POTLUCK
Alva Rose

It was our turn to host Sunday night potluck, and Manuel had been in a cleaning frenzy all day. The kitchen, dining room, living room and bathroom were all spotless, and he’d moved on to the completely unnecessary task of cleaning our bedroom. I was a little put out that he was so preoccupied with cleaning that he’d failed to notice—or consciously ignored—all my attempts at affection. Sundays are practically made for languorous hours in bed, for sleepy, drawn-out foreplay and exploring the erotic potential of some underappreciated square inch of the body—the back of the knee, the curve of the calf, the crown of the head. Manuel’s cleaning frenzy approached blasphemy. Maybe I’ll give it one more shot, I thought, creeping into the bedroom to check in on his frantic tidying. For his own good. I stood in the doorway, cleared my throat, smiled at him, reached out for him when he whizzed by me, tried to strike up a conversation, but did not receive so much as a word in response.

“Baby,” I grumbled, crossing my arms, “nobody’s going to see the bedroom. It isn’t even messy…”

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to clean anyway!” he snapped, looking over his shoulder as he shut the closet door.

After five years together, three under the same roof, I should have known better than to try reasoning with him. Manuel was fully aware of how silly it was to sweat over the cleanliness of our bedroom, but couldn’t stop himself from reaching for something beyond perfection. The studio we had previously occupied was far too small for company, but when it came to those weekly potlucks among our friends, we made up for it by always bringing plenty of food and booze, then insisting that the rotating hosts leave the post-dinner cleanup to us. We were an exception to the rule that everyone took turns hosting, and at some point, it became a running joke that Steven and Manuel must be homeless, or hoarders, and very good at hiding it. When we moved into a spacious two-bedroom, Manuel was eager to show off our new digs, but as always, the thought of not making an excellent impression was driving him up the wall.

He whipped the rag out of his back pocket and stood on his tiptoes to dust—of all the silly things—the top of the closet door frame. Wordlessly, I walked up behind him and placed my hands on his waist. “Come on, babe, come sit with me for a minute…”

“Steven,” he warned firmly, still slapping the rag over the beveled molding.

I wrapped one arm around him and raised my free hand to hold his wrist still. “Hey, just give me ten seconds. Shhh.” He struggled for a second then huffed and stood there tapping his foot. “Just stand still for ten seconds,” I demanded. “Just stand here with me, and breathe…” He exhaled slowly, trying to humor me, and soon relaxed into my embrace. His head fell back, and I could see everything in his body going tense, then releasing. “You nervous?” I asked, quietly.

“Of course I am,” he sighed.

“I know.” I kissed the top of his head and held him tighter. “You should take a little breather before people start showing

up.”

Manuel shrunk in my arms and turned around. “Okay. For you, I will.” Was he kidding? I wasn’t sure. But I knew if he just gave himself time to relax, he’d feel better. If he was doing it to appease me, so be it.

“Always the people pleaser, eh?” I let go of his wrist and kissed his nose, which always made him melt and blush. This time was no different, and he hummed and shut his eyes, locking his hands at the back of my neck. “The house looks great,” I assured him.

“I kno-ooow,” he moaned.

“And in a few hours you’ll forget you ever worried about this anyway.” “I know.”

I had nothing left to say, satisfied with his willingness to at least pay attention to me instead of the dust in our bedroom, so I waited until I caught his brown eyes in mine, steeled my gaze and shifted my hand to his neck. With a strong note of roughness, tinged with great care, I held him by the throat and kissed his tight mouth, which immediately yielded under my touch. Manuel moaned softly and pressed his body to mine, my arm going a little tighter around his back. His lips parted conspicuously, begging for my tongue, but I pulled away, to pathetic squeals of protest. “Hmm, you seem pretty relaxed now,” I teased, cocking an eyebrow, my mind already concocting a plan of attack.

Manuel snickered and turned his face away from me, mumbling, “You started it!” He moved to push past me, his cheeks reddening, but I stood my ground. Again I grabbed his neck and turned him back to me, giving him the deep, lewd kiss he’d been asking for just seconds prior. He gasped and submitted himself to my attentions for just a moment before he moaned, “Steven, it’s almost seven already! We can’t!”

“Almost seven?” I countered, snatching the rag that still dangled from his right hand. His eyes were wide open as I shoved his back against the closet door and pushed his arms up over his head. “It’s six fifty. And you know damn well our friends aren’t showing up before seven fifteen.” I leaned against him, my hips pressing into his abs, and swiftly wrapped the rag around both of his wrists and then the metal coat hook that hung over the door. I pulled it into a snug, bulky knot, and concluded, “They never do.”

I had to make quick work of him, as enough struggling would surely undo the knot. If he were half an inch taller, he might have been able to pull it up and off the hook. But he isn’t that tall, so with his arms stretched up as they were, his shirt lifted enough to show off the dark triangle of hair that began in a point at his navel, then spread and disappeared under the waistband of his tight gray boxer-briefs. “Steven!” he shrieked, failing to hide a smile. “What if someone is on time this week?”

I shook my head, planted my lips on his neck and felt him swallowing. I raised my mouth to his ear and answered, “Then I’ll just have to let you go, huh?” One of my hands dropped down to his crotch and felt for stiffness behind the worn, blue denim. “Do you want me to stop?” I asked, stroking him through his jeans.

