Lip Service

 

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod sat at his desk in the loft alternately staring at the underside of a porcelain cup and leafing through a reference book.  He was completely engrossed in the task, apparently unaware that he was being watched.  Methos, officially sprawling on the sofa and reading a book, was in fact subjecting him to intense scrutiny.  He had spent the last thirty minutes just looking at his lover, focussing on different parts of his body and now was concentrating on MacLeod's hands and wrists.  They were big, strong, practical hands, as capable with a sword or in giving pleasure to his lovers.  But the wrists – now they were works of art: all the strength of the man concentrated in one spot.  A small sigh escaped the old man's lips.

MacLeod turned his head.  "What?"

"Nothing," Methos said quickly, looking down at his page.

"Come off it, Methos.  You've been staring at me for ages now.  What's up?"

Methos put his book down and smiled.  "I've just been admiring a work of art, that's all."

MacLeod blushed as Methos stood up and sauntered towards him.  "You think so?"

"Oh yes, definitely."  The ancient immortal stood close behind the Highlander, reached down and picked the cup off the desk.  "It's a lovely piece of work, don't you think?"

MacLeod looked like he was going to sputter in embarrassment, but then his face changed, became tender and he twisted round, reaching out a hand to cup his lover's face.  "Oh yes," he said, a husky tone entering his voice.  "Lovely."

"Don’t change the subject," Methos said, gently removing the caressing hand.  "We were talking about you."  He leaned in then for a simple kiss.  When MacLeod increased the pressure and tried to engage tongues, he drew back, grinning at the look of surprise.  He moved in again, this time kissing the Highlander's forehead moving up to nibble kisses along the hairline.  "Oh I could worship you," he murmured.

"What's stopping you, old man?"  MacLeod asked and then pulled Methos into a deep kiss of tongues and moans and longing.  He only stopped when they were both breathless and trembling slightly.  Taking advantage of the slightly dazed older man, Duncan pushed him back over the desk.  He bent his lips to Methos' plundering his mouth, sucking at his tongue, while his hand reached down to cup the rising mound in the old immortal's pants.  Methos groaned low in his throat and arched his back, rubbing his erection against the hand that moved so knowingly against him.  Then suddenly he pushed away and stood up, leaving MacLeod's embrace.

"What?"  MacLeod asked, puzzled by the sudden withdrawal.

"You know, once in a while you could let someone else be in charge," Methos said, sulkily.

MacLeod looked as though he was about to argue, but then he stopped and thought about it.  "I suppose I do tend to take the lead a little," he admitted.  "I thought you liked it."

Methos relented.  "I do, but sometimes I'd like to decide what happens."

"I'm sorry, what can I do to make it up to you?"

Methos smiled at him.  "I don't know.  Let me think."

MacLeod grinned slightly, knowing himself forgiven, and threw himself into the role of penitent.  He knelt on the floor and raised his hands towards his lover.  "I abase myself before you!" he exclaimed.  "Speak, oh Great One, and let your servant know your will.  I only exist to do your bidding!"

"My servant?"  Methos raised an interested eyebrow.

"Your servant?"  MacLeod was enjoying himself and gave free reign to his inner drama queen.  "No!  I am your slave!"  He knelt to kiss Methos' feet.

"Hmm," Methos mused.  "Now slave sounds better.  Are you sure about that?  You'll do what I say?"

MacLeod smiled and he sat up.  "I promise," he said.

Methos stepped back and looked speculatively at the Highlander, a calculating smile on his face.  "Well then, in that case, I think you're a little cold.  Take your shirt off."

"That's going to make me hotter?"

"Excuse me?  Is the slave going to obey orders, here?"  Methos smiled as MacLeod started to take his shirt off.  "And you can lose the pants and shoes, as well.  In fact, get it all off down to your shorts."

The Highlander looked a little doubtful, but obeyed.  He started to make a production of undoing his pants but stopped when Methos looked on with a disinterested gaze.  Eventually he stood there in his boxers.  Methos looked him up and down possessively and then smiled.  "Very nice.  Now go downstairs and warm up.  I think a nice sword kata should do the trick."  MacLeod hesitated and his lover made a shooing gesture at him.  "Go on, Duncan.  Go downstairs and play with your sword."  He turned his back on the Scot and started to move towards the chest of drawers in the corner of the room.  Dismissed, MacLeod made his way downstairs.

