Boyfriend Swapping—Couples Style

Authors Note: Do you like boy-on-boy love? If not, or if you are too young to understand the term slash, leave now and find some BellaxEdward fiction better suited to your tastes. Please—don't make me ask you twice. Go, now.

Staying? You have been warned: slashy lemon ahead.

These characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer; I'm poking around in their heads for new ideas.

Please note: Jasper's POV purposely 'sounds' different than Edward's POV. Lovely, physically-oriented Jasper thinks and speaks in ways that are dissimilar than the more cerebral, tormented, moody Edward. Since you only *think* you know Jasper, having seen him through Edward's eyes, this chapter will take some time to explore him.

So, what is Edward willing to do to recapture Jasper's interest? BTW, those posted adverts last chapter were *not* fictional.

Chapter 2. When People Run in Circles (JPOV)

The distinctive scent of Clearasil permeates the dojang where I have the boys working on their kicking this morning. Some days, I bike home convinced that the reek will never leave my nostrils. It doesn't help that the boys wear the sport's padded helmets and are laced into the trunk protectors. I've no doubt the copious amounts of sweat that pours off their young bodies during a workout contributes exponentially to the acne medication's sales results.

But no one in my little squad of competitors ever complains about wearing the forearm and shin guards; I'd carefully explained early in the training that deep bruising was common and painful to round eyes and thoughtful teenage expressions. Luckily, most injuries that occur during Tae kwon do practice are leg-related, and not life-threatening. Still, their parents knew that any boy arriving without his safety equipment would be sent home or sit out the training session.

Tae kwon do became an Olympic sport in 2000. I'd once harbored dreams of being good enough to make the 2004 games, but my own unusual injuries, accumulated after more than a decade in the sport, had hampered my movements. In my early twenties, I'd been forced to acknowledge that I just wasn't Olympic material. I'd sacrificed a lot of my life to the rigorous training and had to relearn how to live normally. It had been a long process; the loss of my career dreams still affected me at times.

I keep a careful eye on all my boys during every practice, but today my eye naturally drifts to my best student, a 17 year-old from Beverly Hills. His parents are very protective of him; he is a fierce fighter, but a gentle soul. I can imagine how this sport looks to the outside world; there are powerful and greedy people backing it who would have it generate hundreds of millions of dollars for them. Tae kwon do loosely translates as 'the way of foot and fist,' or kicking and punching. It is the Asian sport most akin to boxing.

I move across the mats to stand in front of Jacob now, assessing his form as he repeatedly balances on his left leg and shoots his right out in swift jabbing movements. It was physically draining, and the sweat had soaked through his jacket, staining the hem of his dobok visible beneath the trunk guard.

"Take a break; your breathing is not controlled. Where is your center of gravity, Jake?"

Grudgingly, he follows my order. Bent over now, the sweat dripping from his face, Jacob is pulling in great gulps of air. He'd been pushing himself too hard, and I'd been distracted by some mistakes I saw one of my younger pupils, James, making repeatedly. I should have been on him sooner.

"Jake, if you continue like this, I will be speaking to your parents about it. This is an inappropriate reaction to have during a practice session." I am stern, but friendly with the teenager.

He finally speaks. "I'm not a marshmallow like Mike and some of the others. I can take it."

"This isn't an exhibition; in our sport, stretching, relaxation, and meditation techniques are just as valuable to your development as a competitor."

He gives me a bleak look, but nods in acknowledgment.

"Let's sid-down," I say, falling back into childhood accents.

Jacob meekly follows me over to the benches lining the walls of the center's training hall. As soon as I sit, he collapses next to me. I know I am blurring the lines, but I shift over and lightly settle my arm across the top of his shoulders. He tenses, and then visibly loosens up, his breathing becoming a little less labored. We remain silent for a few minutes as I give him time to come down from his aerobic high.

I'd made no effort to hide that fact that I am a gay man from my fellow Instructors and Master at the Center; this is the liberal West Coast and no one cares. The folks in Texas had been a little less accepting during my teenage years; it was why I'd left Austin for college in California on a full scholarship and never looked back. And now I have Edward. Moody bastard though he often is, my life is perfect in most ways. Even if I am not always truthful with him.

