"Goddamn! FUCK!"

I heard my partner, Rick, on the sofa across the room, as we were watching the next-to-last Downton Abbey episode. I pushed PAUSE. "Yes?" I asked, looking over at him.

Rick was concentrating on his cell phone, his very handsome brow furrowed, eyes burning into the display, obviously unhappy.

"Ricochet?" I prompted.

Ricochet is my loving nickname for him. He actually loves it, even though it embarrassed him at the outset, some fifteen years before when we got together, when people asked how I came up with it. CAME being the operative verb, and Rick's forceful blasts splatting off my face and chin when I fucked his loads out of him had highly impressed me.

"OKAY!" he said, exasperated, as if we'd been discussing this for some time, whatever THIS was. "You're going to tell me I'm nuts when I tell you what my phone is doing." My adorably stud - give him anything mechanical or logistical - even psychological - and he was all over it, Mister Effective incarnate. But anything electronic, and he just shut down, his mind blocking his superior intellect, making him think he couldn't figure it out, couldn't reason through it, couldn't comprehend it as if it was Chinese.

I smiled my adoring smile - not chosen, reflexive - and waited.

"Okay. Yesterday when I was at the gym-" he started, but in my all-too-frequently-occurring way I cut him off.

"You went to the gym without me? Before or after WE were at the gym?" Then, as my brain caught up to my mouth and I realized this clarifying precision was likely unwelcome, I added, "No wonder you have such an irresistible hardbody . . . and that AMAZING ass of yours . . . WOW!" I grinned at him.

"When WE were at the gym yesterday . . . my phone powered down like three times. And I know what you're going to ask or say, and I didn't do anything to reboot it AND it was charged." He took a breath - a big one, like he was going to confess something, but he didn't continue.

"So just so I'm clear," I treaded carefully, "Did it power down and off, or did it reboot?" Not that I knew WTF to do about either, but I was already planning the Apple support form online.

Big sigh from my man. "It's done both, now. And I might as well say the first time it rebooted for no reason was a week or two ago. I know," he quickly added, putting up his hand to stave off any tsking on my part, "I should have said something or done something then. Now, today, it's done it several times, and right now it's blue-screening. So I'm fucked!"

With a leer, I replied, "That can ALWAYS be arranged, Ricochet!"

Rick rolled his eyes at me. "Honey," he whined, with an indulgent glare.

"Well, you wouldn't care as much about the phone problem," I persisted, my cock now prodding me to push the suggestion. Rick rolled his eyes, but he got up off the sofa. YAY!

As he passed me, heading toward the other end of the house and our bedroom, I grabbed a handful of his world-class ass. "C'mon," he urged, grabbing my arm and almost pulling me out of the chair. "I really could use a pony ride!" I know, right - our euphemisms and nicknames and whatever - sickening! LOL

When I rounded the corner to our bedroom doors, Rick caught me with a handful of my hard cock through my prominently-tented sleep pants I'd been wearing while we watched TV. "Mmmmmmmm!" I moaned and pulled him in tight for a hungry kiss.

We stumbled together awkwardly to the chaise in the sitting room, and he broke away from the kiss and whirled around, positioning himself butt-up over the back of the chaise. "C'mon, Mike - prison fuck me - NOW!" he demanded, yanking down his own sleep pants and exposing his amazingly hard, furry bubble butt.

I growled as I released my titanium-hard nine thick inches and stepped in behind him. I pressed my bulbous purple head against his about-to-be-savaged pucker and tightly gripped my cock and ran my hand up from root to head, squeezing out my already-flowing precum and smearing it around his hairy rosebud and rubbing it up my head and first few inches of my raging bone.

"OH GOD, Mike," Rick gasped and squirmed, pressing back into me. "I really NEED it!" I slapped his ass HARD, and he yelped . . . and I SHOVED in DEEP when he did. "OHFUCCCCKKKKKKKK!"

That's just what I did. As painful as the chafe of his scarcely-lubed fuckchute was on the skin of my cock, the heat and excitement of fucking my man made me ram myself into him HARD, over and over. "FUCK YES!" I exlclaimed.

"OH GOD YES, MIKEY. FUCK ME HARD, STUD! KNOCK. ME. UP!" he snarled, working his ass back into my thrusts.

I was long-dicking him hard and fast and deep, grinding up inside him as deep as I could get with every thrust . . . grunting and growling and already huffing from the effort. "GOD I fucking LOVE your ass, Ricochet!"

"USE IT, Mike - use my cunt, stud!" he yelled, slamming back harder, meeting my savage thrusts.

