"A hundred and seven?" Toby raised his eyebrows as he flipped through the increasingly ambitious, clip-art strewn quarterly newsletter Sr. Pete had taken to editing for fellow Catholics in counseling and social work. Thirty-two more than last time, and that had been bad enough. Christ, one-oh-seven times... eight pages, plus the collating and stapling...
"Well, I want to make sure I have enough."
...to choke a landfill, Toby thought sourly, shaking his head at the slightly askew lambs frolicking up one side of the front page margin.
"All right," he said getting up and stretching. This was a job for the big copier in the library, so, what the fuck, at least it’d get him out of the office for a while. Toby never brought up the myriad technical wrongs in using a prison employee, prison equipment, and the prison mailroom to produce and distribute this stupid thing, which Sr. Pete really should be doing on her own time (and dime). No, the still-kicking lawyer in him had decided the more prudent thing would be to save the point, produce it to puncture some future moment of Sisterly sanctimony aimed his way.
Sanctimony that would surely revolve around one Christopher Keller, and Toby's relationship with him. They were on a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ basis where Chris was concerned these days. For as long as Pete could stand it, anyway. But the disapproval radiated off of her, the anger, the... jealousy. And Toby had to chuckle a little, smugly.
Not that he really meant to deliberately provoke her, but... there were days he showed up for work still endorphin-high and goofy-grinned from early morning hijinks. Occasions when he was unable to settle his well-loved ass comfortably into an office chair. And times he could swear Sr. Pete was sniffing him, like a suspicious parent. Except instead of booze or smoke now, Toby knew she was trying to detect traces of Chris on his skin.
It would almost be kind of funny, except that it wasn't funny at all. Much as he valued, and was grateful for her help and friendship, Sr. Pete had shown that she could be ruled by all-too human emotions. And she had a lot of say about Toby's life in Oz, his level of comfort. If Pete got into enough of a pique, who knew what she might do? Go to McManus and have Chris transferred, say it was for Toby's own good. His psychological well-being, or some shit like that. Their current state of detente was fragile, and important to maintain. He and Chris had to be good boys, best behavior, both of them -- and that was a fucking hard promise to make on Chris' behalf.
Toby walked down to the library and looked for Rebadow.
"Good morning, Tobias."
"Copies for Sister Pete," Toby said, waving a manila folder containing The Catholic Shepherd.
"Ah, I’m sorry, but the copier isn’t here."
"What do you mean, it isn’t here?" Toby asked, hoping dearly that the explanation had nothing to do with God. He was having enough struggles with the whole God question at the moment, without Bob Rebadow’s bizzarro spin on things further clouding the issue.
"It was malfunctioning." Rebadow leaned in across the vacant librarian’s desk and dropped his voice to a disgusted whisper. "A lot of the men in here are animals! They have no respect for books, or machinery. You don’t even want to know what I found inside the works of that copier!"
"Uh, you’re right, actually, I don’t." Toby tried to think of a way to get out of being taken into any further confidence on the photoreproductive compulsions of his fellow inmates. "If you could just tell me where the copy machine is now? Because I need to use it. For Sister Pete." He pulled the white plastic access card from the back pocket of his jeans and waved it for Rebadow to see. Rebadow leaned back and stared at him for a long moment, as though sizing up the truth of his request. Toby sighed. "I’m not gonna copy my ass."
"Well, all right, then." Rebadow straightened and motioned for Toby to follow along as he left the library and walked down the corridor, nodding briskly at a bored looking Mineo standing guard, before turning at the door to the main maintenance stock and storage room... where Chris frequently worked when supplies came in. Toby's spirits lifted slightly. Maybe this stupid newsletter wouldn't be quite so boring to assemble after all.
Rebadow pushed open the heavy steel door, and there around the first corner, shoved up against the lower portion of a floor-to-ceiling industrial gray shelving unit, was the elusive copy machine. Toby stepped into the room and looked around hopefully, but Chris was nowhere in sight. Oh, well. Monotony, it was.
Well aware of Rebadow still hovering around behind him, Toby slid the Psych department's access card into the proper slot on the copier's control panel. He opened the lid, and positioned the first page of The Catholic Shepherd onto the glass plate, carefully aligning the edges for straightness. He crouched down to check the paper supply compartment, making sure it was full and correctly loaded.
"Be careful you don’t jam it, now," Rebadow scolded, leaning in to inspect the operation.
"I won't," Toby promised between gritted teeth, standing again, and gently depressing the '1', '0', and '7' buttons to set the print run.
"Rebadow!" Mineo's annoyed voice bellowed from outside. "Someone's looking for you in the library!"
