Page 43 of Dirty Air
“You’re still not naked,” Henry says, his hand under the spray of the shower.
Fritz’s fireproof long johns are the furthest thing from sexy, but he’s no stranger to reciprocity. He stares pointedly at Henry’s fabric covered dick before answering. “You are not either.”
Henry flicks the water off his hand before he hooks his thumbs in his briefs. Fritz mirrors him with a smirk. They drop slowly, at the same time, either one of them ready to cover themselves again if the other backs out.
Fritz’s cock springs up as soon as it’s uncovered, the head glistening with precum. Henry’s hard as well, but his cock’s so thick it struggles under its own weight.
“Such a pretty boy,” Henry says, his voice full of awe. He leans in for another kiss, and Fritz eagerly meets him.
It’s slower this time, more exploratory, and it lulls Fritz into a false sense of security. When a large, shower-wet hand wraps around his aching cock, Fritz gasps and exhales with a whine.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Henry soothes, pumping him slowly.
The grip is so different from what Fritz is used to, the technique so foreign. It solidifies that this isn’t another night on the phone with an active imagination—this is really happening.
Henry twists at the head, and Fritz groans, his legs buckling. Henry clutches him with one arm, while Fritz drapes himself over his broad shoulders, burying his face into his race engineer’s neck.
“That’s it, that’s a good boy. God, watching you overtake Lucas was one of the greatest moments of my life.”
Fritz gasps as Henry's hand accelerates, his grip tightening. It's faster, harder,tighterthan Fritz has ever felt—teetering on the cusp of painful—but he climbs higher and higher with it.
“I’m so glad I got to be on that podium today—to show you off to the world. Spraying you with champagne until you dripped with it. I needed everyone to know—this is my driver. He’s the best in the world.”
Fritz reaches his peak and comes with a cry, spilling over Henry’s fist as the older man continues to pump.
“That’s it, give me everything.” Henry squeezes every last drop out of him until Fritz is shaking with oversensitivity. “You're such a good boy, Fritz. So good for me. Let's wash you off.”
Henry steps into the shower and turns his back against the spray before leading Fritz in.
Fritz is always a little useless after he comes, but even more so after such a long, stressful day. He tries to focus on remaining upright and lets himself be pampered.
Henry scrubs at his champagne-slicked limbs with hotel soap and a washcloth. The course fibers ground him when he feels himself drift up and away.
Fritz has lost the will, or maybe even the ability, to speak, but Henry rambles on, filling the silence. “You’re so beautiful, a work of art. Not like a painting, like a car. Perfectly made, powerful, sharp.”
By the time Henry washes Fritz’s legs, his dick is interested again. It twitches near his face and Henry huffs a laugh. “Eager young thing.”
“If you did not want me to be hard, you should not have talked so much.” Fritz finds enough strength to reach out of the shower, towards the bottle he sat on the toilet seat lid. “I still want to clean you with my tongue.”
“This is a terrible idea,” Henry says, standing and accepting the bottle anyways. “I just washed you, you want to ruin that?”
Instead of arguing, Fritz pushes Henry back, closer to the spray, to give himself some room. He kneels on the tiled floor, centering his bony knees on the flat surfaces. It’s not comfortable, but Fritz has been in worse positions for lesser men.
“Come here,” he says, sitting back on his heels. He looks up at Henry and lets his mouth hang open.
When the man doesn’t budge, Fritz scoffs. “I think many people would want to fuck a driver’s mouth. You say I am popular—why do I have to beg?”
Henry snorts and steps forward, closing the distance. He makes no move to shove his dick into the awaiting hole, but Fritz is happy to take it from here.
Instead of diving into the heavy cock hanging in front of his face, he grabs a hold of one of Henry’s thick legs. He licks a long, wet line up the inside of his thigh, following the seam up and over to his outer hip dip. He’s so meaty here that Fritz can’t help but to find a juicy spot and suck.
Henry jerks forward in surprise, but Fritz has the reflexes of a driver and stays latched on.
“You already taste like champagne,” Fritz says, pressing a thumb into the hickey. Henry bruises so easily—Fritz should cover him with them. “Pour it.”
“You are absolutely insufferable.”
Still, Henry upends the champagne over his chest. There isn’t a lot of liquid in the bottle, but it fizzes on impact and cascades over the planes of his body.