I took hold of him by his shoulders to slamfuck him harder still. Rick's ass and his enthusiasm always stoked me to loss of control when we were fucking. Great thing was he loved it as rough as I could give it . . . and he fucked back just as hard.

"OH FUCK, Rick, you-" I couldn't finish, as he reached back and found my swinging sac and grabbed hold in a deathgrip. "AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I shouted.

"I'll fucking SQUEEZE," he snarled, squeezing so hard it made me cry out again, "It out of you, fucker, and make you GIVE IT TO ME!"

"GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" I gasped in his hold as my wild thrusts served to yank my nuts TIGHT in Rick's unyielding grip.

And it had its desired effect, as his rough ballplay always did with me. I felt my release ignited there, in his grip, spreading through me, exploding inside and readying to blast my man full of me. "OHFUCK!" I shouted, jackhammering Rick's cunt frenetically. "I'm gonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnna-" But it had me, and I was jammed into him as deep as I could, pumping my essence up deep inside him.


I pumped out inside of him, feeling his tight cunt gripping and milking me of my last spurts and drops. I was gasping for breath and struggling to keep my footing as my knees had gone weak. But I quickly yanked my cock out of him, vaguely enjoying the splatter of cum that came out with my cock and splashing on the Persian rug under our feet, and roughly turned Rick around facing me.

I was on my knees in an instant, gobbling down Rick's fat, throbbing hardon and sucking it ravenously. "OH FUCK, MIKEY!" Rick moaned as I got hold of his big, hairy nuts and used them to pull him into my throat.

"MMMMMMRRRRRRGGGGGGGGMMMMMMMMMMMM!" I growled around his cock, savoring every vein on his shaft with my tongue as his shaft ran over it.

Rick's breathing was shallow and fast, his huffs closer and closer together, and I knew he was close to blasting his nuts. I sucked harder, tongued him faster and more deliberately working his huge, fat head and then down to the root again, his cock halfway down my throat . . . and back to his head again. With a squeeze and a yank to his balls to keep them from disappearing up inside him as they wanted to, he roared loud, grasping my head desperately, his body taut and then bucking as his spurting began.

"MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!" I moaned with pleasure, as my man's juice flooded my throat and mouth. I gagged on the volume of it, but I didn't spill a drop of Rick's seed as he blasted more times than I counted and then oozed more.

I was greedily licking his head, still gripping his nuts, as Rick spasmed from the over-stimulation of his post-orgasmic state. "HOLY FUCK, MIKEY!" he panted, pulling at my head to get me to release his cock.

Finally, Rick pushed me back with his foot on my chest, and I reluctantly released his spent member. "Mmmm, mmmmmm good," I grinned.

Rick put out his muscled forearm and helped me up, a feat deserving of praise, given my aging and unsteady knees after having been on them . . . and my hulk. We might both be gym rats, but I wasn't the hardbody Rick was.

Rick pulled me into another long, passionate kiss, his tongue searching for traces of his essence in my mouth. We sucked face like that for longer than might be imagined for two middle-aged men who'd been together over a decade and a half. But we're crazy in love, even after all this time, even when one of us annoys the other (I'll leave it to your powers of deduction to ascertain who is the most-frequent source of annoyance!).

"Wanna go to bed and see if we can do this again?" he asked me with a devilish grin.

I did, but I also wanted to resolve his phone. "Why don't we take our time . . . and let me make sure the pony is ready for another ride? I'd hate to disappoint, you know," I mugged.

Rick grinned at me. "To say nothing of your OCD . . . and the outstanding task of the phone. I know, I know," he soothed me, caressing the back of my head. "Let's get the Apple ticket in . . . and then get you IN me again!" How could I disagree?

"I'll get the flying phone and restore it for you after we shower up, so you can use it until we sort it out." Surely taking action, getting him a working phone and taking care of the problem for him would get me plenty of honey-do points.

The so-called "flying phone" was the unfortunate phone which I'd left on the roof of the car and had flown off into the road . . . twice. The first time, when we got home - ironically from the gym - and I found my phone missing, we used Find My iPhone on his.  It told us it was a couple of miles from where we'd gotten into the car showing in the middle of a wide boulevard. We'd turned around and gone to the place on the boulevard, and fortunately found the phone. The case was crunched, and the phone was in the gutter, not quite where Find My iPhone had shown it, probably caught by a passing car under its tire and flung to where I could easily retrieve it. Other than the crunched, cracked case, it worked fine.

