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Home Slash Fiction Het/Gen Fiction Donatella's Head

DISCLAIMER: This site is in no way affiliated with the Monkees or personal relations thereof. All fan fiction and fan art is intended for entertainment purposes only and no defamation of character is intended whatsoever. To break it down one more time: It's all just for fun, folks.


"Two Men Shy"



Title: Two Men Shy
Pairing: Micky/Mike
Rating: NC-17
Author: DeSilva Moon
Summary: In their attempt to escape rabid fans, Mike and Micky wind up in a closet and decide to make the most of it.

The show had been marvelous. They’d left the stage as they gone onto it- with ear-splitting screams of applause from a cascade of young faces. Somehow they’d managed to deliver a constant feed of their best-loved tunes to a hungry audience, even though they could barely even hear themselves over the din. They’d also never thought it was possible for kids to scream with a British accent.

Mike tolerated it for the most part, seeing it as part of his job. Construction workers had to dig holes, dentists had to pull teeth, and he had to stand here up onstage, playing songs he’d played too many times before.

Micky, however, ate it up with a spoon. That was how he’d been raised since he was a kid-- in the spotlight, always doing something to draw attention to himself. Silly faces, smartassed comments, that whole crazy James-Brown-as-a-white-man schtick he did onstage. He was a born showman, and Mike just was delighted to have a part in all of it.

Micky had stumbled across the stage, microphone one hand, the other beseeching Mike for help. He decided to play Micky’s straight man, helping him to his feet and wrapping the cape about his shoulders.

Micky managed to reign himself in for a good thirty seconds. They got about halfway across the stage before he gave Mike a wink, turned, and slid towards the center on his knees. Crowd goes wild. The spotlight seemed to follow Micky wherever he went.

Mike watched, pretending to be stunned, trying to keep the grin from his face. Boy, he could surprise you when he wanted to. He wished for just a moment that he could have that same panache. But Micky was hunched over again, and it was time to be attentive. He put on his best poker face, coming at Micky with the cape once more.

And again, a single hand raised above his head, waving for assistance. Micky was hunched over double, hand blindly grasping for assistance. Mike appeared, cape at the ready. Micky grasped, aiming for the cape. What he ended up with instead was a handful of Mike’s pants crotch, and a bit of Mike. Mike tried not to look shocked. Perhaps if he passed it off, the audience would do the same.

It took Micky a second to realize this. He then pulled his hand away, as if he’d been singed. A few more blind tries, and finally the cape was had. Mike draped it over him again, and escorted Micky offstage. Micky gave him a silent, apologetic look. Mike was simply thankful for the cape. With it in front of him, he hoped that neither Micky or the audience would see that his already snug pants had gotten considerably tighter.

The four of them rushed offstage at the very second the encore was through. Every moment spent dawdling was one where the fans could amass at the side door and impede their exit. Micky took off the fastest, with Peter and Davy neck-and-neck for second. Mike lagged behind, his shoes only being good for looks. The backstage area seemed endless.

Two doors swung open towards he waiting police wagon. There was already a throng outside, screaming at a level that could have broken glass. Bobbies locked arms to hold away the twitching, squealing masses. The Monkees dove in two at a time into their seats. The doors closed and locked, and all four sped away into the fog.

“Gee, if I wasn’t famous I don’t know what I’d do for exercise,” said Micky, his voice thick with sarcasm.

“This is real first-class travel,” joked Peter, though he wasn’t smiling.

Jim, their road manager for the English leg of the tour, turned around to face them. “All right fellas, here’s the deal…you’re all staying at the same hotel. But for your own safety, we’re putting you on opposite sides of the building. Peter, Davy-- you’re in 201 and 203. Mike and Micky are in 294 and 296.” He handed them each a key. “Now, we’re gonna drop off you two first -” he pointed to Mike and Micky “- at the west end of the parking garage. Then we’ll do a lap around the hotel and drop you two-” he pointed at Peter and Davy “- off on the east end.”

“Great,” sneered Davy. “I’ve got to break into my own hotel.”

Mike simply looked away, staring over Davy’s head, out past the Tower Bridge to the lights of London beyond. He’d always wanted to go places as a kid…see the world. And now that he had the money, he couldn’t go out without being mobbed. It was a sick irony, really. He let out a tiny sigh that, thankfully, went unnoticed by his bandmates.

