spicyskilletsauce-blog

[spicyskilletsauce-blog]

Simmer, Chapter 11

Note: this story includes depictions of contestants on the reality TV show Top Chef. This story is not intended to depict any real-life actions or sexuality of the people portrayed.

M/M Explicit sexual content.

Trigger warnings: non-consensual sex.

11. Dream Team

So much could change over the course of a challenge. That was one of the weirdest things about being on Top Chef. One day, you’re questioning not only your ability for that challenge, but your ability overall. As if all the years of training and all your interest in technique and being your absolute best came down to a single moment, and that single moment was found wanting. And then the next day, you’re riding the highest high, as if you’re in a hot air balloon, surveying the world below, and it’s a little scary because there’s no tether and the balloon might start deflating at any second … but it’s exhilarating, too. It confirms everything you’ve ever done in your career and before.

Joe Flamm stood face to face with the judges and actual Olympians, basking in the adulation from all, knowing that it wouldn’t last, knowing that it couldn’t last, but also knowing it was okay to take pleasure in your win. There’s a finite number of these on any given season, and when your cooking is good enough to make the judges give one of those wins to you … well, you’re allowed to hold onto that for a little while.

The funniest part was that this wasn’t even a win for Flamm himself. After the long night of moral support for Bruce, whose baby was born in the wee hours, he’d managed maybe four hours of sleep before Padma came knocking at Top Chef House. She and Brooke – the winner from last season – dumped a Quickfire on them before they’d even had coffee.

Still blitzed from lack of sleep (and, let’s be honest, lack of Sasto, who had fallen asleep early the night before), Joe had tried a Nutella banana coconut stock with which to make oatmeal, and the fact neither Padma nor Brooke received it with a rousing hooray didn’t really surprise him. He was exhausted, a little on edge … and horny as fuck. His eyes kept cutting to Sasto, who offered him a tired half-grin every time. There was something in his eyes this morning, something wicked, and Joe couldn’t wait to get him alone to hear what it was. Whatever shift was happening in him had to be fully complete by this point, right? Until last time, the sex had happened when it happened, on a fairly regular basis, so he’d never had the time to really miss it.

He missed it now, and for the first time, he found himself craving Sasto before even getting him naked and alone. It was as if the moments with Sasto (and that one time with Tyler) were elevated extra moments, situations outside his normal world. Now, though, those moments were bleeding into his normal world, his ordinary self. It was no good thinking of his time with Sasto as something he could compartmentalize, and set far away when he wasn’t actually, like, inside the guy.

And it’s not just sex, he thought briefly, looking him up and down; Sasto wore the bear slippers that the Top Chef producers had provided, just as he did, just as Tyler did, just as Bruce did. There were a lot of jokes about Joe Sasto being the “baby bear” of the house, and Sasto seemed to have taken to the distinction with relish. And those slippers, which Flamm had caught him dancing around in while he grilled outside. Am I falling for him? Oh fuck, is that what’s happening?

After the Quickfire winner had been announced – Carrie, again – three former Olympians had shown up to lay out the rules of the Olympic-themed Elimination Challenge. That was another wild thing about Top Chef: at any moment, you could be sleeping soundly, then wake up to make breakfast for a past winner, then be confronted by three Olympians while you stood on the front lawn in your bear slippers in Denver, Colorado. Weird world.

“For this challenge, you’ll be in teams of three,” Padma said, and with no preamble, Flamm turned to Joe and Bruce.

“Bears?” he asked.

“Bears!” the other two agreed at once, and all three put arms around one another. The smell of cooking was in the clean, fresh air. One hand was on Bruce’s wide back, the other on Sasto’s smaller, more muscular one. They touched foreheads and Flamm thought: This is what I like. This is who I am. He closed his eyes and let himself get lost in the moment.

* * *

That moment seemed to carry throughout the day. After the shop, while the others prepared a surprise baby shower for Bruce, he and Joe Sasto kept him at the dining room table, talking about being a father and all the changes that were coming.

“It’s a little overwhelming,” Bruce said, reaching out and grabbing each of their hands. “What if I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Flamm glanced down at Bruce’s hand on his, then up at the man’s face. His beard was as wild as his hair today. Uncontrollably, he found himself wondering if Bruce was hairy all over, like Sasto was. God, what was with him today? But before he could chase down the rabbit hole with the question, he looked back down at Bruce’s hand, which hadn’t moved. Flamm realized he liked it there, like the rough feel of Bruce’s palm against the back of his hand.

Then it was gone and they were heading to the living room for the surprise party. It was one of those moments Joe was most happy to be here, to be part of a camaraderie that you didn’t always feel when you were the lead guy in a restaurant. Once, back in high school when he’d first dreamed of opening up his own place, he’d thought, If it’s lonely at the top, I don’t care. All that matters is being at the top. Now, he wondered. It was a hell of a weird place to wonder, given the nature of the show – literally called Top Chef – he was on. But as the party went on, he kept looking toward Sasto and realizing that he hadn’t felt lonely here since that first night. And he thought of Bruce’s hand on his, and wondered if Bruce might not be lonely.

And yet, the elimination round had felt anything but. Sasto and Bruce had stepped up, and the easy, almost eerie sense of togetherness had pushed them over the top. It was an Olympics-themed challenge, and standing together with Bruce and Sasto, wearing gold medals and grinning at Padma and Tom and the other judges had felt like more of a victory than usual. This was the first time he’d been at the top in this competition, and sharing it with the other two didn’t dampen the feeling one bit. In his excitement, he wanted to grab Sasto and kiss him, deeply, celebrating the moment as intimately as they could. He wanted to tell Sasto that he knew that he could do it – hadn’t he said so? They did it together.

But as they headed back to wait for the official Judges’ Table, Sasto took him aside, looking concerned. It wasn’t the look the man had had the other day when he was worried about having just scraped by on the last challenge. It was a different sort of concern. After a moment, Flamm gleaned the difference: it was concern for him, Flamm.

“What?”

“Promise me you won’t freak out.”

“Well I can’t promise until I know what I’m not going to freak out about.”

“Bruce … did something to me last night.”

“Something? What kind of something?”

Sasto filled him in the best he could, telling him how he’d come awake with Bruce looking down at him, and had decided to keep pretending to sleep as Bruce moved his hands all over him, getting him off deftly after cumming across his body.

Flamm measured him with a look. “Are you freaking out?”

Sasto shrugged. “Bruce has kinks. We all do.”

“Yeah, but it’s like … he did stuff to you without asking you first.”

Grinning, Sasto said, “Like the time I ate your ass with Tyler sleeping below you?”

Blushing, Flamm stammered, “O-okay, that’s a good point. It still feels weird, though.” Coming around to the idea that he liked all this stuff hadn’t brought him around to actually talking about it directly; that was probably always going to be difficult.

“I know. And I don’t know if I want him to know we know. I was kind of into it, him doing it all nervous.”

“I wonder if he’d do that to me.” He thought about Bruce’s hand, and wondered what that rough skin might feel running over his belly, and down at his balls. Instantly, he was hard in his jeans.

“Stop wondering,” Sasto said, patting the sudden bulge. “We’ve gotta go be on TV.”

And they had, and they’d obviously won, and while it was sad to see Tanya go, all Flamm could think was how happy he was that Sasto and Bruce had elevated him, and that he’d elevated them. And back in the Stew Room, he let himself wonder about what Bruce might do to him while he was sleeping. Crossing his legs to hide his erection – and whatever wet spots he was making in his pants – his eyes drifted from Sasto to Bruce and back again. Why hadn’t he kissed Sasto when the two of them had been alone? He’d had the perfect opportunity. With every ounce of willpower he had left, he forced himself to not do it now, as badly as he wanted to. Those wicked eyes, still somehow guileless, above that absurd mustache that managed to be adorable.

Night came quickly, though, and though he’d made strides in initiating this stuff recently, he hoped Sasto would come to him tonight. In fact, he was counting on it. He had an idea, and he thought Joe Stache would go along with it. He propped himself up on an elbow and looked over at the other bed, where Bruce was snoring lightly. He hadn’t worn his CPAP machine tonight, and in the light coming through the window, Flamm could see his whole face, resting and calm. Bruce’s mouth was slightly open, and Joe’s thoughts kept drifting to the idea that someday, in some capacity, he might put his dick in that mouth. The idea drove him crazy.

Then his door was opening, and Joe Sasto, fully naked, stepped inside. It was a wonder to see that body, rippling with muscles, covered with hair, his dick heavy and dangling. Bruce was sexy, big and hefty with a manly beard and a killer smile, but Sasto really was something else.

He climbed out of bed, erect to the point of bursting, and crossed the room to where Sasto stood. Without thinking, he picked Sasto up under the arms, and drew him close. Sasto’s legs wrapped around Flamm’s lower back, his hands laced around his neck, and without a word, Joe Flamm kissed him. It was the kiss he’d been waiting for all day, deep and sensual, the taste of Sasto��s tongue sweet and mellow. He could live inside that kiss. All he wanted from this night was to hold Joe Sasto like this, close like this, and taste his tongue, and never let go.

But reality being what it was, his arms couldn’t hold Sasto more than a few minutes. He set him down on the ground and looked down at him.

“You wanna get weird?”

A slow smile crossed over Sasto’s face, as Flamm started to undress. “What do you have in mind?”

Showing was better than telling, and once his underwear had joined the puddle of clothes on the floor, he moved to the other side of the room, where Bruce slept. Finding a small section of bed Bruce wasn’t taking up, Flamm sat, naked, and smiled up at Sasto. Sasto’s eyes went wide and his eyes drifted toward Bruce’s face. The man hadn’t woken. He still snored lightly. A devilish grin blossomed on Sasto’s face, and Flamm pointed toward his erection, which jutted up hard and ready in the cast moonlight. Sasto didn’t need to be told twice. As quietly as possible, he fell to his knees and started working Flamm’s cock. Just the tip at first, getting it wet, then dipping down further, punching it deeper and deeper into his throat. Electric pulses shot up from the base of Flamm’s cock and up through his body. Sasto’s tongue kept working, licking, slathering the underside of Flamm’s dick, targeting the sensitive areas and making Flamm moan lightly. He shifted a little and felt Bruce’s thick arm against the small of his back. The man’s arm hair brushed lightly against the thatch of hair in the low hollow of Flamm’s back; the pleasure in it was unexpected, quietly thrilling. Flamm’s cock grew harder in Sasto’s throat, and he felt even more precum gush out of him.

When Sasto came up for air, Flamm took him by the elbows and brought him to a standing position, indicating Bruce’s sheet. Fear coursed through his belly, mingling with a dark excitement. This was all so wrong, but Bruce had opened the door to it. Maybe he’d been jealous when he’d heard about what Bruce had done the night before, but now thinking about it turned him on. If only he’d been there to see Bruce jerking Sasto off, believing he was completely asleep. The thought made his balls churn and his cock throb. What was happening to him? And did it ever have to end?

Together, the Joes pulled Bruce’s sheet down, finding him wearing only a tight pair of white briefs. Flamm noted with some satisfaction that Bruce was indeed as hairy as Sasto; the hair was just spread out more. He laid a light hand on Bruce’s exposed belly, loving the feel of that hair on the gentle swell of Bruce’s stomach. Very lightly, he dipped his finger into the hollow of Bruce’s navel, and wondered what it would be like to dip his tongue in there.

Then Sasto grabbed his cock, breaking him out of his reverie. After growing so familiar with Sasto’s tight little body over the past weeks, being presented with something entirely different was mesmerizing.

“What are we gonna do, Joe?” Sasto asked, and Flamm loved the glint of excitement in Sasto’s dark eyes.

“Grab the side of the bed,” Flamm instructed, and just as Sasto was laying his hands where Flamm had just been sitting, Flamm gently touched his shoulder. “No. Other side.”

Sasto only stared at him a moment, then smiled. “You’re crazy.” But he didn’t protest one bit. As cautiously as he could, Joe Sasto stretched across Bruce (still gently snoring) and grabbed the corner of the bed on the other side. That hair thing again: Sasto’s thick body hair tangling in Bruce’s, their bellies touching, Bruce dead asleep. This was too fucking much to take. Joe Flamm spit on his hand and rubbed it down his shaft, aiming at the entrance to Joe Sasto’s hole. Far more gently than the time before, he eased himself into Sasto’s ass. On the other side of Bruce, Sasto groaned deeply, louder than Flamm expected. He glanced down at Bruce, still sleeping. Good. Good. He grabbed Sasto’s hips and pulled out a little, shoving in harder the next time. Sasto’s resulting groan was quieter this time, but it spread out, like an animal’s low growl.

Hold off, Flamm told himself, knowing he could do no such thing. He was fucking Joe Sasto on top of Bruce, deep inside him as Sasto brushed back and forth against his sleeping skin. Sasto’s hole was so tight, gripping his thick cock, seeming to yank him back every time he tried to pull out; without even meaning to, Flamm sped up, making every thrust count, trying to get deeper each time, constantly looking down at Bruce’s face to see if he was still asleep. The man’s mouth was open, his eyes closed, the fricative ratcheting of his snoring driving Flamm wild with the fear of what they were doing and the thrill of getting away with it.

“I’m gonna cum,” he grunted to Sasto. “Oh God, I’m—”

“On him,” Sasto whispered back. “Do it on him!”

That delicious electricity was building up in his balls and at the base of Flamm’s shaft. As badly as he wanted to cum in Sasto’s ass, he did as instructed, pulling out and aiming at Bruce. It only took a single yank for the building pressure to finally explode … and explode it did. Thick ropes of semen shot out of him as his whole body convulsed. Cum shot across Bruce’s wide chest and into his wild beard; Flamm could only stare, wonderingly, stunned at what he’d done and stunned that he’d put that there.

Then Sasto was up next to him, taking his hand and guiding it to his ass. Still staring at the cum in Bruce’s beard, Flamm took a moment to grasp what Sasto wanted. Understanding walloped him, and he snaked one of his thick fingers into Sasto’s hole, still warm and open from where his cock had been a minute before.

Sasto stood almost straight as Flamm jabbed his finger in again and again, deeper, finding the places inside that make Sasto groan and grunt. All the while, Sasto worked his enormous dick, jerking it with a frenzy that seemed almost violent. Then, Sasto’s other hand came back and clapped on the side of Flamm’s leg. A thick, guttural sigh escaped him as he grew almost entirely still; then with one final slow stroke of his hand, his own cock erupted, hosing Bruce’s prostrate body with a veritable river of cum. He doused the man’s chest, then turned slightly and aimed at the pristine white briefs, coating them with the last of his hard-won ejaculate.

Slowly, Flamm pulled his finger out of Sasto’s hole; Sasto shuddered and sighed again. Without a word, he stood on his toes and threw his arms around Flamm’s neck, kissing him deeply. Flamm found his tongue and tasted it, relishing the feel of Sasto’s tight body against his own, loving the tickle of his mustache on his face, relishing the press of Sasto’s cock against his leg – still hard, still leaking cum.

Then they broke apart and for a moment, both looked down at Bruce’s splattered body. “Do we clean him up?”

Sasto grinned. “He didn’t clean me up.”

“Okay, then. Let’s see what he says in the morning.”

And just as Sasto was about to head out of the room and tiptoe back to his own room, Flamm grabbed him. “Hey.”

“What’s up?”

Flamm looked into his eyes and what he wanted to say was on the tip of his tongue … but not here, not now. Not with what they’d done to Bruce right next to them. “Sleep well. Restaurant wars tomorrow.”

Sasto met his eyes and nodded. “I will. You too, Joe.”

Then he was gone, and ten minutes later, Joe Flamm drifted off to sleep, alone.

[spicyskilletsauce-blog]

Simmer, Part 10

Note: this story includes depictions of contestants on the reality TV show Top Chef. This story is not intended to depict any real-life actions or sexuality of the people portrayed.

M/M Explicit sexual content.

Trigger warnings: non-consensual sex.

Sleep Study

The only thing Bruce had thought about since that first day – besides cooking – was the fact that he and his wife’s surrogate was about to give birth. It’s what had distracted him during the earlier challenges, causing him to throw some really easy ones away. For a wonder, he wasn’t sent home early on, even though he hadn’t done his best. A few weeks ago, something clicked home for him, some vital part of him that remembered the ease and fun and challenge of cooking. It was like a beast in him opening its eyes and taking over his hands and body and mind and forcing him to behave as if he belonged here.

But the fact of his son never left his mind, and now, heading into the big Olympic challenge, he couldn’t think of anything else. The surrogate had gone into labor, and any thought of cooking or creating or even sleep was beyond him.

A number of the others decided to stay up with him for moral support, which he appreciated more than he could say. One of them was Joe Flamm, who despite his obvious exhaustion, stayed up talking and playing pool and clapping him endlessly on the shoulder. At points, Bruce wanted to tell Flamm what he knew, what he’d seen, but there were always others around, always chefs willing to offer moral support or even just talk about the challenge tomorrow. Besides, how would he even broach something like that to Flamm? He and Tyler and Flamm had been the original Bears, and over the last weeks, he’d gotten to know and like Flamm a lot, and he knew that this was the sort of thing he wouldn’t want getting around. Had Tyler known? Bruce wasn’t sure.