Toby rolled his eyes and exhaled gratefully as Rebadow gave the copy machine one last proprietary pat and turned to leave. But almost as soon as he finished feeling relieved that Rebadow was gone, Toby found himself wishing the crazy old fucker'd stuck around a while longer. Even neurotic company was better than standing there alone in the empty supply room, captive audience to the impersonal hum and flash of the copy machine. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, staring vacantly as the 'number remaining' display counted down. Objectively speaking, he knew the process was actually pretty quick, but feeling bored and resentful, the numbers seemed to descend with agonizing slowness.
Finally, the first page run was complete, as copy number one hundred and seven in all its lamb-festooned glory slid onto the top of the output pile. Only seven more pages to go. Great. Toby let out a sigh and went to switch out the cover sheet for page two of the newsletter. But as he was reaching for the lid of the copy machine, he suddenly sensed that someone was standing behind him.
He was about to bark, 'Rebadow, give it a rest!', when every hair follicle on his body sprang to bumpy attention. The mass behind him now was much too large, and had come in way too quietly to be Rebadow. Toby stiffened, eyes searching frantically for something, anything he could use as a weapon.
Then, a husky "You wanna copy your ass?" puffed warmly in his ear.
"Jesus, Keller, give a guy a heart attack."
"Done that. What's up?"
Toby laughed uneasily and leaned back as he felt Chris' hands come up to squeeze his relaxing shoulders.
"Bullshit photocopying crap for Sister Pete. You?"
"Me? I was just thinking about you."
And Toby laughed again, feeling the jab of Chris’ hard dick against his ass through their layers of clothing.
"You’re such a pig."
"Yeah, I don’t think I’m alone in this sty."
And Chris' hands slid down Toby's body, roving crotchward to mold over Toby's cock, which jerked and swelled at that knowing touch with Pavlovian predictability. Toby groaned even as the paranoid part of his brain flashed on Mineo's unsympathetic mug looming outside in the corridor, not twenty yards away.
"Chris, cut it out. We're gonna get busted." But Toby knew his voice lacked conviction. He couldn't seem to help rocking his hips forward into that maddeningly good pressure, or from breathing deep the heady scent of a physical workday on Chris' skin.
"Just a quickie," Chris whispered. And Toby felt the slick, firm, swipe of tongue, and sharper nip of teeth searing a path along the side of his neck from ear to shoulder and back again. "We won't get caught."
"How would you know?" Toby asked skeptically, even as he tilted his head back and to the side, offering up better access to his throat.
Chris paused in mid-nibble. "'Cause, we'll, uh, make a force field with our minds, like in those movies, you know, with the old guy in the robe."
"These are not the droids you're looking for," Toby choked on a snort, but he could already feel himself coming unglued -- steamed open by that rough voice in his ear, the hard heat pressed against his back.
"Exactly," Chris purred, pleased. "Mineo didn't even see me come in, he was yakking on his radio. No one's going to find us. Come on, I've gotta have a piece of this ass."
And the hand that had been on Toby’s crotch slid over to his butt now, pinching, patting, rubbing lovingly.
"Oh, man...this is a really bad idea." But Toby was already turning in Chris' arms, returning the embrace, moving in to cover Chris' teasing mouth with his own.
Chris halted him in mid-lean, splaying a hand against Toby's chest. "Keep the copier going."
Toby nodded, twisting around to fumble the next sheet of The Catholic Shepherd onto the glass. Right, keep the copier going, because too much silence, or... other noise would likely draw Mineo's attention. Good to remember Chris' fine criminal instincts were impervious to the dulling effects of sex-brain.
Toby closed the lid quickly, knowing this sheet was a little crooked, but, ah, fuck it. He punched the 'OK' button and the machine resumed flashing and humming, counting down the copies of page two.
He stepped back up to Chris. Now they were ready -- for long, deep, tongue-fucking kisses. And hands, tugging at shirt hems, yanking buttons and zippers open in the search for hot, hot skin. Oh yeah, they were ready for that all right.
Some hazy, wet, sucked and bitten time later, Toby narrowly missed elbowing the precarious stack of completed sheets to the floor as he struggled shakily, heaving for breath, to align page eight of The Catholic Shepherd even reasonably straight against the plate.
Eight!? Already? He blinked and looked closer, but not even his glasses
would have changed the picture. It was the last page. Shit, they were
almost out of time. Even if Mineo didn't know how much copying Toby had
to do, Sr. Pete most certainly did. When she found out the copy machine
had been moved into the storage room where Chris had free run, she'd be
on them like a bloodhound. And rightly so, Toby thought, glancing over
his shoulder at a thoroughly pawed and disheveled Chris, waiting for his
The rational part of Toby's brain said the smart thing to do now, would be to straighten up and move on. Get back to work, see Chris later, and be sure to maintain the uneasy truce he'd managed to hammer out with Sr. Pete over this.
But...the rational part of Toby's brain couldn't stop him from staring, mouth watering, hungry, at the fantastic bulge shoving at the open V of Chris' undone fly. Couldn't stop him from thinking about what was in there, straining to get out of those somehow insanely sexy blue utility pants.