The hotel’s garage was blessedly free of fans. They hated to have to be driven through a crowd. Not that they wanted to get mauled, but they didn’t want anyone getting run over. Mike and Micky exited the car carefully and quietly.

They wouldn’t be lulled into a false sense of security by the silence. The car pulled away, and they snuck quickly into the elevator. A sense of peace and relaxation swept through them both, culminating in audible sighs as the doors shut.

Mike turned to face Nicky. “Say Mick, do you remember what our room numbers are?”

“294 and 296,” he said confidently, jingling the keys in his pocket. He then pressed the button for floor number two.

“Hey man, this is England. They call the ground floor the first floor. First floor is gonna be the lobby, so our floor is number three.” Mike pressed the button for floor three.

“That only counts in business buildings, Mike, not in hotels.”

“No it doesn’t,” Mike said firmly. “It counts in any type a’ building”

“No! The first floor rooms are in the 100s, the second floor rooms are the 200s, and so on. That’s how it’s works everywhere.”

Mike gave him a sour look. “Then press number one and see if we don’t end up in the lobby.”

Micky did as he was dared.

Ten seconds later, the doors opened with a ding, and revealed the sprawling, opulent lobby before them. It was decorated in a tasteful art-deco style with Grecian goddess statues, decorated with plush carpeting, tiled in tasteful marble…and full of teenagers.

There were two seconds of calm before the storm.

“IT’S MIKE AND MICKY!!!” a girl yelled. She was then drowned out by several decibels of squealing and shouting as they ran for the open doors. So much for the restrained British.

Micky’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. He was frozen stiff with fear.

Mike felt his bowels loosen in pure terror. Only a shock of reason prompted him to act. Press a button and close the door!

Mike slammed the buttons with his hands. Five terrifying seconds later, the doors met and closed, and they were on their way up.

Micky heaved a great breath. “Holy shit, that was close.” He was still breathing hard when the elevator came to a halt. “What the hell’s going on, Mike?”

“We’re stopping!”

“I know we’re stopping!! Why are we stopping?!” Micky was rocketing towards panic.

“We pressed all the buttons! One, two, and three! So we’re gonna hafta stop at all the floors!”

“Oh shit,” Micky whined.

The doors opened to the next floor with a ding. A sign indicated that these rooms started at the 100s.

“I told you to press floor number three!” Mike bellowed, now just as nervous as Micky.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Micky sounded like he was about to cry.

Mike pressed the “Close Door” button impatiently. It was a little too slow in obeying for their tastes. And the grind of gears and cables started again. Ten excruciating seconds before they reached their floor.

Cautiously, they peered their heads out. The coast was clear. They quietly stepped into the carpeted hallway, softer than the footsteps of an ant on a leaf.

“There they are!!”

Both heads snapped to the right, towards the end of the hall. They had been followed. The slow elevator was no match for a score of determined kids and two flights of stairs.

This time there was no hesitation.

“Run!!” Micky yelped.

The more athletic of the two, Micky tore off first, turning sharply at the first corner. Mike sprinted after, almost tripping over his own long limbs. He barely saw Micky duck down the next corridor. He followed suit, his heart pumping pure adrenaline.

Mike stopped sharply. They’d reached a dead end at this turn. But Micky had found some sort of closet or bathroom or something. He was gesturing wildly, his hand flapping like hummingbird wings.

“Quick, in here! Hide!” he squeaked as the screeching din came closer.

Without a second thought, Mike jumped in. Micky slammed the door behind them, almost falling into Mike. He steadied them both against a cabinet full of towels.

Moments later, the sound of the squealing horde was right outside the closet door. Through the crack between hall carpet and closet floor, they saw feet stop and pace.

“They went this way…that door’s open over there!” a girl’s voice shouted.

“Maybe they’re in one of these rooms!” said someone.

“Maybe they’re in this closet…” offered a young man.

Both sucked in their breath, horrified. If those fans cornered them in here, they’d be lucky if they made it out with two eyes, two balls, four limbs and a head of hair between the two of them.

A hand twisted the door knob. Micky clutched at Mike’s arm in fear.

“They can’t be in there, it’s locked!” moaned a girl.

Both breathed a sigh of relief.

“Look, there they are!” said another girl’s voice, this one a little farther away.

The feet moved quickly away from the closet. The screeching din started up again, with screaming, crying and yells of “Mike!” and “Micky!” fading down the hallway. The crack in the door showed nothing but the harsh overhead lighting.

