by Kira

In the beginning, there was man.  And a woman.  And a snake.  But, as it happens, none of that matters.

It sure didn't matter for Blair -- Hairboy to those who loved him, Rughead to those who were follically challenged and just plain envious -- who was currently on his back, legs slung over his lover's shoulders, and quickly reaching the climax.  Not, fortunately of this tale, but of the sex of course.  Just to be straight on that...or queer...or sexually ambiguous.

In fact, there was no woman in this picture, and the only reptile to ever come near Blair had been the one and only victim of the "Sandburg School of Catch and Release".  Central techniques known to this school are the judicious use of tight jeans and hip shimmy upon discovery of one's captive.  But that is another story.

"Oh, god.  More.  Right there.  Oh, yeah.  Ohgodohgodohgod."  Blair babbled mindlessly as Jim  pumped into him, muscles straining, skin get the picture.    If not, imagine slick skin, hard cocks, tight asses, curly hair, buff muscles, mix generously and bake at 350 degrees for half an hour, and remember to baste.  Serve with a side of lube and sprinkle with come.  You won't need dessert.

Blair roused himself from the comfortable post-coital doze, patting his snoring Sentinel on the chest.  "Good kitty."

He could hear the door downstairs open, keys clattering in the basket, which Jim had bought to collect keys, dust, and the occasional pair of boxers as they sailed over the railing.

"Rafe?  That you?" Blair called down.

"Come to daddy!"  Rafe called as he charged up the stairs, clothes falling faster than the fur from Jim's spirit guide in the spring.  The bed bounced as their benefactor leapt into the space between the somnolent sentinel and the giddy guide.

Rafe's questing grip was halted by Blair's long-fingered hands.  No girly hand here, no sirree.  Strong, manly hands, which could arouse a monk, but that's another story, and probably isn't very impressive when you think about it.

"What's wrong?" Rafe looked confused, or serious, or happy, it was hard to tell when he was always on the sidelines.

"Rafe, we have to talk."

Rafe sighed.  Of course.  Talking was always something Blair insisted on.  Even when Mr.  Happy was more than willing to forgo all that verbal stuff and get right down to the fun bits.  "About what?"

"About the contract."  Blair sighed and his eyes widened into large pools of shimmering water.  "Do you know what day it is?"

Rafe searched the anniversaries he might have missed.  It wasn't the anniversary of them doing it in the broom closet (the swelling had mostly gone down), or the break room (Rhonda still couldn't look at him and not start laughing), or the bathroom (for a week, the sound of the toilet flushing made him hard), or the loft kitchen (the burn had mostly healed), or the backseat of the Volvo (he still had the scar).

Blair took pity on Rafe's blood deprived head.  The other head.

"We're out of debt.  Jim payed back the last bill today."

Mr. Happy began to frown.

"Well.  I guess, that's good."  Rafe tried to be sincere.  He did.  But his brain was stuck on 'no more sex on demand,' and sincerity was hard to come by...or soft to go by, depending on how one looked at it.

"We sure couldn't have done it without your help," Blair offered helpfully.  He gave a full body wiggle.  "How about one pro bono?"

Rafe never passed up a chance to do charity work.


"Oh, Jim.  Take me.  Take me."  Blair moaned, not intending to sound like a harlequin romance heroine but managing to do so quite nicely.  Jim's T-shirt tore as his muscles expanded in response to Blair's pleas.   While lacking Fabio's hair, he definitely gave him a run for his abs.

With Blair naked, sprawled beneath him, he reached into the drawer by the bed, fumbling for the lube.


"Now, Jim.  Now!"


"Yes, please!"

"We're out of lube.  Don't.  Move."

A trip to the kitchen proved futile, the vegetable, canola and olive oil bottles resting empty in the recycling container awaiting their reincarnation.  Even the ultra low fat mayonnaise and margarine tubs came up empty.  He thought about using spit, but Blair hated it.  They'd have to be happy with blow jobs. *It was a tough life*, he mused as he walked towards the stairs.

Unfortunately, he was too late.

"Jim," Blair sighed contentedly and came, by himself.  Alone.  Leaving Jim crying his outrage at the injustice of it all towards the ceiling.

The phone rang, and duty called.


Blair watched nervously as the SWAT team moved into position.  Jim was leading the assault on the building, rumoured to house a gang of would-be child porn makers.

"Blair, everything set?" Simon hissed, chomping on his cigar in the freedom of the great outdoors.  Blair tried to put the image of those lips circling something other than a bunch of leaves in a paper covering out of his mind.  As another investor in Jim and Blair's debt resolution scheme, Simon had been the most accepting of their return to debt-freeness.

"Yeah, we're set to go.  Just say the word!"

With the precision of the Royal Mounted Police Music Ride, Major Crime stormed the building.  Minus the whinnying, the music, and the whole horse manure.  It was a beautiful sight, one to put a tear in the eye.

Although most of the tears came from the bright lights of the small round lamps mounted on the hard helmets.


Blair and Jim stood in front of Simon's desk.

"So.  Gentlemen."

Blair scuffed his size eight-and-a-half sneakers along the floor.  Jim stood with his hands behind his back, shoulders straight.

"Sir," they chorused like members of the Vienna boy's choir about to be kicked out.