"Jake, did I ever show you my scar from my first exhibition after I moved into the senior ranks?" He shakes his head, shyly averting his eyes from my face. We aren't that close physically, but he shifts back a bit as I lift my arm from his shoulder. I start to roll up the arm of my ivory jacket, loosening the cloth bound tightly around my waist an inch and catch him watching me intently.

"That looks like a set of teeth marks, Jasper." Jacob is gaping openly at the faint white crescent-shaped scar, the question he isn't asking burning in his eyes.

"I'm lucky not to have more of these on my body, Jake. Or rather, not lucky, but my control has contributed to me being able to avoid the sorts of injuries that leave scars such as this. The boy who lost control during our sparring ended up nearly losing his teeth over this incident and immediately left the sport. Laurent was sort of a friend, but he disappeared after the accident. I don't know what happened to him."

Jacob is listening closely to me; I can see that my story is having an impact.

"So, for what's left of today, I'd like you to take to the mats and practice the mediation we were working on last week. And think about what I am telling you, okay?"

"Yes Jasper." His tone is accepting, but I wonder if I've really gotten through.

Jacob is just coming into his adult body. He is the only child of the Swans, a wealthy Beverly Hills corporate attorney and his socialite wife. I've come to know both Renee and Charles very well as their adopted son had been taking lessons from me since his twelfth birthday. He'd grown six inches in the last year and looked to have more room left up above. The boy had struggled to adapt to his new body, now often presenting as grumpy or standoffish. Hormones.

Just under six feet myself, I figured some of his recent attitude came from the undeniable pains associated with that spurt. His mother told me he slept a lot, and had pulled away from most of his friends. I sometimes speculated there might be more going on as he adjusted to his body's changes, but he had never mentioned it to me.

I wisely chose not to become too heavily involved in the students' personal lives. If I sensed a problem, I would intervene, but I was the Instructor or Sabum, holding a fourth degree black belt, not the child's parent. It would be several more years before I could advance to the fifth degree, and I was patiently performing the duties assigned to my rank as per the Federation and biding my time. I had no intention of screwing up over a personal matter and imperiling my steady advancement to Master, or Sahyun. As Master, I would be able to have my own school and hire Instructors and Assistants to teach the sport's techniques. I had big plans for my future.

The remainder of the training session goes quickly. We finish with the students reciting the goals of the day's practice, and the Federation's Student Oaths I most favor:

I shall be a champion of justice and freedom.

I shall build a better and more peaceful world.

Oaths complete, we end this session. I watch them file into the locker rooms to collect their personal items. I had planned to use the next three hours, free time, to practice patterns, specifically the Chang Hon sets. I have an exhibition coming up in December and intend to be ready for it; I need the validation of my efforts.

But uncharacteristically, I'm shrugging it off. Instead, I break training, deciding to call Edward and ask him to lunch. Wednesdays are often slow clinic days for my lover, even during the summer months. Rarely, he will take a half-day and fill it with paperwork or errands. Even after three torrid years together, I still enjoy the novelty of seeing him during what are normally regular work hours. It feels illicit, naughty, forbidden.

"Sweet cheeks?" I purr into Edward's cell phone when he picks up.

"You and the fruity pet names, Jazz. Are you calling me for lunch?"

"Am I so predictable, or it just that time of day?"

"You know I sometimes have Wednesday afternoons free, you shameless flirt."

"Used that one on you last week, Edward, you plagiarist. Should I pick up a dictionary for inspiration?"

Edward pauses. "There's so many things wrong with that sentence. What are you wearing?"

"Fuck, Edward, this isn't phone sex. Meet me at Luigi's," and I press the off button, humming in anticipation. It doesn't seem that we are very spontaneous these days. I reflect that it has been three years since I'd seduced him in his office during my first appointment. Maybe I need to change it up. I head to the showers for relief and to work up some ideas, among other things.

And just as a precaution, before I leave the dojong, I ask Sergei to cover for me if I am late getting back.

"It's Wednesday, isn't it?" He smirks.

I don't bother thanking him. Shit, when even my Sahyun knows my impromptu fuck schedule, I need to worry.