And what about the other Joe? He’d wanted to stay up with Bruce, but in the end, his exhaustion and ongoing demoralization of being on the bottom the day before had worn him out. Instinctually, Bruce thought it might be better to go to Sasto – there was something in the way he talked, the way he carried himself, that made Bruce believe that he would take the discussion a little bit more in stride. In short, whatever the Joes had going on between them, it seemed to Bruce that Sasto wasn’t ashamed of it … but that Flamm might be.

It was all speculation, but what did he have to go on? A few glimpses of two of his fellow chefs fucking – once in his own bed. Bruce supposed he should have been angry at that … but lying in that bed where his two friends had had unexpected, almost violent sex? It hadn’t exactly bothered him. In fact, he had turned to what he had seen as he’d masturbated that night, eventually shooting into his underpants and promptly wondering why his mind had gone back to that over and over as he’d pumped himself, trying to get off as quietly as possible. If nothing else, it was a distraction from everything going on back home, and from the competition here.

And hell, maybe it had had some sort of holistic effect. The day after he’d first jerked off thinking about the Joes, he’d won his first challenge. There was something about these two, what they were doing, the private nature of it, the fact that he knew something no one else did – it had honed something in it. He’d come to Denver scattered. He wasn’t scattered anymore.

Which might be why he found himself in front of Joe Sasto’s bedroom door. He’d made some excuse about wanting to take a quick shower and wake up a little and made his way upstairs, and now here he was, his heart thudding in his chest, sweat trickling down the sides of his face. What was he doing here? Why was his hand on the doorknob? Oh God. Oh God.

Bruce stepped into the room and Joe was sleeping shirtless, bisected by a thin shaft of moonlight. His muscular chest rose and fell, rose and fell, the moonlight catching his chest hair and casting minor shadows across Joe’s bare skin. He’d seen Joe shirtless a few times and had marveled at those tight abs, the bulging biceps. That, he thought, was part of the reason he’d loved seeing the Joes together. It was the same with cooking: you tended to pair complimentary foods on a menu, but sometimes contrast was just as viable … and just as powerful. That last time, seeing Joe Flamm – tall and hefty – slamming into Joe Flamm – muscular, smaller, a lot hairier – had floored him. The fact that they were guys gave him a few moments’ pause. He’d never been into men, had never even dabbled as Flamm and Sasto had, but the raw, elemental sexuality between them was undeniably erotic. He wished he could have watched more.

Closing the door behind him, he thought of simply standing where he was and simply looking at Joe sleep while he jerked off. He was certainly hard enough; everything else had flown from his brain, as he’d hoped it would. He took a step closer to the sleeping man, then a few more. Closer, as his eyes adjusted to the dark, aided by the light filtering in through the window, Sasto’s musculature was even more evident. Even beneath all that dark, thick body hair, his six-pack rippled, his chest looked powerful. When he wore his chef’s coat, all that was hidden. Nothing was hidden now.

Sasto had kicked of his covers off, the blankets and sheets crumpled into a clump by his knees. What had been hidden in shadows from the other side of the room was a lot clearer now: Joe Sasto’s cock was on full display, hard and leaking precum. Seeing it this close gave Bruce a hell of a start. All the sex he’d witnessed had been at a distance, at a remove. He hadn’t been involved. But this involved him.

Or … or did it?

Fear and guilt pulsed through him like poison, but he was stunned at how quiet those seemed in the wake of his sudden, unexpected lust. He was here and Sasto was here, but he wasn’t quite involved, was he? As before, he was just watching. And just watching was fine. So thinking, Bruce undid the button of his jeans, and his cock, thick and uncut, tumbled out into his hand.

Be so quiet, his mind commanded, so fucking quiet. His eyes wide and his breath held, he began to pump his cock, slowly, shivering a little in the dark quiet. Sweat poured from the pores of his forehead. Reaching out one shaky hand, he hovered over Joe’s prostrate form, not touching, not even thinking about touching. He could feel the warmth emanating from Sasto as that rock hard chest expanded and contracted, his calm breathing belying any knowledge that Bruce was standing above him, jerking off.

A thin, undeniable thread of panic snaked through him as he positioned his hand over Sasto’s crotch. What was the man thinking about? Flamm fucking him? God, the way Flamm had fucked him, pulling out of his ass entirely, then shoving it all the way back in, trusting Sasto could take it, not seeming to care.

A grunt escaped him and he paused a second, waiting for Sasto to wake up and start shouting. Fear thrummed in his belly and brain, and his cock responded by growing even harder in his hand. Sasto didn’t even stir. Heavy sleeper, Bruce thought. How heavy a sleeper?

As if on its own accord, his hand lowered shakily, and for the first time in his life, his hand was touching another man’s balls. Bruce’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes staring at Sasto’s face, waiting for any sign of waking up, any sign of acknowledgement. No: that hairy, muscular chest just kept rising and falling. His beefy arm was slung over the top of his head, and a thick tuft of armpit hair stood out darkly against Joe’s skin. Bruce wondered idly what Sasto smelled like after a day in his kitchen. Before he showered, before he cleaned up. What did sweaty Joe Sasto smell like?

Bruce’s hand drifted up and now it lay on Joe Sasto’s enormous cock. Bruce’s own cock was a thick handful, but nothing like this. The contrast of the two dicks in each of his hands – one long and slender, one smaller and thick – made the cum in his balls churn. Sasto’s cock was still leaking precum; if he sensed anything Bruce was doing, he’d probably just think it was part of whatever sex dream he was having. Right?

Trying desperately to control the shaking in his hand, Bruce tightened his grip on Sasto’s cock – just a little – and began stroking him. He moved with the same rhythm that he was jerking his own dick, slowly, deliberately. Part of him wanted to reach out with his other hand and feel that chest, feel the rock-hard abs, feel the man’s shoulders and biceps. Again, it was that contrast: he was a bigger guy, and had never touched someone who looked anything like Joe Sasto. But he couldn’t take his hand off his own dick, not now. He was getting close and—

Oh fuck, I’m getting close. What do I do? Where do I…

No answers came, just more of that panic that somehow turned him on, that blocked out all thoughts except getting off and pushing that panic just a little bit more. Yesterday he was watching the two Joes fucking; today, his hand was on Joe Sasto’s cock while the man slept. How much further could he go? What if he put his own cock in Sasto’s open mouth? What if he came in his mouth? While he slept? Oh God. Oh fuck.

He was going to cum. He was fucking going to come and there was nowhere to shoot. He could take his hand off Sasto’s dick, cum in his own hand. But no. No fucking way.

His balls clenched and it was all Bruce could do to stifle an involuntary howl into the dark. A split second later, cum exploded out of him, painting Sasto’s hairy belly and chest. He shot again, even harder this time, and it reached Sasto’s chin. Bruce stared at his own cumshot coating the stubble of beard and shot hard again, almost angrily, cumming on the back of his own hand as he continued to stroke Joe Sasto.

A big part of him just wanted to get out of there. The world was rushing back. He had responsibilities, and a lot of people sacrificing sleep for him downstairs. But there was still just enough residual sexual hunger in him, the thing inside him that had awakened seeing his two friends fuck, that wanted to get Sasto off in his sleep. There was something so fucked up about that, something that just pushed this insane moment over the top.

Bruce stared at that splatter of cum on Joe Sasto’s chin and stroked harder, his whole body shaky with nervous excitement and the come-down in the wake of cumming and doing something twisted to get there. In his fist, Sasto’s cock pulsed, and Bruce’s eyes flicked down in time to see the man shoot. Cum surged out of his cock and Bruce felt it – another first – as it erupted over and over, mingling with his own semen across Joe’s tight body and in his thick chest hair. Joe Sasto was fairly coated with cum now, and that thought alone was almost enough to make Bruce want to go another round.

But no. Not tonight. Not now. He’d pressed his luck long enough. Part of him wanted to clean Sasto up somehow … but that would entail touching him more, and risking him waking up. No. The quicker Bruce got out of there, the more likely Sasto would believe all the cum on him was his own if he woke up. Wet dreams were powerful things when they hit. Sure.

For a second, though, he simply looked down at the cum-covered chef spread out naked in that shaft of moonlight, and his dick jumped again, ready to go another round if Bruce wanted it. And, Bruce found, he did want it. Next time. There’d be a next time.

He escaped the room, stunned that he’d been in there no longer than six minutes, and made his way to the shower, like he’d told everyone he would. He resisted an urge to jerk off again, wanting to save himself in case next time happened sooner rather than later.

And in Sasto’s bedroom, Joe Sasto opened one eye and brought his hand up to his chin. He scooped Bruce’s cum off his chin and licked his finger clean. Then, with a devilish grin, he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

[spicyskilletsauce-blog]

Simmer, Chapter 9

9. You Never See the Bottom Coming

Joe Sasto stood before Judges’ Table, his heart pounding, his breath held. Padma was about to say a name, and for the first time, it might actually be his. He’d overcomplicated the dish. He knew that while he was making it, and he knew that now. One of the primary rules you learn in cooking is knowing when and how to edit. He hadn’t done that on Oktoberfest day, and now had come his reckoning.

He paid a single glance to Joe Flamm, standing off to the side. Flamm offered a grim nod and a stealthy thumbs-up: you got this, man. Did he? That moment with Flamm yesterday was astounding – who knew Chicago Joe would start coming after him, after all this time of Sasto making first moves? – but in estimation, it had only been a moment. The shitty thing about problems is that no matter how long you put them on pause and distract yourself, they’re always going to be waiting for you when you finish.

Then Padma was telling Brother Luck to pack his knives and go, and a thin sheen of cold sweat broke out all over Sasto’s body; an involuntary shiver shot through him, like arctic lightning. Joe Sasto was safe, and would compete another day.

Back at the house, he went right up to his room and looked around. He’d split the space with Tu and Brother, and now it was his room, and his alone. Certainly he was thrilled and beyond relieved to have made it this far and to have escaped the pendulum swing once again, but being on the bottom this week coupled with losing two guys he really liked made the whole thing feel a little hollow. The standard saying on competition shows used to be, “I didn’t come here to make friends,” but Joe never saw the point in that. Why spend however long you were competing being angry at everyone? It was better, maybe easier, to like people. And yet … this room was empty, and he felt empty, too.

A light knock came at the door and Sasto looked up. Joe Flamm stood in the doorway, eyeing him cautiously. “Wanna talk?”

Sasto sighed. “Kinda? I don’t know. Not really.”

“You want me to leave you alone?”

Shaking his head, Sasto said, “I don’t know why I’m so in my head about this one. I just know I can do better. I know I am better.”

Flamm sat next to him on the bed, closer than he likely would have a week or so ago. His big arm rubbed against his own, and Sasto welcomed the sensation. He’d always liked Flamm’s size, but tonight it wasn’t lust that was driving him. It was a need for comfort.

“Joe,” he murmured, and put his hand on the big guy’s leg. “I know yesterday you … you know, helped me out. I might need that kind of help now.”

Flamm looked down at him and wrapped his big arm around Sasto’s body. “I don’t care how we’re defining or not defining this. I know what it isn’t though: it’s not, like, I owe you one, you owe me one. I like you a lot, man, and I … well, Christ, I like who I am when we’re together. So whatever you need.”

Sasto raised himself up on the bed and kissed Flamm, more gently than he had in the past. He could taste the beer on Flamm’s breath and liked it. Flamm had tried to get some scummy Chicago beer that would challenge him to transform into something imbibable, but right now, Sasto was glad he hadn’t. The beer taste on his tongue was mild and rich and good.

“I need you…,” Sasto began, wanting to drop his eyes but not quite daring. “I need you in me.”

Joe Flamm let out a long shuddering breath, not as if he was repulsed by the idea, just considering it. “Like in the tent?”

“Not like in the tent. That was awesome but it’s not what’s going to help now.”

“Okay, so what—”

“I need to see you. I want to see you. I never get to.”

Flamm licked his lips and slowly nodded. “Okay. We can … okay. I don’t know how, Joe.”

Standing, Sasto pulled his T-shirt off, exposing his hairy chest. Flamm’s eyes immediately dropped from Sasto’s face to that remarkable thatch of fur; his hand came up automatically and his fingers entangled in all that hair. Sasto closed his eyes a moment, relishing every second that Joe Flamm’s hands were on his body. His sex with dudes had always been a casual, easy thing you just dabbled sometimes in when you lived in Southern California. But he never felt like this when any of those other dudes touched his chest.

“I’ll show you.” As swiftly as he could, he unbuttoned Joe’s shirt, marveling as always at the strong body beneath Joe’s clothes. He reached out, running his hand across Flamm’s expansive belly, loving the smoothness of it, then reached up and ran a light finger across Flamm’s nipple. At once, Flamm closed his eyes and gasped. That was never not going to be fun.

And suddenly, lust was back in the mix.

He undid his own pants and kicked them off to the corner. Flamm was struggling with his own belt; Sasto helped him with it, reveling in the weird intimacy of the act. Flamm didn’t protest, didn’t look embarrassed. When Sasto tipped his eyes up, Flamm only looked excited. Maybe a little nervous, too, but not because of what they were doing. He only wanted to do it right. And Flamm smiling like that, his sweet smile – that was what Sasto needed. It took him moments to wrangle Flamm’s pants off, and when he yanked his underwear down, Flamm’s dick slapped the bottom of Flamm’s gut as it emerged, turgid and dripping and as massive as the man’s arms and hands and feet were. I’m going to get that inside me, Sasto thought, and his own dick leapt to action. Okay, now comfort was taking a backseat to lust.

“I need you, Joe,” Sasto said, stepping back and lying across the bed, spread-eagled, as if waiting to be tied to the bedposts. He hadn’t done anything like that in years … but he hadn’t done anything like this in years, either. For a few seconds, he only watched his friend, standing tall and naked at the foot of the bed. It was rare that the two of them had seen each other completely nude: either it was dark or they were in various incomplete stages of undress. Sasto wanted to drink in this sight as long as he could stand waiting. Joe with his sweet grin and semi-spiky hair, Joe with his substantial body, Joe with his slab-of-meat arms that could probably crush him, despite Sasto’s considerable strength and muscle.

Slowly, Sasto raised his legs, grabbing them by the ankles, his abs tightening and triceps standing out with the effort. Flamm didn’t move, but his eyes widened and his mouth hung open a little, stunned at what he was seeing. Sasto grinned at the corner of his mouth. “I’m strong,” he said, “but I can’t hold these legs up by myself. Why don’t you have a go?”

Flamm advanced, stopping at the edge of the mattress. He reached out and grabbed Sasto’s ankles, leaning toward him. His dick bounced on the blanket. “You’re kind of far.”

“Get up here, then,” Sasto said.

“I have a better idea,” he said, and moved his hands down Sasto’s legs until they had purchase on Sasto’s built thighs. Then he drew the smaller man to him, putting his weight into it. The power in those big arms, the untapped strength. Sasto liked being in control of things, and he’d liked showing Flamm what to do and how to do it. But this: he loved this. Joe Flamm had just decided he wanted Sasto in a better position, so he yanked him there. He was beginning to discover he didn’t have to be delicate. If he wanted it, all he had to do was take it. Hot, thick precum burbled out of Sasto’s dick and puddled in his navel.

“You ready?” Joe asked.

“Yeah. Yes.”

Flamm smiled, and Sasto couldn’t help but notice that it wasn’t Flamm’s usual smile. Was there something sinister in it? Devious? “I don’t know if you are,” he said, then spit in his hand and rubbed it on his dick.

“Joe, what are you thinking of?”

But Flamm was past talking. He took one hand off Sasto’s legs and aimed his cock. Sasto felt it at the opening of his hole; Flamm was leaking even more than Sasto, and that was good. Flamm was thick, Flamm was long, and there was something in his eyes right now that Sasto couldn’t read … and it thrilled him.  

Slowly, Flamm circled his dickhead around Sasto’s hole, lubing it up, making it wet. Sasto was about to ask him something else, but his thoughts shattered a second later, as Joe Flamm once again grabbed Sasto by the thighs and thrust forward so hard and fast that Sasto didn’t even feel it until a second later. Sasto threw back his head and tried to suck in air that didn’t seem to be there. Then the feeling came in: Joe Flamm’s rock-hard dick, buried in his ass all the up to the balls. He’d done it in one motion, slamming in harder than Sasto thought was possible. Tiny electric bursts went off all over Sasto’s body: in his nipples, his ankles, the top of the head, the base of his cock. There was some pain, too, but it existed only as a counterpoint to how good the rest of it felt. Sasto’s whole ass felt designed to conform around Joe Flamm’s thick cock, closing around it, throbbing around it, accepting it.

Flamm pulled out a little and shot back in, even harder this time. Sasto gulped in air, his eyes wide and connecting with Flamm’s. That devious look was still in his eyes as he pulled almost all the way out and shoved all the way back in. Sasto put an arm across his mouth to stifle the scream that had to come out. Flamm’s belly rubbed against the underside of Sasto’s cock as Flamm held Sasto’s legs wide by the ankles, giving him absolute access.

He let his arm drop away and Flamm was still looking down at him with that wicked smile and those devilish eyes. Then, both fell away and he was just Joe Flamm again. Very quietly, almost under his breath, he murmured, “This is okay, right?”