"The next time a snitch tells you that someone is making minor porn, make sure they mean children and not miners!"  Simon shouted.  The after images of the twenty buff young men, clad in nothing but the hard helmets and mining lamps, holding pick axes in various sexy poses had been permanently etched in Simon's brain.  They had been majorly erotic, nothing minor about it.  "Now get out of here, go home, and hope the press doesn't find out about this, and before my puns get the best of me."

The two men filed out of the room.

"Man, he really needs to get some," Blair mused as he snatched up his jacket and book bag.

"He's not the only one," Jim growled under his breath.


"Damn it, Blair.  This is unacceptable."  Jim paced the length of the loft.

"It's okay, Jim.  We'll get through it."

"I can't take it.  It's driving me crazy.  I'm irritable, grumpy, and damn it, horny as hell.  Do something about it!"

"Jim, I can't, and you know it.  It's beyond my control.  You have to overcome this yourself."

Jim knelt before his guide, grasping his lover's hands and pulling them towards his chest.  "Blair, please, let me use the credit card."

"Jim, that's what got us into this mess the first time!"  Blair refused to give in.  It was the principle of the thing.  Plus, how often did he get Jim on his knees?

Jim decided to up the ante a bit, bringing his head close to Blair's crotch and blowing gently on the fabric.  He smiled contentedly as the jeans tightened over the burgeoning erection.  Like Pavlov's dog.  If it was a poodle with a permanent bad hair day.

"Please?" he murmured as he gently mouthed the hard flesh, the layers of denim and cotton no match for sentinel senses.  "Just the Visa.  You can keep the MasterCard."

"No, Jim.  We can't...oh, god, that's good," he moaned as Jim slowly unzipped his jeans and slipped a hand over the elastic of his boxers.

"Just once.  At the drug store.  For lube."  Jim punctuated his pleas with tender laps along Blair's cock.

"Jimmmmm." Blair cried, his hands scrabbling about behind him for purchase on the table.  With one fell swoop, using a technique refined on Wonderburgers and Hoagie Ville Sandwiches, Jim swallowed Blair's erection to the hilt and sucked voraciously.

Sticky, sated, and confident his brains had been sucked through his dick, Blair rested against Jim's chest, cradled in his arms.  "You're still not using the credit card."


Blair spat out his mouthful of beer, gagging.  "What the fuck is this?"

"That," Jim said smugly, "is the result of my home brewing kit.  It only cost twenty dollars and made enough beer to last us a whole month!" He swigged the remainder of his glass, and sighed happily.

"How the hell can you drink that shit?"

"Three words, Sandburg. Dial.  It.  Down."



Simon stared as his star team sat across from one another, staring sulkily at their reports.  Jim's face was covered with an angry looking rash, and Blair's hair was doing an impressionistic rendering of 'Man with finger in electrical socket'.

Simon raised an eyebrow.  "Something going on I should know about?" he asked.

"*Someone* decided that no-name brand shaving cream is a 'good thing'."  Jim let his fingers mark the quotations in the air around his sarcasm.

"Yeah, *Martha*, and why don't you tell the good captain about the guy who said 'Oh, no, Sandburg, you don't need to buy conditioner anymore.'  Tell him about that, why don't you."  Blair huffed.

Simon sent them home early.


"Rafe, come on in.  Hey Simon.  Glad you could make it!"  Blair opened the door, his face lighting up.

The two men shed their coats, and stopped to stare at the loft.

Candles were scattered liberally about the living room, the light shimmering with the faint breezes.

"Damn, Blair, you going to seduce us?" Simon laughed.

"No, the power got cut off 'cause Jim didn't pay the bill."  Blair sighed.  Then he brightened.  "But we have the solution."

"Solution?" Rafe and Simon eyed the bouncing young man warily.  "Solution to what?"

"To our problems.  Come on.  Sit down."

They found themselves seated on the couch, Jim bringing them glasses of beer which were quickly abandoned on the coffee table.

Ties were loosened, pants tightened, shoes removed, and soon the four men were tangled in a mass of arms and legs.  The couch creaked ominously, but Jim's foresight served him well, the reinforced frame holding under the strain.

"What does this have to do with your problems?"  Simon managed to ask as Blair straddled his thighs and lapped at a nipple.

"Well, Jim and I have decided," Blair began, undulating gently in Simon's lap, "that we just can't do it.  We can't live within our means."

Rafe gasped as Jim began to explore his ass sentinel style.  "Whhhaat does that have to do wwwwith us?"

"Well," Jim picked up when Blair was rendered voiceless by Simon's expert touches, "We've decided that a life long contract is in order."

"Llllife long?"  Simon managed between Blair's attempts to examine his tonsils.

"Yeah.  Like tenure.  Only better,"  Blair panted.

"Same terms as before?"  Rafe asked, taking Jim firmly in to speak.

"Yes!" Blair and Jim cried in tandem and all four men came.  Synchronized orgasms, the next Olympic sport, and in this case, a nine-point nine from the Russian judge on technique, perfect ten for artistic merit.

Rafe stirred.  "I'll contact my accountant in the morning."

"Me too,"Simon added, drowsily.

"Oh, man.  This is so great," Blair chortled excitedly.  "We can have *lube* again.  And conditioner, and..."

Simon's finger on his lips hushed him.

"First things first."  Simon looked at the coffee table.  "We flush the beer."