Mr. Muffit by akablonded

Mr. Muffet - Akablonded

~~~

Notes:

Charoses* - a mixture of apples, nuts, wine, and cinnamon, as a reminder of the mortar used by the Jews as slaves in the construction of buildings.

Afikomen** - At the beginning of the Passover Seder, the middle of the three pieces of matzah is broken. The largest piece, called the Afikomen, is hidden. During the seder, the children try to find it.

~~~

Little Blair Muffet
Sat on a tuffet
Eating algae and whey
A spider came walking
But Blair kept on talking
And frightened the critter away.

A Nursery Rhyme Revisited

***

“So, now what, Jim?”

I was finally going to give it up to the man I’d loved helplessly and hopelessly over the last three years. Yes sir, after tonight, Blair J. Sandburg would be a virgin no more. I’d be a member of the Men Only Club.

And Detective James Joseph Ellison, of Cascade, Washington Major Crime was my bisexual “in.” You heard me right. Big, strapping, ex-Army Ranger James Joseph Ellison, the poster boy for wet dreams everywhere had extended an invitation to yours truly to switch teams. Or at least check out the possibilities of a slightly different position. I knew I had the right equipment, but wasn’t quite sure if I could play the game with the new rules.

Make no mistake about it. The want was definitely there, but, the etiquette of the situation, not so much.

For instance, getting a tee-shirt off a body isn’t the same as unsnapping a bra. Jim’s got tossed over the railing and hit the remote control in the living room. Mine was history, split neatly in two, hanging around my waist. I guess I zigged when I should have zagged, and Jim Ellison hadn’t counted on my threadbare third layer of clothes being so ... flexible. It “flexed” in opposite directions, surprising both of us.

And I really loved that old Hanes. But I loved the big old lug standing in front of me a damned sight more.

“Sorry about that, Sandburg. I’ll buy you a new one. Later.” Jim’s voice was amused in a feral kind of way. “Well, how about we start with something easy, Chief. Like this.”

The touch of the big man’s tongue running down the length of my ear was definitely the attention-grabber I’d always dreamt it would be. I tried my damnedest to return the favor, hoping against hope to pull off a combination of nonchalance, experience, and drop-dead sensuality.

Instead, I somehow ended up with a mouthful of Sentinel forehead.

Don’t ask.

It wasn’t pretty. I felt Jim’s pain as I accidentally pulled out a few of his eyebrow hairs. He winced as he tried to twist away from my ferocious little teeth.

“Jesus Christ, Sandburg, wanna go for any other major organs?”

Way to break the mood, Sandburg. Why didn’t you just knee him in the Ellison family jewels?

“God, I am so sorry!” I sputtered, trying to reposition myself as smoothly as I could, and promptly landing on the love of my life’s foot. Actually, more like on the inner arch in something resembling a Krav Maga move. (That’s the fighting technique developed by the Israeli Army that I didn’t realize I knew.)

“Are you trying to tell me something, chief?” … my wounded Blessed Protector yelped and got the hell out of the line of fire.

“I’m just a little …” I edged backward, crablike, and succeeded only in tumbling ass over head onto the bed, narrowly missing an impromptu lobotomy on the loft railing.

The good news was that I didn’t sluice gray matter out my nose.

The bad news was that I scraped the side of my head on something -- Jim’s nightstand, I think -- when I twisted to get myself erect.

Correction. Straight.

Correction. On my feet.

All of this in under 30 seconds.

It was, what you might call, a freak accident.

“Don’t move, Darwin. I think you’re actually bleeding.”

Jim was kneeling next to me, deft fingers holding my chin in place, brushing the tangled, wet hair out of my eyes, while his sensitive touch made sure that I wasn’t hurt – just fucking embarrassed.

As if being a virgin to the whole man/man thing weren’t bad enough.

Like what happened at when I was a geeky eight-year-old, visiting Grandma Sandburg for the Jewish High Holy Days. At that age, my fly always seemed to be at half-mast. Nana Sandburg spent the entire time fussing about this and that (mostly about how my mother, Naomi was not raising her only grandson properly). At the Seder, with friends and relatives in attendance, my bubby ordered me in Yiddish to “zip it up” and sit down.

So I did. In the process, my Easy Glide caught a wedge of the good linen table cloth.

You can guess what happened. When I stood up to answer one of the traditional Passover questions, ”Why is this night different from all other nights?” I pulled most of the food off the table, the Charoses* went flying and the Afikomen** suddenly made its appearance.

The seder just wasn’t the same after.

And that was just in front of all my relatives.

This was Jim.

Seduction 101 wasn’t going quite the way I planned. By now, I’d pictured myself watching Jim strip down to “The Smile” – the one just for me. He’d be all glistening muscles and angles -- and hard, hard, dripping dick. From across the room, Jim would stalk me -- panther that he is -- like the last rare lamb chop in the free world. (Mint jelly-flavored Astroglide, anyone?) Jim would rip my sweatpants off my hairy legs in one, lightning-fast motion, then toss me easily onto his big blue bed and we’d do it.