Sasto almost laughed. People don’t change overnight, even if they’ve had their faces buried in your taint less than twenty-four hours ago. “Fuck yes,” Sasto said, biting his lip and trying to stretch his legs further apart. Flamm rearranged his face, smiled hugely, and now pulled all the way out. In the moments it was outside of him, Sasto only wanted it back in, filling him, stretching him, owning his ass. Flamm didn’t wait to comply. Without taking his hands off Sasto’s ankles, he shoved it all the way back in, even deeper this time, and Sasto threw back his head and moaned, wanting to scream. “Joe,” he grunted. “Aw fuck, Joe, more. More.”

Flamm didn’t have to be told. Again, he pulled out and stuffed it back in, his hands tightening on Sasto’s ankles; then again, punching Sasto’s hole with his bludgeon of a cock. As he did it, his belly sensitized his own dripping dick, the twin sensations almost too much to handle.

Now Joe Flamm pulled almost all the way out before piledriving his dick back into Sasto’s ass. Sasto wanted to close his eyes and feel everything without seeing; reducing this to sensation was his go-to, and it’s what he wanted to do now … but it’s not what he needed to do. The scary aggressive look had again fallen off Flamm’s face, and he was breathing harder now. His own eyes were open, and looking directly into Sasto’s face.

Don’t close your eyes, he wanted to say, but Flamm wasn’t about to. His thrusts grew shorter and more frantic, and the tiny detonations of thrill popping off all over Sasto’s body were growing larger and more frequent. Every time Flamm fucked in, Sasto’s muscles all tensed, then loosened; his skin was firecrackers; his cock was dynamite. Flamm’s big belly swayed forth and back, over Sasto’s cock and against his tight, hairy abs.

“Joey,” Flamm gasped.

Sasto’s balls tightened and thrummed. His eyes looked into Flamm’s, and both locked in. “Joe.”

Then Flamm gritted his teeth and fucked so rapidly that Sasto’s body could barely handle it. A deep, guttural sound escaped Flamm’s throat. His eyes stayed wide open. Then Sasto felt it: the rocketship of feeling shooting up from his nuts and exploding out of him. His cum splattered against the underside of Flamm’s gut, a thought so exciting he shot again, more intensely this time. Flamm was still drilling his hole as hard as he could, and Sasto felt cum gushing into him, filling him, as Flamm tried his best to drain every last drop deep inside him.

At last, Flamm stood panting, holding Sasto’s legs up, and closed his eyes. Slowly, gingerly, he pulled his cock out of Sasto’s ass, and for a moment, only stood there, looking as exhausted as Sasto felt.

“That take your mind off of things?”

Sasto couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, you’re good at that.”

Flamm collapsed onto the bed and rolled over on his side, looking again into Sasto’s face. “Really. Are you okay?”

“I am. I like Aggressive Joe.”

“He doesn’t come out a lot.”

“He doesn’t have to. But sometimes.”

“We’ll see,” Flamm said. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh yeah?”

He reached down and grabbed Sasto’s cock, still stiff and dripping. “But it’s way too big.”

Sasto’s eyes went wide. “Have you ever?”

“No.”

“Then it’s way too big.”

“We’ll see about that, too.”

Sasto sighed and pressed his face into Flamm’s chest. “Let’s try not to get eliminated, okay?”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

“I don’t like being on the bottom.”

Then he lifted his face up and looked into Flamm’s face, and at once, they both laughed.

Neither noticed the door was open a crack, and that Bruce was just outside, watching it all.  

[spicyskilletsauce-blog]

Simmer, Chapter 8

Note: this story includes depictions of contestants on the reality TV show Top Chef. This story is not intended to depict any real-life actions or sexuality of the people portrayed.

M/M Explicit sexual content.

8. Umami

Flamm sat on the edge of the bottom bunk, his hair disheveled, his head thudding. He’d felt mostly okay when they’d gotten back yesterday, and the shower had been … well, the shower had been an experience he couldn’t get out of his mind. But this morning, he’d woken up in a world of hurt. The high altitudes had finally caught up to him.

Bruce appeared before him in his pajamas, still aglow from his win yesterday. “Protein shake?” he asked, and Joe looked up sharply. Images from yesterday shuffled through his mind. In the moment, he’d loved everything about that shower. He could still taste Sasto’s cum at the back of his tongue – a little sweet, a little salty. It wasn’t the taste that was stuck in his mind, because the taste was actually nice, just like the taste of Sasto’s dick was nice. It was the fact of it, the undeniable fact that Joe Sasto had ejaculated into his mouth and that he’d swallowed it. And the texture, the unexpected texture of it on his tongue, hot and sticky, sliding down his throat easily … and Sasto had just kept cumming. Flamm had no real choice but to keep swallowing, even as it filled his mouth. Nothing he’d ever done had prepared him for that experience. Despite his bravado – yesterday and that time he’d told Sasto and Tyler he wanted to blow both of them – Flamm was still trying to sort out if he liked it.

And here Bruce was, asking him if he wanted a protein shake. He peered up at his roommate, who looked put together in a way that was diametrically opposed to how Flamm felt. Was this a joke? Did Bruce know something, the way Tyler had?

“What? What do you mean?”

Bruce extended a hand. There was a giant glass in it, filled nearly to the top with frothy liquid. “Protein shake. You look like you could use it this morning.”

For a moment, Flamm just looked at Bruce – not suspiciously, necessarily, but his head was pounding and there was a lot going on underneath that pounding he couldn’t quite sort out. “Thank you, Bruce,” he finally said, taking the drink from him and sipping from the straw.

“Don’t mention it, buddy. Get better. We’re competing today.” He headed out of the room.

“Is there apricot in here?”

Bruce raised a hand. “There is!”

Joe smiled to himself … then his mind sidestepped back to the shower again. Immediately, his dick stood at attention, as instantly aroused by a memory as if someone had pulled on his nipples. Sasto. That guy with the weird little mustache had gotten into his head and it didn’t look like he was leaving any time soon. Flamm had tried to avoid a lot of the basic questions about this: did this change who he was? Did it matter? Was he even attracted to Sasto, or was it just the experience he was into? Maybe the questions didn’t need answers. Maybe they absolutely needed answers.

But when he was finally awake enough to get into the shower, his only thought was that it was awfully empty in there. Awfully lonely, too.

#

The Quickfire Challenge had been inspired, if hellish: Top Chef had gone to the menus of all the chefs’ actual restaurants, found the dish with the longest prep time, and told them to make it in a half hour. After having spent the morning preoccupied with thoughts of Sasto, this reveal had brought him back to the sweating, anxious present. His ippogloss salmoriglio usually took at least three days to prepare and cook; thirty minutes was straight-up not enough time. A look over at Sasto, who had to prepare sautéed sea scallops, confirmed he was thinking the same thing.

“You got this, man,” he whispered to Sasto, whose eyes kept darting to the board, then to Padma, then to the kitchen beyond.

“I’m glad someone has confidence in me.”

“You haven’t been in the bottom once,” he said, then realized what he’d said and smiled, closing his eyes. After a moment, the words hit Sasto and he smiled back. But still his eyes looked troubled.

They had been all right, both of them. The judges seemed to like both their dishes and even though they didn’t win, it was still early enough for being safe to be considered a victory. Checking on Sasto, Flamm thought he looked relieved for about a half-second before Padma announced the Elimination Challenge: cooking German food for an Octoberfest, and creating radler – like a shandy but German – to pair with it. The whole thing seemed exciting to Flamm, even though he’d rarely cooked German food. But Sasto was having a hell of a time with it. Flamm tried to get him alone a few times, but Sasto was as closed-off as he’d been on the day they’d gone up to Estes Park. Flamm knew this time didn’t have anything to do with him, but still he wished there was something he could do.

Now they were back in the Top Chef house, Sasto sequestered in his place on the couch Flamm had found him on the night they’d first started this thing. He was staring off into the distance. Flamm approached him, cautiously settling into the chair he’d sat on all those nights ago. Everyone was in the kitchen and the dining room, cooking, comparing recipes, tossing back a few drinks. Idly, Flamm wondered what would happen if he and Sasto recreated that first night right now. Just the thought of reaching out and fishing Sasto’s cock out of his pants was enough to stiffen his own cock.

“Hey,” he said. Sasto didn’t look up. “Hey.”

“Oh,” Sasto said, shaken from his reverie. “Hey Joe, what’s up?”

“That’s a good question.”

Sasto offered a small smile. “I don’t get it. This challenge. I’m in my head about it.”

“Any idea why?”

Sasto shook his head. “It’s not like this stuff’s a mystery to me. I’ve made German food before. But it’s just … I don’t know. Weighing on me for some reason.”

Flamm watched his friend a moment, then said, “Come on.”

Looking up, Sasto said, “What?”

“Come on, I said. I’m going to show you something.”

Reluctantly, Sasto dragged himself up off the couch and upstairs after Flamm, who closed the door. Since this whole thing had started, Flamm had been in a constant state of flux, questioning himself, worrying, enjoying, freaking out, second-guessing, exalting. This was different. Whether it was seeing Sasto so glum or something else – something inside – things had changed.

Sasto, by the door, began, “What is…”

“When we do stuff, you initiate.” Joe Flamm swallowed and made himself meet Sasto’s eyes, dark chocolate and unwavering. “Since the start you’ve been doing that. But that … that’s not what this is, and I don’t know if you know that. I’m in this, Joey. Whatever it is, I’m in it. And that means I’m here for you. And right now, you need to climb out of your head.”

Saying nothing, Sasto took a half-step back, so that he was pressed flat against the door. His eyes still hadn’t left Flamm’s. Wanting to say more, to articulate the stuff that was running around his head, Flamm simply grabbed Sasto’s muscular shoulders, leaned in, and started kissing. His tongue found Sasto’s easily, and after the barest of moments, Sasto responded – first a little timidly, then with mounting enthusiasm. Kissing wasn’t something that the two of them had done much of; even in the tent, it had been a height of passion thing.

This: this was new. Flamm let go of Sasto’s shoulders and reached his arms around the smaller man, pulling him closer. Earlier that day, they’d sampled the beer they’d be using to create radlers. The taste was still all over Sasto’s tongue, and Flamm tasted it greedily, loving the way the beer mixed with Sasto’s natural taste. It was almost enough to get drunk on.

Then Flamm found himself tearing at Sasto’s shirt, desperate to remove it and take in his friend’s muscular chest, his chest hair, his tattooed arms. That answered that question, at least. He wasn’t just attracted to Sasto. This was lust. Pure, adrenalized lust. When Sasto’s shirt was on the floor, Flamm buried his face in between Sasto’s pecs, relishing the unusual feel of chest hair against his face. Sasto moaned and Flamm undid his belt; Sasto’s jeans puddled to the floor, and he stood before Flamm clad only in red briefs. His biceps and thighs bulged with muscle. Hair swirled over almost every inch of skin. Flamm stood back and surveyed Sasto a moment, not understanding where this sudden onset of almost violent desire was coming from but relishing it just the same.

Yeah you do, his mind murmured. You’re in charge now. This is you in charge.

His dick jumped in his pants and he reached out, running his fingertips through the thicket of hair between Sasto’s nipples. Then he trailed his fingers down to the elastic band of Sasto’s underwear. A wet spot was growing on the fabric, the outline of Sasto’s monster cock standing out hugely. It was all Flamm could do to not yank them off him and dig his face into Sasto’s pubic hair. He’d done well in the shower the day before, but that was Mustache Joe squeaky clean. They’d been running around all day and Sasto had worked up a little sweat. The masculinity of that smell, and the anticipation of that taste, only cranked Flamm’s cock even harder. We’re men, he thought simply, an obvious reality he was only now fully confronting. Knowing it had felt weird since they started, but now, stating it? It was still weird, but the weirdness was part of what made it so exciting. Men, he thought again, and then his mouth was again on Sasto’s, more insistently, as he busied his hands unleashing Sasto’s dick from his underwear, and starting to stroke.

Then his mouth was on Sasto’s neck, tasting his skin, inhaling Sasto’s somehow thick and dangerous smell. Without moving his hand from Sasto’s cock, he now traced a path from the man’s neck to his jacked shoulder, to his small, taut nipple, and down the center of his chest. Sasto’s body hair grew less wiry and finer the further down he went, and Flamm’s tongue thrilled to the changing textures and to the deep musky taste of Sasto’s body. Subtly sweaty, the taste of a man hard at work, the taste of a man lost in his duties, the taste of a guy who needs release.

His hand kept working, back and forth, and even though Flamm’s hands were fairly massive themselves, Sasto’s dick all but dwarfed them. Now Flamm was on his knees, and after only a moment’s hesitation, he took Sasto’s balls into his mouth. The taste of him was strongest here, an explosion of savory and salty in Flamm’s mouth. Sasto’s precum had leaked down his cockshaft and coated his balls, throwing a crazily sweet skew into the flavor.  I like the taste of this, Flamm thought, and could help it no longer. With his free hand, he unzipped his own pants and let his cock tumble out. Working both dicks in unison, he inhaled – that smell, that deep, pungent smell! – and worked his mouth between Sasto’s legs. Sasto complied by widening his stance, giving Flamm access to one of the most private parts of Sasto’s body. A week ago, he would never have even considered doing something like this. Now, he felt crazed with a need to get down there, to taste all that Sasto had to offer, to bring Sasto to the lunatic heights of ecstasy that he was drowning in.

His eyes closed and Sasto’s legs were on either side of his face, as hairy and muscular as the rest of him. Joe Flamm touched on the underside of Sasto’s balls, then explored deeper, resting momentarily on Sasto’s taint, then moving again. Unlike the man’s shoulders and six-pack abs, this part of him was so tender, yielding to his tongue’s persistent licking. The taste was wild, so much purer and sharper than the subtle flavor over the rest of Joe Sasto’s body. It was as if he’d discovered his friend’s secret essence, but it was more than just taste. It was the way Sasto’s legs were moving in and out against his face, building to a rhythm Flamm had come to recognize. It was the heat, hot and sweaty, encompassing everything. It was the tangle of body hair his tongue kept tangling in. He had come up here determined to take Sasto’s mind off of everything for a little while, and in the process had gotten lost himself. He wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

He felt Sasto’s balls tighten against his chin, and moved both hands faster. His tongue grew more insistent, determined to mine every inch of Sasto’s taint, claiming all that taste and scent for himself. Flamm was concentrating so hard on his tongue that when his own orgasm started boiling at the base of his cock, it took him by surprise. Oh fuck, he thought. Not yet, I’m not done yet.

But his dick had other plans, and so did Sasto’s. At the exact same moment, Sasto’s cock exploded above his face, splattering his forehead, and his own cock started shooting, blasting cum onto Sasto’s thick legs. Wanting to roar with rapture, Flamm settled for a low growl he couldn’t contain even if he wanted to. Though the sound was muffled, he could hear Sasto above him, exhaling in short, grunting bursts; “fuck,” he murmured. “Oh, Joe, fuck.”

Reluctantly, Flamm disengaged and stood, facing his friend. There was something sexy about Sasto standing completely naked, spent from what Flamm had done, while Chicago Joe was still mostly clothed. I did that, he thought, and put a hand on Sasto’s shoulder.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Better,” Sasto told him. “I think I can do this now.”

Neither of them said anything for a long moment, only looked at each other in silence. The taste of Joe Sasto was in his mouth; the aroma of Joe Sasto was all over him.

“I like you,” he said. “I guess I like you a lot.”

“I like you, too,” Sasto told him. “More than I thought I would.”

Flamm asked, “Is that okay?”

“For now, yeah,” Sasto said. “For later? Let’s figure that out later.”

Nodding, Flamm said, “I liked taking charge.”

“Yeah,” Sasto said. “Do that more.”

“No problem,” Joe Flamm said. “No problem at all.”

[spicyskilletsauce-blog]

Simmer, Chapter 7

Note: this story includes depictions of contestants on the reality TV show Top Chef. This story is not intended to depict any real-life actions or sexuality of the people portrayed.

M/M Explicit sexual content.

Trigger warnings: breath play.

7. Steam

“Home sweet home,” Sasto said, laying his bag of knives on the kitchen counter. A murmur of assent went up from the rest of the chefs, as they poured water and beer. The Top Chef house was warm and comforting, but already he was dreading how he was going to feel tomorrow. He could barely think about competing in the morning. His body was only just now starting to thaw out, and his ass still hurt from what he and Flamm had done the night before. When was the last time he’d gotten fucked? Years. Many years. Not only that, but the altitude in Estes Park had gotten to all of them except Carrie, without whom they might have all frozen to death in the wilderness.

“Does anyone need the bathroom?” he asked. “I think I need to shower.”

Bruce, who had won the challenge that morning and was in general looking and seeming more chipper than he had this whole time, grinned. “I do think I’m going to drink myself warm.” He sprawled out on the couch with a glass of wine in his hand. Sasto, for the first time since this season started, wasn’t exactly horny … but he would be remiss if he didn’t notice Bruce’s lush tangle of beard, and the way his T-shirt hiked up when he sat back. Bruce was no Flamm, but when you glimpse beauty, you appreciate it. A thick trail of hair wound from beneath the underside of Bruce’s navel and disappeared into the waistband of his pants. Sasto felt his dick jump a little. Maybe he was at least a little bit horny, after all.