The two of them melted into a puddle on the floor. Mike didn’t envy the bellhop or waiter that was mistaken for one of them. He just hoped that they noticed he wasn’t a Monkee before he was torn to pieces.

Micky let forth another great breath, but this one with a little chuckle at the end.

Mike looked at him like he was cracked. “What on Earth are yew laughin’ about?”

Micky just grinned. “So this is what it’s like to be The Beatles.”

A grimace spread across Mike’s face. “No, this is what it’s like to be the upstairs maid for The Beatles. We’re in the glamourous linen closet. And we’re locked in.”

“Ah, shit,” Micky groaned, kicking a nearby cabinet. And, like it was scripted by the show’s writers, a large pile of pillows fell directly on Micky’s head.

The look on Micky’s face was priceless-- grumpy as a wet cat. Mike tried to supress a laugh, but to no avail. With a snort, he rolled over onto his side, bursting with laughter. Micky simply picked up a pillow and let Mike have it.

After the giggles had died down (Micky had never known Mike to giggle before), they sat there in the darkness, waiting for some new pair of feet to show themselves so that they could escape. Until then, Micky propped his head on a pillow supported by Mike’s shoulder. Mike simply sat and stared at the door.

“Well, at least we know we’re still popular,” remarked Mike after a silent spell. He was bored stiff and back to his deadpan self. “I still don’t know what’s up with these kids.”

“They just think we’re groovy, that’s all,” Micky said dismissively. “We have a good sound and we play tunes they can dance to. That’s all they really need.”

“Well, yeah,” Mike began, “But what about The Lovin’ Spoonful or The Mamas and the Papas? They’ve got a great sound too. But you don’t see them runnin’ around a hotel tryin’ to keep from getting’ mauled.”

This caught Micky’s attention, his eyes snapping open. “Well, we’ve got a TV show. And come on, Mike…if you were fifteen and were gonna spend your birthday money on a show, who would you rather go see- us or them?”

Mick had him there. “Us, I suppose.” He smiled warmly at his bandmate. “I mean, just the way ya do your James Brown thing. Yew know how to work that crowd.” His smile withered. “I tell yew, sometimes I don’t know where I fit in to all of this. I mean, Davy’s just Davy…he’s all wide-eyed and handsome, and has that big classic voice, and that accent…all the girls just think he’s God’s Gift. Peter, bless him, is just happy to have a bigger audience for himself and his banjo. And yew…well…you’re such a showman. I mean, half the show is just watchin’ yew do yer thing. You’re good on the drums and all, but once yew git started with the James Brown thing with the cape…yew just got that audience eatin’ right out of the palm of your hand."

Mike paused for a moment, thinking about the palm of Micky's hand; especially how it related to that night's show. His dick twitched at the memory.

"And I know I ain’t got that kind of a presence, he continued. "Any knucklehead could be up there with a guitar or two pairs of maracas. So whut am I doin’ here? Why ain’t I back at the Troubadour with my guitar, playing somethin’ that means sometin’?”

Micky lifted his head, staring directly into Mike’s big brown eyes. “Mike, don’t you ever say that. You mean something here. Man, you’re the reason any of us write anything. Or fight for anything. Do ya think we’d have outed Kirschner if it wasn’t for you? I know they write you out on the show to be the leader and everything, but that’s because it’s true.”

Mike was found smiling in spite of himself. “Thanks, Mick.”

“And I know all the girls have it in for Davy,” he continued, still gazing, “and I know you’ll never believe me…but you’re handsome, Mike. I mean, I know that’s gonna sound funny coming from me…”

Mike interjected. “Not at all, Micky,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “Not at all.” That smile still lit up his face.

Micky's blood was boiling. His handful of Mike earlier had been a happy accident. Serendipity had landed them here. And by the grace of god, he had called Mike handsome and he hadn't freaked out. Maybe now was a good a time as any. Their heads -their lips- were so close. He leaned forward and kissed Mike full on his mouth.

For six seconds, there was no other place in the world but that tiny closet. No other people but the two of them. Mike pulled away gently, leaving both of them breathless in the wake of that kiss.

Micky stumbled over his own tongue. "I...I’m sorry, Mike…it’s just…I've always wondered what it would be like to kiss you."

Mike still smiled, a little bit shy. "It's okay."

A second passed, each considering this new development.