The second time - yes, there was a second time! I never said I was particularly bright! - was two days later (don't say it!). We left the house for the gym - again, the irony of the gym - with me having left the phone on the roof . . . again. When we got to the gym, of course I didn't have my phone. Find My iPhone this time told us that the phone was halfway down a wooded road just around the corner from our house that leads to the college behind our house and skirts it. That time we couldn't find the phone - not anywhere along about a hundred or more yards along the road, either side, and we couldn't hear any sounds like Find My iPhone helpfully gives you the ability to remotely initiate. A week later, after wiping the lost phone and replacing it with a new phone - at great cost; remind me to buy more Apple stock! - we got a call from the college security office. A student hiking had found the phone. That time the case was completely gone, and the phone casing was plenty scratched and chewed up. I'd kept it . . . just in case.

I got the flying phone from the closet in the room we used as a home office and plugged it in to charge and headed back to shower. Rick already had the shower going and was stepping in when I got close behind him and ran my hand up his sweaty, cummy asscrack, causing him to yip and step lively in under the sprays. I brought my fingers to my nose and inhaled the smell of my man and our sex and steadied myself as I swooned a bit from the heady scent.

Rick reached out and pulled me in behind him, under the several sprays, and then I felt his hand around my length. "Someone didn't need so long to recharge I see!" he teased, stroking me.

I shivered in his touch and ran my hand over Rick's beautifully furred, sculpted torso. A thumb rubbing his nipple got me a gasp and a tighter grip as he stroked me. "We should probably get on to the washing part," he suggested, though he didn't stop his stroking of my hard-again cock.

"MMMMMmmmmmmmm," I agreed, barely aware of what I was agreeing to. Rick leaned up and kissed me, gave my cock a squeeze and then turned and grabbed a bar of soap. Snapping back when he released my manhood, I warned him, "And don't even think of wasting all that great lube I pumped in you earlier!"

His grin was knowing. "You know I'd never do that." I did.

After our shower, I got the flying phone from the office. It was fully charged - apparently it had maintained the last charge, months before. When we'd retrieved it from the college, it had been wiped using Find My iPhone when we hadn't had luck finding it. So I'd restored it, just to test it to see if it worked. We decided not to wipe it and RESTORE from Chuck's backup until I'd had a chance to fool around a bit the next morning with the malfunctioning phone, thinking it might be something that would replicate in the RESTORE if it was software, not hardware. With a cover making almost all the damage hidden - just a tiny scratch on the glass, so tiny you had to really look for it, showing - it was fully usable for him until we took a next step. Just in case, while we watched the rest of the Downton Abbey episode that had been interrupted before, Rick downloaded some of his apps to the phone.

While he did that and watched the next-to-last and then the last Downton episode on Blu-ray, I struggled through the tangled path on the web to initiating a support request with Apple. Ultimately I got to the right support screen and, after inputting the misfiring phone's IMEI - which fortunately my anal-retentive nature had caused to be recorded for reference, because we couldn't get the phone to function at all by then - found that, as I expected, the phone was out of warranty. Damn! So it was a Genius Bar appointment the following day as a Hail Mary to see if there was something they could do.

I'd been happily watching the show with my full attention for about a half hour when I was interrupted by an unfortunately tone from Rick. "Uh, Mike?" which was my first clue I was in trouble, that use of my name and not the usual "honey" combined with the tone.

I looked over, and he was looking at the phone display. It was more than I could hope for that it was a problem with one of the apps he'd downloaded; there had been more than a few, usually just frustration at not being able to sign-in or something, and my fingers' entries seemed to have been better received. "Uh, Ricochet?" I responded, trying to hide my wariness.

"Who's Jeff?" he asked, suspicion clearly conveyed in his tone.

"Jeff who?" I asked backed, my mind racing.

"Jeff with a Chicago cell phone number who you had some, umm, explicit texts with," he replied, more strongly now.

"Oh, you mean Jeff Weston. You remember the guy who worked with us on the implementation a few years ago who called us late at night when we were on vacation because he drew the short straw?" I didn't mention it was the guy I'd hooked up with more than a few times when I was in Chicago. My mind scanned my memory to make sure there was nothing that clearly divulged in our texts - I was always careful to wipe the text history when some message went too far.

"I'm not reading about the short straw here. Apparently I'm reading about something longer and fatter . . . and apparently something I didn't know I was sharing!" That one rose in pitch and volume, the last part positively spit at me.