Someone was firing up the stove, others were in little copses of conversation. Sasto nodded to himself, then found Flamm, engaged in what seemed to be a heady discussion about umami with Chris. He caught his eye momentarily, and Flamm gave him a clandestine wink. His dick jumped a little more at that, but maybe not necessarily out of horniness. This morning, before the challenge, he had woken up in Joe Flamm’s arms. In a single sleeping bag. This had progressed beyond fuckbuddies, or dudes who do it sometimes. The way the house felt warm and safe after the frosty trials of Estes Park was the way he had felt when he’d woken up this morning. He hated himself a little for trying to push whatever this was away. The game was the game, and the competition was the competition. One of them might get sent home before the other. But after last night, Sasto thought he could withstand that. Because that wouldn’t be the end.

In the upstairs bathroom, he turned on the water, stripped off his clothes, and looked at himself in the mirror. His mustache had made the journey down from the high altitudes intact, and he grinned. On the bottom at night, not on the bottom this afternoon: pretty much a primo outcome of a night in the woods.

Stepping under the spray, Sasto closed his eyes and let the water rush over him, matting his chest and belly hair to his body. The wax rinsed out of his mustache and he felt a momentary unease. It was like some people who wore glasses: without them, they felt more naked than when they were actually naked. Without the affect of his curlicued mustache, Joe Sasto felt far more exposed than when he was actually naked.

Thinking this, he suddenly sensed that something in the room had changed. Had the door swung open? Was someone coming in to use the toilet? What—

And then, before he could think or react, hands reached around his middle and pulled him backwards. For a split-second, he was so terrified that he almost called out. Then his back made contact with a belly, large and wet, and whatever fear had gripped him evaporated. After last night, he’d know that belly on his back any time.

Joe Flamm leaned down and whispered in his ear, “You’ve snuck up on me often enough. I thought it was time we got even.”

Sasto smiled and twisted his tight body around so that he could face the bigger man. “You thought well.”

“Hand me the soap.” Sasto did as he asked and Flamm took it, starting on his shoulders and working his way down. “How are you feeling?”

“Ass hurts,” he said. “But not in a bad way.”

Flamm’s hands trailed around to Sasto’s front, massaging the soap into his muscular chest, letting his fingers trail across Sasto’s nipples. They didn’t send the electric shocks to his dick like Flamm’s apparently did to him, but there was still something exciting about Flamm’s huge hands on his nipples, something intimate and almost unbearably pleasurable. Flamm’s thumbs caressed them and moved on, only to drift back, teasing them with an even lighter touch. Sasto’s hands reached back to grip Flamm’s hefty legs, pulling him closer, tighter. He didn’t want any space between them.

“Sorry for fucking you so hard,” Flamm said. “Jesus, I can’t even believe I’m saying stuff like that.”

“I wanted it,” Sasto said. “Now I want this.”

“We started something when Tyler was here,” Flamm said. “I know I wasn’t any good at it, but…”

“You were great,” Sasto said. Flamm’s hands had moved to his crotch, and were soaping up his dangling balls, gently but with firm hands. Once or twice, Flamm’s fingertips danced over Sasto’s shaft, slick with soap and almost overwhelming. He hadn’t gotten off last night – maybe couldn’t have gotten off – after the hardcore fucking he’d taken from Flamm … but now, back in the house, under the spray, pressed against Flamm’s big body, he was crucially aware that he hadn’t gotten off since Tyler was here. And that was way too long.

Flamm put the soap back and ran his hands all over Sasto’s front, rinsing him, touching him, sensitizing his skin under the warm shower’s spray. Then, putting his big hands on Sasto’s shoulders, turned him around to face him.

“I’ve never seen your mustache like that,” Flamm said. Sasto could barely tear his eyes away from Flamm’s rock-hard cock, seemingly ready to go again after exploding inside him less than twelve hours before. How the hell did that get inside me? he wondered, a little shocked. And on the heels of that: when can that get inside me again? Now he looked up.

“Joey Sasto in his natural state.”

Flamm chuckled a little, but something came into his eyes. Not troubled, exactly, but concerned. Sasto knew the look. He’d felt it. It was the look of a guy who was willing to get head and fuck a guy but who was a lot more reluctant to switch. Maybe some of it was inexperience, but some of it was Flamm still holding onto an idea of himself that had never included this curveball.

But maybe that image was crumbling, because without another word, Joe Flamm dropped slowly to his knees to the porcelain. Sasto’s muscular body blocked the shower spray on Flamm’s face, and the two of them locked eyes. Sasto’s cock jutted out from his body, hard and leaking and ready. Sasto nodded. Flamm nodded.

Then Flamm’s mouth was on Sasto’s dick, at first just taking the head in, licking around the tip as Sasto had done to him more than once. Sasto’s hands landed on the top of Flamm’s head and gripped gently. Cautiously, he pushed his hips forward, sliding his dick deeper into Flamm’s mouth. The sensation was exhilarating, his long shaft gliding across Flamm’s lips, the friction sending miniature explosions down his balls and up into his body. What Flamm lacked in experience, he was making up for in eagerness. Without any further pushing, he sealed his lips against Sasto’s cock, watching his teeth and never stopping his tongue; the boy had learned a trick or two. Sasto closed his eyes and stopped guiding, simply throwing his head back and letting himself enjoy whatever Flamm had for him.

The warmth of the shower spray battered the top of his head as Flamm attempted to go deeper. Flamm’s throat tightened around the tip of Sasto’s cock, and for a moment, all conscious thought disappeared. Feeling was all that mattered: the tightness of that throat, opening for him, opening to admit the length of his cock, opening only to take what Sasto had to give it. He pulled out a little to give Flamm a chance to catch his breath, then thrust harder than he’d meant to, holding Flamm’s head where it was, and for a thrilling, hot, tight second, his cock had buried itself halfway down Flamm’s throat, and it was all Sasto could do to hold off his explosion.

Then Flamm pulled back, choking a little.

“Sorry,” Sasto gasped. “I’m sorry, did I…?”

“God, I wish I could take it like you take mine,” Flamm said. “I want to.”

Sasto looked down at him. His hair plastered to his head, water running in sensual rivulets behind his ears, over the roundness of his cheeks, off his thick lips. For a moment, Sasto only stared at Flamm’s mouth, wanting only to do that again, wanting only to fuck Flamm’s throat as hard as he liked his own throat being fucked.

“You will,” Sasto said. His cock, already at full attention, grew even harder as he pictured holding Flamm’s head and bashing his chin with his nuts, over and over until he came. “Let’s take it easier today.”

“Well,” Flamm said. “Sort of.” Now he was grinning, and Sasto couldn’t interpret that grin.

“What do you…?” Sasto murmured, then Flamm was going down on him again, getting as much of Sasto’s long cock as he comfortably could. Sasto closed his eyes again, and Flamm started moving up and down over the shaft, getting it wet, keeping his tongue in constant motion. Then, slowly, one of his hands snaked up Sasto’s belly and chest, stopping briefly to run over one pert nipple. Then, before Sasto could say another word, Flamm’s hand reached around Sasto’s throat … and squeezed.

What? Sasto thought as his air cut off. Those small explosions blew up around his dick and balls, in his belly, and now at the back of his head. It was like pleasure-bombs Oh God, Flamm had put two and two together. He knew about this. Fuck. Fuck.

Trying to gasp, Sasto started to fuck Flamm’s mouth harder, careful not to plunge deep into his throat and break the rhythm. For his part, Flamm went down faster, meeting Sasto halfway, meeting in the middle as Sasto’s precum squirted, pooling in Flamm’s mouth. Flamm tightened his grip on Sasto’s throat and for a brief, exhilarating moment, Sasto saw stars in the darkness behind his eyelids.

Then, with a mighty grunt, his balls contracted and he started shooting, harder and faster than he had in memory. He grabbed Flamm by the wrist and wrested his hand away from his throat. Warm, steam-choked air flowed in and again he dropped his hands to the top of Flamm’s head, fucking as deep as he dared, yanking Flamm’s head toward him, his cum blasting out of him over and over until he was dry.  

Moments after his last shot, he pulled out of Flamm’s mouth and looked down at the big guy. Flamm stood on shaky legs and Sasto steadied him. “I swallowed,” he said, wonderingly.

Sasto blinked. Fuck, he hadn’t even asked him if that was okay. Then again, he hadn’t really been in a talkative situation. “You … you alright?” He was reminded of how weirded out Flamm had been with all the cum on his face.

“Thinking about it,” Flamm said. “But fuck, how are you?”

Sasto’s hand went to his throat. “You almost choked me out, bro.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know…”

“Let’s do it again. Soon.”

After a moment, Flamm broke into a wild grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Then Flamm grabbed him in a headlock, and planted a kiss on top of his head. “I like again.”

The shower went on and on, and neither of them noticed Bruce in the doorway, watching all of this with his mouth hanging open.

Hey friends: if you like what you’re reading, why not kick your favorite writer a couple bucks? 

[spicyskilletsauce-blog]

Simmer, Chapter 6

Note: this story includes depictions of contestants on the reality TV show Top Chef. This story is not intended to depict any real-life actions or sexuality of the people portrayed.

M/M Explicit sexual content.

6. Into the Woods

But this was Top Chef, and the very next day, they were waving Tyler goodbye. That was awful enough. More awful was that the entire Bear Den – Tyler, Bruce, and Chicago Joe himself – had been on the bottom. Flamm had stood and faced the judges, his eye drifting too often to Tom’s steely, authoritarian gaze, and before the final ruling, had to avert his eyes. Padma was beautiful and, in general, Padma was kind, but when she brought down that ruling to pack your knives and go, it was like an anvil dropped on your heart from somewhere high. It felt like that when you were on the winning side. It felt like that when you were safe. And it felt a hundred times worse when you were at the bottom, awaiting your fate, knowing in your heart of hearts that you hadn’t done even close to your best. 

Then Padma had said Tyler’s name, and that hellish relief had flooded him, tempered by the biting-on-aluminum acid that was watching one of his closest new friends crumble inside. 

When it was his turn to hug him, Joe whispered in his ear, “Are you okay? Are you going to be okay?”

Tyler whispered back, “I’ll be fine, Joey. How about you?”

Standing back, Tyler had looked into his face, and Joe had looked back. No answers had come. Then the others had flooded in and Joe Flamm stood apart, feeling a little lost and suddenly lonely.

#

The night had progressed without incident – maybe Sasto realized he needed that. Besides, Bruce had stayed awake a long, long while, not even putting his CPAP on. Being in the bottom three seemed to throw him even more than it had thrown Flamm. Joe, now on the bottom bunk, had contemplated going over to Bruce’s bed and crawling in and holding him as he’d held Sasto that first night, and pushed the thought away violently. That was no way to think. Just because Sasto was one way and Tyler was also that way didn’t mean that everyone was. 

How about you, Joey? he wondered, and suddenly wished Sasto would do one of his surprise appearances and let him get lost in the physical for a little while, so he didn’t have to think about all this stuff head-on. But Sasto hadn’t shown, not that night, and moments after Bruce had finally drifted off, Flamm himself fell into a deep sleep, cluttered with half-remembered dreams.

As the sun filtered into the diminished Bear Den the next morning, something about the mood had lifted. Bruce had showered first and had come out humming. Flamm thought: I wonder if he’d be humming if he knew that I took part in an all-dude three-way on his bed. At that, he’d grinned. 

“What’s funny?” Bruce asked, buttoning his chef’s coat. 

“Nothing.” But he was still grinning. 

“Hey, let’s try not to be on the bottom today, huh?”

“Definitely,” Joe said. Then: “Bears don’t bottom.” They looked at each other, and without another word, broke into high peals of laughter. Okay. Things were going to be okay.

When they walked in at the end of a Last Chance Kitchen – the concurrent redemption show where ousted chefs get a chance to come back to the main competiton – Flamm had a momentary giddy hope that Tyler was about to win his place back among the bears. No such luck. Tyler was off to the side, watching the proceedings with a resigned little smile. Besides it was good to have Claudette back – they’d never really gotten to know her – and had a new face in Lee Ann, who was back after being eliminated in Season One. All good stuff. But his eyes couldn’t help but drift over to Tyler time and again, Tyler with all his tattoos, who had jumped into a different unexpected game and had unceremoniously been tossed from it. 

Then Flamm glanced over at Sasto, who was steadfastly watching Tom. He didn’t look Flamm’s way once. 

The challenge was unique, if a little unsettling. They were going camping for the night in beautiful, freezing, snowy Estes Park. The judges were giving them a whole pantry of locally-sourced food and they were going to have to cook it outdoors. Joe wasn’t what one might call an outdoorsy sort – he found the wind in Chicago a little unbearable at times – but his mind was already pinging on what to make to serve up his own redemption. This was where his love of old cookbooks was going to give him an edge. Scattered throughout his collection were a clutch of frontier cookbooks, and he’d tried out quite a few of those recipes. Squab. He was going to make squab. 

After the mad dash for food, they got a hundred bucks to buy stuff at a camping supply store. As they were about to head out, Flamm got Sasto aside. “Camping, huh? What do you think?”

“I think it’s gonna be cold.” Sasto was still not looking at him.

Flamm tried a grin that felt a little plastic. The optimism he’d woken up to this morning was evaporating. What was going on. “Tentmates?”

Sasto nodded, not turning his face to Flamm, but at least flicking his eyes up. Flamm realized – maybe again, maybe for the first time – that he really liked looking into Sasto’s bottomless brown eyes. He wanted to keep doing it. “Sure. Yes. I’ll see you up there.”

“Are we—”

“Better get a move on. We want to set up the tents before dark.”

Then he was out the door, and Flamm was helpless to do anything but watch him go. 

The tents pitched, the fire going, Bruce playing blues guitar and Chris improvising a song – almost everyone was having fun – Flamm retreated to his tent with a forehead flashlight and set to work on his recipe. Earlier tonight, he’d watched Sasto doing this Russian jig like Fonzie had done in that episode of Happy Days, his legs moving wildly and that wicked grin on his face. “Anything to keep warm,” he said, and it was impossible not to laugh along. But he’d tried to meet his eyes at more than one point, and Sasto had summarily avoided him. As the night had come down, Flamm decided that it might be better to follow Sasto’s lead. Maybe the distraction of what they’d been doing was what had put him (and even Tyler) in the bottom this week. Too much distraction. Too many questions. Best to keep his own council. Maybe, with luck, he’d be asleep before Sasto joined him. 

And then, maybe something else will happen, his traitor mind murmured, and he shoved it away and turned his mind entirely to food. Food – preparing it, cooking it, serving it – was like a giant wave off the coast of some tropical island. It had a way of sweeping everything else in its wake out of Flamm’s consciousness. The squab recipe wasn’t going to be difficult, but it would distract him. Distract him from Tyler leaving, from the cold, from whatever strange, aloof creature that had come in and taken possession of Joe Sasto. Food. That was why he was here, wasn’t it? Concentrate on the food.

It worked, too. For five whole minutes it worked. Then the flap in the tent was unzipping, and Joe Sasto was scrambling in, kicking off his heavy shoes as he came. “Jesus, I thought it was cold in the day,” he muttered. “I don’t know if we’re going to make it through the night.”

Flamm didn’t look up from his notebook. “The weather,” he said. “That’s what we’re talking about.”

“What?”

Flamm flicked off his headlamp and put it aside. “Nothing, man. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow. Let’s just…”

Then, almost silently, Joe Sasto was on top of him; small as he was, he was stocky enough to pin Flamm inside the sleeping bag, and hold him in place. It was dim in here, but enough light from the moon was filtering through the tent’s vinyl for Flamm to look directly into Sasto’s face, and try to read the inexplicable expression there. 

“Sasto, what…?”

Without a word, Sasto leaned in, and kissed Joe Flamm full on the mouth. Even though he’d messed around with a guy or two in school, this was the first time Chicago Joe had ever been kissed by another man. It was weird, too: the stubble, the masculine insistence behind it, the rough tongue, so different than the soft women’s tongues he’d experienced in the past. Even the taste of him was different from that of the women he’d made out with in the past, including his wife – a taste of meat and beer and a deeper, warm taste that Flamm couldn’t identify. But most unusual was the mustache. Waxy and curled, it bristled against Flamm’s face, stiff and unyielding. For a moment, Flamm couldn’t react, too stunned to move or think or process. Then he started kissing Sasto back, with a fervor he wasn’t aware that he was capable of on this draining day. But isolating his face wasn’t enough, not after everything that had happened today. Wriggling, calling on brute strength he rarely accessed, he heaved Sasto up off of him, got his arms free of the sleeping bag, and then grabbed Sasto to him, pressing him tight against his chest while he kept kissing, not knowing if he was good at it, not caring, wondering only vaguely if kissing was different than the rest of what they’d been doing. Blowjobs, handjobs, and whatever Sasto had done to his ass a few nights ago – that was sex, that was something Flamm could write off as things guys sometimes did with other guys when women weren’t around. It didn’t change things, and it didn’t make him, Joe Flamm, gay or bi or anything. None of the other guys he’d fooled around with in the past had called themselves gay, and Sasto didn’t either. 

But kissing? Kissing maybe did change things. 

He moved his face away, wanting to say some or all of these things to Sasto, wanting to talk about how icy Sasto had been to him all day, wanting to get some of this stuff out in the open. For a long moment, Sasto said nothing. Then, in a voice little over a whisper, he said, “Joe.”

“Joe.” Flamm could barely see his eyes in this filtered light. 

“Will you fuck me, Joe? Do you think you could? Do you want to?”