Mike was the first one to act, inching closer to Micky and kissing him-- far less cautiously than he had been kissed. Mike closed his eyes as his lips touched Micky's, a bit rougher and full of passion.

Micky noticed he was getting harder. He had always dreamed this somewhere in the back of his mind, when he was in the middle of nowhere, far from the rest of the guys, from everyone else...

Exactly where they were now.

Micky closed his eyes and leaned in to bless Mike’s lips again. There was no resistance in Mike…only electricity. Every beautiful bit of him flowed upwards and pressed gently towards Micky’s mouth. The barrier had been broken, years of curiosity sated. His tongue snaked between Mike's lips, hitting his teeth before being welcomed into Mike's warm mouth.

Micky tasted the walls of Mike's mouth, his tongue. He tasted like spices…hot and tangy. Davy had dragged them to some out-of-the-way East End curry house before the show. Mike, used to scalding Texas chili, had eaten hot pickle and blisteringly spicy madras while the others poked at plates of rice and gulped water between bites of rogan josh.

It was all wrestling tongues and warm spit; hands radiating warmth against cheeks and backs. Chins nuzzling, soft fluffy curls intertwining with rough-edged waves. Two sets of brown eyes doing all the talking while the tongues stayed silent.

Micky rolled Mike over, onto his back, gently propping a pillow under his head. Mike wrapped a long arm arm around Micky, and the other ran its fingers through the drummer’s hair. Soft as silk. He gathered handfuls of the deep brown curls, getting his fingers lost in them. Mike hoped silently that this would last. That the kisses would keep coming, and slowly and passionately melt into something more.

Micky kissed Mike gently, wanting to feel his lips, like taking a cartography of them. Every line, every fiber, every pore. He wanted to memorize them. His cock was hard as it had ever been, almost aching. He wanted to whip it out. He wanted to jerk off like a jackrabbit with Mike right there. He wanted…

Micky broke the stream of passionate kisses, much to Mike's disappointment. He then turned himself over, on top of Mike, looming over him, and leaned in to kiss him again.

Mike felt his heart racing. Yes, more!

Mike’s eager mouth opened again, preparing to take more of Micky’s kisses. Instead, almost to Mike’s disappointment, a hand pushed his head away to leave his neck exposed. This is where Micky’s lips latched onto. He could feel Mike's pulse racing from the vein underneath.

Mike returned the lucious favor; those soft, sweet lips sucked at Micky’s neck, nibbling it lightly. "Bite it," Micky groaned to Mike between kisses. Mike took a good chunk of neck flesh between his teeth and bit down harder, allowing his hands to venture down Micky's body and grab his butt over his increasingly tight pants.

Micky was in carnal heaven. More kisses, more necking, and more everything, please.

Mike was caught in the smell of Micky's body scent. Soft, clean scents of soap and aftershave wafted into his nostrils as Mike kissed the crook of his neck. He licked it with the very edge of his tongue and got a taste of sweat. The heat had risen conderably in this tight little space.

Micky's cock was growing hard and impatient against Mike's belly. Mike wondered if he could bring himself to touch Micky, caress his skinny naked frame. Mike slipped his hands into Micky's pants, letting his hands caress Micky's ass. He always had a small but cute behind. Mike gave Micky's butt a gentle squeeze, making him groan and take a nip on Mike's neck.

Micky kissed Mike's lips again before straddling him in a cowboy position. Micky’s cock rubbed against Mike’s when he’d moved. The friction between the two cloth-covered dicks was absolutely delicious. Mike looked upwards, full of lust and curiosity, wanting to know what wonderful surprise awaited him next.

Micky grabbed the bottom of Mike’s sweater and, without fanfare, pulled it up over Mike’s head, mussing all that pefectly placed hair.

He smoothed down Mike’s hair gently, running his fingers through it; petting him. Micky looked into his dark and moody eyes. Their usual air of self-assurance and calm were replaced by ones that were unsure and hazy with desire. Eyes that didn’t know what to expect.

Micky caressed Mike’s shoulders, his fingers going down Mike's chest, across his stomach. There had been times when they had scrambled from stage to dressing room, Mike taking off his shirt and tie as they ran. Inside, Micky used the mirror to his advantage. While seemingly fascinated with his own image, he was actually watching Mike's reflection while it put on its white sweater. He'd wanted to trace his fingers across those ribs, over the tight tummy and straight into Mike's flares.

He bent down and draped himself over Mike's right side, placing his leg over Mike's. Mike felt Micky's hard-on against his thigh. It was too delicious.

