Title: Topology, Nicknames & Other Surprises in the Life of a Sentinel

NC-17 J/B

Author/pseudonym: Akablonded

Rating: NC-17 for language, lust and love, in no particular order.

Pairings: m/m (J/B)

Category: First-time. Jim P.O.V.

Summary: Pavlov had nothing on Blair Sandburg.

Status: New, complete

Date: September 2, 1999

Archive: Please do.

Disclaimer: The Sentinel and all related characters are the property of Paramount and Pet Fly Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. Please don't sue me. If you do, you'll get $12.00 in cash, my sympathies for your being so anal-retentive, and two dogs, Teddy Bear, the spawn of hell, and his sister, BooBoo Bear, the big old donkey girl. (Trust me, you don't want to go there.)

Warnings: If you can't imagine Blair as an 'in control' kind of guy, you'd better hit the delete key now.

Notes: This takes place before TBbBS.

By Akablonded

"Come on, chief. Sit. Eat."

Dinner begins innocently enough. Considering I was three sheets to the wind before Sandburg and I did our little dance around one another earlier.

"Wow, Jim. This is ... spectacular."

Freshly-scrubbed, barefooted, with semi-damp hair billowing around his shoulders, my young friend has ensconced that killer ass of his in the softest, most faded pair of jeans he owns. Even if I didn't have five heightened senses, I could trace his nice, firm, and surprisingly well-endowed assets in front, unencumbered as they are by boxers or briefs.

Commando.

OK, I can deal with it.

Sandburg's got his old, thread-bare plaid shirt on, so thin that it's virtually transparent. I see the soft, furry mat of hair stenciled across Blair's broad chest and sloping down to his waist. My super-sensitive eyes detect the subtle movement, just under the fabric, of the ring that pierces his left nipple. I actually 'hear' it rub against the material. I don't know what it's doing for Sandburg, but, it's making the lower parts of my body definitely sit up and take notice.

OK, I can deal with this, too.

Blair drops into his chair gracefully, and I begin by serving both of us, then pouring the first round of the white wine. As my friend savors the pale straw-colored liquid, his pupils widen further and further as he looks over the table setting. (OK, so, I decided to go with candles and the good dishes. Is that a crime?). My Guide begins to shift subtlely in his chair. Across from me, only an arm's length away, Blair's maneuvering the family jewels into a less restrictive position. The long and the short of it, is that it seems he's opening his body up to me, becoming even more vulnerable to my senses which are now dialed up farther than they've ever been. Like the stratosphere.

OK, I think I can deal with this. Maybe.

The food is aces, if I do say so myself. Although you wouldn't be able to tell from the little that Sandburg and I are eating. He's nibbling at the fish. With rapt attention, I watch Blair's mouth move. To stop myself from blurting out, "I want to kiss you from head to foot, starting with that mouth of yours," I chew the fleshy part of my index finger, in between sips of the dry Pinot Blanc. As my roommate sucks on some of the sauce that splashed on his thumb, I inadvertently bite myself. Hard. It makes me wince, and forces me to lick over the self-inflicted gash.

Suddenly, a tide of pheromones floods from Sandburg's side of the world, rolls across the table with a vengeance, and under my apparently non-protective alcoholic bubble. It hits me like a tsunami of passion and desire. And there's more. He's sporting an erection that's as hard as diamonds. Unless someone wandered into this surreal evening that I didn't catch sight of -- a highly-unlikely possibility, given that I'm a Sentinel -- it's yours truly cranking up the action.

Blair wants me.

OK. This I cannot deal with. No way. No how. The thing I've been dreaming about, despairing over, wishing for like nobody's business, lighting votives and offering up silence prayers to whomever might be willing to listen, is falling into my lap, so to speak.

And everything in my lap is rising to the occasion.

My senses are so attuned to my partner, sitting there, watching me intently, running that provocative tongue of his over the rim of the flute, and hitting the edge with perfect white teeth, that I'm able to feel and hear the tiniest vibration from his side of the world.