Some incongruous emotional combination – terror mixed with thrill mixed with relief mixed with frustration – pinballed through him. His mind screamed. His heart raced. His cock – already hard in reaction to the kiss – stiffened absurdly, knowing the answer to Sasto’s questions long before the rest of him caught up. 

“Get in here with me.”

Working fast, Joe Sasto shuffled off his clothes, even his underwear. If the dim light made it too difficult to peer deep into Sasto’s eyes, Flamm had no problem seeing his body, his olive skin in stark relief against Sasto’s dark, wiry hair. His penis was fully erect, springing hugely from that wild thatch of pubic hair. As he watched, Joe Flamm removed the T-shirt he’d planned on sleeping in, the chill gripping him at once, even through his fleece sleeping bag. Still, his own thick cock leaked as he hooked his thumbs into his boxers and maneuvered them to the bottom of his sleeping bag. Fuck? he thought. How do I even start? 

Then Sasto was sliding into the sleeping bag with him. The fit was almost too tight; Sasto was small and muscular, but Flamm was both big and tall, and space in here was at a premium. In the end, they made it work, Sasto lying on his belly, his arms tucked under him, Flamm above him, squatting hunched on his hands and knees, his back arched and his gut pressing into the small of Sasto’s hairy back. The tip of his cock, leaking copiously, tapped the crack of Sasto’s ass and Flamm jumped, as if surprised. What the hell was he doing? What were they doing?

“It’s been awhile for me,” Sasto said beneath him. “It might hurt. I’m okay with that. I’ll let you know if it’s too much.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“One way or another, it’s going to happen. At least this way, I’m expecting it.”

Puzzled, Flamm said, “Wait, what…?”

“Get your dick wet before starting. I can’t take that beast dry.”

For a moment, Flamm considered stopping this whole thing cold. Something was going on with Sasto, and maybe something was going on with him, and they weren’t going to get anything solved by just doing more of what they’d been doing. But … but this wasn’t just doing more of that. It had been mostly fun up till this point, and any other questions could be shunted to the background. But kissing had changed things, and this…? This really changed things. Could he even do it? Not just emotionally but physically? 

Then he saw himself doing it, the image so clearly in his mind that it felt more like a memory than a fantasy. It wasn’t here, though. It was back in the Bear Den. On Bruce’s bed. And Sasto was looking up at him, his legs up and around Flamm’s wide back. Flamm blinked but the image still remained, and with it, an urge so insistent that it was almost primordial. He could fuck. He would fuck. It would be madness not to.

He spat in his hand and slathered it all over his dick, mixing it with the precum. Hesitating the barest of moments, he slipped one finger down Sasto’s hairy crack, feeling for his hole. When he found it, instinct commanded him to slip his finger in, which he did. It sank in more easily than Flamm had expected: this was the inside of Joe Sasto, hot and willing and waiting. Part of him wanted to finger more. A greater part of him wanted to do to him what Sasto had done, burying his face in the man’s ass and fucking him with his tongue. It had felt so good that Flamm was sure he’d cum without touching his cock. But that was going to be impossible here, with this tent, with this sleeping bag. 

Joe Flamm pulled his finger out and positioned his throbbing cock at Sasto’s hole, pulling his asscheeks apart for better access. Closing his eyes, he pushed forward slowly, and all at once the head of his cock was inside Joe Sasto. Sasto’s ass wrapped around his dickhead like a tight glove, pulsing around him. Beneath him, Sasto exhaled heavily, as if the air had gone out of him.

“Are you…?” Flamm began.

Sasto grunted. “Don’t fucking stop.”

With effort, Flamm pushed in more, and all at once, his entire body began prickling. His dick seemed to wake up to what was happening as it sank deeper into the tight heat of Sasto’s ass; electricity charged though his whole shaft and radiated out. His fingers twitched. His balls felt hot and heavy and vital. And still he went deeper, his body now wide awake and craving more, needing more, and Flamm thrust his hips forward and now he was all the way inside, Sasto’s ass hot and willing against his cock, and Sasto was gasping beneath him but that was far, far away. He felt drunk. His cock had never felt this good in his entire life. 

He pulled out, just a little, and dropped back in, putting the whole weight of his body behind it. Pure sensation slammed through him, nerve endings in his cock and balls on glorious fire. Sasto cried out into his arm. Flamm mostly ignored it. Sasto would say something if it hurt too much. He pulled out again, more this time, and thrust in, his dick throbbing and pulsing with Sasto’s ass. Flamm got better purchase, arcing his back up and putting his big hands on the back of Sasto’s hairy shoulders, clamping down, his fingertips digging into the rock-hard muscle there. He thrust again, and again. Sasto murmured something and Flamm paused. Sasto lifted his head up. “Harder, fucker,” he said, and Joe Flamm was all too ready to oblige. 

There wasn’t enough room in the sleeping back to come all the way out of him, but Flamm did his best, pulling out as much as he could before slamming back in, sending that blue sizzle of electricity up his whole shaft. Speeding up his rhythm, Flamm went as hard as he could, drilling into Sasto’s ass with a force and speed at which he’d never fucked before. Sasto grunted with every thrust, and Flamm hoped he felt every inch of it. He let go of one of Sasto’s meaty shoulders and wrapped the arm around his chest, not stopping his driving cock for even a moment. His hips rose and fell. His big body pressed against Sasto’s smaller one. As he felt his balls start to tighten, he fucked Sasto even harder, biting into the man’s shoulder and squeezing his eyes closed. “Uh,” he murmured. “Oh.”

His cock erupted with such force that he almost screamed. Cum exploded out of him like a ballistic missile, coating Joe Sasto’s insides over and over. The feeling of it splashing up and around his cock was almost too much to bear, and Flamm fucked even harder, wanting to hold onto that sensation as long as possible, wanting to fuck till he came again, wanting Sasto to feel every inch of what he had to give and more. 

Then he collapsed against Sasto, knocking the wind out of him for the second time. He inhaled, trying to get his own breath back, and inhaled the musky aroma of Sasto’s sweat – sweat he had caused, had brought to the surface by fucking the hell out of this man. Every cell in him sang. He thought he could sleep for a hundred years.

Slowly, his dick softened, pulling out of Sasto on its own. As Joe Flamm drifted on the high of a life-altering fuck, Sasto managed to turn around and shimmy up a little, looking into Flamm’s face. “Hey,” he murmured. 

“Rwaah?” Flamm asked, completely lost in a fog of fuck. 

“Hey,” Sasto said again, and smiled.

Flamm shook his head. “I’m here.” Then he laughed. “Anything to keep warm, huh?”

Sasto smiled. “Tyler,” he said.

The corner of Flamm’s mouth twitched. “Okay, I might have fucked you senseless. I’m Joe. Can you say Joe?” 

Sasto burst into a silent peal of laughter. After a moment, Flamm joined him. Fucking was great. This was better. 

When the giggles tapered, Sasto said, “We watched him go home yesterday, and it hit me. One of these days, either you or I are going to go. Unless we make it to the finale.”

“Well, that’s my intention.”

“And it’s mine. And I hope we both get there. But Tyler was as good a chef as any of us, and he left. And you were right there beside him. And I don’t know how I’m going to feel if it happens to you. Or me. Going home before the finale was always a possibility that sucked, but now … now it’s more. Or am I wrong?”

Flamm said, “You’re not wrong. That’s why you’ve been ignoring me?”

“Not on purpose. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, that’s not entirely your choice, is it?” Sasto didn’t say anything. “I don’t know what this is. Maybe we don’t have to know what it is. But it’s something, I think. I don’t want to lose it. So I’m in it, every bit as much as you. So don’t do that to me again.”

After a long, silent moment, Sasto said, “Okay.”

Flamm took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can sleep like this, two to a sleeping bag.”

“Oh,” Sasto said, moving to get out. “Sorry, I…”

“But we don’t have to go to sleep just yet.”

Sasto smiled. “Oh. Okay.”

Without another word, they switched positions, Flamm lying on his back and Sasto sprawled out across him, his head resting on Flamm’s shoulder. 

As it turned out, Joe Flamm was wrong. He could sleep like that.

Hey friends: if you like what you’re reading, why not kick your favorite writer a couple bucks? 

[spicyskilletsauce-blog]

Simmer, Part 5

Note: this story includes depictions of contestants on the reality TV show Top Chef. This story is not intended to depict any real-life actions or sexuality of the people portrayed.

M/M Explicit sexual content.

Trigger warnings: breath play. Possible non-con play.

5. What Tyler Saw

The Quickfire challenge the next day had been interesting, but he’d fucked it up. They were supposed to make elevated versions of kids’ cuisine. Tyler had picked spaghetti and meatballs and had somehow thought a pho version made of vegetables would appeal to the kids judging them. It most assuredly had not. But Jesus, was it hard to concentrate. Every time he tried to think about food, his mind kept shifting back to what had happened the night before. Joe Flamm – who was married to a woman – and Joe Sasto, who was more of a wildcard, had done … what? Something, and they’d done it right above him. Last week, Joe Flamm had asked him, abashedly, whether or not he was gay. It wasn’t entirely unexpected; he was a lot more vocal about the dudes he found hot than the women. Those two guys on the cheese farm, for example? One looked like Thor and one looked like a scrappy little Wolverine. Hot as fuck and he’d gone on about them at length in the Bear Den.

Flamm had come to him after Bruce went into the shower. “I thought … you’re married, right? With kids?”

Tyler had grinned. “Nothing that says I can’t find beauty wherever it is.”

Blinking, Flamm asked, “So, what? You’re bi?”

Putting a hand on Flamm’s shoulder, Tyler had said, “I’m a chef. Other than that, I don’t try to label myself.”

Flamm had nodded, still looking puzzled, wandering off to find a beer. Tyler had watched him go, tilting his head in curiosity.

And now: this.

Which wouldn’t do to focus on, of course. He’d super fucked up the Quickfire and he needed to redeem himself for the Elimination Challenge. Which, even without the extra stuff he had to parse in his brain, was proving next to impossible. The dish had to reflect your heritage in some way. Tyler was expecting this one, but it didn’t usually come till later in the season, so it threw him for a loop. Heritage? What heritage? He had no grandparents who’d stood around the stove with him, meticulously showing him the Old Ways of cooking, no recipes passed down from generation to generation. He and Flamm had bonded a little over their mutual love of classic cookbooks, but that wasn’t his heritage. It was borrowed.

In the end, he decided to reflect the Southern California cuisine he’d grown up on and reflect his Swedish roots with Swedish meatballs and scalloped pancakes. It might be the worst or the best idea: either the judges would applaud him for his diverse background or demonize him for having too many ideas. They’d see.

All that was on his mind the night before the challenge. The food had been purchased, ready to be cooked. Tonight was the night to go over your recipes, to bounce ideas off the other chefs, to have a drink and chill out before the hardcore anxiety of the challenge ahead.

But Tyler didn’t want to do any of that. He glanced around and tapped Bruce on the arm. “Hey, have you seen Joe?”

Bruce, who had his own thoughts to contend with (his child was going to be born while he was out here in Denver), shook out of his reverie on the couch and said, “Which one?”

“I don’t know, either of them.”

Bruce shrugged and went back to his recipe. “Haven’t seen them.”

Tyler did a quick, hopefully inconspicuous tour of the ground floor. Everyone else was here, cooking or drinking or talking. All the other chefs seemed deeply settled into what they were doing. The perfect time to slip away. How was it possible that Tyler was the only person to have noticed?

Holding his breath, he mounted the stairs. The door to the Bear Den was shut closed. All the other doors up here were wide open. Curiouser and curiouser. He put his hand on the doorknob, and for a second, closed his eyes. He remembered the sound of the springs above him, and how Flamm had made that deep, low growl at one point, muffled, like it was into his pillow. Whatever Sasto had been doing had obviously felt great. And the way the mattress above him had bulged out, flattened, bulged out, flattened. Tyler had a feeling that they weren’t fucking, not exactly, but it was something like that, something similar. Then, seeing Sasto run out of the room completely naked like that. Holy shit. Had he ever noticed how built Joe Sasto was? How tight his ass seemed? How all-over hairy he was? No, he’d noticed none of those things. He’d been so focused on the competition and the rules and missing home and his restaurants.

In the bottom bunk, Tyler had felt his dick grow hard and insistent, refusing to get soft until he heard Flamm start to snore. It didn’t take long to jerk off and get off and to fall back asleep.

He was hard again now.

As quietly as possible, he turned the knob to the Bear Den.

Joe Sasto was sitting on Bruce’s bed. His clothes were in a little pile on the floor. The man really was jacked; all that body hair couldn’t hide how well-built Sasto’s chest was. The chest only held his gaze for a moment. Flamm was on his knees before him, back to Tyler, also completely naked. His face was buried in Sasto’s crotch. His wide, bare shoulders quivered and hunched. His bare ass kept leaving the floor momentarily, then coming back down.

“Don’t worry about going all the way down,” Sasto said, putting a light hand on the back of Flamm’s head. “It’s big and you’re new. You—” He looked up and saw Tyler standing there, the door now closed tightly behind him. For a moment, his eyes filled with pure animal panic.

Then Tyler put one tattooed finger up to his lips, and started to unzip his fly. For a long moment more, Sasto only looked. Then one corner of his mouth turned up in a grin, and he threw back his head.

“Lick my nuts, Joe,” he murmured. “You okay with that?”

Flamm looked up and there was a pop sound as Sasto’s massive dick came out of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m not very good at this.”

“You’re fucking fantastic,” Sasto told him. “Now lick my nuts.”

Tyler, who had meant only to take his dick out of his jeans and jerk away, now decided to do as the Romans did. As quietly as he could, he slid his shoes and socks off, putting them in a small pile. He added his pants and shirt to it, and now stood by the door, stark naked, wearing only his glasses and his myriad tattoos. His cock was leaking furiously, a faucet you’d never quite get around to fixing.

Sasto said, “You like that?”

Flamm looked up. “Yeah. Fuck, I don’t get it. You taste so fucking good. I—”

“Close your eyes and come on up here. Keep your eyes closed. I wanna try something.”

Cautiously, Flamm said, “Oh … okay. It’s not going to hurt, is it?”

Then, unexpectedly, Sasto leaned down – fuck, he could bend himself in half! – and kissed Flamm on the forehead. “I’d never hurt you.”

Obediently, Flamm closed his eyes and let himself be spread out across Bruce’s bed. He was a sight to behold. When Tyler was into guys, they were usually smaller dudes, or cut like Sasto. But there was something undeniable about Flamm. The tattoo on his inner arm, for one. Tyler was a sucker for men with tatts. But the swell of his belly, rising up from the bed; all he could think of was the way that belly had kept convexing the mattress above him the night before. Seeing it in motion – even with all that fabric and spring in between – had made it something erotic, an object of lust, a thing of desire.

Joe Sasto looked up and met Tyler’s eyes, and beckoned him forward with one finger. Nerves jangling, aware that he was as naked now as Sasto was in this room the night before, Tyler approached. His cock stuck out from his body like an exclamation point. And how apt was that? This whole situation deserved exclamation. What was he even doing?

“Sasto?” Flamm murmured. “What’s going on?”

“Do you trust me?” Sasto asked.

Flamm smiled that 100-watt smile he was so known for around the Top Chef house. “Not even a little.”

“Good. Keep your eyes closed and enjoy this.”

Sasto glanced up at Tyler and pointed at his own nipples, nodding toward Flamm. Tyler understood, but hesitated. When was the last time he’d touched a guy? Years, maybe. Years, and he’d never done anything remotely like this. How would Flamm react? Was there something between these two that he was going to fuck up? But goddamn, was this a fucking turnon. The fact that Flamm had no idea he was here … it was weird, it was insane, but it was erotic as hell. He reached his tattooed arms out, and gently, so gently, he brushed the tips of his index fingers across Flamm’s large nipples. The big man shuddered, and made one of those deep, thick sounds he’d made last night when Sasto had been in his bunk. Involuntarily, Tyler’s cock jumped, dripping more precum.

Flamm’s did the same, his nipples seeming to be connected to a string in Chicago Joe’s cock. “Fuuuuu…,” Flamm whispered, squirming, the precum puddling just beneath his navel. Tyler couldn’t take his eyes off that cock. His was about the same length, but fuck Flamm’s cock was thick. Years suddenly seemed like too long a span without having put a dick in his mouth, and he knew just which one he wanted to start with.

But this was Joe Sasto’s show, and Tyler had no problem taking orders from him, despite his age and smaller size. Sasto was head chef. He was sous-chef. And Joe Flamm? He was dessert.

As if in slow motion, Sasto closed his eyes and went down on Flamm’s thick cock. In utter fascination, Tyler watched it disappear; Sasto moved down the shaft slowly, confidently, stopping halfway, then pushing down further, mingling that wild mustache into Joe Flamm’s pubes. It seemed impossible, that huge cock plunging all the way down Sasto’s throat. Sasto was too small and that dick was just too big; Tyler could only stare, his thumbs moving restlessly over Flamm’s nipples.

“Oh,” Flamm muttered. “Oh, God. Oh fucking God.”

Sasto’s shoulders jumped, and Tyler knew what was happening at once. He wasn’t just swallowing Flamm’s cock: he was gagging on it. On purpose? It had to be, right? Nothing was holding him down there. Sasto’s shoulders hiked up again, and he came off of Flamm’s dick, breathing heavily. “Goddamn, Joe.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Hold on a second.”