He began kissing his way down Mike's torso, licking here and there. He affixed his mouth onto Mike's nipple, biting it with the same gentle ferocity he had used on Mike's neck, grinding it gently between his teeth.

Mike thought he would go mad. He was already rock-hard, and beginning to feel trapped beneath the constricting fabric. He had at times thought about Micky and him doing something; perhaps a kiss snuck in after a particularly good show, or maybe jerking off in the same room, but never this, this...incredible fucking sensation.

Micky couldn’t control himself anymore, and decided he needed to take the next step now, for fear that any further hesitation would give Mike a chance to change his mind. Micky's hands deftly slid down into Mike's pants, taking his stiff cock in his hand.

Mike felt like he could have come right then. Micky’s hands were soft. After all, he was the drummer, and had no callused fingertips to scratch and annoy the swollen dick of the darkly handsome guitarist.

Micky's thumb ran over the head of Mike's shaft, caressing it gently, giving it slight tugs to make it stiffen with his touch. His tongue played over Mike's nipples before slowly tracing a line with his tongue down the middle of him.

Mike sighed contentedly as Micky's tongue slid past his happy trail.

Micky wanted Mike in his mouth. He wanted to feel Mike's dick between his lips, hard and slippery. He wanted to feel Mike come in his mouth, to taste Mike's cream, raw and hot. He’d had this longing longer than he cared to imagine. Now was the time for action.

The sound itself was not a loud one -barely audible in any other case- but in the steamy silence of that linen closet, the little copper button slipping out of its fabric slit sounded like a gun shot. Mike’s breath caught in his throat as he became aware of what was happening.

Micky unzipped Mike’s fly and pulled down his pants; over his thighs, past his knees, and to his ankles. He was wonderfully naked. He had seen Mike's body before while changing in and out of stage clothes, during wardrobe sessions, a million other places that were only a shadow as compared to now. Now Mike was his.

Micky was intensely pleased with his work.

Mike had a very nice cock; it must have been at least a good eight inches, wonderfully thick, and his balls (which looked like they were a mouthful by themselves) were dusted lightly with black curly hair.

Micky laid down on the bed, placing his head squarely between Mike's thighs. He moaned when Micky kissed the helmet, already glistening with pre-cum.

He took Mike into in his mouth, between his lips, licking the length of the shaft up and down slowly. Micky’s tongue danced around the shaft like a ribbon on a Maypole.
He's done this before, Mike thought. Few women he’d been with had such expert control over their tongues, such gusto in taking a cock between their lips and sucking it so heartily.

Micky did love it, the feeling of the thick shaft as it glided down his throat, raw and hard and hot. He wanted to swallow Mike whole.

With his tongue darting along Mike's glans, Micky took the whole length of it in his mouth until he felt Mike's short curly pubic hairs resting on his lips. He stuck his tongue out as far as he could, licking and darting over the sensitive flesh of Mike's balls.

Mike groaned. He had never been deep throated before. No one had ever had the talent. Micky's throat was like wet velvet as it swallowed Mike's shaft into its depths. Mike felt like he would come soon. He wanted to force Micky's head down onto it. He wanted Mick to swallow him, to keep his cock in his mouth until it fell limp, so powerful was his lust.

"Micky..." he managed to say between groans of pleasure "...swallow me..."

Micky opened his mouth, licking Mike's cock like a fleshy popsicle, waiting for him to spurt. He wanted to taste Mike's jizz on his tongue, just to see if he tasted like spices all over.

Mike gripped his pillow tightly, tearing at it as he began to come, heralded by a series of low passionate grunts and moans. Micky was thrilled at the sounds coming from deep within Mike's throat.

"Micky...," he said in a voice that begged for him to be brought over the edge, "Please...". Micky wrapped his lips around the helmet of Mike's dick again, letting his tongue dart over the sensitive head.


Mike came in a flood. It was furious, from deep within his balls. His whole body lurched forward with the intensity of that orgasm, his cock thrusting into Micky's mouth. He pulled -perhaps a little too hard- on a patch of Micky's hair. Mike’s still-erect cock muffled any complaints he might have had. He felt the constriction of Micky's throat as he made the effort to swallow the whole of his load.

Micky licked it up, savoring ever last drop of Mike's creamy come. It was hot and sticky and delicious in it's own salty consistency. Micky let it flow slowly down his throat, tasting Mike's very essence.