The goblet is making sounds that are as clear as, well, crystal to me. Like a cascade of wind chimes mixed with the rasp of wet flesh across the intricate, raised pattern.

"Jim, hey, Jim .... Food's getting cold, big guy. Come on back." My Guide's voice is somewhere above me, concerned, gentle, and reassuring. Confident hands touch my arm and shoulder, stroking them to bring me back from edges of the zoneout I've tumbled into. It's like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, but alot more serious, depending on when and where it happens.

Christ, I am in deep, deep kimchee.

If just the sound of his lips on a glass can send me packing, what the hell's going to happen, if we... when I finally see... and taste ... and, oh, please sweet Jesus, touch his ...

"Jim, for God's sake! What's wrong with you tonight? Two zoneouts in less than five minutes!" He's way past being concerned, panic appearing on his knock-them-dead and take-no-prisoners gorgeous face.

"Are you feeling sick? Did something happen today? What did you eat? And just how many beers did you have before I got home?" Blair trots over to the fridge, opens it, and scopes out the contents. He does the same for the trash can which he peers into.

"Four? You drank four beers? Since you got home? What the hell were you thinking? Is it some big Sentinel holiday I don't know about? And you're having a wine chaser, to boot? Well, listen up, mister. You are flagged."

This is where things start to get a little ... hazy. Normally, I'd want to yell at Sandburg to 1) mind his own damned business, thank you very much; 2) stop trying to be my mother/keeper/handler; 3) quit treating me like a child/lab rat/subject in an experiment; and 4) give up the title of the biggest pain in the ass ever created by God or weird science to who's ever in second place.

But, right now, I actually like, no relish, someone else making decisions for me.

Go figure.

So, we go back to our original, pre-zoneout positions: Sandburg, with wine, relating the woes of the day in comic detail; me, without benefit of the grape or hops, listening, making sympathetic noises, and happy to have turned the reins of the conversation, and the evening, over to my animated dinner companion.

"Jim, no more butter, man. I can practically hear your arteries clogging."

I put the pat down.

"Hey, Ellison, you better be reaching for the water there."

My hand banks off the Robert Mondavi and veers toward the Poland Spring.

"Eat more rice. You did a great job, and it's good for you."

He's right. It's tasty and ...

The short lull is broken in classic Sandburgian style.

"I do know all about it."

"All about what, Chief?"

"Topping."

"You mean, 'topology,' don't you?"

"That too."

Fuck.

I mean, well, fuck.

I'd hand you a line of B.S. about not knowing what's happening, but you're too smart for that. Blair Sandburg, the best partner I could ever wish for, the truest friend, and the one and only Guide this Sentinel will ever have, is making a pass at me.

No, it's way beyond that. It's a declaration of ... I don't know what the fuck of ... but it's finally out in the open

And whatever it is, he'll take charge.

"Sandburg, just what do you think you're doing?"

"Stand up, Jim."

"What?"

"Stand up. Now." My napkin falls; my blood pressure rises. We mirror one another's movement and find ourselves inches apart.

"Good. Now put your hands by your side."

"But ..."

"Did you hear what I said? Put your hands by your side. Excellent. Now, bend your head and face down toward me."

"And why should I do that?"

"Because I don't want to get a crick in my neck. Because I'm tired of waiting for tomorrow, and for you to make the first move. Because I'm going to kiss you before I'm 30, you putz."

"You're going to ..."

"What part didn't you understand? Down. Here. Now."

"Is there something you want to tell me, chief?" Like you've done this before? Like I'm not your first?

"You're a smart man. Figure it out."

I feel like a deer in headlights. (OK, I'm pretty big for Bambi.) There's no escaping what's going to happen.

It's a done deal. I'm dead in the water. Blair Sandburg, the temporary inconvenience ("It'll only be for a week, and then I'll be out of your hair. I promise."), and object of my raging one-sided, three-year love affair, is going to kiss me.