Make the beast with two backs.

Dance the horizontal mambo.

Play hide the salami.

Finally.

We’d be all over one another for hours and hour, like white on rice.

And in the best laid plans, Blair should get laid best. Right?

So far, all I had was two halves of a tee-shirt and an almost-gash on my forehead.

Wounded virgin walking.

“That’s some technique you got there, kid.” My Sentinel chuckled, fondly patting his Guide’s cheek with one hand the way he always did. To take my mind off being an uber dufus, Jim untied my drawstring pants and eased them off carefully, so I wouldn’t hurt myself or him.

Laying me down on the bed and making sure no weapons of mass destruction were within reach, my partner began fingering my cock like a virtuoso.

“Relax, chief. Let me drive.” Jim zigzagged his thumb over the tip and alternately circled and palpated the small slit until my tool was so engorged, I thought it would snap off.

I was going to make some kind of weak joke like, “And it detaches for easy cleaning,” except that Jim chose that precise moment to lower his incredibly warm, talented mouth onto ‘Little Blair.’

All my higher, cognitive functions jumped ship and left me wordless.

Almost. But you know me. I never met a sentence I didn’t like. The one that popped into my mind was a doozie. It made me feel giddy, surreal and a little like that eight-year-old kid again: See Dick run. See Dick come. Come, Dick, come. Watch out, Spot.

I started laughing like the Idiot of Prospect Avenue. And just when I had the title sewn up neatly, Jim did an intense “swirly”, followed by with a phenomenal “suckee.” I made a mental note to thank him later for the tonsillectomy.

Then, I stopped laughing. I started feeling that familiar sexual throb sweeping over my out-of-control body. The waves of pleasure built and careened from head to toe and toward my sweat and saliva-covered groin in-between. I knew that I was only about 10 seconds away from supplying ample evidence that the big guy was doing a helluva swell job.

Oops. Slight miscalculation.

For the first time as part of a men-only love fest, I came.

In spurts.

In clumps.

In fountains.

I bet you’re wondering what I actually said – or screamed, technically -- at this seminal point?

What else? “Spiders, Jim! Fucking spiders!”

***

Spiders. Hate them with a passion. It’s a long story -- involving Sumatra, my then-bearded face, and mating arachnids -- that I’ll bore you with some other time. But just as I’d shot to the moon, and down Jim’s accommodating throat, I saw a Daddy Longlegs the size of a Buick clinging to the wall. It was so big it cast a shadow on the picture of Jim and me fishing at Lake Torrance.

So, we’re talking big here.

Jim didn’t comment, at first, knowing it’s the height of ill manners to speak with a full mouth. But as I continued to babble, he raised those lethal baby blues of his, pinned me with a glare and said, “Whtthfckryutlkngabtspdrs?” I’m translating Ellison-speak. (Mouth full, remember.)

I waved my index finger as frantically as I could, considering I’d just hurled my mind out my dick, over that impossibly beautiful ass of his, toward the eight-legged behemoth. My love dropped a flaccid Mr. Happy from his moist, wet lips. (The little guy had shrunk into minus territory, and now wanted nothing better than to curl up and take a nap.)

Disbelievingly, my partner turned his handsome head to see what the hell I was gesturing at, then grunted, “Sandburg, you’re something else.” Wiping away a dollop of the Blair juice dribbling down his chin, Jim rolled off me, and mumbled, “What that is, I haven’t got a clue.”

“Very funny. Not.”

My sweaty bedmate stood to his full height, lurched over to the wall, and scooped up our uninvited visitor with his hand. I watched a stark-naked Jim Ellison, shoulders gleaming in the moonlight that washed through the skylight, march resolutely down the steps toward the balcony. There, the Watchman of the City released his tiny tribal member to fend for itself on my ficus. (Thanks to whichever God protects new lovers, it was dark enough so that the Bay area didn’t get an eyeful of Ellison eye candy.)

I don’t have Jim’s super hearing, but I suddenly picked up an unfamiliar sound echoing and bouncing around the living room below.

Little at first, it grew, almost exponentially, before mutating into something strange, as though we’d been making love in downtown Chernobyl and Jim was paying the price.

Apparently, when Jim Ellison’s totally loose, he … giggles. Who knew? Personally, I’d never noticed the weird cackling before. (Maybe it’s just during and after oral sex. I’ll have to check out the Plummer-Ellison divorce papers someday. “Defendant was accused of multiple incidents of indiscriminate giggling, chortling and random acts of snickering.”)

I watched my one-and-only haul that fabulous keester of his back up the stairs, then stop at the top and look at me sprawled on his – on our – bed.

Lying there ripe, sated, and happy as all get-out, it occurred to me that Jim Ellison was sort of … mine now, and it just about blew me away.

Me. Blair Jacob Sandburg, who’d never had the same address for more than a year.

Until now.

Who’d never had a special someone to share a bed -- or a life -- with.