Mike lay back to rest in the glow of that mind-numbing climax. Micky removed Mike's limp dick from his mouth and snuggled in the crook of Mike's neck, kissing it gently.

"I've always wanted to do that," Micky said as he regained his breath.

Mike let out a sigh-smile. Micky kissed him gently on the mouth. "You're really handsome when you smile. You should do it more often." Mike smiled again and kissed Micky deeply, their tongues mingling.

Mike leaned in, so they were side by side and free to kiss each other.

Micky ran his hands over Mike's body once more, savoring his sweat and its perfume. He caressed Mike's firm ass. Always in those tight, almost-nothing-to-the-imagination pants, now naked as the day he was born and a tenfold hotter. Mike, with his expressive eyes, brown as earth…that long elegant nose and dimpled chin (which were in sharp contrast with his own, flatter features), and that soft, floppy hair.

Mike wondered if perhaps he could bring himself to be with Micky. He'd never done anything even remotely like this before, and especially not been on the giving end.

Out of sheer curiosity, Mike's exploring hands happened to stray to the front of Micky's pants. He stroked it gently with his finger, like charming a snake into gentle submission.

Micky groaned lightly in satisfaction. His cock was already stiff as a board, and Mike teasing it surely didn't help things any. Micky bit Mike's tongue lightly as they kissed. Micky took the unassuming hand and slowly glided it past his prominent hipbones, beneath the waistband of his trousers and towards the central warmth inside. Mike cautiously took hold of Micky's dick, putting his fingers around it slowly, letting his entire hand envelop it. Micky helped him along, placing his hand gingerly over Mike's and gliding it up and down the hard shaft.

Mike's mind was going a thousand miles per hour. '
So this is what another cock feels like. It's a lot like mine. Not as thick, but almost the same.' He marveled at the strangeness of it. He had never even kissed a guy before now, and here he was with his hand on Micky's cock, playing with it, feeling its hardness beneath his fingers.

Mike began to jerk Micky's shaft in earnest then. Micky removed his hands, letting Mike's fingers work their calloused magic.

Micky caressed Mike's cheek as they kissed fervently. Mike bit at Micky's bottom lip, nibbling it. He kissed him one more time before making his way down to Micky's nipple.

Mike teased it gently with his tongue, pressing it hard, then took it between his teeth like Micky had. Micky liked all his tender parts to be bitten, he guessed.

"Mmmmm," Micky purred. "You're great at this."

Mike grinned. "Well, I had a great teacher."

Micky was soon approaching his climax. He wanted to come so badly. He was a generous lover, and when it was his turn he wanted the favor repaid as quickly as possible.

"Make me come Mike," he whispered in the guitarist's ear. "Please. I know you can."

Mike sped up a bit, jerking Micky's cock a little tighter, just as if he was hurrying to reach his own climax. Micky's hips bucked in time with Mike's tugging as he began to bring him over the edge.

A wicked idea crossed Mike's mind. This was the first time -and likely the last time- that he and Micky would be in this passionate situation. He removed his hand from Micky's cock, making Micky wonder what the tall Texan could be up to. To his delight, Mike cautiously stuck his tongue out to touch the tip of Micky's shaft.

Micky smiled. Mike could surprise you when he wanted to.

He gently put the head in his mouth, moving his tongue around to explore the smooth flesh of Micky's penis. He could taste the pre-cum forming on it. It was slick and a bit sweet, with an underlying salty taste.

He wanted to do for Micky what Micky had done for him: to make him squirm with pleasure and beg for the sweet release. Mike tried to do as Micky had, flicking his tongue here and there, putting it in his mouth as far as he could.

Micky sighed. He was no expert at all. He probably hadn't touched another dick, ever. But the passion in his trying was absolutely marvelous. He wanted to push his dear head down onto it, to force it down Mike's hot throat. So inexperienced, the poor thing. Still, couldn't blame him for trying. But what did it matter? This was all he had dreamed of...Mike in his bed, plump lips wrapped around his cock in fumbling passion, feeling the wet velvety caress of Mike's throat surrounding it. Bliss. Absolute bliss.

Micky began to grab Mike's hair, running his hands through the coarse crop of blackness.

Mike knew Micky would come soon, and his wicked side wanted to play with him a bit; to prolong this hot moment with Micky begging for climax and at his every mercy.