Strong, square hands grab both sides of my clearly dumbfounded face and pull it down to make me a littler more accessible. Sandburg rises on his toes to get us roughly in the same ballpark. With great deliberation, my Guide begins to milk my lips wantonly, until they feel bruised and tender. His wickedly talented tongue darts purposefully into my mouth and down my throat trying to see if he can reach and swab my tonsils.

I put up no resistance. Couldn't, even if I tried. Aladdin with his 'Open, sesame' didn't have a thing on anthropologist Blair Sandburg. We finally break apart, because the oxygen deprivation is making the both of us lightheaded.

"Jesus, Sandburg. That ...was ... really ... good."

He's pleased with my ... willingness, I guess, is the best word I can think of, since 'surrender' isn't one I normally toss around.

"So, Jim ... you know what comes next?" Sure. Me.

"Yeah. I can guess." OK. Definitely me.

"You guess?"

"No. Yes. No. I mean, yes, I know."

He smiles encouragingly.

"But, only if you agree, Jim." His hand runs fluidly, effortlessly from my collarbone out toward my shoulder, and down my arm. He barely touches me, but I am primed for action. God almighty, if this is only the beginning of a Sandburg seduction, no wonder women camp out on our doorstep.

"So, what do you say?"

What can I say? He's won. And he knows the answer already, the smug little shit.

"What do you think?"

"I think the answer is 'yes.'"

"What, you read minds, too? Any other secrets you're keeping from me?"

"Besides loving you just about forever?"

"Yeah?" I can see his heart pounding under the flannel material, and hear its beating in my ears. Mine echoes the cadence in a matching tattoo.

"Well, sure. And I don't have to be clairvoyant to see what's happening in your pants."

Right again, Professor. 'Little Jim' should be listed in the Mobil Guide to the Pacific Northwest under Points of Interest. (Something like: The Ellison Monolith. An impressive natural wonder which should be viewed in conjunction with the Sandburg Obelisk.) Jesus, am I a funny son-of-bitch, or what?

"So, is the answer 'yes'?"

I nod my head. Or maybe blink my eyes in agreement.

Blair reaches over and softly strokes the back of my hand. I grab for his roughly, and bring it up to my lips to kiss.

My almost lover stops me with a voice I've never heard before. It's a velvet growl, with a steel-edge overlay that's somehow both soothing and unsettling at the same time.

"Don't." Don't? As in stop? Now? I don't think the old ticker can stand it. (If I have a heart attack, I hope Sandburg will be a prince and kick-start this balding, old cop with a little CPR.)

"But I thought ..."

"Lick."

"What?"

He rubs the back of his hand from side to side across my mouth.

"Lick."

I do. I snake my tongue out of its cave, sluicing a bucket of saliva with it, all over the proffered hand, from top, to bottom, to wrist, to fingertips, which I then suck furiously into my mouth.

As seductively as I've ever seen anything done, my partner uses his free hand to unbutton and push aside the halves of his shirt. In the candle glow, the glint of the nipple ring acts like a beacon. A beacon calling me home. With the hand that's still in my mouth, Blair presses on my bottom teeth, while his thumb under my jaw pushes upward. As though he's at the rudder of a ship, Sandburg steers me back into a sitting position on the chair nearest my ass. His torso is teasing me into action. I hear the insistent order again.

"Lick."

I pull that compact body toward me, craning my neck and stretching my tongue out to reach and suck on the rosy-tinted, temptingly erect, pierced nipple. I skate across it, feeling the hundreds of little bumps and valleys on the sweet-tasting flesh. So different from the sleek surface and metallic bite of the jewelry. I jerk the little hoop and am rewarded with a gasp from my friend, and a shiver that ripples though his body. Rivulets of perspiration are beginning to run freely down through his golden thatch of soft chest hair.

I lift my eyes up questioningly. The nod comes first. Then the word is repeated.

"Lick."