Lost in thought, I make the trip to the café in twenty minutes, pedaling furiously. Intent on avoiding the cars making a left turn onto the Boulevard, I don't spot Edward sitting in his Volvo in the valet parking section at our restaurant. He honks and when I pull up by his open car window, smiles and lifts up two white paper bags to show me. "Wha?" I motion with my hand. He taps his forefinger against his temple, and I lean in for a kiss, but he pulls back; he has something to tell me and can't be inconvenienced by the intrusion of my lips against his mouth.

"Before I left the office, I ordered takeout: lobster ravioli for you, lasagna for me. I've a surprise for you. Let's roll out."

I nod, too excited by the unexpected change in our plans to chide him for the lasagna. One eyebrow feels like it might need some persuasion to return to its normal resting place.

Quickly stowing my bike in the back of the car, I climb in the front seat, offering another kiss. And am again rebuffed, but this time with a mischievous smile and what appears to be the beginning of a blush.

"No kiss?" I am a little confused.

Instead of an answer, he hands me a strip of cloth. Well, one of his middle-school vintage wide pin-striped ties. "They know us here, Jasper, so I can't do it, but as soon we are out of the parking lot, wrap it around your eyes and tie it tightly." I open my mouth to speak, but Edward has other ideas, meaningfully eyeing the tie I'm still holding.

"And shut-the-fuck-up."

Well, this is different for a Wednesday afternoon. I hastily comply, and then awkwardly buckle up and check by feel that he's done the same. He growls at me; but I'm playing along, staying in the moment.

In less than ten minutes, Edward turns onto a quieter side street that sounds more residential. He makes a fast, awkward right turn and pulls into a long alley or drive, finally shutting down the engine.

"Stay here." And he's gone.

I don't move or speak, glad now that I took a long shower after the practice session. I hope he remembered to bring the WET. I open the glove box, and feeling around, my hand settles on our emergency tube's familiar shape. I retrieve it and tuck it into my jacket pocket. Holding the phallic-shaped object acts like a stimulus for me; I begin to shift around to give myself a little more room. I'd feel foolish if someone walked by and saw me, but this is Edward's most unstructured moment in three years. Foolish works.

I hear gravel crunching signaling his return before he gets back in the car. We drive a short distance to what must be a covered space or garage, as the sunlight disappears after a few moments.

I wait for Edward to explain, but instead he leaves the car. Now I'm getting interested. I wait for what feels like hours, listening for his footsteps, but I'm alone. Just as I'm thinking I might cheat and remove the blindfold, my door opens.

I'm pulled from the seat and pushed roughly against the side of the Volvo. Impatient hands assault my body, turning me to face the side doors, as I spread my arms to keep from smacking into the metal handles. I've had the blindfold on for so long, I'm losing my sense of space. Thumbs that I hope belong to Edward hook into the tops of my loose-fitting corduroy jeans and yank down hard. The fabric burns against my naked skin, no briefs to protect my tender flesh from the roughness.

I know it is Edward, but what if it isn't? My lover is wearing a citrusy cologne I don't recognize; Edward never wears any scent. Is he attempting to trick me?

My pants caught above my knees, I remain motionless for now, waiting for more, when I feel those two thumbs take control of me again; I attempt to twist around, but I'm firmly grasped by my cheeks. Spread wide and vulnerable, I push back with a needy moan against the now probing, demanding fingers of my tormenter, making my wishes known. But it is quickly made clear to me that I'm not in charge here when a large hand pushes between my legs and cups my balls, lifting them away from my body. I grimace, fuck, that hurts. At my slight flinch, the hand gentles and now tugs lightly, tickling the few hairs that swirl over my sac. Now it begins to feel good, and I let go, just enjoying the sensations. But I'm still mystified—is this Edward, or perhaps someone he has hired? If so, it is a surprisingly welcome fantasy we could share.

The friction of the side door begins to chafe painfully against my cock, but I quell the urge to squirm away from the hands that have taken control of me. This is Edward's game.

Never a passive bottom, I flex my ass muscles and sway slightly from side to side. In minutes, I'm rocking back-and-forth as I revel in the abrasive feel of his slightly scruffy face pressing repeatedly into my ass. The wet, pointed end of a tongue is painting sloppy circles around my hole, and I'm wondering if I'm allowed to speak, to beg, for the teasing to stop? I want to be tasted, to be mastered, to be penetrated. I want Edward or his alter ego to explode inside me, the force of his cum rocking us both.

