After-service oil and steam

After-service oil and steam

The last diner had left forty minutes ago. Hugo lowered the blind of the place with a dry blow and the silence of the neighborhood slipped suddenly between the tables still without picking up at all. In the kitchen, Nico was still on his back, rinsing a frying pan under the hot jet. The white T-shirt was glued to his back in irregular spots of sweat and steam. Hugo stayed a second on the threshold, looking at him without dissimulation.

"Leave that," he said with a hoarse voice. "Tomorrow we finish it.

Nico did not turn right away. He turned off the tap, dried his hands on the apron and only then turned back. He had bright forearms of clean fat and dark hair scrambled by the heat of the plates. He smiled barely, that sided smile that Hugo had known for eight months and that always came a second too late.

"If I leave it, you'll face it tomorrow."

"Not today," answered Hugo, approaching. "Today I do not throw anything in your face.

The space between them was reduced to a couple of meters. The air smelled like confectionary garlic, lemon and hot metal. Nico leaned his hip against the steel countertop and looked at it head-on. There was no hurry in his gesture, only a slow decision that had been brewing since winter.

"You've been looking at me like this for weeks when you think I don't realize it," Nico said quietly.

Hugo didn't deny it. He took another step. He could feel the heat that still flashed the oven off and the different heat coming up from Nico's chest.

"Because I realize everything," he admitted. "How you lick your thumb when you try the sauce. How you take off your T-shirt in the staff bathroom and leave the door open. How you stay an extra minute each night, waiting for me to stay too."

Nico breathed out his nose, almost a laugh. He reached out his hand and grabbed Hugo’s apron by the knot, gently pulling until his breasts were left on a palm.

"Then stop talking and do something you already know.

The first kiss was dry, precise, of lips that no longer needed to feel. Hugo held it down the back of the neck and Nico opened his mouth without asking for more permission. The taste of cheap gum mint was mixed with the residual red wine that both had tasted at the end of the service. Hugo’s hands went down the sweaty back, got under the shirt and felt the hot skin, the tense muscles from whom he carried boxes of vegetables every morning. Nico groaned against his mouth when his fingers rubbed his lower back line, just above the kitchen pants.

They separated only what was necessary for Hugo to pull his shirt off. The cloth fell by the sink. Nico’s chest was wide, with a little dark hair coming down towards the navel and two already hard nipples. Hugo looked at them for a second and then lowered his head, licking one with his flat tongue, sucking it later with enough force to pluck a gasket. Nico arched against the countertop and his hips searched for Hugo’s almost unintentionally.

"Fuck..." Nico muttered, taking one hand to the erection that already marked the other's pants.

Hugo pushed against that palm as he unbuttoned Nico’s belt. His pants went down to his knees. Underneath he only wore a black brief soaked in front. Hugo put his hand in, wrapped his thick and hot cock and pulled it out with a safe movement. Nico had the glande already wet and the foreskin retracted. Hugo masturbated him slowly, feeling how he beat against his palm, and kissed him again with more hunger.

"I want to fuck you here," said Hugo against his mouth, without ornaments. "Against this fucking countertop. If you don't want to, we stop it now."

Nico denied with his head, his breath cut short.

• I want to. I've been wanting for months.

Hugo knelt down just enough to get his pants down and his underpants down. Nico was naked from the waist down, with his kitchen boots still on, which gave him an absurd and obscene air at the same time. Hugo licked him long from the balls to the tip, savored the transparent drop and rose again. He opened a side drawer, that of the least used utensils, and pulled out an envelope of lubricant he had kept weeks ago just in case. Nico saw it and let go of a brief, almost nervous laugh.

• You plan too much.

• Only with you.

Hugo turned it softly until Nico leaned on his chest on the cold steel countertop. The contrast made him shudder. Hugo lowered his pants as necessary, pulled out his own cock—hard, curved upwards—and applied generous lubricant to his fingers. He first introduced one, slow, feeling the muscle ring yielding. Nico breathed through his mouth, his forehead resting on his forearm. When the second finger entered and found the exact point, a severe groan came out of his throat and bounced on the tiled walls.

"More," he asked.

Hugo obeyed. Three fingers, opening, lubricating, preparing. When he judged enough, he lined up and pushed. The head of his cock went through with a hot and perfect resistance. Nico squeezed his teeth and then released the air in a long groan when Hugo sank to the bottom of a single controlled thrust. They stood still for a second, united, sweating, with the smell of sex beginning to mix with that of the kitchen.

Hugo began to move. At first, I cut, then longer, holding Nico’s hips with both hands. Each attack caused the flesh to collide and slightly shook the hanging utensils. Nico pushed back at the same pace, looking for depth, and when Hugo changed the angle just a little bit, the groan became almost a choked scream.

• Don't stop there.

Hugo did not stop. He accelerated, sweating on the other’s back, biting his shoulder through his skin, leaving marks that would be seen tomorrow. The free hand slipped in front and surrounded Nico’s cock, masturbating him to the beat of the attacks. Lubricant and precum made everything slip with a damp, obscene sound that filled the empty kitchen.

Nico ran first, with a tremor that ran through his legs and a hot squirt that splashed the oven door and Hugo’s hand. The internal grip contracted strongly around Hugo’s cock and that was enough. Hugo pushed twice more, deep, and emptied himself inside with a grunt, his forehead leaning between Nico’s shoulder blades, his hips glued together as the pulsations emptied him.

They stayed like this for a while, breathing together, without saying anything. The air conditioning in the hallway began to be heard far away. Little by little Hugo withdrew carefully. Nico straightened himself, turned and looked at him with still glassy eyes and a tired and satisfied smile.

"Tomorrow the scrubbing is done by you whole," he said quietly.

Hugo let go of a short laugh, cleaned his temple sweat with the back of his hand and kissed him again, slower, savoring the ending more than the beginning.

"Tomorrow," he replied, "we arrived an hour earlier and closed the blind together again.

Nico nodded. They dressed in silence, washed their hands in the same sink and turned off the lights of the kitchen. There was no one left in the street. The heat of August was still floating between the buildings, but the one they were carrying was another, denser, and neither of them was in a hurry to dissipate it.