+++

The Highlander had only spent a few minutes on the start of his kata when the screeching of the lift announced the arrival of Methos like a fanfare played on rusty bugles.  The old immortal pulled up the wooden gate and sauntered over to the bench in front of the office.  Even on that unforgiving surface he managed to sprawl comfortably, a bottle of beer in one hand and his eyes fixed on the Scotsman in the centre of the floor.

MacLeod looked at him doubtfully, wondering what was going through his devious lover's mind.  He'd expected to be a floorshow while the old man watched and wanked, but Methos sat there, the same expression of disinterested appreciation on his face that he'd worn upstairs, and all he held was the beer bottle.  He had taken his shoes and socks off, but that was all.

MacLeod turned back to his kata – his mind not entirely on his movements.  It piqued him that his lover was not living up to his expectations.  What was this for if not to arouse Methos?  The movement of the kata brought MacLeod face on to his annoying lover and, while still performing the prescribed moves, the Highlander covertly studied the older man.  Methos' face maintained its calm expression but his eyes were fixed on the Scot's body.  MacLeod exaggerated a double-handed overhead parry and was rewarded by a hissed intake of breath from his audience.  MacLeod smiled inwardly at both the reaction and the thought.  <<Audience?  Well, let's put on a show!>>

He stared to subtly change the kata.  He altered the movements so that they no longer displayed just the required sword forms but also displayed his body to its best advantage.  Without striking any body-builder poses he added moves that showed the flow of muscles under his skin.  While his back was turned he heard a faint creak in the bench.  When the movement allowed he turned to face Methos.  The old immortal had changed position so that a long fingered hand draped over his groin.  MacLeod wasn't fooled he could see the telltale bulge in Methos' jeans.  Distracted, he lost concentration and stumbled slightly.  When he regained his balance he met Methos' eyes, staring directly into his.  MacLeod found himself drawn into the hazel depths seeing the pupil engorged with passion.  He glowed inside at the thought of how he was arousing this amazing man.

Now when MacLeod moved he could almost feel the warmth of Methos gaze caressing his skin.  He revelled in what he was doing, pushing himself in his movements.  The thought of what he was doing to his lover began to have a similar effect on the Highlander.  When he turned back, sweating and panting slightly, to face Methos again, he too had an unmistakable bulge tenting his shorts.

Methos stood up.  "That'll do Duncan," he said in a voice that did not entirely conceal his lust.  "You can stop now.  Time to move upstairs."

Methos got into the lift and MacLeod moved towards him intending to embrace his lover, but the gate was closed in his face.  Duncan growled slightly, as it became apparent that slaves had to use the stairs.

When MacLeod reached the loft his arousal had diminished and he found that Methos had stripped down to his boxers and was also in control for the moment.  The old man pointed to a spot on the floor and his lover obediently went to stand there.  "Time to lose the shorts, I think."  Methos said and sauntered closer as the Scot swiftly dropped them to the floor, kicked them away and then stood with his hands on his hips.  The old man walked round him slowly, enjoying the view.  He came closer when he moved round to the back; close enough for MacLeod to feel his breath on his skin.  He moved around to the front again.  A trickle of sweat had run down the left side of the  Highlander's face and neck and had formed a little pool in the corner of his collar bone. Methos bent his head and delicately licked up the moisture, savouring the warm, salty fluid.  "Mmm," he moaned softly.

The old man moved then, to the bed and sat at the foot of it.  "Come over here, my slave," he commanded.  The Highlander turned round and obeyed his master.  He walked over and, at a gesture, knelt just inside the open legs of the ancient immortal, looking up into his face.

Methos nearly lost it then.  Nearly lost his control and knelt in worship that such strength and beauty should kneel before him.  He breathed deeply and avoided looking into Duncan's eyes: that would be fatal.  Instead he reached behind the Highlander's head and pulled away the tie that bound the long hair in the familiar ponytail.  The black, silken mass spread out and Methos moved his face to the side of MacLeod's head, pulled a double handful of the sweaty hair together and buried his face into it.  He breathed in deeply and sighed at the intoxicating smell of hair, faint hint of aftershave and the sweet, musky scent of Duncan himself.  Essence of Highlander.  He breathed it in again, revelling in the scent and feel of the hair and the freedom to spend as much time doing this as he liked.  "Mmm," he moaned in appreciation, inhaling his lover's scent again and again until he felt he was drowning in the sensation.  Eventually he let the hair go and sat back.  He smiled, his rare, uninhibited, dazzling smile and this time gazed into MacLeod's slightly puzzled eyes, sharing the joy he felt at finally being able to do the things he had been longing to do.

