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Thanks, everyone.

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"John, we're out in the fucking streets," Dirk hisses between his teeth, right into John's pubic hair.

It's half past one in the morning. The streetlights are yellow and buzzing along a quiet, suburban neighborhood; a few dozen moths make the rounds around the oblong bulbs high above the two bickering males in the grass.

John is half undressed, his pants and boxers pooled down around his ankles. He stands, indifferent to the environment, fully erect in every sense of the word. Each of his hands are aligned onto Dirk's shoulders, the man in question positioned on his knees and between John's legs, shades pushed back to the crest of his head, a nervous glint in his narrowed eyes.

There's nothing daunting about John's dick in his face, it's just that Dirk dislikes the idea of half of the neighborhood potentially being listed as eyewitnesses to public indecency.

"I'll be quiet this time," John whispers far too loudly to make good on his promise. As if in recognition of that, he adds, "Once you get started, that is."

Dirk frowns in contemplation, even as John thrusts his hips forward demandingly and knocks his dick against Dirk's cheek. The flesh of John's erection is searing in contrast to the cool night air, too distracting for Dirk to concentrate on why this is a bad idea again, and the grass rustles as the blond adjusts himself on the ground.

"Don't make me regret this later," is all Dirk says, before he opens his mouth and takes John into his mouth.

As expected, John is vocal in excess; he groans like a man wounded and spent, head lolling back, and he fists his hands into the front of Dirk's hair. John thrusts in time with every bob of Dirk's head, steers him like a damned bumper car, and it isn't long before his voice is echoing down the asphalt just as Dirk feared.

But it's too late to turn back now. Dirk can't, not with the musk of John's balls in his nostrils and the taste of cock on his tongue, or the surge of pleasure that shoots into his dick as John nearly unroots his hair from his scalp from the sheer strength of his grip, and definitely not now when John's moans consist solely of his name like a chant meant for a god.

"Dirk, Dirk, I--fuck, fuck, FUCK yes--"

John sags forward, bearing down on Dirk with weak legs. He tenses from his gut, the rest of his body stiffening promptly afterwards, and it's clear that he's on the verge of coming already.

Dirk can't pull away even if he tried; John is holding him in place with muscles that Dirk didn't realize had been developed so impressively. Hormones were a hell of a drug. But missing out on the taste of John's cum is the furthest thing from his mind right now. He's ready for it.

A guttural noise crawls out of John's throat right as he spills into Dirk's mouth. There's a trick to it, Dirk had said at one time; something about swallowing from deeper in the neck than higher up at the tonsils. Whatever "the trick" is, it allows Dirk to swallow every bit of the salty fluid gushing from John's cock, a feat no less impressive on a lawn than it is in a bed.

Only when he gradually begins to soften does John release his hold on Dirk. In the dim lighting, Dirk licks his lips and casts a heavy-lidded look up at John.



"You came more than usual."

"Is that good?"

Momentarily dazed, occupied by a blissful afterglow, John offers Dirk a dreamy, hopeful smile. The fond expression is met with an irritated scowl as Dirk rises to his feet and seizes John by the collar of his shirt.

"No, you fucking made me turned on while an eighty year old lady has been watching us from her living room window!"

"Hot," John says jokingly, but he then frowns. "Wait, which one? The one with short curly hair, or the one with a crew cut?"

"I wasn't looking at her fucking hair, John, I don't know. Now can we go inside?"

For a moment, it seems John is seriously considering calling it quits for the night. He regards Dirk thoughtfully, notes the sharp edges of his eyes and the fullness of his pouting lips, and makes a decision.

"You like this, don't you," John accuses, and Dirk's mouth goes slack.


"You said you got turned on by someone watching," John clarifies, a devious grin splitting his face open. "You like being watched, don't you?"

"Fuck, no, John, can we go inside--"

"You like being humiliated."

Dirk gapes at John in distinct silence. A cricket rubs its legs together excitedly at the scene unraveling on the lawn. A moth could easily fly into Dirk's mouth and he'd probably swallow it. More than a minute passes before any reply is made.

"We're not doing this," Dirk begins, but that's all John needs to hear as confirmation of his suspicion.

Like a switch, John is alert again, and this time he is keenly focused on Dirk with an authoritative demeanor that requires nothing less than obedience.

"Lie on your back," John instructs, pulling on his underwear and pants.


More disbelief than confusion crosses Dirk's face, but he isn't given time to protest. No sooner than John has zipped up his pants and buttoned them that he hooks a leg behind Dirk's knees and sweeps him off balance. Dirk breathes out a disgruntled sound and flails about on the grass, then goes still as John steps over to him and presses a foot onto his chest.

"On your back, I said," John repeats. "Don't make me tell you anything twice again."

Dirk wheezes something unintelligible but assuredly unflattering as he clamps his hands around John's foot in an effort to remove it. Tsk'ing in a show of disappointment, John does withdraw his foot, but only to lower himself down to straddle Dirk's legs.