Without thinking of the consequences, I groan, "Edward."

Immediately, I freeze, knowing I've made a mistake here. And I'm not wrong.

Perhaps to punish me, or because he can't resist, my boyfriend darts his tongue in quick successive jabs into my hole, his palms molded possessively to the smooth skin on my hips, holding me steadily in place. He quickly pulls back, blowing cool breaths over the wet surface, before I feel him stand behind me.

Is it Edward? I still don't know for sure, and I'm startled from my uncertainty by the faint swoosh made by the passage of air. A hard palm smacks against the tender areas so recently worshiped, and I stagger slightly.

But that is all I'll get from him; he's gone, leaving me exposed and alone. Uncertain what to do, I wait a few minutes, listening for his footsteps returning. When I finally hear him, he's on top of me again. Whispering "Jasper, so hot" into my neck as he grasps my aching erection, he gives it several quick jerks, sliding the foreskin up and over my pre-cum slickened head in sure, practiced movements. I want more, but he too soon stops his ministrations, pushing me police-style and still partially unclothed down into the front seat of the car. I don't smell the citrusy cologne from earlier now and am confused—was that Edward or someone else who was tonguing me? I'm nearly certain it was Edward. Had to be. After three years, I know him too well. Even if he hasn't been acting like himself lately.

Edward gets back in his seat, but doesn't speak to me. In an unexpected maneuver, he leans over and slides his palm beneath my balls again as he finally presses his lips forcefully against mine.

In truth, Edward takes me with his tongue and his lips, all while steadily massaging my balls before moving up to wrap eager fingers around my hard, aching, cock. I'm whimpering in anticipation now, and I try to twist into his chest to make the angle better for both of us.

Instead, he stops, and gently unties and removes the blindfold. "Are you alright?"

As if he doesn't know? "Suck me off." But I'm pleading, when what I'd intended was to issue an undeniable command.

"Not here, baby. Someone might see us. Let's go inside and eat our lunch first. I have the room for two hours." I can hear the anticipation in his voice, and perhaps a touch of pride at arranging this set-up.

Then he snickers, "You'll have to re-dress yourself, you shameless exhibitionist."

And I feel the beginnings of a small knot of anxiety low in my gut. "Wasn't that you?"

Edward looks askance at my question.

"When?"

"Edward!" I shout and nearly rip the handle from the door as I struggle to get out of the cramped confines of his car, encumbered by my pants still tangled around my knees. I need air.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Edward M. Cullen. His nameplate on the Clinic's entrance means nothing to me, even if I notice it and smirk as I push open the heavy, fire-proof door. Who was named Edward anymore? Wasn't that a name reserved for English monarchs and pretentious, pointy-headed pricks?

The receptionist stares at me as I cross the nearly deserted waiting room to reach her desk. Just another female who mistakenly thinks I might be available. I waste one of my more disarming smiles on her, hoping for good news on the wait to see a doctor.

"Jasper Whitlock?" She knows who I am; I merely nod. "Welcome. Insurance card, please."

I comply, and in return receive a handful of papers to complete. When I finish my unpleasant reporting task, I return to her desk.

She fishes out my card and sets it on the counter, saying, "Dr. Cullen will see you immediately. Please enter through that door," pointing down the hall behind her.

"I'm Tanya," the overly-enthusiastic nurse who greets me explains, holding out a hand to shake. I pause, not accustomed to shaking hands with nurses through my long-career of sustaining sports-related injuries, but she seems pleasant enough.

"Is Dr. Cullen ready for me?"

"Are you feeling up to being examined by Dr. Cullen? He's very gentle."

Translating nurse-speak, I realize she is asking if I am in pain today. "I'm fine." She then motions me to follow her into the examination room, takes a few vitals, and I am on my own. I don't expect a confrontation with the physiatrist, but describing the pain will require removing my jeans, I am sure. Doctors always made me so fucking nervous.

