Delight (A Post Matterhorn Affair Story)
Napoleon Solo groaned. He hadn't expected this to be torturous, had thought he'd be able to carry it off with his usual sang-froid, but it was far worse than he'd expected. He was splayed out, naked, and helpless - or as good as. He didn't think he could move even if he wanted to, and he didn't want to. Every move made it worse. His body twitched and shivered, and with every twitch and every shiver he could feel warm liquid slowly oozing down his ... he cried out. "Illya!" Not loud enough. He couldn't muster up the volume he needed, reduced to this pitiful croak - "Illya! Where are you?"
"Coming!" Illya's voice sounded distant - too distant. Napoleon groaned.
"Illya," he nearly wept. "Illya, hurry. Please hurry. I can't take much more of this."
"I'm doing the best I can, Napoleon. Can't you wait for one more minute?"
One more minute. One more minute, sixty slow seconds of this - "No! I can't! Please, whatever it is you're doing, drop it and come on in here and rescue me!"
"Drop it?" Illya sounded disbelieving - and still too far away. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to gather this together? I thought you said it was important!"
"Help me," he moaned, unable to control himself. "Illya, please, for all that's holy, help me!"
"All right, Napoleon. I'm coming. Hang on." He heard a thud and then Illya's footsteps approached. "What - what?" He sounded dumbfounded. Napoleon opened his eyes, which he had scrunched shut as if he could hide from the sensation, and peered at Illya. Illya was standing in Napoleon's bedroom doorway and his mouth was hanging open. "What - are you bleeding?" He came closer, peered at Napoleon's naked body - more specifically, at his penis. "What on earth ..." Illya leaned in closer, lifted Napoleon's flaccid organ with one finger and inspected it closely. Napoleon groaned again.
"Please, Illya. Please help me."
"Tell me what this is, first, that necessitated my dropping your tax records all over the floor."
"It's ... it's hot fudge sauce."
"Hot fudge sauce?" Illya repeated it as if he couldn't credit Napoleon's words, then he put a finger to the substance, brought the finger to his eyes, then gave the finger a tentative tongue swipe. "I'll be damned. It is hot fudge sauce. What is it doing all over your dick? And what is this white stuff? It can't be come, it's too ... it's too .. well, the consistency is off."
"Vanilla ice cream," Napoleon said weakly. "And there's a cherry in there somewhere. I didn't think it would melt so fast. I thought it would be ... Illya, I'm begging you. Get it off of me."
"And how would you expect me to do that?" Illya asked in a silky voice. "Would you like me to pour water on you? It would ruin the sheets - which are already a mess. Do you want a washcloth? Or would you prefer ..." he leaned in and engulfed Napoleon's cock, which was already beginning to show signs of recovery under the scrutiny and the finger swipe, with his mouth.
It was bliss. After the cold of the ice cream, and the overly warm stickiness of the fudge sauce, after the misery of lying there feeling it all melt and dribble down his crotch, to feel the heat of Illya's lips, his tongue, his warm wet sucking, licking ... the orgasm blasted through him, making him arch off the bed, making his toes curl and his fingers clutch at Illya's head. Making him scream. He screamed and he came until he wondered vaguely if he might actually have a stroke, and then he collapsed.
Illya continued the clean up operation, delivering little laps and long sweeping licks, like a cat finishing off a bowl of cream. Napoleon lay there and panted. Then Illya moved up the bed, stretched out beside him, and offered his lips. Napoleon kissed them, and found an object being pressed into his mouth. Obligingly he took the cherry, nipped if off the stem, which Illya still held in his teeth, and ate it. Then he kissed Illya some more.
"Want me to return the favor?" he asked mischievously. Amazing how his spirits had rebounded. Only twenty minutes ago he had felt at death's door. Now - he reached down, gathered Illya's balls into his palm and cuddled him. "There's plenty of ice cream left - ow!" Illya had dug a knee sharply into his balls, and there was nothing cuddly about it.
"Don't you dare," Illya threatened, not hurting him - not really, not yet, but not easing the pressure of his knee either. "Don't you even think about putting ice cream - or hot fudge sauce! - on my very sensitive parts. What do you think you're doing - don't you - oh. Hmm." Napoleon waggled the cherry he'd fetched from the jar by the bed.
"Please? With a cherry on top?"
"You are crazy as hell. What do you think you are doing? What were you doing before? Why -" Napoleon closed his mouth with a kiss and Illya fell silent, kissed him back. Then Napoleon withdrew.
"It was a Quasimodo Delight," he explained, brushing the cherry along Illya's lips, pulling it away when he reached for it with his tongue. "You know. Like I promised you in the ice cream shop."
"A Quasimodo ..." Illya laughed then, a full out belly laugh. He lay on his back and laughed and Napoleon, delighted, laughed back down at him. It was a rare sight indeed, to see Illya Kuryakin helpless with laughter, and that it was he who had done it made him flush with pride and pleasure. Illya saw both, and shook his head at him.
"You really think you're something, don't you," he said, when he could talk. "The great Napoleon Solo, with his Ice Prince of a partner in the palm of his hand." And the laughter was gone as completely as if had never been. Illya was looking at Napoleon, and the naked vulnerability on his face made Napoleon's eyes sting. Gently he lowered the cherry again, and this time when Illya's lips parted Napoleon let him take it. While Illya chewed Napoleon turned him onto his side, facing away from him, spooning him from behind. Then he began to walk his fingers down Illya's stomach.
"The great Napoleon Solo," he whispered directly into Illya's ear, feeling him shudder with pleasure. "Completely wrapped around his dearest, most well beloved partner's little finger. I must be something, to have ever deserved this." He closed his hand around Illya's organ and proceeded to bring him off with all the skill at his disposal, knowing just what Illya liked at each stage of this process, holding him hard against him with the other arm. This time they both screamed, both arched off the bed; Illya thrusting inside Napoleon's fist, Napoleon thrusting against Illya's buttocks, heads turned so they could kiss, and then they fell back into one another's arms, gasping and shivering and laughing a little at one another and themselves.
They changed the sheets and showered. Napoleon made pancakes, and they ate in front of the television, nestled close together, feeding one another cherries and whipped cream in between bites of pancake. Then they went back to bed and fell asleep immediately - warm, well fed, and well loved. Very well loved indeed.