Sasto pointed to Tyler, then to Flamm’s cock. The look in his eyes wasn’t a question. This was a command. A warm tingle flooded through him; he was used to being in charge of everything, and taking orders from this guy with the dark eyes and curled mustache excited him on a base level. Tyler didn’t wait to be asked again. Sidestepping, Tyler took a moment to admire Joe Flamm’s pulsing, leaking cock, now slick with Sasto’s spit. Then he swallowed it, getting lost in the mingled taste of Sasto’s mouth and Flamm’s dick. He tried valiantly to go all the way down as Sasto had, but the thing was just too huge. Instead, he worked as far down as he could go, moving his tongue up and down and side to side, remembering all the tricks of cocksucking in a rush of lust. His own dick screamed to cum but he didn’t dare touch it. Instead he pressed his lips harder against Flamm’s dick, increasing the suction. On wild instinct, he reached down and caressed Flamm’s balls, heavy and as huge as his dick.

Flamm bucked a little then, coming off the bed and stuffing that cock down Tyler’s throat whether he wanted it or not. He choked at once and pulled his head off … and the panic struck him again. Joe Flamm’s eyes were wide open and he was staring, shocked, from Sasto to Tyler and back again. They’d been found out.

“What … what?”

“Tyler walked in,” Sasto said calmly. “I thought he might want to join us. Turns out, I was right.” Sasto put a hand on Flamm’s shoulder and looked deeply into his eyes. There was something going on here, something beyond just sex. Tyler wondered vaguely if he should go … then stopped himself. He’d sort out feelings later. He wasn’t leaving this room until he got off.

Still, he knew he was the side dish here. He put his own hand on Flamm’s other shoulder.

“Is this cool?” Sasto asked. Maybe a little late to ask, but there was something in Flamm’s eyes that said Sasto had done something like this before. Oh … oh fuck. Last night? Had Flamm not known Sasto was going to come in? Damn, Sasto, you’re a devious little fucker. But … was Flamm grinning? Was he, what? Into this? The surprise of it?

“You … want me to finish, Joe?” Tyler asked. Joe Flamm turned to him, and that grin was unmistakable.

“I’m going to blow soon,” he said quietly, then turned red, as if he couldn’t believe he was saying it.

“That I can handle.”

He went back to Flamm’s cock, sealing it again with his lips and sucking as hard as he could while moving up and down that amazing shaft. Once again, he reached below and massaged Flamm’s balls. A steady stream of precum leaked from Flamm’s dick and went right down Tyler’s throat, sweet and salty and better than anything he could remember in his experimental past. He didn’t know what Sasto was doing, but he had an idea it had something to do with Flamm’s nipples; Flamm was groaning deeply, almost hungrily, grinding his body against the bed. Tyler could listen to that for hours. Everything in him felt warm and hard and ready.

In his hand, Flamm’s balls suddenly tightened. His dick expanded, and Tyler increased his speed, down, up, down, up, and all at once, Joe Flamm’s cock exploded. Cum gushed out in a thick rush, and he swallowed every drop. Then it happened again, a second shot, maybe even bigger. Then again. Then again. How much cum did this guy have in him? It didn’t matter. Tyler was lost in the taste of it, the feel of it shooting down his throat. No matter how much he got, he wanted more.

Joe Flamm, trying his hardest not to cry out, grunted deep in the back of his throat, the sound almost angry, guttural. Tyler got up off his dick and stood looking down at Joe Flamm. Sasto stood there, his fingers still on Flamm’s nipples, looking unsure for the first time.

“How was that?” he asked.

“Get over here,” Flamm said in that deep voice. Tyler obeyed. At once, Flamm’s hand shot out and grabbed Tyler’s cock in his big, meaty hand. With his other hand, he grabbed Joe Sasto’s cock, Sasto’s eyes going wide as a grin broke out over his face.

Flamm closed his eyes again, and began to jerk both of them off at the same time. Maybe because of how quick his hands were in the kitchen, this didn’t seem to present a problem for him. He expertly moved his hands in tandem, then in unison. Tyler’s body shuddered, his eyes falling closed. He balled his hands into fists, then unclenched. Lightning coursed through him, his balls slapping pleasurably against Flamm’s fist. It wasn’t going to take long, not long at all. His knees went watery. His balls seized. He opened his eyes.

Tyler stared at Joe Sasto, who was gulping in air, his mouth moving, his hands resting on Flamm’s chest and belly. A low groan emerged from Tyler’s throat. A second later, cum slammed out of him, splattering across Joe Flamm’s face and splashing against Sasto’s hairy balls. For the first time, he noticed Sasto’s cock, not as thick as Flamm’s but somehow longer. God, could he handle that? If he tried, could he?

Then Sasto was shooting, his cum painting Flamm’s face, mingling with Tyler’s own. He felt some of it splash against his own cock as he shot once more, a less violent spasm, coating Flamm’s cheek. Sasto was still going to, more forcefully, and still Tyler felt some drops gush against his body.

Tyler’s eyes left Sasto’s, and drifted down to Flamm’s face. “Hey, bud,” he said, and grinned.

Flamm smiled; then his brow furrowed. “I’ve never had cum on my face before, guys. I don’t know if I like it.”

Sasto went to his pile of clothes and dug out his underwear. Now he was right next to Tyler. Without thinking, Tyler reached out and put his hand around Sasto’s still-leaking cock. He could never get all the way down … but damn if he didn’t want to try.

As Sasto moved to start wiping Flamm’s face off, Flamm said, “I liked the rest of it, though. A lot.”

“Me too,” Sasto said.

“Me too,” Tyler said. “Can we do that again?”

Flamm grinned. “Next time, I get to blow you guys.”

Tyler looked to Sasto, who looked back with that devilish half-grin. “Hell yes.”

Hey friends: if you like what you’re reading, why not kick your favorite writer a couple bucks? 

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Simmer, Chapter 4

Note: this story includes depictions of contestants on the reality TV show Top Chef. This story is not intended to depict any real-life actions or sexuality of the people portrayed.

M/M Explicit sexual content.

Trigger warnings: breath play. Possible non-con play.

4. Incident in the Bear Den

Joe Sasto held his breath.

The adrenaline wouldn’t keep in perpetuity, he knew that. Grabbing three hours of sleep and still managing to have his brain clear and running on all cylinders all day – he had done it before and he would do it again, but he knew it wasn’t sustainable. He’d won the last challenge and was hoping and planning to win the next one, but if he didn’t start getting some sleep, things were eventually going to turn sour.

Still: he couldn’t get his mind off of Joe Flamm. Chicago Joe.

That stuff on the porch earlier, jerking him off outside like that: I mean, what a rush. What a fucking rush! Being able to see the other chefs clear as day through the window and know that he was going to get Flamm off? The thin string of danger and panic that had threaded through him had mingled so electrically with his own lust and desire. While his hand had been full of Flamm’s cock, his eyes had watched Flamm’s face. The first, shocked look in his eyes when Sasto’s hand had gone to his fly, the way his eyelids had drifted closed when he’d gotten into the rhythm of it, the way they’d flown open when he was about to come: all of that had added to the piquant thrill of what he was doing.

What they were doing. While Joe Sasto had had his flings with guys in the past, he bet Flamm hadn’t ever done anything like this – or, if he had, he’d worked hard to put it into a box of memories he never opened. Something about that had changed tonight. You could dismiss a one-time thing, maybe. That blowjob he’d given Flamm had come along at the exact right time to calm him down and make him feel good, but middle-of-the-night blowjobs between ostensibly straight guys didn’t really signify anything. But Flamm hadn’t protested when he’d taken his dick out tonight, and had only allowed himself to get lost in the pleasure of Sasto’s hand. There was something to that, something about that. Sasto had been cavalier about What This All Meant on the porch, but in the hours since, he’d had time to think. Joe Flamm wasn’t his first repeat performance when it came to dudes, but there was something about him that drew Sasto. With guys in the past, they were a take-it-or-leave-it proposition. Sasto was young, built, and successful: if he wanted to mess around with a guy, he could. If he didn’t, he could leave. But this stuff with Joe Flamm? At this point, it didn’t feel as easy as leaving if he wanted. Not just because they were in this competition together, either.

For one thing, the danger of what they were doing heightened everything. At any second, they could be caught by the camera guys, one of the other cheftestants, a producer, anyone. Hell, Padma could walk into their house at any point to deliver some sort of message. Joe Sasto wanted to keep taking risks like the one on the porch, because he’d never felt this horny in his whole life, had never felt this intoxicated with lust.

And for another thing: well, Joe Flamm’s smile was … well, fuck, it was goddamn beautiful. When Joe had smiled at him after the handjob on the porch? That had been heaven. No amount of protest that this was just fooling around would alter that, or the feel that this was a new thing he’d stumbled into and didn’t want to lose.

Which had brought him to the closed door of the Bear Den at 3:30 AM.

Even through the door, he could hear the whirr of the CPAP machines Bruce and Tyler were using to sleep. One of those big guy things, helping them breathe at night. Joe Flamm didn’t use one – yet – though the other bears in the room had ragged on him some about that. CPAP was coming, they warned, like a sleep apnea version of Krampus, creeping into his bedroom at night to fit a mask over his face and send him off to dreamland.

Grinning a little, his heart thudding furiously in his chest, Joe Sasto stole into the Bear Den. He was fully, completely naked.

Bruce was on the single bed on one side of the room, splayed on his back. Tyler was on the lower bunk of the bunk bed, one heavily tattooed arm dangling off the side. Big guys. When he liked guys, he tended to like them big, and Bruce and Tyler were no slouches. He loved Bruce’s beard and had a momentary, dick-stiffening thought about covering it in his jizz. A small bead of precum leaked out of his dick and patted to the floor. And Tyler’s punk-rock tattoos, well; Sasto wished he’d been around Tyler when he was a full-on punk singer, ready and willing to get nasty in a dive-bar bathroom after a gig. Something about the nastiness of it appealed to him, the dirty, scummy excitement of it. But these thoughts were fleeting.

Joe Flamm, on the top bunk, snored away. Because of the covers, Sasto couldn’t tell if Flamm was naked or not, but his shirt was off and that was a start. As gingerly as he could, Sasto mounted the ladder, the wood cold against the soles of his bare feet, and began to climb.

For a moment, Sasto only watched him sleep. Flamm’s bulk dwarfed the small bed; the sight forced his dick longer, harder. Almost every impulse told him how dangerous this was, how he needed to get out of here, get out of here now before somebody caught him, before Flamm woke up and started freaking out. He was completely naked in a room of three sleeping dudes, and if any one of them woke up and reacted, he could be tossed out before he even had a chance to prove himself in this competition.

He slid Joe Flamm’s blanket down. The man slept on his side. He wore boxer briefs, which hugged the curves of his ass and his thighs so tightly that they might as well have been painted on. Fuck. Fuck. Sasto’s dick was at full attention now, throbbing for release. He watched Flamm breathe for a moment, knowing he should leave, knowing he should run out of here, knowing that he couldn’t, knowing that he wouldn’t. He placed a hand on Flamm’s back and the big man shifted in his sleep, turning onto his stomach and tucking his arm under his pillow.

Sasto closed his eyes, trailed his fingers down Flamm’s back, and slid down the boxer briefs, exposing Joe Flamm’s round ass. Sasto climbed up onto the bunk, planting his knees between Flamm’s spread legs, his dick dripping onto the coverlet. For a wild, scary moment, he thought of simply spitting on his hand, wetting his cock, and sinking it deep into Flamm’s hole. The man would wake up for sure then, roaring with surprise and pain. Maybe he’d get into it. Maybe he’d wake up and love it, crave it, and press up against his cock, begging for more, begging Sasto to go harder, faster, to shoot inside and coat his guts. But Sasto knew from experience that guys new to sex with other guys weren’t usually immediately keen to get buttfucked … and, of course, that waking someone up with surprise dicking didn’t always end well for everyone. Straight dudes – even ones who were mostly straight – were more particular about their asses than their cocks.

You had to start slow.

His heart punching the inside of his chest, his brain swirling and screaming, and his dick – in charge of everything right now – dripping precum so voluminous it was puddling on the sheet, Joe Sasto spread Joe Flamm’s cheeks apart, took a breath, and dropped his face down. A moment later, his face was pressed deep in between Flamm’s asscheeks, his tongue darting out experimentally to tease the man’s hole, his dick reaching down and grabbing his own cock. He tugged at it once, twice, not wanting to cum so quickly.

The night before, he’d found himself asphyxiating on the end of Joe Flamm’s thick cock. Now, he was starting to do the same. As his oxygen waned, he pushed his tongue in deeper to Flamm’s ass. The man had showered before bed, and his ass tasted fantastic: sweaty, musky, the essence of a man distilled into one secret spot. Sasto’s lungs cried out for air but this was too good to stop now. He pushed the cheeks further apart and began circling the edge of Flamm’s hole, lightly at first, then more firmly. The taste was heaven. His head swam.

That was when Joe Flamm woke up.

Flamm’s body tensed; Sasto could feel the asscheeks tighten around his face. He had just been about to lift up and take a breath, but now he reversed course, his tongue diving inside Flamm, in and out, over and over. He heard Flamm moan thickly into his pillow. Blood thudded in his head. He didn’t dare touch his cock; everything was so sensitized and poised, even the lightest brush would set him off. He didn’t want to cum yet. Not just yet.

In the pulse of his ecstasy, Flamm relaxed. Sasto rose up and gulped a breath. The sweet oxygen was delicious … yet he was eager to get back to Flamm’s ass. Not being able to breathe was definitely a part of it – the way it sent endorphins rushing through him – but a bigger part was the taste. He had spent a whole life honing his sense of taste, and he had spent some time doing this with other people … but never had he tasted an ass as intoxicating. Not gross, not in any way dirty. Clean, warm, insanely intimate: it was the most private taste of Joe Flamm.

“Joe?” he whispered.

“Why did you stop?” Flamm asked in a husky, impatient voice that was utterly unlike his usual relaxed tone.

Sasto didn’t need another invitation. He dove back down, pulling Flamm’s cheeks apart even wider this time to give him more access. This time, he flicked his tongue back and forth across the hole, then up and down, allowing only momentary pleasure. Above, Joe Flamm whimpered. It sounded so loud to Sasto’s ears, it was only a matter of time before Tyler, only a few feet below, woke up. Sasto didn’t care. All he cared about was how deep he could get his tongue into this meaty ass, and how good Joe Flamm could feel while he was doing it.

Breathing through his nose, Sasto pressed his face in deep. No more gentle flicks with the tip of his tongue; now was time to divebomb. With no further preamble, Sasto plunged his tongue deep into Flamm’s hole, and immediately heard Flamm groan in pleasure. This was a man who had probably never had his ass played with in the past and was at a loss to understand just how mindblowing a good rimjob could be. His body went rigid, then pushed back against Sasto’s face. Sasto tried to catch his breath and couldn’t. Good. Good. He pulled his tongue back slowly, slowly, only to immediately shove it back in, deeper this time, staying in longer. He pulled out halfway, stabbing forth again, keeping Flamm guessing, never letting the pleasure centers of his ass get used to what he was doing. Fucking him with his tongue, getting more forceful with each penetration, going as deep as he could. And Joe Flamm was loving every second of it.

Sasto’s mind buzzed, and without trying to, he pictured Joe Flamm’s face buried in his pillow, his eyes squeezed shut, that amazing smile tilted and twisted, contorting in the extremes of hedonism. That was it. It was all too much. Sasto’s hand dropped to his cock and he pumped it once, twice, and then oh fuck then oh fuck fuck fuck he was shooting, shooting harder than he’d ever shot in his life fuck Fuck FUCK!!!

He yanked his head up, gulping in air, still shooting. He arched his back and leaned back on his knees, aiming his cock at the small of Joe Flamm’s back. His jizz splattered there, pooling in the hollows there. Wanting to scream out, wanting to howl, wanting to cry out Flamm’s name, Sasto darted forward and lapped up his own cum, drinking it off Chicago Joe’s back as he’d drunk Flamm’s own cum the night before.

For a moment, he only knelt like that, Flamm’s ass before him, that wide back stretching out of the swatch of moonlight coming through the window. Sasto imagined climbing up the man, pressing his hairy chest against Flamm’s back, and falling asleep there. It was a good thought, an almost normal thought … but he was on borrowed time already. He wasn’t sure how much noise Flamm had made groaning or how much motion he’d made with his progressively aggressive rimjob, but if Tyler wasn’t at least stirring, the man slept like the dead.

Slowly, he swung one leg off the bunk and onto the ladder’s top step. He had made his way halfway down when Flamm lifted his head off the pillow and looked right at him.

“What was that?” he whispered, sounding as worn out and shot as Sasto felt.

Sasto grinned. “Doing it my way,” he whispered back, and grinned. After a moment, Flamm grinned back … and no matter what else had happened, this was all worth it just to see that grin.

His bare feet touched the cold floor and he shot cursory glances at Bruce and Tyler. Both faces were still obscured by the CPAP machines. Good. Fuck. That had been one hell of a dumb risk. What had he been thinking, wandering into the Bear Den, fully naked and risking everything to rim Chicago Joe’s ass?