This is just as Dr. Cullen makes his way into the room, and I cease my pacing to stare at him; his shock of golden-tinged, unruly auburn hair the first thing that draws my eye. Or maybe it is the appetizing aroma—his clothes are permeated with it. He smells as if he'd just exited a fragrant Italian restaurant specializing in garlic-laden dishes. I imagine he would glow like a blood-red diamond in the moonlight with his fuck-hawt hair and fair, creamy complexion. He is adorable, and so completely fuckable.

Reining in my immediate desire to skip the appointment and just begin licking him all over, I try to concentrate on what he is saying. Catching-up in the middle of his spiel, I realize he is well past the preliminaries.

"24." I blurt, hoping I still accurately remember my current age; I actually feel about 14.

I stammer out a few more answers; I may even be a little curt with him. If so, it is his damnably grave, jungle-green eyes that splinter my attention.

Frustrated with the slow pace, and noticing that he has developed a few beads of perspiration just below his hairline that match the clammy sensations building behind my knees and other places, I act impulsively. Standing, I determine to rush through the process and find out why the nagging lower back ache won't go away. I pale as I contemplate a bleak future: what if I've stumbled upon the perfect boyfriend and can't take him up on his interest because of the gluteal pain? Tragedy.

Even then, Edward made me sound like a giddy schoolgirl.

"Dr. Cullen," I begin, popping the top button on my blue-jeans I'd found at the Buffalo Exchange, "it simply hurts." The zipper works effortlessly, and I half-turn away as I release the sharp teeth, careful of my tight, sandy curls as I ease it down. Damn, how to explain the semi-erection? Unable to think of an answer, I completely turn my back to him and dare to touch myself in his presence.

A loud swallow can be heard in the room, but is it him or is it me? Or both of us?

"This is where the pain begins," I say, looking over my shoulder at him as I trace my index finger from just beneath my waist, across my exposed buttock, and down into my cleft. "It was a shooting pain two weeks ago, but now it's just a dull ache. Maybe it's getting better?" I am optimistic about my chances; I've recovered from worse injuries than this one.

My physician's face is a study in lust; I am almost as transfixed by his expression as he clearly is by my naked ass. I contemplate clenching just to see his reaction.

Why hold back? I clench my cheeks hard, and his eyes widen in undisguised desire. Sweet!

Things move swiftly after that; he regains his senses, offers a referral to another specialist, and mumbles I need to finish dressing. Seeing my former control slipping away, I shake his hand in farewell, feeling that spark flare between us as we both maintain contact longer than is polite. I finally drop both hands to let him see that I am just as affected physically by him as he is by me.

It is a pivotal moment: as his eyes lock on my aroused cock, I decide to give him a week to miss me, and then I will call him.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"Jigsaw, what's wrong?"

"I thought there was someone else here before you came back…" I'm panting, and wondering what to say now. Should I tell him; is this a test of my truthfulness?

I know Edward thinks I'm a lightweight compared to him. After all, he's a doctor, and I'm a martial arts instructor. He has three times the higher education I have, and he didn't attend college on a sports scholarship. I'm not his equal, and it seems to be a foregone conclusion I never will be.

And today's tame adventure threatens to become an unprecedented mess; I settle back on the seat, calmly adjust my clothing and slow my breathing to hide my turmoil. It takes time, but it works.

"Let's go, Edward. I'm hungry," is my determined pronouncement, drowning out his sputtering questions.

Although my mouth feels like burnt cotton, and I may never eat again. I'm questioning my own judgment at the moment.

"Who was here? Did something happen?" Edward won't give it up.

"I thought I heard footsteps. That's all." How could I ever explain this? I willingly, happily let some stranger rim me while my partner of three years is renting a hotel room for us? Is there any way to recover from such a lapse?

Fuck-does my Edward need any more incontrovertible evidence I am not as smart as he is?

"And you shouldn't be eating the lasagna," I mutter under my breath as I prepare to follow him to the hotel room.

There are a few moments of silence between us, and I'm ready to confess my concerns when Edward stops and turns to me, remorseful.

"Jasper, it was me. I love you, always. Didn't you guess?"

A/N: The next chapter will be EPOV and explore what happens next. I doubt Edward will just drop his line of questioning everything, but I decided to reveal this early so no one would wonder.

http(semi-colon)/www(dot0youtube (dot)com/watch?v=4N3N1MlvVc4 (Gary Jules, Mad World)