Micky began to moan. "Mike...I'm gonna come..." Mike gave Micky's cock a final blow before removing it from his mouth. He would play with Micky first. With Micky's cock still in his hand, Mike's tongue strayed to Micky's small, smooth balls. He licked them with full tongue strokes: he let the broader bits of his tongue caress them while pointing the tip, leaving a little trail of passionate fire in their wake. Micky was in heaven. Oh God...

He could be taught well. And he was a vey fast learner.

Mike decided that he would taste Micky, swallow him. He placed the delicious prick back in his mouth, waiting for Micky to reach his climax. He bided his time by trying to glide it down his throat, trying to replicate the same ease that Micky had in sucking him off. He almost liked this…having something in your mouth that was hard and fleshy, that needed constant attention and spat out raw life when you were done with it. And it was Micky at the end of this thing. My god, what a feeling.

With a final gasp, Micky came into Mike's mouth. It was like the first he had tasted. Salty, slick, and with an odd tang. It was hot and liquidy, like lava flowing past his tongue and down his throat. He tasted what he could. Micky's cum was sweet. He’d been indulging in rich British chocolate almost as soon as the plane touched down.

Mike took Micky's cock out of his mouth, kissed the quickly slackening tube of flesh, and settled back next to Micky, putting his head close on the pillow.

Micky kissed him gently. A bit of his own sticky cum was still stuck in the corner of Mike's lips. Micky dabbed at it with his finger, placing it between Mike's lips.

Mike took it in his mouth and licked Micky's finger seductively, tasting the last bit of Micky's cream. Micky smiled. "Not bad for a first-timer." Mike smiled too. Micky settled in the crook of Mike's neck, running his hands over Mike's body. Mike let out a small laugh. "I'd never dreamt of doing that in a million years."

"That's funny,” Micky confessed, “I've always dreamt of you doing that."

He looked into Mike's beautiful brown eyes and kissed him. A smile passed between the two, along with a few more passionate kisses. These kisses would have to last a long, long time. Each taste of Mike, each essense of Micky would have to last forever. If anyone found out about this...

They both dismissed those thoughts, letting each other's tongues intertwine, lips exploring each tiny detail of the others. Curiosities quieted down after much passionate, satisfied kissing. Micky still fell asleep with his hands draped over Mike's broad chest. Mike sniffed Micky's hair as he slept, kissing his forehead and gently caressing his cheek. Mike smiled and closed his eyes. And it all started with one cautious kiss.


A stream of bright light shocked Mike away from his sleep. He looked up, bleary-eyed, to see the face of their road manager.

“What the bloody hell are you guys doing in here?” he asked, brows knitted in confusion.

Mike sat up, scratching his chest underneath his wool sweater. “Well Jim…no one happened to tell us that there was a mob a’ crazy kids waitin’ for us in the lobby that was gonna chase us up to the third floor. And the only place we could hide from ‘em was in here.”

Mike poked Micky in the back, nudging him awake. “Mick…Mick…”

Micky blinked, groggy. “What?”

“We’re safe. We weren’t found out.”

“Huh?” he said, throwing his blanket off before recognizing Jim’s shadow in the doorway. Micky sprung into action. “Oh man! You should seen ‘em! There must have been twenty kids after us! They chased us up three flights! This is the only place we could hide…they were gonna tear us to pieces!”

Mike shot him a reprimanding glance. He shouldn’t be so defensive…it’ll only make things look weird.

Jim smiled. “Well, they chased all the kids out of the lobby. They’re still waiting out on the street, though!”

Mike rose to his feet, and, in a fashion similar to earlier in the evening, pulled Micky up to standing. Micky took the blanket he had wrapped himself in.
Jim escorted them to their rooms. They were slightly embarrassed and slightly annoyed when they discovered that 294 and 296 were right at the end of that hallway, and only steps from the linen closet. Had they known, they could have ducked inside their rooms and…

…well, perhaps it was for the best that what had happened, happened.

Jim bade them goodbye, and told them that they had beds now, and wouldn’t need to sleep in the closet with the towels. Unless it was more comfortable now, haw haw.

They stuck their heads out to make sure that no one had seen them enter their rooms. No fans, no waiters, no maids, no other guests. The coast was completely clear. Finally, peace and quiet.

Micky turned to face Mike. A wicked grin swept across his face. He cocked an eyebrow at Mike. An understanding was reached. Mike’s eyebrow rose to meet it.

“So…” Micky smiled, “your closet or mine?”