Notes: Just a gratiutous interlude of smut.
Bryce loves the taste of sugarless soft drinks. He knows it's odd, but he prefers it. The corn syrup in the sugared ones leave them too soft and bland. Something about the artificial sweetener makes the taste bolder, snappier, just on the edge of bitter. That, for him, is the good stuff. The jolt of caffeine and the bubbles that tickle his throat are bonuses, of course, but it's the taste that makes him swill it.
Espresso, as well, drives him mad with desire. That strong dose of coffee, bitter enough to make his tongue scream for mercy, but as smooth as butter going down. He believes that he could live on soft drinks and espresso. The actual food he eats is just taken in to keep his body functioning; it is too coarse to truly give him delight.
Yes, do not judge Bryce by his dirty band-tour T-shirts, his perpetual growth of stubble, his pillow-styled hair; no, Bryce is a man of discriminating taste.
And it's driving him mad.
He wants to be good, he does. After the rough course of the recent sharings between him and Hillary, he feels obliged to let it all settle a bit before pressing forward. But he is human. And it has been a rather long while since the last time that detail was attended to. And... he is a man of discriminating tastes. He has had little luck in his attempts to conveniently forget the loveliness of the two times he tasted Hillary's lips. A master chef would envy the subtlety of it. That smooth taste of cleanliness served as the base of the whole experience. Over that, a hint of mint; not too much, barely enough to register. A bit of dark autumn spice mixed in there, and sprinkled over the top, a garnish of fresh sweat; salt, with just a touch of that personal musk that made it distinctive.
If his food tasted that good, he'd be fat.
It was one of the dreaded cleaning days that finally caused him to snap. He and Hillary were arguing, as usual, over the study where Bryce kept his equipment. Hillary thought it was a fair compromise to leave the trailer alone and clean the study. Bryce couldn't make him see the sense of leaving the study alone and just cleaning the rest of the mansion. This argument usually ended with the disruption of Bryce's careful organization in the process that Hillary called 'cleaning.' Hillary was just beginning to enforce his decision, and leaned over Bryce's desk to pick up a stray PCI card. He was extended at that point, his ear next to Bryce's face, and Bryce decided he could hardly be considered culpable, under the circumstances, for licking it. Delicious - slightly sweet, perfectly salty. After a good, slow lick, he decided to try the skin on the neck, and found it equally appetizing as he licked and sucked. At that point, Hillary turned towards him, and he had ample opportunity to repeat his observations vis-à-vis the taste of Hillary's mouth.
It was a rather long and circuitous walk back to Hillary's room, but thanks to the butler's tightly formal clothing, Bryce had only succeeded in undoing his tie and the buttons on his jacket and vest before they fell on the bed. With a stable surface behind him, he managed to pull the shirt open (losing a few buttons in the process) in the time his own shirt was off and flung across the room. The wiry brown hairs, sprinkled with grey, added something pleasantly metallic to the basic taste of the skin, he decided. Hillary groaned and fell on his back, allowing Bryce the freedom to pull the shirt back a little farther and taste the subtle spiciness added by the nipples, and the deeper musk of the navel hollow. Hillary lay still, only betraying himself with moans and the twist of his fingers in Bryce's hair. After this feast, the afters of stiff, trembling cock and warm seed were a natural conclusion. His own orgasm pulled out by strong, swift fingers was almost an unexpected end, and he barely had the strength to move to the side before collapsing on the sticky, rumpled pile of formerly fine clothing that covered the bed.
Hillary touched Bryce's cheek, tentatively. "This won't stop me from cleaning your study, you realize."
Bryce sighed. "Philistine, you are. I'll have to put it back to rights when you're done."
He rolled on his side and ran his fingers through Hillary's tightly curled hair. He'd worry about it later.