By way of answer, he whined and pushed against my hand. He couldn’t bring himself to say no—clearly he wanted it to go on—or yes—then he’d have to admit that he had forgotten why there was even a rag handy in the first place. “Come on, babe,” I whispered, burying my fingers in his dark, curly hair and tugging for emphasis, “Tell me you want it.”

“Yes,” he squeaked out, grinding against my hand. “I want it…”

“Mmm, that’s better.” I kept him pushed against the door with my body as my hands went to work on his belt, button and zipper. Once that was done, I growled and fanned out my fingers on his lower back, pushing them under his clothes. If only I’d had time, I might have been spreading those soft cheeks and plunging my cock between them, one hand around his neck and one on his member. I would have had time, if he hadn’t been cleaning all day. As if in punishment, I tugged his pants down and delivered a hard, full-hand smack.

“Oh!” Manuel squirmed and pushed his hips out; I felt his throbbing cock poking my thigh. I couldn’t wait any longer and wrapped my hand around its base, working my loose fingers up and down the shaft. He turned his face upward and searched for my lips. I obliged, gripping the base of his jaw and dominating his mouth with mine. Manuel’s breath escaped him in long sighs, his tongue and lips urgent in their movements, perhaps attempting to make up for his relative immobility. The door clattered in its frame as he twisted and turned, impatient for me to do more, and soon I broke away from his mouth and with one last look at his eager face, dropped to my knees.

I opened my mouth wide with my tongue flat and held the tip of my man’s cock on its warm, slick surface, sliding flesh against flesh. I pushed farther and farther down the shaft, retreating only to advance down its length again, and heard a restrained moan from above. I closed my lips and slowly pulled them back, my tongue dancing on the bulge and playing his thin sheath back and forth. His voice newly deep with arousal, Manuel growled, “O-ohh, fuck…” He was near-imperceptibly trying to pump his cock between my lips, but I wouldn’t have it, not yet.

Kissing just the head of his pulsing tool, I stared up at him with deceptively sweet, sleepy eyes, moaning my enjoyment with a long, low, “Mmmmmm…” He looked down at me, his face reading desperation, lust and affection, and I wrapped my hands around the backs of his thighs, my fingers tightening until he tensed beneath them, thrusting forward. I let go with one hand and slammed my palm into his ass again.

The sharp clap and his choked moan met my ears and I pushed farther down his length, alternately squeezing and caressing where I’d hit him. I delivered another blow, clutching his other cheek with ruthless, gruff fingers, and Manuel cried out, shaking. I retreated off his cock and grabbed it, pointing its head toward the ceiling, and ran my tongue up the underside, lingering on its apex, then steadily took it all in my mouth and throat. I closed my lips tight at its root, sucked my cheeks in, and suppressed a spasm in my throat, squinting hard through involuntary tears.

Manuel pushed his hips against my face, growling loudly, and I shook my head back and forth as I pulled my mouth up his manhood, flicking my tongue. “Ohhh, god, Steve,” he hissed, trying to follow my lips. I filled my mouth with his intricately veined girth again, pushing its head hard against the back of my throat as he moaned and bucked, my hands dragging over his lower back, his hips, his thighs, then finally back to his ass. I ran my index finger down the parting of his cheeks and searched for his tight little hole; upon finding it, I pushed on it with the pad of my finger. Manuel released a long sigh, his breath coming loud and fast.

I’d found my rhythm and was bobbing my head up and down his length, stopping at both root and tip, my mouth filling with saliva and precome. I rubbed his asshole with a determined finger, my arm wrapped around his back as my lips went numb. My finger pushed a little harder and Manuel shrieked, then whined an urgent string of, “Please, please, yes, Steven, please!” Acting fast, I dipped my finger in my mouth before I reached between his legs and pushed it into his soft, blossomed rosebud. He released a long cry of surrender, his cock throbbing in my mouth, and I sucked him hard and fast, my finger just barely inside him and pulling forward.

He was thrashing, moaning, gasping over and over, and when I knew he was unbearably close, I let him thrust hard into my mouth, then pushed him as deep in my throat as I could stand. In my mind, I could see the way his arms tensed and his teeth clenched, the veins bulging in his neck, glistening with a layer of sweat. Around my finger and between my lips and in my mouth and throat, I felt the quick spasms of his climax, the hot stream of come threatening to break my composure as it flooded my mouth. With a few final, gentle strokes, I finished him and licked him clean, my lips bright red and my whole mouth tingling. Gripping his hips, I kissed his stomach as he caught his breath, then stood up and untied him. Once freed, Manuel shot his arms out and wrestled me to the floor, onto my back, and kissed me feverishly, laughing and breathing heavily, just as sweet and relaxed as I wanted.

Grinning, I hugged him tightly and mussed his hair. “Feel better?” I asked.

“Mmm-hmm,” he hummed into my ear, taking the lobe between his teeth. I thought I’d heard car doors slamming, and suddenly the doorbell rang. Manuel looked up and blushed. “Oh shit…”

I kissed him once more and pushed him up off of me. He sat back against the closet door with his face in his hands, trying to quell his postcoital high. I went to greet our guests at half-mast, a little dizzy and disappointed at this interruption. Soon, Manuel came out of the bedroom, barely containing his endor-phin high. “Ah, there you are!” I announced, wrapping my arm around his shoulders and kissing his head. He glowed and smiled and leaned on me as he said his hellos, betraying no hint of his earlier panic.