“C’mon,” Katya says, without really thinking about it. “Get your dick out. Get it hard. I wanna see.”
“Oh my god.” Trixie reacts the way she always does, all who-me-I-do-declare, fuckin’ prairie wife realness, as if Katya can’t see the way her big ears go red, like she isn’t hazed out in a mushroom cloud of desire. Trixie’s fresh off a breakup, some three-date nobody who didn’t deserve her in the first place, but who seemed like, like, a really nice guy, Katya supposes. He’s glad he’s gone. He always looked at him like he thought Katya might try to mop his wallet or make off with his 2011 Ford Fiesta. “Katya,” she says, mouth dropped open, ¡escándalo!, and that’s when Katya realizes - she’s gonna do it.
“I mean, like, only if you want to,” he says. Trixie’s cornered all the way up against her shiny kitchen counter, and she settles back further, leaning on her elbows. Her head knocks up a fraction, showing him her throat. Katya is gently electrified at the sight. “If my eyes don’t deceive me and you’re as…” He pauses, lets himself get caught staring at the line of her dick in her fucking pink sweatpants. “…intrigued by that premise as I think you are.”
When she’s in face and he starts poking her like this, she’s got a pound of paint to hide under, her eyes disappearing inside their cage of lashes. Now all she can do is laugh through her nose, cut her glance away, shake her head, try to purse her lips so she doesn’t smile. Her naked expression would make him shy, if he were capable of feeling shy around her. “Ugh,” Trixie says, “oh my god. Why did I even let you in here.”
Katya’s been wondering that himself. Ostensibly, like, allegedly, the pitch was that Katya was picking Trixie up to go to dinner someplace, but he arrived an hour ago to find her in her fag loungewear, skin all soft and moisturized, nary a takeout menu nor a Seamless link in sight. They’d been shooting the shit, the air getting thicker around them every second, Katya half-hard off vibes alone.
He doesn’t say any of that. Tossing invisible hair over one shoulder, he suggests, “The gig economy. Those cobwebs in your hall closet aren’t gonna eat themselves, are they?”
Trixie shrills out a few syllables of laughter. Katya shows her his teeth, a halo of affection spiking out of him toward her. Her posture relaxes, too, and she sighs over her tragic and difficult life. Her right hand inches toward her crotch. Katya’s drooling in his jeans. “C’mon,” he urges her again, softly. “Lemme see.”
She reaches in, miracle of fucking miracles, and pulls herself out, and the air fills with angel song. She’s thick and hard and uncut, a little wet, better than he’s ever extrapolated from the flaccid glimpses he’s caught over several years of costume changes. He hears himself make a quiet sound, something that might be ungenerously classed as a whimper, at the thought of dropping to both knees and taking that thing in his mouth like Communion.
“How do you ever leave the house?” he demands, his voice a croak in his ludicrously dry mouth. “If that fuckin’ hog were attached to me I’d spend all day in bed with both fists around it.”
“Shut up,” she half-screams, but Katya watches her fingers tighten around it, watches them drift a hair north, then pause like she’s just remembered she’s got an audience. Katya takes a halting step forward, zombified, and Trixie holds her ground, doesn’t even pretend to recoil from him. He watches her hands, watches her face. She’s level, lips parted. He pushes his luck.
“That is a first-degree-possession-charge kinda dick,” he tells her emphatically, and her head falls back on another shriek. “I’d go to jail for one taste of that thing. My god. I bet it gets you in trouble, doesn’t it.” He takes a step closer. She’s been wide open, unmoving, but her face screws up at that, shoulders hunching defensively in.
“Oh my god, shut up. Shut up!” Her other hand comes up like she’s going to hide her eyes in it, but then she drops it. She’s forgotten there’s no makeup on her face to smudge. “It’s not, like, all it’s cracked up to be,” she mumbles, a little quieter.
Another step puts him at her feet, essentially, less than a shoe’s span between them now. He hates the way she’s trying to cave in on herself, hates thinking of what’s-his-name, Mr. Ford Fiesta himself, balking at the sight of this fucking gift of a member. “Please, mama, it ain’t a wild animal,” Katya says. “And neither are you.”
