Disclaimer: Most of these characters belong to DPB, CBS, Paramount, et al. No copyright infringement intended.


We’ve made other mistakes in our job before this one, sometimes small, insignificant errors and sometimes huge, honking blunders, but most of those instances came about because of misinformation gathered by some ‘outside’ source, funneled our way, and presented to us as ‘important leads‘ in our cases. Right. Important my ass. We’ve gotten better about double-checking names and dates and background info, especially if it trickles in to us from agencies we sometimes don’t see eye-to-eye with, and have learned many a hard lesson concerning the importance of using our own eyes and ears, instead of relying on the so-called accuracy of others.

But this was different and, somehow, I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped when we burst through the flimsy door of the all-but-deserted warehouse, guns drawn and positions covered, ready to take down or arrest the criminals we were after…

…only to find a couple of teenagers going at it, hot and heavy, on some dirty mattress pushed to the far corner of an almost-dark storeroom. There were several small, fat candles burning and sputtering on an overturned cardboard box just to one side (how romantic) but, other than those…and a small radio doing it’s best to conceal the squeaking and scratching of nearby rodents…there was absolutely no sign of the renegade Marines or the stolen contraband we were after.

Our bust was, quite literally, a bust and I laughed uncontrollably again at the situation…long and hard.

Riding back to the office, with Gibbs behind the wheel and McGee and Ziva almost cowering in the back seat, I tried to keep the smile from returning to my face…only because Gibbs growled every time he sensed a twitch forming on my lips. But I was having a hell of a time keeping my mirth contained, especially when I idly wondered if that poor excuse of a love nest had been the setting for those kids’ first sexual encounter. God, I seriously hoped not but. First times were hard enough without having a group of federal agents swarming all over, waving their weapons, and yelling, ‘Hands up! Hands up!“ I chuckled at that thought and, in a measure of self-preservation…and because I knew he’d have something ‘personal’ to say to me later if I kept it up…I turned my gaze to stare out the side window and just let my mind drift away. The passing scenery blurred and ran together and my thoughts went back to an incident long ago…

The very first time I had *real* sex, I’d been scared shitless and I’d be lying if I said anything to the contrary. Guys aren’t supposed to be scared about sex, at least, that’s what I’d always been told. We can be excited and horny and apprehensive, be so turned on our stomachs ache and our nuts hurt, but guys aren’t supposed to be scared. Oh, hell, no.

Women, on the other hand, are suppose to be naturally nervous and frightened. I mean, who can blame them? Think about it. There’s some big, sweaty guy shifting his stance and closing in, about to impale them with his engorged, aroused dick, grunting and groaning and shoving for all he’s worth, and, if they’re lucky, *really* lucky, he may even last long enough for them to orgasm. Maybe.

Crap, I’d be frightened, too, if I was never sure I’d be getting off during an encounter…and pissed as hell. I mean, what’s with that? Right?

But my first time was different because, unlike most of my friends, mine was with another guy. I was suddenly looking at another guy’s dick as something completely different than an object of comparison.

Okay, that’s a guy thing, too, and needs an explanation. We challenge each other from childhood, first seeing who can pee the farthest, then progress into who can get hard the fastest, and then (I kid you not) we attempt to be the first to come the quickest. Really. It sounds pretty stupid now but, back then, it was fairly common to see a group of guys suddenly vacate a room and head outside, for some unexplained reason (*cough*), only to have them return a short time later with huge, goofy grins on their faces. Competition can be a strange thing.

Okay, yes, I did it, too, especially as a young adolescent, like it was some kind of bizarre, male bonding ritual. Only now can I look back and wonder if it we were only teaching ourselves some really bad habits. Terrible habits. Almost unforgivable habits. Never once did anyone ever suggest we try and see how long we could go *without* coming. Are you fucking kidding me? We got hard so you could come. Period. That was the whole purpose of getting a boner. End of story.

Anyway, there I was, with another guy’s dick in my hand (and his on my ass…his hand, not his dick) and I was nervous as hell, stomach doing flip-flops, sweat beginning to accumulate on the brow and in the pits, and my knees beginning to turn loose and rubbery feeling. He was older than me by a couple of years, good looking as hell, and I’d felt a strange *pull* toward him for months. We were friends, nothing more, but attending a party one evening, where a joint or two of some weed had been passed freely around and alcohol could be had if you asked the right person, had done wonders to lowering old barriers and opening up new possibilities. I wasn’t high or drunk but I sure was intoxicated by lust, plain and simple, and being outside with him, in the cool darkness of the night, had felt almost perfect.

Kissing him had been a shock, at first, because I was used to the warm softness of a female’s pliant mouth, slick with cherry or grape flavored Lip Smacker, or some other tasty coating, but he was a really good kisser and managed to steal my breath from my lungs without any artificial assistance. Man, his tongue could do things that made my dick twitch and my nuts jump and, when his fingers shifted and stoked between the crease of my ass, barely skimming my hole, I was gone…just like that. Just shot my wad all over his thigh like some inexperienced kid.