MacLeod stared at him with a slightly doubtful smile hovering on his lips and Methos bent down and kissed him gently, softly, merging lips together.  Duncan reached for his lover and pulled the older man into a hard embrace as he returned the kiss with interest.  Then Methos withdrew again. 

"Bloody hell, Duncan!" he exclaimed with amusement in his voice.  "You can't even be a slave without trying to take charge."  He jerked his thumb at the bed.  "Come on – on the bed.  I haven't finished with you yet."

The Highlander climbed on the bed and lay down in the middle.  Methos climbed on beside him, took hold of his left wrist and started pulling it up to were a loop of material lay.  The old immortal had spent his time alone in the loft rigging up some restraints with the cloth, black-belts from MacLeod's martial-arts gear.  "What?"  The Scot asked, starting up, but then settled back as Methos made no attempt to do more than loop the belt around his wrist, not fastening it at all.

"I'm not tying you down – I just want you to forget about your hands for a while," Methos explained.  "*I'm* in charge here.  *You're* not to do anything."  He gestured across the bed and his lover obediently slipped his right wrist into the other belt loop.

"Now," Methos whispered, putting his face close to Duncan's, "the rules.  You don't speak.  You don't move."  He moved so that his lips were just brushing the Scotsman's.  "Pleasure," he breathed, "is mine to give or withhold.  Nod if you understand."

MacLeod nodded, his eyes fixed on the old immortal's face.  Methos brushed his lips across the Highlander's – not kissing just a movement across them.  He repeated it and his lover's mouth opened slightly.  Now he kissed more deeply with the tip of his tongue starting to move against the Scot's mouth.  He increased the pressure bit by bit, until they were kissing hard, tongues swirling against each other, waves of heat and desire washing through them.  Then Methos stopped and pulled back.  An irritated noise rumbled from MacLeod's throat.  Methos ignored it and started to kiss his face, gentle kisses, little more than a nip and suck from his lips – apparently at random across the sculpted planes of Duncan's cheeks and chin.  He tired of that game after a while and gently turned the Scot's face to one side with his hand.  Now he blew gently into the Highlander's ear, chuckling slightly at the shiver that ran down his lover's body at the sensation.  His tongue followed where his breath had gone and he licked around the folds of skin and cartilage.  MacLeod started to squirm slightly at the ticklish, unsettling sensation.  "Don't move," Methos murmured and then sucked the earlobe into his mouth.  He started a rhythmical sucking, promising delights yet to come and MacLeod moaned softly.  The old immortal let go of the reddened and swollen lobe  and moved back to the Highlander's lips.  This time there was no gentleness about it – he pressed the other man's head into the pillows with the force of his kiss.  His tongue plundered MacLeod's mouth, licking every surface, swirling round and round the Scot's tongue until they were both moaning with desire.

Methos pulled back and looked at the slightly dazed man beneath him.  MacLeod was panting slightly, his face flushed, pupils enlarged, lips red and swollen and there was other evidence of his desire; his cock stood erect, bobbing slightly.  The old man grinned, his own cock was in a similar state, but he had no intention of dealing with that until later, much later.  Instead, he bent down again and now started to pay attention to the sensitive spots on his lover's throat.  He nibbled, sucked and licked his way down the left side and then moved over and did the same to the right.  MacLeod was beginning to start an almost continual low, breathy moaning that rumbled in his throat as though he was purring.  Methos paid attention to the hollow at the base of the Highlander's throat, kissing, licking and eventually pressing his tongue into the depression.  Duncan's moans got a little louder.

Methos now placed his hands on either side of the Scot's torso and turned his attention to his lover's chest.  First he rubbed his cheek lightly against the skin, revelling in the sensation of the light chest-hair against his face.  Then he started to lick Duncan's chest, randomly alternating between little cat-laps and long, wet, full licks with the flat of his tongue.  MacLeod was giving little grunts of pleasure at the sensations, while his partner was almost humming with delight at the tastes and smell of his lover.  Slowly Methos started to concentrate more on the areas close to Duncan's nipples, but teasing he never actually touched them.  Little nibbled kisses and darting licks were scattered around the chest but none actually landed where Methos knew MacLeod was craving them.  Eventually it became too much for the Highlander and he moved his left shoulder to place his nipple directly under Methos' tormenting mouth.  Instantly the mouth was withdrawn.

