Blair Sandburg's Healthy Active Fantasy Life
by Mab
Blair's done some psych. He knows the difference between fantasy and reality, the importance of fantasy as a safety valve and exploration. Blair is totally cool with the need for a little fantasy in a man's life. Like now, for example, with Chris, on the couch with him. Her skin is gorgeous in the candle-light, and Blair is not going to flash on unpleasant memories. No, there's just going to be kissing, and touching. He's going to pass his hands all over Chris's beautiful skin, and abracadabra, just like magic, he's inside her. She's straddling him, and her own small hands are playing with her breasts, pinching the light-brown nipples. She's riding him, enthusiastically. Those black, silky panties of hers are still strung around one leg, not even properly off, because she's that desperate for him. The grip of his hand is the grip of her cunt, and he's coming, drawing in one long, huge breath of appreciation that he feels so damn good. He lies there, his chest heaving. Say yes! to fantasy, man. He grins. And if James 'he was supposed to be working' Ellison had been stuck outside in the hallway, frustrated and pissed off, wouldn't that have been just too damn bad?
When Maya put Blair deflowering her on the agenda, Blair had cut and run. Some things were too damn complicated, and how weird was it that they would have done it on the office floor because they both had disapproving, controlling authority figures waiting at home, where there were useful, comfortable things like beds? But if Blair hadn't suffered from a bad case of ethics and sheer funk, how might it have gone down? What if he and Maya had found themselves a place on the floor, unfolded the blankets that he suspected that his machiavellian little virgin had packed along with all that food?
Blair settles himself more comfortably on his bed. South America gave the world the expression 'Brazilian' for a type of hair removal, but Maya was Chilean, and Daddy's good girl. So what would he have found when he took off her panties? White panties; maybe a lace insert down the front so that he could see the shadow of her bush. Yeah, that works. Hairy, but not a fucking forest, and he strokes her mound, lets his hands go wandering while he peppers her skin with kisses. Her voice whispers softly in his ear, telling him how she was nervous, scared even, but that he's making her feel so good. Her eyes are so big and she looks down to look at Blair's hand between her legs, where she is so, so wet. She's passive, shy, a good girl, and he lies her down, her head resting in the crook of his arm, and encourages her to move, to tell him how it feels and what she likes, until she loses her words and starts mewing like the helpless kitten she always was, and spasms around the fingers that are delving into her while she rubs off against the heel of his palm on her clit.
And then, she's all grateful and flushed and dewy-eyed, and he teaches her how to go down on him, and hell, it's his fantasy and if she's the quickest and most enthusiastic study of deep-throating that the world has ever seen, he doesn't care. He just lolls there and watches her pretty mouth bobbing up and down his dick. No missionary position here as he eases into her like the gentle lover of her girlish dreams. No, let's watch that nice girl Maya suck him off. The word comes out of his mouth in the cramped spaces of his little room, thick and succulent against his tongue and teeth. Suck. And his hand is plenty wet, because what's lube for, and he feels his face stretch around a groan that he's not going to make because he's belatedly remembered that Jim is upstairs in his room, and thinking about that means Jim's name is sitting in his head when he comes.
Thanks, Jim, Blair says to himself. Without you, I never would have met Maya, and there's a total clusterfuck that never would have happened. And of course, Blair Sandburg made no contribution whatsoever to that clusterfuck by getting emotionally involved. He sighs.
Hot fantasy, though.
Amber kissed him just that once, because Blair discovered that he wasn't quite open enough to consider a relationship with a girl who did it for the cold hard cash. That discovery was uncomfortably amusing, the way that how Jim's attitude to Amber changed over the events of the case was amusing. Amber was a hooker, and when she was a less known quantity, Jim indulged some dismissive contempt. Then she was there, in the loft, a person (who had sex for money), and suddenly Jim was playing the card of kindly sternness to the lost lamb gone astray. Blair is never going to admit out loud anywhere or in anything written that when Jim pronounced, "Young lady, I think that it's time you went back to school," that it did something for him. He's not quite sure what. Eye-rolling annoyance at the condescension, sure. On one level...
Maybe that's why Blair is holding onto his dick and thinking about a voyeuristic threesome. James Ellison, human like any other guy faced with a beautiful naked woman, and sitting on one of his upright chairs with Amber sitting in his lap. On his dick. Blair's not blind. Jim's a good-looking man. Amber's a very pretty woman. The visuals are everything that a happy fantasist could ask for. Any flashes to Jim's technique that time he nearly boned Laura the jewel thief in a cloakroom are a bonus. And because Jim knows he has an appreciative audience, and because he's not a complete asshole, he is doing his best to make Amber a happy woman. His eyes close as he mouths at her breasts. Amber leans back against his arms to find just the right angle for her, and she's going for it. Blair strokes himself, rubs his other hand gently against his balls.
The plan is to make this last. Admire those gorgeous pictures against the back of his eyelids, take a petty pleasure in seeing Jim enjoying himself with a woman who just happens to be a prostitute, and then of course, piece de resistance, Blair takes over to show Jim how it's done. His fantasy. That was the plan, but it's getting derailed, because in the fantasy, Blair discovers that he's far more drawn to imagining putting his hands on Jim's skin than Amber's. Blair's palm is on Jim's back, splayed on the surface of the muscles that move as Jim moves. "Is she good, Jim?" Blair whispers somewhere in the back of his mind.