Trixie draws up a little straighter, jaw tight. Despite Katya’s accidental brush of this particular nerve, she’s still hard. She likes this, she’s into it. Katya’s own cock is twitching, desperate for her. He palms it left-handed, not putting on a show, just making sure Trixie can see that he likes this, too, that he’s down here with her. “I bet you’re tender, aren’t you, you fuckin’ gay fag?” he asks her. She makes an extremely sexy little noise, something between a laugh and a low grunt. He gets close enough to stand between her spread legs. “Bet you’re so careful. I know you are, bitch. Anybody who can’t handle that unit lacks moral conviction.” He could lean forward and close his mouth over her Adam’s apple. He doesn’t. “Can I touch you?”
His own voice has never sounded so sweet, not in any of the languages he knows. She looks like she could come from the sound of it. She rolls her head to the side, and Katya reaches forward, just the inch it takes, to brush his knuckles against hers. Katya’s mind shudders and shakes out like clean laundry - this is Trixie, this is Trixie, and he is a man, and Katya is touching him.
“No,” Trixie says, closing Katya’s hand over his dick and holding it there. “Get away.” His pretty brown eyes look drugged, jetlagged, but they widen as Katya squeezes carefully, starts rubbing. Trixie draws his own hand back and Katya’s got him, now, breathless with adrenaline.
“Got it,” he agrees, nodding seriously. “So, hypothetically, then, if I were to feel you up…” He lets his grip get firm, watching the way Trixie’s jaw works, like he’s holding back sound. “If I were to stroke this sexy thing you got until you took it away from me, I’d probably take this kind of approach. Real slow at first.” He nods up into Trixie’s eyes. “I bet you’d like that.”
Trixie snorts out a weak laugh. “You don’t know what I like,” he says. His voice is pretty calm, but Katya knows him too well for that, knows every little hitch and bit-back quiver.
“Well, like, you’re jumping in my hand, Tracy,” he stage-whispers, like it’s a shameful secret and not the best thing that’s ever happened to him. “I got some idea.” He has the passionately rotten idea that he’d love to open his mouth and drool directly down onto the head of Trixie’s gorgeous cock, but he doesn’t trust his aim anywhere near as much as he trusts Trixie to lose both mind and boner if Katya makes a mess of his his spotless new floor. Instead he lets him go just long enough to spit into his hand, starts slicking him up that way instead. Trixie whines in the back of his throat. Katya’s dick leaps at the sound.
“This is - god, I hate you,” Trixie mutters, hips jerking up a fraction into Katya’s wet fist, “you’re so, you’re so -”
“I know, mama,” Katya coos over him, “I know you do.” Trixie’s hand finds Katya’s hip and squeezes, holds him in place, as if there’s anywhere else Katya could dream of being for any price at this precise moment. He tugs him closer, crushes his face into Katya’s neck, breathing slow and deep. Katya works him, Trixie’s cock so tight between their bodies it’s like jerking his own dick. He feels as close as if he were, throbbing with every sound Trixie makes.
“You’re so awful.” Trixie sighs it sweetly into Katya’s neck, just below his ear. Katya swallows a moan. He’s dying of thirst. He angles his hips forward without thinking, letting Trixie feel how hard he is, how he’s wrecking his only good denim for his hulking Appalachian ass.
“I know,” he repeats. “Thank god for your fortitude, right? Imagine if you stooped so low as to, yknow, suffer a handy from the likes of me.” Trixie laughs into Katya’s ear. His knees wobble. “But you wouldn’t, would you,” he prompts. Trixie’s so hot in his hand, so hard. He tugs his foreskin back gently, lord have fucking mercy on his soul, rubs his thumb over the exposed head of Trixie’s dick.
“No, never,” Trixie’s saying, but at the first brush of Katya’s thumb, he twists, bucking against him with pure, hormonal need. “Fuck—”
Katya’s brainless over it. Trixie’s thrusting into his hand like it’s the fucking homecoming queen, and he does, actually, yes, feel like he’s won something. Katya’s throat feels tight with an acceptance speech. He leans up, murmurs in Trixie’s ear, “Oh my god, you really like that, huh? Wow. Should I do it some more?”
Trixie groans through clenched teeth. He’s leaking all over Katya’s fingers, chasing it, right on top of it. Katya rubs him how he likes it, and Trixie clutches him tighter. “You are so stupid,” he pants. “Brian, please -”
“Shh,” Katya soothes, although if Trixie actually stops making all this noise he’ll fucking off himself. Brian. “I got you, honey. I got you.” Trixie pushes back from Katya like he needs air, throwing his head back.