As I release the last of the control I was clinging to, I desperately try to staunch the flow of the moisture on his pectorals and abdominal muscles, replacing it with my own juices. I'm so totally focused on this task, I lose track of time. There's no yesterday. No tomorrow. Only here and now. I feel my upper arms being grabbed hard, pulled on, and my body being coaxed out of the chair, back on unsteady feet. Sandburg maneuvers the two of us so that we exchange places.

Sitting, no, installing himself, like some pretender to his rightful throne, the love of my life unzips his fly so excruciatingly slowly that I can hear it open tooth by tooth. After some minimal rearranging, he produces his shiny, wet, stiff dick. Blair begins to caress himself slowly using just the tip of his middle finger. Hypnotized by the motion, I watch in fascinated silence, concentrating on the sight, sound, and smell of flesh against flesh.

Having me right where he wants me, Sandburg kicks free of the jeans, and says it again.

"Lick."

I fall to my knees (which will undoubtedly be black and blue tomorrow) and replace that single digit with my tongue. I trace every vein, every ridge, every difference though the filter of my hyperactive senses. Just as I'm about to swallow him whole and never give him up, I hear the admonition: "Don't. Lick."

My brain isn't in gear, but the rest of my body parts are old soldiers who obey orders. I slide further down to pay equal attention to the underside of Sandburg's cock. My saliva is now flowing like the Mississippi. It's running down, over and past his brindled balls to that most secret of places.

With my Sentinel eyesight, I can see Blair's hole vibrating as though it's issuing its own separate invitation for me to come in and play.

Just to see if I'm paying attention (I am), Sandburg slings his right leg over my left shoulder giving me better access to his center. His voice now sounds whisky-hoarse with desire and arousal. He grinds out "Lick," almost angrily.

Want this show on the road, chief? OK, here goes.

I lick back and forth, up and down, over and under, until the pucker looks pink and expectant, offering me a 'way in.'

"Oh, God, Jim ... yes ... more ... faster ..."

My Guide is practically breaking my shoulder, the crook of his knee exercising a startling amount of pressure. I feel Sandburg's body beginning to tense, his balls drawing up toward his body, when he yells at me. "Stop! If you ... touch me ... there again ... I'll come ... not ready ... yet."

And that would be wrong ... why?

Kreskin answers my thoughts. "Can't ... I want to ... inside you ... upstairs ..."

Well, why didn't you just say that three years ago?

Blair slides his trembling leg down over my bicep to the floor, then yanks me out of my kneeling position and up toward the steps to my -- make that 'our' -- bedroom.

I wonder what position I'm going to be in next? Hell , that's easy. The one my Guide, my mate, my love chooses.

My God. I'm a goner, aren't I?

***

I can't even begin to tell you how our first time together went. Check back with me next week. (The way Sandburg's mind works, I'll probably have photos for show and tell.) It was a whole fucking list of firsts, the biggest of which was that I took it 'like a man' from my spanking (another story) brand-new lover. And I liked it. Who am I kidding? I loved it. I'm also sore as hell. And properly put in my place. On the bottom, in case you haven't figured it out. Who would have thought?

I do remember that we tumbled onto my nicely-made bed. Then, I guess I was nicely-made.

Details are a little vague and slow in coming. Which was the only thing slow in coming anywhere in the vicinity of 307 Prospect.

Conversation was kept to a minimum. A curse here, a prayer there, followed by a grunt, a gasp, a scream, a moan, an invocation of the deity (several times), and finally the 'L' word. 'L' as in 'Lick.' (The other one came later. The word "come" keeps coming up, doesn't it?)

I still can't seem to fathom it. Blair laid claim to me while he was laying me good and proper. He fucked me within an inch of my life, until I couldn't see or stand straight. Or think straight. Straight. (A rather irrelevant word, considering.) My little 'top' fucked me up my ass so far, I could taste him in the back of my throat. And he did it his way. In his own good time. Until he made me fall utterly, hopelessly, and irrevocably in love with him.

The brute.

Truth is, I'm just knocked out by this banty rooster of a guy.