Amber's had her climax, and she smiles knowingly at Blair. She's swerving her hips just for Jim now, and Blair stoops, all the better to see Jim's eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he starts to lose it. It's his fantasy, Blair could be handling Amber, warming her up for the main event, but Jim just turns his head and smiles at Blair, and that's it; Blair knows who he wants to kiss.
There's some static crackling up those pictures behind Blair's eyelids now, because all of a sudden he is that close to coming, and it's time to concentrate on the business at hand. But Blair's mouth needs something. He touches one hand to his mouth, still twisting his other hand over his needy dick, and then in lieu of Jim's tongue, which isn't there, damn it, Blair sucks on a couple of fingers, and rides out the pleasure shocks that trample over his body like a fucking barbarian horde.
If any one man is responsible for Blair consciously positioning himself on the bisexual attraction spectrum, then that man is James Ellison. Blair knows that Jim is pragmatic about many things, and that body shyness and military life are not compatible ideas. With all that skin on display it's only to be expected that Blair fantasizes about Jim sometimes. Nothing wrong with a healthy, active fantasy life.
In real life, Blair doesn't have a clue about whether Jim consciously positions himself anywhere on the bisexual spectrum, because Jim is still stubbornly quiet about anything to do with his sexuality, even when Blair is clearly being simply curious, and not curious on behalf of the dissertation. Maybe especially then. And even if Jim were a swing-door sort of guy, there's no reason he couldn't be the toppiest top in Cascade.
But depressingly rational analysis of possible reality doesn't stop Blair from laying out the lube and a wipes and settling down after lights-out with a few favorite memories and his good left hand (which is a habit that developed because it was easier to single-handedly turn pages on porn magazines with his right hand).
Foreplay be damned. Blair goes straight for the good stuff, which is Jim, lying on his back, naked, all sprawled out. Jim's dick is hard, and shiny all over the head because a man as turned on as Jim has got to be leaking pre-come like crazy. Blair is kneeling between Jim's legs and he's keeping Jim company with that hard-on thing. Yeah, Blair's not messing around tonight. His dick is thick and aching in his hand, and he wants to come. So tonight he's not going to imagine what kind of noises Jim might make with Blair's fingers up his ass, he's just going to imagine that Jim is very actively co-operating with him as Blair lifts one of Jim's legs onto his shoulder, while Jim tucks his other leg around Blair's waist. Jim's strong, and that's some grip around Blair's waist, as Jim's heel digs into the knob of Blair's spine.
"Yeah, that's right, fuck me, fuck me, babe." Stupid porn dialogue, but Blair can hear Jim saying it. Jim's voice is deep and husky and he's looking up at Blair and damn well daring Blair to do whatever the fuck he wants. What Blair wants is to just pound Jim's ass, and in this fantasy world inside his head, Jim loves it. He absolutely, totally loves it.
Blair kisses Jim, deep and dirty and sloppy. "Gonna make me come, Jim, I'm going to come, Jim, Jim, Jim." Blair is muttering Jim's name like it's some magic spell. Sex magic, yeah, and he feels great, and he takes a whooping breath in when he comes, god, thank you, he's coming.
Blair is cruising on the endorphins and indulging some stupid surprise that he isn't resting on Jim's long, muscled, warm body, when he realizes that he's not sure if he spoke Jim's name out loud or not. Shit. He listens good and hard, but everything's quiet. Not the squeak of a mouse, or the tink of a bedspring. Silence. Blair lies there in an agonized limbo – god, he hopes, let Jim not have heard. God, he wishes, let Jim have heard.
Everything is silence, and Blair looks down at his limp, messy dick, still cradled in his hand, and feels unaccountably, terribly sad. He swipes up the mess and morosely turns over and goes to sleep.
Morning, as some wise man somewhere said, (unless Blair is misquoting, that is) brings counsel. Maybe one reason that Jim is so defensive about his privacy is because there are more vulnerabilities there than just a man who's touchy about issues of sex and intimacy. And hell, how straight and narrow could a guy be who wore some god-awful soul patch that Simon reminisced about in the aftermath of the Pendergrast case? Jim was working Vice back then. Vice! Simon was joking about Jim looking like a reject from the Village People, while Jim sheltered his face behind a hand and quite visibly convinced himself that he shouldn't murder his boss in front of witnesses.
Blair heads for the bathroom and sure enough, Jim is already up and blearily making blessed, blessed coffee. Still, Jim's awake enough for a warm smile and a slurred, "Morning, Chief." Blair waves and smiles back, and behind the privacy of the bathroom door he has a piss and decides that he, Blair Sandburg, has ushered hot dates into restaurants that he really couldn't afford far less solicitously than Jim has shown him through some PD doors.
In the shower, Blair considers that Jim Ellison is potentially one of the most sensuous, sensitive people on the fucking planet. Given this one fact, and Blair's previous suppositions, Blair feels like he has something to work with here. If he's wrong... He wipes water away from his eyes, encourages the last traces of conditioner to slide out of his hair and down the drain.
It's time, Blair thinks, as he rubs himself down with a towel. Time for less fantasizing and more visualizing; maybe even some actualizing. He grins, and goes out of the bathroom, heading for coffee – and Jim.
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