Oh, yeah…I *was*an inexperienced kid. Well, what do you know?

Anyway, he just laughed and kissed me some more, quickly ridding me of my embarrassment (and my drooping pants), then turned me around, bent me over the hood of a nearby car, and proceeded to open me up. Gently, carefully, soothingly. He could tell I was scared about what was going to happen but he kept whispering softly in my ear and mouthing the back of my neck, trying to ease my worries. I never questioned where the lube had come from, hell, I never even had the time to think about it, but he was using a slick finger…and then fingers…in ways I never imagined.

Okay, that’s a lie. I *did* imagine this before that night but, in my visions, *I* was always the one doing the ‘exploring’. I mean, I liked the thought of my dick boldly going where no man…

…wait a minute. That Star Trek analogy doesn’t work too well in this instance, does it?

Before I could catch my breath, he was pressed firmly against my back, holding his dick in position between our bodies, and slowly easing it in, just a little at a time. Well, it didn’t feel like a ‘little’ but I know he wasn’t just trying to cram the whole thing in at one time or hurt me. Thank God. I think that would have sent me screaming for the hills…or scrambling up and across the hood of that car. Swiftly.

No, he was slow and gentle and, even though it ached and burned like nothing I’d ever imagined, those feelings gradually subsided. After the head of his dick finally popped past the ring of muscle, it was much easier…and it felt so much better. Strange, yes…but so much better. He kept both arms comfortably around me and continually ran his hands over and across my chest, around the caps of my shoulders, up my neck and into my hairline. And he never stopped whispering the whole time. Never. Even when his voice became strained and ragged sounding, I could still make out the, “feels so good”, and the “oh, baby, yes”, and the “God, you’re so tight”.

It’s funny I can remember those things, even after all these years. I can also remember looking up into the clear, dark sky and seeing countless stars that night. I can remember the smell of a freshly mown lawn mingling with the mouth-watering aroma of the burgers we’d grilled earlier in the evening. And I can clearly remember the feel of him deep inside and fully against my body.

When his thrusts became deeper and more powerful, I found I was losing myself to the sensations: the slide and pull of his dick, the cold, unyielding surface of the hood under my chest and belly, and the arc of pure fire that was lighting up inside my ass. I was pushing back into his motions, trying to get him further inside, to keep him striking that place that was driving me crazy with renewed lust. Holy shit…I was going to come again!

I don’t know which of us came first. Frankly, I didn’t care. All I know is I was *there* again…and then the world around me just sort of grayed out for a moment or two…or ten. The hood of the car felt wonderful under my hot cheek and the solid support was very welcomed because, at the time, I just don’t think I could have stood on my own two feet, even if my life had depended upon it. I just wanted to lay there and rest.

When he pulled out, I suddenly got scared again. It’s funny what goes through your mind *after* the deed is already done. Hindsight. Get it? *Hind* sight. Oh, yeah…really funny. A litany of questions rolled through my head: Did he use a condom? What if I was bleeding? Did he use a condom? Am I going to be walking funny? Did he use a condom? What if he tells someone we did this?

But most importantly, did he use a condom? I had to know the answer to that query, more than the other, because the thought of catching something, even at that young age, had been diligently drilled into my brain.

Turning slowly, I’d steeled myself, and glanced down toward his fumbling hands, watching as he’d carefully peeled off a really messy looking condom, feeling inordinately relieved and appalled at the same time. I couldn’t help wincing at what I saw and wondered what in the hell he planned to do with it. It sure wasn’t something you could just casually toss into a friend’s yard…and sure not something you could knot off and stick in your pocket for later disposal. Oh, hell, no. That crap-smeared, lube-coated, come-filled piece of latex needed a swift burial…

…or a cremation. Yeah, that was the ticket.

Glancing quickly back over to the still-glowing embers of the grill resting sedately at the edge of the nearby patio, we’d swiftly struggled back into our clothes, and snickered at what we were about to do. It’d seemed, somehow, appropriate…a final farewell of sorts…a tribute to my initiation into the wonderful world of sex. We watched the nasty bit of protection sizzle and sputter, opening up and curling into a hissing, singed, angry-looking alien creature. And it stunk…badly. We both ended up pulling the collars of our t-shirts over our noses and mouths to fight the stench but we stood there until all evidence was gone…and then we went back inside and parted ways.

That was along time ago and I don’t get scared anymore. Excited and horny and apprehensive…definitely. But you know, that’s what guys are supposed to feel. Right?

Blinking hard and shaking my head, I suddenly realize we’ve arrived back at work and the others are already rolling out of the car. McGee and Ziva are almost scurrying away like a couple of frisky rabbits in their attempt to put some distance between Gibbs and me and I have to wonder what I missed. I ease out, close the door, and look over the top of the sedan, catching Gibbs’ grim expression.

I swallow nervously and speak. “What?”

He just growls again, low in his throat, and his eyes take on that ‘you’ll be paying for this later, DiNozzo’ look. I gulp nervously and can already feel him in my ass.

Shit…after all this time, it seems I *can* get scared again.


END