But then he caught Flamm’s face again, still smiling, and he knew he would do it all over again. What did it all mean? Did it have to mean something?

Maybe there wasn’t an answer to that, but before he snuck out of the Bear Den, he nodded at Joe Flamm, and, as if reading his mind, Joe Flamm nodded back.

Then he was back in the hall, whisking the door closed behind him, and hurrying back to his own room to catch a few more hours before the next day’s grueling challenges. He thought he would sleep just fine now.

In the Bear Den, Joe Flamm was hiking his underwear back up and trying not to let the deeper thoughts creep in, trying only to remember how fucking great that had all felt. He couldn’t be fully sure that he had cum in his underwear without touching his dick, but he might have. Holy hell, when was the last time he’d done that? In college? In high school? Smiling, Flamm fell easily back to sleep.

And Tyler opened his eyes again, sitting up and removing his CPAP mask. What the hell had just happened?

Hey friends: if you like what you’re reading, why not kick your favorite writer a couple bucks? 

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Simmer, Chapter 3

Note: this story includes depictions of contestants on the reality TV show Top Chef. This story is not intended to depict any real-life actions or sexuality of the people portrayed.

M/M Explicit sexual content.

3. The Porch

It was never fun to watch someone leave the Top Chef house. Padma’s “Pack your knives and go” indictment was kind of fun if you were watching at home, but when you’re standing there, Judges’ Table just a few feet in front of you, facing the four or five people who had your fate in their hands … well, the reality of it crashes in pretty quickly. Even if you’re safe beyond any doubt, you still have to watch them send someone else home, you still have to see someone you’ve become friends with get ceremoniously ejected. And hell, it happened twice this week. At least Rogelio had had the dignity of leaving in the normal manner; Laura had been sent home in a Quickfire Elmination, which seemed just … what? Ignominious.

The worst of it was that you didn’t feel all bad when someone left. The worst of it was that a part of you – sometimes a big part – cheered, and did it loudly. If someone else is going home, you’re not. You stay to compete another day.

Joe Flamm let these thoughts swirl in his head as the rest of them cheered and drank and stared out the window at the endless Colorado vistas. Once or twice, he’d caught Joe Sasto’s eyes, and they’d lingered for a moment before moving off. They hadn’t talked about it today. Hell, they hadn’t had time. The Food Truck Challenge had been harder than anyone had anticipated, with more mental and physical energy going into it that he’d prepared for. He’d been matched up with Tanya and Carrie – not only a dream team in and of themselves, but also … well, fuck it. He’d been worried about pairing up with Joe. Not because he hated him or that it would be impossible to cook with him, but just because he hadn’t sorted anything out in his mind, and anything that was going to cause a distraction was something he didn’t need right now. Still, the three of them had opted to call their truck Down the Chin, cheekily explaining to anyone who would listen that of course they meant it to describe the messy food they were serving. Nothing else, wink-wink. But every once in a little while, Flamm would glance at the serving board and see that name and flash right back to Joe Sasto looking up at him after what had happened the night before.

No one here is psychic, Joe, his brain thundered at him. Call it what it was: a blowjob. Mustache Joe gave you a blowjob last night, and when he was finished, your cum was on his chin. And in his mouth.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Without saying another word, he stood up from the table and headed toward the back door. He needed air. A little breathing room.

Outside, the night had come down in a way he’d only experienced here. It wasn’t that the Top Chef house was completely free of light pollution – they were in Denver, deep in the mountains – but everything here seemed grander, wider, more open. In the distance, he could see the jagged tops of the Rockies reach out and touch the sky, a glittering violet blanket of stars and planets so vast he could only feel dwarfed by it all.

The door behind him opened and closed with a soft squeal. As he knew it would. As he hoped it would. “Joe,” he murmured.

“Joe,” the voice echoed back, and Flamm grinned, turning around and settling back against the railing. Sasto stood before him in a loose tank top and shorts, all that body hair still on display even though he was completely decent. Decent. What a word.

“Congratulations are in order,” Flamm said, grinning. It was true. In their third week there, Sasto had won the Elimination Challenge, for these out of control chicken wings that were crispy on the outside and tender on the inside and so good it was enough to make you lose your religion. Not that Flamm was slouching it: his soup with the grilled-cheese croutons had been enough for Gail to thank him for a hot dish on a sizzling day. A good day for the Joes, all in all.

“Thanks,” Sasto said. “I’m pretty relieved, actually. I was starting to get these thoughts that I would never win a challenge.”

“We’re on the third week, Joe.”

“Still. You know what I mean.”

Flamm grinned. “You’re so competitive. It’s good. It’s exciting to watch. Just don’t make it everything.”

“It is everything, isn’t it? I mean, that’s why we’re here.”

For a few moments, Flamm didn’t speak. It was easy to do with the mountains out there, and the moon hanging high like a benevolent ghost in the night, casting spells of light onto the world below. At last, Flamm glanced around. No one was following them, not even the camera crew. “So, do we talk about this?”

He met Sasto’s eyes and begged him quietly not to say, “Talk about what?” He didn’t know how to feel about the night before but he didn’t want to dismiss it, and he didn’t want to exactly forget about it. But even through all of the cooking and competition today, he couldn’t get it out of his mind. He needed to know why.

Sasto took a step forward, seeming to mull over his words. “Do we have to talk about it? It was something that happened.”

Flamm furrowed his brow and peered deep into Sasto’s dark eyes. The Italian set of his face, scruffy after the day they’d put in, even though he’d shaved that morning. And that mustache that should have been ridiculous, curling up at both sides like he was a strongman in a circus. It caught everyone’s eye, of course, but now his own eye lingered on it. It had brushed against his belly last night. Over and over, and then … then fucking holding Sasto’s head down as he came. What was that about? He’d never done that to a woman.

“It was more than that,” he said. “At least to me.”

Sasto did his own look around. “Well, what do you want it to be?”

“I don’t know. I thought I’d wake up this morning more freaked out than I am. But instead, I’m just thinking about it. I don’t think in a bad way, either. I don’t know. This is all new to me.”

Leaning against the railing, Sasto said, “It’s not exactly new to me. I mean, I’m straight, but … I don’t know, sometimes you just need to get off.”

A bunch of histrionic phrases passed through Flamm’s mind: is that all I am, a way to get off? and so I meant literally nothing? But he wasn’t even sure if he meant any of that stuff. He was just trying to get a handle on what he did mean.

“Yeah, okay. I mean, it’s good getting off. I never thought I’d do it with another dude.”

“It bother you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You want it to happen again?”

Flamm turned away. “I want to reiterate that I’m happily married.”

Then he felt Sasto’s hand on the front of his jeans. Instinctually, he backed away … then stopped. He glanced back through the window and the rest of the chefs were in the kitchen, drinking wine and deconstructing the day. Tyler and Bruce were making pork chops for everyone. No one was missing them, but if they started … if they looked.

“We both know that’s not a real answer.”

Sasto was still looking out into the wider Colorado world as his hand absently found Flamm’s fly and tugged it down gently. Flamm’s dick, fully flaccid only a moment ago, now awoke in the cool Denver night. Sasto’s fingers trailed across his shaft lightly.  

“Sometimes this happens,” Sasto told him. “I don’t look for answers. I just enjoy the moment. You enjoying the moment?”

Flamm closed his eyes and couldn’t help but grin. Sasto may not want answers, but they were important to him. Maybe they mattered and maybe they didn’t, but he still wanted them.

But he could get them later.

Joe Sasto’s hand gripped the shaft of Flamm’s dick, now almost fully hard and leaking precum onto the porch boards. Flamm gripped the railing and bit his lower lip. Women had done this, his wife had done this, but this was so different. The hand that held his cock was rough like his own, calloused and hard – it was a hand that had chopped a thousand onions, that had butchered a hundred pigs, that had grabbed hot saucepan lids and sliced the webbing between fingers open in the drive to create the perfect dish. It was a chef’s hand – a man’s chef’s hand – so like his own, but coming from outside. This wasn’t him jerking off quietly in the shower. This wasn’t masturbating under the sheets when he was in high school. This was new, and strange, and exciting as hell. Any deeper thoughts he had and wanted to share flew out of his brain as Sasto’s brilliant hand picked up pace.

“Joe,” he murmured, taking one more look over his shoulder. They were all still in there, talking, laughing, drinking. At any moment, any one of them could wonder where the two Joes were, and go seeking. The door to the porch wasn’t even closed. The thin screen door was all that stood between the Top Chef house and discovery.

“Want me to stop,” Sasto said, and Flamm caught a wicked grin on his face. He was enjoying this. Not just what he was doing, but also the danger of it, and the way he’d caught Flamm off guard. Chicago Joe wanted to wipe that grin off his face … but he also wanted to keep looking at it, while Joe Sasto’s hand kept moving on his cock, stroking up and down, at an excruciatingly slow pace that would drive him insane eventually. And his thumb kept tripping over the tip of his dick, swirling the precum there; when Flamm was jerking off by himself, he never touched the tip – it was just a sort of straight-up mechanical back and forth. This was fucking exquisite: those rough fingers moving in a rhythm Flamm himself couldn’t achieve, his thumb painting the head of his cock with precum, sensitizing it even more.

“Faster,” he grunted, looking right into Sasto’s face. Sasto’s grin turned into a real smile now, his mustache tilting up at the sides, his white teeth flashing through his olive complexion and day’s beard growth. All at once, Flamm wanted to put his hand on Sasto’s body, touch the rough hair on his belly, feel the definition in the man’s chest. Sasto was so different from him, so physically different. Exploring that body, that man’s body, would be like traveling to a new country to uncover new food, new customs, new ways of thinking about the world. He wanted to take off Joe Sasto’s shirt and lay him down on a bed in a quiet room and start a journey of discovery. Would he use more than his hands? Would he use his mouth? Oh fuck, what if he was going to use his mouth? Could he? Would it be too weird? Could—

Flashes appeared in his mind: Sasto lying down, fully naked, he above, dropping his head down and putting his tongue on Sasto’s abs, Sasto’s nipples, Sasto’s … oh, fuck, his balls. What would it be like to lick the man’s balls?

“Joe, I’m…”

“Shhhh. Don’t want them to hear.”

The night before, his eyes had been fully squeezed shut when came, shooting into Sasto’s mouth behind a shroud of darkness. Now, his eyes were on Joe Sasto’s face as his nuts tightened. His cock throbbed. Sasto’s smile never dropped off, and his hand never stopped moving. Flamm found himself matching that smile, second before his body began to shudder all over. His knees went watery and he held onto the bannister as tightly as he could to avoid collapsing. Then, in a triple wallop, he came over and over and over, his jizz shooting out through the bars of the porch railing and showering the ground below. It felt as if his whole essence was shooting out of him, concentrated and vital.

Joe Sasto’s mild smile never fell away. Those eyes, dark pools of mystery, never betrayed what he was thinking. After a long while, Sasto removed his hand and glanced down at it. Some of Flamm’s semen had pooled there in the hollow between his thumb and forefinger. Never taking his eyes off Flamm’s, he held the hand up to his face and lapped up the warm come. Some of it dribbled down his chin.

“Joe,” Flamm repeated. It was the only word he seemed to know anymore.

“It’s just protein,” Sasto said, smiling, wiping his chin. After a moment, Flamm smiled back. Then the voices inside hit him afresh, and he was suddenly acutely reminded of where they were and what they were doing. He’d forgotten for awhile. As he got his still-hard dick back into his pants, Sasto said, “Look, man. If you want to talk about it, I’ll talk about it. Later. I didn’t expect this, but I’m into it. You into it?”

Flamm’s dick still throbbed behind his zipper. “I don’t want to say yes.”

“Hey, Joe. Look, I’m not gay, but I’m sure as hell not straight. If you’re having an identity thing, that’s cool, but me? I don’t worry about that stuff. Sometimes it’s okay to not think too hard and just enjoy it.”

“That’s not … really how I’m built.”

Sasto’s smile got bigger. “Then we’ll talk. But not now.”

Flamm shot his eyes down to Sasto’s crotch. “Aren’t you going to…?”

Shaking his head, Sasto said, “Not right now. But you owe me. We’re going to do it my way next time.”

Isn’t that what we’ve been doing? Flamm wondered, but his dick didn’t wonder. His dick – already getting softer – immediately hardened again, and he thought if he wanted to, he could get off again. He hadn’t come twice in a row since culinary school. What the hell was Sasto doing to him?

What he was doing now was tilting a little salute and retreating back into the house, leaving Joe Flamm on the porch alone once again. He tried to think but he couldn’t. His whole body thrummed with the excitement of what had just happened, and what had happened the night before. Two words clamored through his head like clarion bells: next time. Sasto had said next time. This was going to happen again.

Despite all of Chicago Joe’s reservations, he couldn’t stop smiling. Next time. What the hell was going to happen next time?

Hey friends: if you like what you’re reading, why not kick your favorite writer a couple bucks? 

Hey friends: if you like what you’re reading, why not kick your favorite writer a couple bucks? 

[spicyskilletsauce-blog]

Simmer, Chapter 2

Note: this story includes depictions of contestants on the reality TV show Top Chef. This story is not intended to depict any real-life actions or sexuality of the people portrayed.

M/M Explicit sexual content. 

Trigger warning: breath play.

2. Chicago Joe Wakes Up

Sasto wasted no time. Without even bothering to wipe the jizz out of his thick belly hair, he hoisted himself forward, landing on his knees on the carpeted floor. He was maybe showing off a little, trying to prove something to Chicago Joe. Muscles and stamina and a willingness to go the distance: that’s what you got when you got Joe Sasto.

Before doing anything, he measured Flamm’s body with a long glance. The man was big, like a lot of chefs. When he stood, his belly hung down over his belt, a fantastic slope that had caught Sasto’s eye more than once. It wasn’t that Sasto was gay, necessarily, but living in the Bay Area had gotten him more than his share of attention; the kickass mustache was only the gateway. He’d fooled around with guys every once in awhile, when the mood took him, and he’d always been partial to the bigger guys. There was something about the substance of them, the way they took up space. Without speaking, they seemed to wield a quiet authority just by virtue of their size. And when they were chefs? Fuck, man. Tiny kitchens. Big dudes. It was the sort of immediate presence Sasto would never attain. If you were smaller, you had to compensate in other ways.

Beyond all that, though, there was the way big guys just felt. Sasto ran his hand gently over Flamm’s smattering of chest hair, his fingertips gently brushing the man’s big nipples. Every time he did it, Flamm moaned softly, arching his head back and drawing in breath. So they were connected: a straight shot of sensation from his nipples to the nerves in his cock. Sasto wondered if Flamm had known that before now. In his experience, straight guys often don’t unlock the sexual secrets of their own bodies unless they’re with other men. Now Sasto raised up on his knees and put both hands on Flamm’s big body, caressing the skin, closing his eyes and reveling in the sensation of it. He didn’t know whether Flamm was comfortable in his body or not, but often bigger guys – even, unfathomably, chefs – had a hard time with their size. Sasto’s job, right now, before dawn, was to make Flamm feel good about that weight before anything else happened. This wasn’t an “in spite of” situation, but a “because of.”

“Joe,” Flamm breathed, and Sasto ran his thumbs over both nipples. The big man shivered all over, the tingly feeling branching out not just to his dick but all over his body. Sasto knew every tweak of those nipples was making Flamm more and more sensitive. He had to be careful; too much sensitivity would overshoot what he wanted to accomplish. Gently, he moved his hands down to the man’s belly and leaned forward. His tongue found Flamm’s nipple and flicked at it, once, twice. For purchase, Sasto moved his hands to either side of Chicago Joe, and now their bellies were touching: Flamm’s soft round gut pressed down by Sasto’s tight, hairy six-pack. Sasto was willing to bet that this was the most body contact Flamm had ever had with another man; something about that thrilled Sasto, and he moved his whole body up and down, gently, as he shifted his mouth from nipple to nipple, teasing, prodding, encircling.

Beneath him, Joe Flamm’s penis grew, brushing up against Sasto’s cock and balls as Flamm continued to moan in guttural pleasure. Sasto felt precum leaking out of the man’s thick cock, and badly wanted a taste. It had been years since he’d gone down on another man, and now that the opportunity was presenting itself, he didn’t want to risk Flamm waking up to the reality that he was married and ostensibly straight. Gently, almost tentatively, Sasto bit down on the nipple he was licking, restraining himself from simply mauling the thing with his teeth. Flamm reacted immediately, bucking up against the smaller man, raising his ass off the couch and digging the tip of his cock into Sasto’s crotch. The man was ready.

Sasto moved down Flamm’s body, running his tongue over his skin and loving the manly, vibrant taste of it. Honest sweat earned from a hard day in the kitchen, and Sasto tasted it greedily, wondering how he could have ever stopped doing this. He loved the feel of Flamm’s thin layer of belly hair against his tongue, the texture of it wild and exciting, mixing with the taste and smell of Flamm’s body. Sasto had begun to grow soft, but now his dick shot back to attention.

Now, Joe Sasto lifted his head up, taking in the large, rugged handsomeness of the man before him. Flamm’s eyes were squeezed shut, and he was biting his lower lip in the mien of someone in the throes of concentration. Good. Good. Without wasting another second, Sasto lowered his head, and swallowed Joe Flamm’s entire cock at once.