Even if Sandburg's decided I should have a nickname. One guess what it is. If you said 'Lick,' you're smarter than you look.

Now, I'm lying here, on the wetspot, wrapped around my snoring bonafide bundle of contradictions, with that sable-colored unruly mane of his flossing my teeth, and his fleshy, round ass cheeks nestling my cock between them. In his sleep, Sandburg shifts back toward the warmth of my body, and, in the process, gets a better grip on he 'Little Sentinel,' which has become his exclusive property somewhere along the line.

From the netherworld of dreams, I hear Sandburg mumble one word: "Lick."

My half-hard dick suddenly snaps to attention (surges, is more like it), to a pretty noteworthy width and length. It's brandishing a vibrant, robust color, with the head, a bright plum, if you're interested in that kind of thing. I begin to swirl my tongue down the golden skin covering my Guide's spine. The taste drives me insane. I travel erratically upward, ending in-between the angular shoulder blades. With a sweaty palm, I push that riot of curls roughly to one side, and tongue-bathe the nape of that elegant neck. My cock's swinging like Mark McGwire's bat. It homes in on the perfect rosebud opening.

Lube. Where the hell is it? As I scramble like a madman under the pillow to find the almost-empty tube, I hear the first groggy request of the morning. Make that a command.

"No fingers. Your ... tongue."

Like magic, Sandburg's body opens to me, relaxes and waits.

Jesus. In all my years, I've actually never ...

"Did you hear me, lover?"

"Yeah, babe ... it's just ..."

"Lick ..." The smoky voice whispers. " ... inside." Well, fuck. So what if I've always been ... 'top gun' where sex is concerned? I may not be young, exactly, but I'm still trainable.

You know, as a former Army Covert Ops man, I survived in the jungles of Peru for 18 months by eating some pretty exotic stuff. And what could be more exotic than Blair Sandburg?

***

It's been a little while now (44 days, 17 hours, 11 minutes, give or take a lifetime), since Blair and I made the ultimate Sentinel/Guide connection. What can I say? It's still new, and exciting, and raw, and sexy as all get-out. But it's also warm and inviting and familiar and comforting. Like being in bed on a cold, winter's night, with the remote control in one hand, milk and cookies on the night table, a Chuck Norris film festival on the tube, and, of course, the right 'someone' to share it. That someone is Blair Jacob Sandburg.

And it's forever. Trust me on this one.

I've just heard him come into the bullpen, stopping to shoot the breeze with Henry Brown, Brian Rafe's partner. I haven't looked up from my work, but as soon as I hear the tag end of the conversation, I do. "Uh, H., I'd love to let you do it. But, this belongs to Jim. And he'd go ballistic if I let anybody but him run his tongue over it."

I spit French Roast coffee out of my mouth and cross the Seevers file.

I zero in on Sandburg, who has a double-dip ice-cream cone in each of his hands. With mine outstretched in front of him, he walks toward our desk, teasing me with the melting treat. A huge smile curves those chewable lips of his so temptingly, I don't think I'm going to last until tonight. When no one's looking, Blair tosses a surreptitious, sexy thrust of his hips in for good measure. I mentally run through a list of trysting possibilities, from the interrogation rooms on the other side of Simon's office, to the broom closet on the third floor.

Immediately, the 'Little Sentinel' rouses from its afternoon siesta as it senses the approach of 'the good stuff.'

"Want some?" He looks at me in that quizzical, quintessential Blair way of his. "Yours is Rocky Road."

I have no idea why, but an old biblical passage starts to run through my head: Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.* Of course, in my case, this is no stranger we're talking about. And I'd be willing to bet cash money that if Sandburg were playing third base for a heavenly team, his division uniform would have hooves and a decorative tail attached to it.

"With you in my life, chief, what else would it be?"

"Shut up, Ellison ... and 'lick.'"

Yep. It's going to be a long, LONG afternoon.

-30-

Comments: Please send to: akablonded@aol.com