even as he watched, the digit slid in all the way to the joint. Slowly the full length began to stroke and stretch the warm passage enfolding it. When the intruder stilled inside him, Richie saw himself rise up and press back onto it once. Twice. He was wondering how long he could stand the dual stimulation of feeling the penetration and watching it happen, when the finger was withdrawn altogether. Whimpering at the loss, he watched expectantly while Methos prepared the second act of their little play. Soon twin probes were granted entry and began to move first in unison, then in opposition within their snug sheath.

Turning back to the wall mirror in front of him, Richie could measure the changes the extra penetration had wrought. What had been a light blanket of sweat now ran in tiny rivulets. His pupils had dilated so that his eyes appeared black rather than their usual blue. Each ripple of movement within his most intimate flesh caused his brow to furrow in passionate response.

Drinking in the sight of his lover succumbing to his own passion, monitoring the approach of his own breaking point, Methos decided it was time for a third actor on the scene. He steeled himself against Richie’s cries of protest and resolutely removed his fingers once more. A moment later, however, he was rewarded by Richie’s enthusiastic shout as three well-lubed digits began their foray into the welcoming passage. Once Richie had accepted all three offerings and had began rotating his hips purposefully, Methos knew their game was nearing its end. He gently withdrew the digital triumvirate and began to prepare his cock to take their place.

Richie was caught by conflicting sensations. He felt hollow without Methos’ presence inside him, but his penis was full and heavy with milky fluid. Observing Methos spreading lubricant on his own hardened member amplified both feelings. Richie shivered when Methos’ left knee came down on the chaise lounge beside the pillow. He watched in the closet doors as Methos braced his right knee against the side of the lounge for leverage. The image of Methos positioning himself to broach the puckered portal, the feel of the moist, blunt tip easing its way inside overloaded Richie’s senses. He fought back the precursors of orgasmic contractions, a long, guttural moan the only release he would allow himself for now.

Methos had gotten no farther than a couple of inches inside when he realized that Richie’s legs were not quite far enough apart to allow deep penetration with any kind of speed. The pillow, which helped offset the difference in their height, had no more room for Richie to widen his stance, either. I can do slow. Methos thought to himself. Probably . He pushed forward a little more, but stopped when he felt Richie tense. Damn. Too fast. Methos held his breath while Richie stretched to accommodate the extra fullness. “Christ, Richie,” he groaned when his partner began to wiggle back and forth, testing his comfort level.

Richie forced himself to stop, but his eyes pleaded with Methos in the mirror.

The corners of Methos’ mouth twitched as their gazes clashed for a silent moment. Finally, Methos braced his right hand on the arm of the chaise lounge, settled his left hand on Richie’s hip, and shrugged. “Fine. You do it, then.”

Richie did not wait for a second invitation. He raised himself back up, lowered, wriggled, then repeated the whole process until Methos was all the way inside. He tried to torture them both by keeping the rhythm slow, but nature soon overwhelmed choreography and urged him to a more rapid tempo. Too caught up now to pay any attention to the primal beauty of their bodies’ abandoned passion displayed in the mirror, Richie had eyes only for the hazel orbs of his lover. He read Methos’ intent a second before slender fingers released his hip and curved around his swollen shaft. “Do it, Methos,” Richie begged.

“As you wish,” Methos breathed against the sweat-dampened curls on the back of Richie’s neck. He did not even bother to tease, just matched the frenetic pace of Richie’s hips.

Richie’s movements lost all semblance of finesse as he thrust himself forward into Methos’ hand and backwards onto his cock. His rode Methos with no thought for anything except the climax hovering just out of reach.

Methos knew his orgasm was nearly upon him, as well. He raced full speed towards the precipice, balanced precariously on the edge for one hiccoughing breath, then tumbled over.

The warmth spurts of Methos’ seed spilling inside him was all it took to convulse Richie’s body with the spasms of his own release. When the last helpless shudder had calmed, he tipped his head back to rest on Methos’ shoulder.

Methos did not surrender his position inside Richie until the younger man’s breathing had returned to normal. He savored the low, resonating moan of protest that broke from Richie’s lips as he left. His knees were shaking, Methos realized, as he tried to straighten them. He found the strength to topple Richie so that the younger man lay sprawled on the chaise lounge. “Don’t move,” he ordered.

“Don’t worry,” Richie grinned drowsily. Why on earth would he want to move, when he had a perfectly good view of Methos from where he was? He watched contentedly as Methos moved about the room lighting candles. The sun, which had only begun to set when they started their play, was now spreading a reddish glow through the window behind the bed. The candles’ yellow flames would soon be the only real source of light in the room.

Methos grabbed the blanket they had thrown across the end of the bed and returned to the chaise lounge. He smiled down at Richie, who was trying not to shiver. The summer was not quite so far advanced that it was warm enough to lie around naked, as Richie was doing. He was getting cold, too, Methos thought, rubbing the gooseflesh that had appeared on his arms. He covered Richie with the blanket, then allowed himself to be tucked in alongside Richie.

They watched the rest of the sunset in silence, content just to have the other’s company. When the last purple streaks had faded from the sky there was still no rush to leave their cocoon, even to go to bed. It was a long time before Richie disturbed the quiet.

“Methos?”

“Yes?”

“Next time AC gets a bright idea, you get to wear the leather.”

© 2001 Nikki Memmott