Taste flooded Sasto’s mouth: Flamm’s sweet/salty precum mixing electrically with the deeper, muskier taste of the man’s thick cock. It wasn’t as long as his own, but the man’s girth was astounding. Slowly, he drew back up, never stopping his rapid, darting tongue all over Flamm’s shaft. Precum geysered out, splashing Sasto’s cheeks, and he swallowed as quickly as he could, not letting a drop go to waste. When he moved back down, he went even further, his face pressing into Flamm’s crotch as the man’s enormous cock stretched Sasto’s throat, momentarily cutting off his air as he strained to take in more, to go deeper. Talk about thrill: the lack of oxygen spiked something in Sasto’s brain, awakening a deeply animal excitement, making his dick even harder. With Flamm’s dick still lodged down his throat, Sasto moved his head rapidly up and down, loving the feel of it in there, loving the inability to breathe, loving how Flamm was still gushing precum and he had to keep swallowing while he was getting his throat fucked. He’d deep-throated men in the past, but never for this long, and never with this intensity. He squeezed his eyes closed and grabbed his dick.

A second later, he was forced to surface, gasping for air just above Joe Flamm’s dripping dick. Flamm opened his eyes and turned his gaze on Sasto. “Hey, are you…?”

“Shhh,” Sasto said, grinning and putting a finger up to his lips. Then, without another sound, he dove down again, even further down than before. His mustache mashed against his face, mingling with Flamm’s soft pillow of pubic hair. Flamm’s meaty cock took up all the room deep in Sasto’s throat, sealing off the air, sending ball-lightning sizzles of excitement through Sasto’s head and heart and dick. He started fucking his throat with Flamm’s cock, wanting to go slowly to enjoy it but not daring. Flamm was getting close. His body began to buck up against Sasto’s face, his heavy balls slapping Sasto on the chin. Sasto didn’t need to move his own head now; Flamm was doing all the work for him.

Down below, Joe Sasto worked his own cock as fast as possible, his thumb circling the head every time, sending even more spiky sensation through him. He would need to breathe soon, he knew it, but this rhythm was so fucking good, so fucking hot, that he wanted to stave off interrupting it as long as he could. A moment later, the choice was taken out of his hands. One of Joe Flamm’s big hands came down on the back of Sasto’s head, holding it deep in place, as the big man drilled Sasto’s throat ferociously. Sasto now desperately needed to breathe, but his own hand was still furiously jacking his cock. Flamm’s other hand landed on his head and Chicago Joe slammed his throat hard: thrusting, thrusting, thrusting. On instinct, Sasto tried to move his head away, but Flamm wouldn’t let up. Fuck. Fuck.

Then, with a deep, rasping grunt, Joe Flamm went rigid, pressing Sasto’s head forcefully down one last time. The man’s cock expanded in Sasto’s throat, and a moment later, cum bulleted out, shooting once, twice, a third time. There was so much of it, Sasto thought he might drown. As Flamm shot his fourth load, Sasto’s own dick exploded in his hand, erupting for the second time in less than fifteen minutes. He couldn’t believe it.

Now, when he jerked his head away, Flamm let it go, and for a second, Sasto could only suck in air, relishing the sweet oxygen; then, his eyes settled on Flamm’s face. The man’s eyes were still closed, but he was grinning that wide, endearing grin Sasto had liked since day one.

Slowly, quietly, Sasto once again moved up the man’s body. This was a risk; when it came to straight guys, they sometimes let you get them off, but then they wanted nothing to do with you. Sasto rested his head against Flamm’s big shoulder and put an arm across Flamm’s wide chest. Flamm opened his eyes and looked over to Sasto, as if waking up from a dream. The grin was gone, but there was something in the man’s eyes. Sasto couldn’t make it out.

After a moment’s silence, Flamm snaked his arm around Sasto’s small, muscular body, and held him close.

They stayed like that for a while.

[spicyskilletsauce-blog]

Simmer, Chapter 1

Note: this story includes depictions of contestants on the reality TV show Top Chef. This story is not intended to depict any real-life actions or sexuality of the people portrayed. 

M/M Explicit sexual content.

1. Restless Night

Chicago Joe – Joe Flamm – stumbled blearily out of The Bear Den, the room he was sharing with Tyler and Bruce. The term had been Tyler’s and the other two had adopted it quickly, throwing up “bear paws” every time they said it. Joe understood that the bear stuff was a gay thing, a way big dudes referred to each other, but he also knew that Tom Collichio was something of a “bear icon.” Maybe it didn’t matter who you slept with, only how you felt.  

His erection had finally gone down. Did it count as morning wood if you woke up with it in the middle of the night? For a few restless moments, he considered jerking off in his bed while the other two slept, but the fear of waking them up disabused him of the idea. Besides, what if Tyler woke up? Would he take it as a come-on? Best to not get in a situation like that again. No, the best thing to do was to get up and busy himself. That’s how he conquered insomnia at home. But damn, had he wanted to take care of himself.

The house was quiet. One thing about competing on Top Chef is that it wore you out. After cooking all day and spiking on adrenaline so acute it might as well have been speed, they all returned back to the house and cooked some more, decompressing from the day before falling into utter stupor. Man wasn’t meant to live this way. Even though he objectively knew that the competition wouldn’t go on forever – couldn’t go on forever – he was already exhausted beyond the telling of it, and the days seemed to stretch out before him like a bottomless pit turned on its side. Plus, he missed his wife. The thrill of competing, the excitement of cooking for people like Tom and Gail and Padma, the unending beauty of the Colorado vistas around him – it was amazing, but had the weird effect of isolating him. He was surrounded by some of the best chefs in the country all day, every day, and had made fast friends with some of them (especially Tyler and Bruce), but he couldn’t deny the loneliness that was beginning to creep in. It had only been three weeks since he’d stepped off the plane from Chicago and already that lonesome feeling was beginning to crush him like a vice.

The digital clock in the bedroom had read 4:43. How long had he been awake, waiting for his hard-on to go away, before he’d decided to get up and wander to the kitchen? This little bout of insomnia certainly wasn’t going to help him tomorrow. They had to make “hangover food” in food trucks for college students, which actually sounded fun … only how fun was it going to be on three hours of sleep?

“Cook something,” he murmured to himself. “That’ll calm you.” He wondered idly if chefs were the only people who did more of the thing that stressed them out as a way to calm down. Maybe writers or singers, too. The creatives. That’s how he thought of himself, actually. A creative. He didn’t necessarily think that food was art, but he definitely thought a well-executed plate, especially from a recipe he developed, could be art-adjacent. Joe smiled at that one; his brain was groggy, but not entirely asleep.

One of Joe’s passions – what his wife called “his weird hobby” – was collecting cookbooks from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Sometimes, when he wasn’t cooking, he’d peruse these cookbooks and try to find recipes from the past that inspired him. Recently, he’d stumbled across a recipe for mushroom ketchup and immediately bent closer to the book. Apparently, tomato ketchup wasn’t a thing until the mid-1800s. Before then, ketchup was this weird mushroom mixture, more liquid than sauce. Immediately, Joe had been wild to try to replicate it, using as many of the archaic methods cooks might have used back then. When his wife had walked into the kitchen to see him straining liquid by hand through a cheesecloth, she simply shrugged and wandered out.

The mushroom ketchup had turned out spectacularly complex – earthy and salty and so unusual to his tongue that it had the paradoxical effect of tasting fresh and new. At once, he began experimenting. After exchanging some spices and adding more garlic than seemed wise, Joe had created an all-new flavor profile. He started splashing on his steaks at the restaurant and soon it became one of his most popular dishes. It went to show that sometimes, when you were looking for something brand new, you found it was already there, just waiting to be discovered.

Tonight, though? Tonight wasn’t about experimentation or stretching himself. Tonight was about curing his insomnia so he could try to get at least a couple more hours of sleep before the competition began in earnest the next day. Eggs. Plain old scrambled eggs. That would hit the spot.

He approached the kitchen when, in his peripheral vision, he saw something shift in the darkness of the living room. One of the camera guys, maybe? Or, oh God, what if it was a burglar? Could a burglar even get in here? This house was essentially a television set. It…

The lamp beside the couch flipped on, and sitting there, clad only in his boxer shorts, was the other Joe, the one everyone called Mustache Joe on account of his old-fashioned curlicued facial hair. “Joe?” he asked, looking every bit as bleary as he himself felt. He also couldn’t help but notice how damn hairy Mustache Joe – Sasto, his last name is Sasto – was: from his shoulders to his chest to the deep thicket of curly black hair on his belly, the guy could have been a natural for the Bear Den, even though he was short and slender. Flamm was suddenly acutely aware that he, too, was only wearing boxers, and that while his size was a matter of fun with Tyler and Bruce, he now felt self-conscious. When you were a chef, it was accepted that you could be heavy and hefty; it was almost a requirement, especially if you were a guy. But even in the midst of a competition like this one, you weren’t a chef all the time. Sometimes you were just a man. If there was another moment since coming to Colorado that Flamm had felt less like a chef than at quarter to five in the morning, nearly naked and facing a nearly naked Joe Sasto … well, he didn’t know what it was.

“Hey Sasto,” Flamm said, instinctively putting his hands over his large belly, as if to hide it. There was no hiding it.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“No. Maybe it’s the tension of the competition. Everyone’s really fucking good.”

Sasto smiled. “You’re really fucking good.”

Flamm had no idea what to say to that so he just shrugged and looked away. “You?”

Sighing, Sasto said, “I think … I think everyone hates me.”

Cautiously, Flamm moved closer, taking the seat across from Sasto and trying to meet his eyes. It was hard. Sasto kept looking all around, as if trying to avoid scrutiny. “Hey,” he said, and Sasto kept looking off. “Hey.”

Now he looked. “What?”

“Why do you think people hate you? They don’t, by the way.”

Sasto put his hand over his eyes. “You were there at Whole Foods today. I was … Joe, I was acting like an asshole.”

Flamm thought back. Earlier that day, the chefs had been divided up into two teams and had to make meals inspired by and including farm-fresh cheese. Sasto had been on the other team and had received a bit of a drubbing at Judges’ Table, but that was as far as Flamm had noticed. He was too busy concentrating on his own food and terror that Tom Collichio or Padma Lakshmi would call his food inedible. “I didn’t really see. I’m sure you were fine.”

“You know I was a line cook seven years ago, right?” What the hell did that have to do with anything? Flamm thought but didn’t say. They’d all been line cooks at one point or another.

“I mean, I guess?”

“I’ve moved up very fast. Really fast.” Sasto lowered his hand and put it on his lap. It shifted the fabric of his boxers and for a moment, Flamm caught a glimpse of Sasto’s pubic hair. He looked away quickly … but not before noticing how thick that hair was, too. Joe Sasto was a jungle in human form. When was the last time he’d seen another man’s pubic hair? In college, maybe. But the stuff that happened in college didn’t have any bearing on now. Did it? Flamm shook his head, clearing it and pretending he hadn’t seen what he’d seen, hadn’t thought what he’d thought. “I think I’m just so scared of losing my hold on where I am now that I tend to … I don’t know. Assert more than I need to?”

“You’re bossy.”

Sasto looked up and flashed a momentary grin. His teeth were very white below that amazing mustache. “I didn’t really say that.”

“Sometimes people need to take charge. It’s not a crime.”

Sasto shrugged. “I just don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I mean, I want to win, but I don’t want to, like, ruin anyone on the way there.”

Without thinking, Joe Flamm reached out and put a hand on Sasto’s knee. “You’re fine, man. Don’t beat yourself up over this.”

Sasto looked at the hand on his knee. Flamm did too. Let go, he thought. Take your hand back, he thought. But it took a few seconds. A few long seconds.

Flamm looked up into Sasto’s eyes. His heart slammed violently in his chest, the way it did when he was serving someone important, the way it did when he’d opened the restaurant. When he’d been in college, watching TV in the common room alone, and someone new had walked in. Someone different.

When Flamm dragged his breath in, it had to force itself through an opening the size of a straw. Sasto looked back and neither of them dropped their eyes for a long, long moment.

In a voice so low it was nearly impossible to hear, Sasto said, “You didn’t have to take your hand away.”

The heart pounding in Flamm’s chest doubled in speed, trebled. It was like a jackhammer in there; if kept inside much longer, it might simply explode out of his chest. And it was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Absurd. There was nothing here that interested him. Nothing here that excited him. He had lived an entire life without once having a thought about another guy. Well, most of a life. That counted for something, right? And anyway, hell there was Tyler, up in the Bear Den. He was actually gay. If Flamm was going to have any sort of thought like this, wouldn’t it be easier to go in that direction? Wouldn’t it be saner? Sane? Joe Flamm thought. None of this is sane.

He opened his mouth with no idea what words might come out. “I have a wife,” he murmured, closing his eyes. In the darkness behind his eyes, he felt his hand moving as if under its own power. Good, think of it that way. If what you’re doing isn’t really your doing, then you don’t have to examine it. It’s worked before, Joe. It’ll work now.

Then he opened his eyes and there was his hand, back on Sasto’s knee. It was attached to his arm, which was attached to him. Jesus God, what was happening here? What the hell was happening?

“Now,” Sasto said. “Move it up. Just a little.”

“I really don’t…” And that’s when he saw it. Joe Sasto’s dick had found its way through the hole at the front of his boxer shorts. Not fully erect, not yet, but getting there. Flamm had two choices: get up at once and dash out of the room … or stay here and stop thinking.

“You should touch it,” Sasto said, his voice a little gruffer now. “Just hold it a second.”

Flamm hesitated only a moment. In the dim recesses of his sleep-deprived mind, he knew that if he stopped, if he wavered, then everything would come crashing down. The gears would turn. Rational thought would intercede. And this – whatever this was – would stop. A part of him, currently the dominant part of him, didn’t want it to stop.

He let his hand slide further up Sasto’s hairy, muscular leg. Then, with tentative, tented fingers, he reached out and found Sasto’s dick. Joe Flamm closed his eyes and tried to believe this wasn’t happening. As he did, he let his hand fully encircle the cock he was holding, and gave it a light squeeze. Familiarity came rushing back, and with it, the strange blue excitement that he’d once known well enough to lose himself in. Maybe he could lose himself in this too.

Sasto groaned quietly, and Flamm’s eyes shot open. Sasto had shifted slightly, stretching out a little and thrusting his hips forward. Flamm let his eyes travel down the man’s body more slowly this time. Beneath all that body hair, Sasto was surprisingly muscular; his chest bulged, his pink nipples standing out in delicate contrast to all that wiry dark hair. The man’s stomach, so unlike his own, was taut, abs defined and on display. Flamm badly wanted to reach out and run his hand over those abs, just to see what they felt like.

“Stroke me,” Sasto murmured. Flamm, not taking his eyes off those tight abs, complied. Sasto’s dick was different than his – thinner, but a little longer – so even though the rhythm was the same, he couldn’t quite pretend that he was jerking himself off. Then don’t, his mind suggested, and now he let his eyes drift to the cock in his hand.

He moved it up and down, slowly at first, then picking up speed. It was fascinating, watching his massive, meaty hand gripping that thin cock, dwarfing it. His own dick was so much thicker that this new sensation was exhilarating, and doing it from this angle was so unusual. It was like a recipe where the instructions were familiar but the ingredients were all different. Flamm dropped his guard a little and found that he was actually enjoying this.

At once, his own dick stirred, and started to grow.

Sasto began to writhe against the couch, making thick, almost angry sounds in his throat. “Don’t stop,” he grunted. “Faster.”

Flamm did as instructed, tugging the smaller man’s dick firmly but gently, marveling at the feel of it in his hand. It throbbed and he moved even faster, his hand tugging in small, rapid movements, a lifetime of chef’s training kicking in.

“Oh Joe,” Sasto growled. “Oh fuck, Joe.”

Flamm glanced up to Sasto’s face. His eyes were squeezed shut and his teeth bit into his lower lip. His upper lip curled back, and with the mustache dominating his face, he almost seemed like an animal, wild and feral, in the throes of some instinctual ritual. Then he gasped, and his eyes went wide, his mouth hanging open.

Joe Flamm looked down just in time to see Sasto’s dick erupt: thick, ropy shots of cum shot out, splattering against Sasto’s hairy, muscular gut. The whiteness of it contrasted sharply with the thick, dark hair, and Flamm stared at it, amazed that he had made that happen.

Then it shot again, the cum thinner this time, and Sasto bucked against the couch violently. “Stop,” he moaned to Chicago Joe. “Too much.”

Reluctantly, Flamm loosened his grip on Sasto’s cock, and let it slowly trail down the man’s leg. He didn’t know why he was so hesitant to stop this when he hadn’t exactly wanted it to start, but all he had to do was look up at Sasto’s exhausted face, breath heaving in and out, to know that he wanted to do it again.

Then Sasto opened his eyes and met Flamm’s gaze. Sasto’s eyes traced the contours of Flamm’s hefty body, and rested at a spot just below his considerable belly. Joe Flamm was aware for the second time, just how hard his own dick was; it hadn’t gone down when Sasto had cum. On the contrary, it seemed only to have gotten harder.

“Well,” Sasto said with a grin and a wink. “I guess it’s your turn, isn’t it?”

Chicago Joe looked into his friend’s eyes and found it impossible to look away. Quietly, he said the only thing that came to mind: “Go for it.”