Until now.

Who’d never even thought about giving his heart way.

Until now.

It’s fucking terrifying. And wonderful.

Suddenly, Jim took a giant step, then did a perfectly executed belly flop onto the disheveled bed sheets. He reached up, grabbed hanks of my hair, and pulled my face toward his. The kiss tasted like me, and him, and the Michelob he’d had earlier. In the next few seconds, it evolved into something wild and erotic and sexual and astounding … and perfectly right.

“Chief, chief, chief …” Jim mantraed, as he mouthed my blinking eyelids, flushed cheeks and the tip of my sunburned nose. He milked my swollen lips soundly until they felt almost raw. (Damn, Jim IS a big cat.)

“I’m sorry, Jim, about the spider … and almost ruining …”

“Ruining what? Sex I can get anywhere.” His hands wended their way over my body with a parallel sense of ownership that made me sparkle. Honest to God.

“Maybe in your dreams,” I snorted as I leaned into that incredible touch.

“Quiet, munchkin,” he reached back and playfully slapped my ass -- which I really liked, by the way -- but I had to make some sort of statement as a mock protest.

“Munchkin?”

“OK, munchkin with a big dick.”

“That’s munchkin with a huge dick to you, Mister.”

“Well ...“

“Enormous dick –“

“Sandburg –“

“Gigantic dick –“

“Sandburg --“

“Epic dick –“

That one stopped him cold.

“Epic dick?”

“Yeah, ‘Epic Dick.’ It’s a summer blockbuster, with Christian Bale, Brendon Frasier …” I prattled, as he began to nuzzle my suddenly revived cock, “Harrison Ford …” he was licking me stiff. God, I could get use to this. “… and Jerry Mathers as ‘The Beaver’.”

Jim froze for a split second, then, like Old Faithful, he erupted, practically convulsing at the stupid little reference. A little “in” joke between me and my … guy. (It was beginning not to sound so strange to my ears. I was making progress, I think.)

We both laughed for about five solid minutes. Laughter was going to be a terrific part of our love life -- as long as Jim wasn’t pointing to something on my body while doing it.

The Blessed Protector of my body and soul shimmied up next to me, slinging an incredibly well-muscled arm around my neck and pulling me in tightly against that granite chest of his. I was so safe, so “home,” it was scary.

Jim tweaked my butt cheek to make sure I was paying attention.

I was.

“What I was trying to tell you, moron, was that I’ve bedded a lot of people, but only you could make me laugh in the middle of a blowjob. A great blowjob, I have to say.”

I ran my hands over his face and shoulders. I was never going to get tired of touching Jim Ellison. “No argument here, buddy.”

“And you make me care. You touch me. Here.” Jim tapped at his heart. “Now, be a sport, and touch me ‘here,’” he purred, placing my sweaty palm on his washboard-flat stomach.

“And ‘here.’” He ghosted my fingers over the hollow of that perfect hip of his.

Jim’s voice turned raspy. “And ‘here.’” Now I was rolling strands of his pubic hair between my thumb and index finger. ‘That’ got a four-star reaction.

Suddenly, we were tangled, amid arms and legs, mouths and hands, desperately, deliciously, dangerously.

Nothing slow and easy, soft and gentle about this. Frantically, we rubbed up against one another, grunting and moaning, trying to see who would cross the finish line first.

I won. A lubricated finger up my cherry ass caught me totally by surprise, especially when it hit pay dirt, my prostate. I yelled my bloody head off and streamed spunk over Jim’s neck for the second time in less than an hour.

Something about the sheer lunacy of the last few minutes made the love of this anthropologist’s chaotic life also lose it. As his cock did its impression of a Roman candle (I swear I could see sparks shooting out of it), Jim gasped helplessly and screamed at the top of his lungs, “Fuck, ‘Spiderman!’ Yeah!” l’m willing to bet the neighbors in #207 and #407 heard it and puzzled over it, along with some folks as far away as Spokane. He kept piston-pumping away, until I felt like I was being baptized in the River Ellison.

As everything ground to a halt, and time ticked away, our bodily fluids began to congeal, and we became attached to one another. Literally. I figure if I pulled away at this moment, enough of my chest hair would be yanked out to carpet a small, third-world country.

“So, ‘Mr. Muffet,’” Jim joked as he reached for his boxers to wipe us off, “got anything else constructive to say … or do?”

Mr. Muffet. What a wit. Well, at least half of one.

“Keep it up, Ellison, and that’s the last piece of tuffet you’re getting tonight.”

With that, I launched all 160 enthusiastic pounds of suddenly rejuvenated me at my Cascade’s Cop of the Year three years running. I was going to tickle him mercilessly in every sensitive zone he had.

I know them all. This massive pile of Sentinel goo seemed to have forgotten just who he was fucking with.

It’s good to be the Guide.

The end

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Acknowledgments: Thanks to the MME family … mad-cap, zany, talented and always there. And thanks to Jim and Blair for being two swell guys.