“I’m - !” His hips jerk. His hands ball up. His eyes are closed, so Katya can stare at him without thinking about what his own expression looks like. He feels like he’s glimpsed the goddamn Ark of the Covenant, like the skin’s melting off the bones of his face.
“That’s it, give it to me, lemme have it,” he says, taking him in, his flushed skin, his long throat, his wet cock. “You look so sexy. God, it’s pretty. You’re so pretty, you fuckin’ gay country-ass bitch.”
Trixie throws his palm over his mouth. “Br - fuck!” he gasps into it, shooting his load down Katya’s knuckles. Katya shoves his other hand roughly over his own dick, so hard it’s almost, like, nearly funny.
“There you go, that’s it,” Katya says, and then, debaucherous over the high, bitten-off sounds he’s making, “Good girl, Trixie. That’s my good girl.”
His eyes pop open to shoot him a withering glare, but he’s too weak to come for him, still in the throes of it. Katya’s eyes drag between Trixie’s open pink mouth and his dick, still pumping through the last seconds of it, sliding through his fingers. He squeezes, slowly, bringing him down the way he personally prefers it, feeling the flex and twitch of him against his fingertips.
He’s thinking that what he really wants is a kiss, would very much like to push everything on his tongue out of his mouth and away from his brain and make it someone else’s problem. He leans in, and then the dissonance punches him in the fucking beak, and he realizes this is Trixie, he can’t - like, he can’t, what is he supposed to do, fucking romance him? It’s kind of funny, and then it’s very, highly, extremely funny, and then he’s doubling over with laughter, leaning his face against Trixie’s broad chest and wheezing, still fondling Trixie's pecker, for fuck’s sake, like, has he ever liked anybody this much? He feels like he’s robbed a bank, sirens screaming after him. He can’t believe he’s gonna get away with this.
“God, shut up,” Trixie drawls, bringing his left arm around to hold Katya close at the waist. “What is so fucking funny, you moron?”
“Nothing, I don’t know, I just, I just,” Katya pants. Trixie’s laughing, too, under his breath, shaking his head at him, all high and mighty. Katya’s just thinking he might ask Trixie if he can drop to his knees and lick him clean when Trixie snatches up Katya’s right hand, dripping with him, and shoves his first three fingers in his mouth.
Katya’s brain explodes with Ben-Day dots. WHAM!, motherfucker, POW! He pushes his dick against Trixie’s hip, still trapped miserably in his pants. Trixie’s got a firm grip on Katya’s wrist, his thumb digging into the meat of his palm, while he deep-throats his own come off his fingers. “Oh, god, you’re sick,” Katya gasps, admiringly. “You need a fucking hospital, bitch.”
Trixie laughs. Katya feels it from his knuckles all the way to the base of his cock. “Keep doing that,” he pleads. “Keep doing that, you fucking - “
Trixie nods, still licking, swallowing around him. Katya pins him harder against the counter, thrusting roughly against Trixie’s body, pressing his face into Trixie’s throat, breathing in the clean, sweaty smell of him. “God, you’re, I can’t believe I’m,” Katya grunts.
“Uh-huh,” he says, all garbled around Katya’s fingers, and Katya comes in his fucking pants in the middle of Trixie Mattel’s beautiful Barbie-pink kitchen.
He takes a beat, so to speak. There’s a, like, perhaps, brief but meaningful vision quest. When he spirals back into his body, Trixie’s still beside him, hasn’t lunged away in horror or disgust. He’s washing his hands at the sink, back turned to Katya, but he can see his mouth curving upward approximately 45 degrees on the side nearest him. Katya leans in and plants a very chaste, careful kiss on Trixie’s ear, which he receives with grace and a little incline of her head. Katya keeps half-expecting her to turn to black jelly or a murder of crows. It all feels too easy, like he’s dreamed it. But Trixie’s here, drying her hands now on one of her like eighteen pink dishtowels, turning back toward him with a placid, amused expression. She nods down at the wet spot on the front of Katya’s black jeans. Katya’d be embarrassed if that were a thing that happened to him ever, in front of this bitch especially.
“You wanna borrow something?” she asks, then heads for the bedroom without waiting for an answer. Katya watches from the kitchen, grinning, speechless, as Trixie wanders around her room, looking for something that’ll suit him.