"You moved!"  Methos gleefully exclaimed and moved back up the bed to where MacLeod was grinding his teeth in frustration.  He smiled into the dark eyes that were glaring up at him.  "Now, what am I going to do with you?"  He leaned closer so that his lips were just brushing the Scot's.  "I'm just going to have to start all over again."

He gave a gentle kiss to his lover's hypersensitive mouth and then moved away again.  This time he moved to where the Highlander's wrists were restrained and started to lay a line of kisses, nibbles and licks down the inside of the strongly muscled arm.  By the time both arms had been attended to and his neck was dealt with as Methos required, Duncan's breath was coming in short gasps and moans.  Now when his tormentor, his pleasurer, moved down to his chest, he kept absolutely still.  The stimulation continued as before, until finally, Methos claimed a nipple in his mouth.  The sensation was incredible, the stimulation heading straight for his cock.  MacLeod instinctively pushed his head back into the pillows and his moans went up an octave.  Methos appreciated the signs of increased arousal and continued paying attention to Duncan's nipples, each gently nibbled bite, each kiss sending sweet waves of pleasure coursing through the Scot.

The Highlander's moans started to take on a desperate edge to them and reluctantly Methos decided that it was time to move on.  He trailed a line of wet, soft kisses down the midline of MacLeod's torso until he reached his navel.  Here, the old immortal lingered, gently probing the hollow with his tongue.  He was aware of his lover's erection close by, but made no move towards it as he flicked his tongue in and out of his navel. 

The pressure of his own erection, his own need started to make itself felt and Methos reluctantly stood up and moved to the foot of the bed.  He gently parted MacLeod's legs and then knelt between his knees with his hands on either side of the Scot's hips.  The ancient immortal bent his arms, bringing his face close enough so that he could feel the heat radiating from his lover's groin.  He inhaled deeply and then groaned out loud as the deep, musky smell sent drove a jolt of desire directly to his cock.  He straightened his arms and turned his head away, breathing deeply, fighting for control as his erection freed itself from the constraints of his boxers.  Gods!  He wanted this man so badly.  He wanted this to last, but knew that neither he nor MacLeod could hold out for much longer.

Methos bent again, spread his tongue and gave a long, slow, wet lick from MacLeod's balls to the top of his penis, lapping up the runnel of pre-cum that ran down from the tip.  It was Duncan's turn to groan deeply from his belly.  The old immortal gave a few light licks to the shaft of the penis, but stopped before he reached the top.  He looked up and locked gazes with the pleasure-flushed Highlander.  "Keep still," he warned and then bent down and took the reddened crown of MacLeod's cock into his mouth.  He touched his lover nowhere else.  The only points of contact were his lips circling just below the crown and his tongue swirling round the velvet tip.

MacLeod's head was back, his eyes were closed and his breath was coming in a series of high-pitched gasps.  His buttocks alternated clenching and relaxing as he fought to stop himself from thrusting into that clever, tormenting mouth.  He could feel his orgasm starting, the tension building all over his body and he clenched his fists and toes as it rose within him.

Methos noticed the signs and shifted his weight to his right arm.  His left hand moved down to stroke his own neglected cock.  Shifting up slightly, he increased the suction and then moved his mouth down the shaft.  Once, twice.  He was on his way back up for the second time when MacLeod came with a scream of utter pleasure.  As he tasted the first warm pulses of cum, Methos gave in to his own orgasm, his moans of pleasure completing the sensation overload for the Highlander who thrashed on the bed as the spasms shook him.

The storm ceased at last.  When it was quiet, Methos crawled up the bed to plant a kiss on MacLeod's lips.  "How was it for you?" he asked, smiling.

"Gaaah," MacLeod said.

Methos' lips twitched.  "What was that?"

MacLeod swallowed, licked his lips and tried to focus on the face hovering above him.  He made another attempt.  "Gaaah," he said.

"Never mind."  Methos freed one of MacLeod's arms from its restraint and draped it over him and he settled down with his head on his lover's chest to wait for the Scot's higher brain functions to restart.  He could still taste the Highlander on his lips, smell the sweat their lovemaking had caused and hear the racing heartbeat slowly calming down.  Life didn't get much better than this.  With his senses filled with Duncan, he dozed off, utterly content.

 

The End

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