I forced myself to stay calm. I wouldn't have - couldn't have! - left that kind of text on there. I wanted to be blasé, but I didn't think asking him casually to read it, causing him to re-experience the words he was reacting to, was the best way. On the other hand, if I asked him to give me the phone to read it, he could infer that I wanted to tamper with the evidence.

"WHAT THE FUCK, MIKE?" I hadn't realized while the debate raged in my head that Rick had gotten off the sofa and planted himself in an indignant pose in front of my chair. Solved my problem, though . . . or at least gave me a small thread to pull to unravel this mess.

Looking up innocently, with confusion, I asked, "Can you show me the texts you're apparently misinterpreting?"

His look wasn't ceding anything yet. He thrust the phone down so I could see the screen and read several lines out loud that were far more suggestive - disclosive, but I wasn't going there! - than I'd have liked. "So," he summed up, "You've obviously hooked up with him and gotten naked with him! Seriously, Mike, WHAT THE FUCK?"

"Okay, first can I just placeholder the whole issue of your mistrust of me? I mean, Ricochet, WHAT is up with THAT?"

Rick rolled his eyes. "You would be very well advised to remember you're on defense here; your best-defense-is-a-good-offence tactic isn't going to get you out of this!"

I wanted to point out that was why I simply, passively, asked to revisit that point later. Clearly this was not the time for me to waste defense on ancillary points. "Okay, look. See here? Where it says, 'See you in 15'? Look at the time-stamp. It's two-forty-five in the afternoon." Picking up my own phone, I quickly scrolled to that date on my phone calendar and held it up to Rick. "See? That meeting at four? That's Eastern time on my phone, so it was three in Chicago. Now look," I said, punching the INVITED button and showing Chuck that there were a ton of people in that meeting, Jeff and I being two of them. "I hardly think we 'hooked up'," I air-quoted, "In a meeting at the client's office with about fifteen other people! And to throw more doubt into his inference I added, "Also, about six of those other people were women . . . unattractive ones, at that. Remember Fiona Galbraith when you met her?" I shuddered for emphasis.

He wasn't giving up. "Well why the FUCK would he say," he hissed, annoyed now, scrolling the texts with punches of his fingers on the screen, "And I quote, 'You're fuckn HOT, dude! That's some heavy duty artillary you've got . . . and you know how to use it! Goddamn! Woohoo you're good! Too bad we wasted so much time before, waiting!' Or are you going to tell me he was simply admiring your . . . cufflinks?" He shoved the phone toward me, display in my face.

Rick really was worked-up. But I could see he was processing it. He was angry, but he was also hurt and insecure - I knew that about my wonderful partner, that there was an undercurrent of vulnerability that went all the way back to a cheating boyfriend when they were both in their twenties, twenty years before.

I kept my voice steady, not overly soothing, but calm and steady. "Ricochet," I started slowly, "Jeff was talking about how I took some people he works with apart when they tried to blame the project's delay and derailment on a couple of points on others when it was their fault. I not only recounted from memory quotes including attribution, days, dates and times, but then, just to ice the cake, I opened my laptop and projected onto the meeting room screen the cited emails, which I had all in a folder, ready for this meeting. Jeff loved it, as he's on our side - always has been. When they were duly put in their place, he surreptitiously made the gun sign with his hand," and I did the same, with my thumb and forefinger, and blew on my forefinger as if to cool a smoking barrel. "Ergo, 'artillery'," I air-quoted.

Rick looked down at me, the doubt in his argument now overshadowing his doubt in me, his eyes hurting. I put my hand around the back of his thigh and rubbed gently. His eyes were misty. "Ricochet," I said softly, squeezing his thigh. "My Ricochet." He handed me the phone . . . and otherwise just stood there. I hadn't stopped Downton Abbey, and it was going on in the background, the Crawleys having a decidedly more dramatic wrap-up to their season's issues than we were.

I put the phone aside and pulled Rick onto my lap. "I have a suggestion." Rick wasn't nuzzling me, but he wasn't stiff in my arms and unresponsive, either. I could tell by his breathing that he was fighting tears. My big, strong man was like that sometimes, particularly in the wake of something that really rocked him, and jealousy did. "Why don't we concentrate on us for the rest of the weekend. It's Saturday night, we have a whole day and two nights before the craziness starts on Monday again. I'll cancel the Apple Store appointment, and we'll just have an US couple of days to regenerate and flush out any of the toxins of all this. AND I'll bring up the flying phone on a different backup of your phone, from way before the problems started, in case it really is part of the software."

"Wipe the evidence?" he asked, in a tone I couldn't read.