"Get off, John," Dirk urges, straining against the restraining weight on his legs.

"Already did," John retorts smugly. "Now it's your turn."

"I'm not getting off out here on the--fuck!"

All argument drains from him as Dirk arches his hips up into John's hand now firmly cupped around an obvious bulge. John laughs deep in his throat at the sight and slides his hand up to undo Dirk's pants.

"I'm going to make you come all over yourself so I can lick it off of you. I hope the old lady is watching, because it's going to be a real show."

A visible shudder racks Dirk's body. John's hand at his waistline is more than enough to occupy him, but that and the imagery of being touched and of being watched--fuck, they're still on the fucking lawn--John is going to lick cum off of him on the LAWN--

John tugs Dirk's pants down to only his thighs, just enough for his cock to spring free, and Dirk sucks in a breath. If there's any hope of convincing John to move this inside, it has to be done now.

"John, I still think--"

"That's a problem," John interrupts him, brows furrowing. "How do we fix that?"

It's a rhetorical question, one Dirk knows the answer to--but John isn't asking him, and plainly is uninterested in anything he has to say outside of mindless subservience. Or so it seemed.

"Dirk. I said, how do we fix it?"

"That might require me to think," Dirk deadpans. He flinches when John suddenly slaps his thighs and the sound rings out into the night. For all the sting left behind, his dick still jerks from the touch.

"You're right! Don't do that. Just repeat after me."

"What? No!"

"Tell me to suck your cock," John demands, then leans in and runs his tongue flat along Dirk's length, from the base to the tip. It's no secret how sensitive Dirk has become, and verbal communication won't come easily, but John has proven relentless enough in the past that ignoring or denying him is a fruitless endeavor.

Dirk tries to fight it anyways, obstinately clinging to his last shred of dignity, even as John licks it away.

"Fuck--I mean, no, let me--aah--"

John grins as Dirk's voice rises in pitch, and he presses his hands onto Dirk's hips to hold him in place.

"Say it."


"Say it," John insists, fingers digging roughly into Dirk's sides in the way he knows drives Dirk crazy. "Tell me how you want to cover yourself in your own cum like a dirty little slut, right here on the lawn."

"John, please--"

"You want it?"

"Yes, I--"

"You want my mouth on your hot cock?"


"You want me to take your cock down my throat and fuck my face with it?"

"JOHN, fuck, just do it!"

With a delighted laugh, John wets his lips and promptly sinks his mouth down over Dirk's erection. A strangled cry emerges from Dirk, one that encourages John to pick up the pace.

Despite his mischievous insistence to have oral sex outside, John is fully aware that if the elderly woman across the street saw them, she'd be calling the cops soon enough. As much as he'd like to draw this out, it's best to save that for another time, and keep things short and sweet right now.

John focuses on keeping his mouth slick with spit, on sliding his tongue against Dirk's cock as he moves his head in a steady rhythm up and down, up and down. He brings a hand to work in tandem with his mouth, to grip and stroke the flesh with every bob of his head, and Dirk doesn't last half as long as John did before he's arching again and ready to come.

True to his word, John pulls his mouth away with an audible pop, and angles Dirk up towards his stomach; he pumps his hand rapidly, careful to thumb over the head of the dick, and resumes his interrogation of perversion.

"Do you want to come?"

Dirk's voice is a broken whimper, a desperate breath of a reply.


"You want me to finish you so you come on yourself, so everyone knows what a cumslut you are?"


"Say my name, Dirk, I want you to scream my name as you come!"

"Fucking--John--yes, yes, JOHN!"

Dirk's hands curl into the lawn and claw grass free from the earth; he goes rigid as he comes, milky fluid spurting from his cock and onto his shirt in hot, long strands.

At the first sight of ejaculation, John cheers like a cheeky schoolgirl, but the victory celebration doesn't last long. In the distance, but close enough to determine that it can't be much more than a block or two away, the telltale flashing of red and blue light up the rooftops.

"Uh-oh. Hey, Dirk."

Dirk is unsurprisingly, largely unresponsive. He lays supine in a euphoric trance, breathing hard but with a faint smile on his lips.

But the law has never cared for ecstasy, not in any sense of the word, and John knows that they've overstayed their welcome. It's their lawn, but he doesn't want to deal with the law enforcement again, not when he finally is savoring the achievement of getting Dirk to loosen up enough for some exhibitionism.

And so, John unceremoniously jerks Dirk's pants back up and fastens them closed; and when the police arrive, ready to apprehend two sex fiends on the lawn, John simply scoops Dirk up into his arms and flies away.

They are gods, after all. They can do that.

Now this is the story of a guy named Dirk
Who knew how to blow a dick and do a sick twerk
And this is the story of a dude named John
Who was caught without his boxers in the middle of his lawn
So the neighbors called the cops
And the cops called me
And that's how we ended up with the Dirkjohn odyssey.