"We'll call it 'amnesty' - after all, anything that's on that phone is over six months old anyway, since that's the last time it was powered on, right after it took its final flight. And we've had six amazing months while it's been sitting in that drawer, had really good outcomes to a couple of really scary, touch-and-go situations. Alternately, if you feel you need to, you can spend the rest of the weekend going through every message in my phone, and my calendar, and if you feel you need it, I can explain every single thing and call anyone or everyone to corroborate my explanations."

He didn't laugh. He also just sat there, in my arms but not cuddling or nuzzling me. And this was a gamble. I'd given up gambling when my luck with cards left me. I hoped my luck with people and getting what I wanted hadn't gone the same way suddenly. A hardon would have been an outstanding distraction - DICKstraction! LOL - but in my middle forties, summoning a hardon at force of will was a rare feat. Particularly when I was sweating this.

I waited him out. Rick finally said, "What do I get in return for the amnesty?"

"You already have my undying devotion and my heart, Ricochet," I told him, that being the God's honest truth.

"I want ALL of you, Mike," he said, again using my name instead of the usual 'honey'. GODDAMN a hardon would have been a perfect prop right then . . . as opposed to the flop sweat running down my back.

"And a renewed claim on and grant of ALL of me. That's part of the Amnesty."

We were quiet for what seemed like a long time. I was pretty certain my lower back and all the way to my asscrack were sweat-soaked, so maybe his pose - there, but not there WITH ME really - was a lucky break.

Finally he spoke, when I was almost too beside myself to hide it any longer and was in danger of breaking a fundamental tactical premise of waiting for the next move or a signal of what it was, not jumping into the silence or lull precipitously. "Take me to bed and let the pony bang all this out of my head," he asked, plaintively, resting his head down on me, the side of his face on the top of my head.

My heart broke, and I swore I'd do better in the future. And no, not cover my tracks better! I really WOULD keep my cock in my pants . . . or in Rick. I really would, dammit. It wasn't like I NEEDED the random mouths and asses - I had world-class MAN at home, always willing, always intensely sexual and oh, so very talented in the way he pleasured me.

His next words startled me out of my mental penitent ramblings. "This is a one-time offer, Mike, because we DO have an awesome life, no matter some details we can leave off the ledger. I suggest you seal this deal - your offer I'm accepting - before I think better of it." Again, his delivery was distant, almost cold, despite his head still resting on mine.

"I like you on my lap, Ricochet. It's been a long time since we fucked in my chair," I quickly improvised. And, since apparently I was getting lucky in many ways, my cock came to life and to my aide.

He chuckled very slightly, but it was another thread in this lifeline. "I said 'bed' - NOW!" He got up and put out his hand.

I got up quickly. I saw in his eyes he'd made his decision, but he also KNEW . . . and the hurt would haunt me. I loved this man with every fiber of my being. As we were heading to bed, once I was on my feet, I wrapped my arms around him from behind, savoring the texture of his muscled back against my chest, snaking my arms around and deliberately rubbing his furred chest and abs with my palms before I pulled him tight into a hug. "Mmmmmmmmmmmm, my Ricochet," I murmured into his neck.

He took a beat, then eased back into me and brought his hands up to hold my arms around him. He called for our dog to go to bed, then decided to let him out for a quick last-chance for the night, when Charlie went to the back door instead of toward us and on to the bedroom. He patted my arms. "My duty calls," he told me, giving my head a brush with the back and side of his, and then he broke away. When he headed toward where Charlie eagerly awaited the opening of the door, he turned suddenly, his eyes fierce. "And believe me, Mike, TRUST ME on this: you're going to EARN that Amnesty when I get you in the bedroom. It'll be HARD earned, you fucking pig." He said the last with a smirk - not a smile like he was joking, but not with venom either. He definitely knew neither Jeff nor I attended that meeting . . . or several others.

"Oink, oink," I replied inanely. What else could I do but act as if I innocently thought he was talking about me/us in bed being piggy . . . together? As he turned and got Charlie even more worked up with some enthusing words and claps about "going and doing good boy" outside, I headed for the bedroom. And as I walked down the hall I thumbed the screens and the commands on the flying phone, which I'd palmed and pocketed off the table when I got up and was in my pocket. With it in front of me so he couldn't see, I wiped the fucking flying phone and reset it to new. I'd check my phone later, just in case anything was lurking, while he was asleep afterward, but I was pretty sure it was clean - I kept it that way. Of course, I thought I'd kept the old one that way, but the RESTORE had proven me wrong six months ago. Amnesty.






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