Toby closed his eyes and felt a carnal shiver go through him. The reckless thrill of the idea alone -- a hard, fast, zipless fuck with Chris, right here, right now, against the copy machine, stonefaced Mineo twiddling his thumbs around the corner -- was more than his already hormone-addled resistance could bear.
"Well, if you're going to do me, Keller, you'd better do me now."
Chris laughed. "Demanding!"
"Fuck off." But Toby knew the grin was only getting wider as Chris came up behind him.
"Could almost think this was your idea."
"Would you shut the hell up and fu... oh, yeah, fuck me." And Toby’s head rolled back, his eyes closing as Chris moved in, hands working their way down the already opened front of Toby's jeans, digging past the elastic of his boxers to roughly push both layers of clothing down off his hips.
"God, you make me hot," Chris growled in his ear. "So hot, Toby, I just want to fuck you all the time."
Toby made an incoherent noise and leaned into the humming copy machine, opening his legs as wide as his sagging jeans would allow and shoving his bared ass back against Chris in blatant invitation. He sensed Chris kneeling behind him, and braced for something, not knowing (or caring) what the hell Chris was going to find in the storage room to grease him up with. But he almost jumped out of his skin when he felt Chris' hands grabbing hard onto his ass cheeks, spreading him open, and then, oh fuck -- felt Chris' warm, wet, ticklish-strong tongue flicking and teasing at him right there.
Toby collapsed against the top of the copier, feeling the churning heat of the machine baking into his chest and the fronts of his thighs, while Chris worked indescribable magic on him from behind. This was crazy. This was so good and so hot and so crazy. If he wasn't already out of his mind? This would surely take him there.
Toby stifled a moan and realized he'd better get some masking noise going again before Mineo came in to check on things. But oh, damn, he was way too pleasure-wasted to lift himself up onto his arms. He groped along the edge of the copier, searching for the 'OK' button by feel, when Chris added a spit-slicked finger to the mix.
"Oh, fuck," Toby groaned as his own fingers clenched and then skidded helplessly over the control panel buttons. The 'number remaining' readout blinked four hundred and seven before beginning to descend, as the copy machine clunked and whirred back to life, and the final page of The Catholic Shepherd began sliding one sheet after another into in the already nearly full output tray.
He felt Chris stand up behind him, leaning in and running strong hands possessively over his hips. "Yeah, that should buy us a little more time."
A little more time, Toby thought foggily, as Chris' booted feet bracketed his sneaker'd ones, and those hands tugged him into position. He closed his eyes and rested his cheek against the warm vibration of the copier. The slippery rub of Chris' dick against his ass was no jocular tease this time, but skin finding skin, desperate for fit, all hard, hot possibility.
Yeah, more time was good. They needed more time because...
And Toby could feel himself rising up onto the balls of his feet as his body gave way, smashed a little across the top of the copier as Chris sank inside of him. There was the familiar warm nestle of Chris' balls against his ass, but also the soothing softness of briefs, and coarser rasp of work pants. Toby wiggled, just to feel the materials. He tried to spread his legs further, for the bite of his jeans digging into the skin of his thighs -- further proof of needs too urgent, too raw, to get all the way undressed for.
The reckless thrill shivered through him again, and he reached for his own dick, pulling on himself dizzily as Chris began to fuck him from behind. He breathed in the electrically-scented fumes pumping out of the copier's cooling fan mixed with the dank musk of sex and sweat, while steel shelves and cardboard boxes towered over his head. He closed his eyes and grinned wildly imagining the green-tinted light of the copier flashing over and over as a neon sign affixed outside some day-rate fleabag, blinking: MOTEL, MOTEL, MOTEL. Chris grunted and shoved against him, the best kind of rough, and it was like all the guiltily classist dirty blue-collar fantasies Toby'd ever had since meeting Chris, swirling into one glorious reality.
It was too fucking crazy, too fucking good. Toby's luck never lasted, they were sure to get caught. Amazing how little he cared. Mineo, Sr. Pete, it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference-—not with Chris pounding into him now, so sweet and so deep, ready to blow any second. Not with his own hand locked into perfect, unbreakable rhythm on his dick, slathered with precome, squeezing down harder, stripping faster, and faster.
He felt Chris jerk and stutter behind him then, the low, breathy words hot and moist in his ear: "Oh, Toby, yeah....", and Chris was coming, hard, powerful bursts slamming Toby forward into the copier. If he hadn't been rushing headlong into his own mindblowing orgasm, Toby might have been able to do something about the teetering pile of Catholic Shepherd pages beginning to cascade down onto the floor. But nothing was going to disrupt his rhythm now, not the spill, the sudden silence, or that peculiar burning smell smoking out of the copier. No, none of that was going to stop him from leaning back into Chris and coming right now, spurting impressive gobs of jizz out onto his hand, the floor, and the side panel of the sadly abused copy machine.
Toby gave one last moan and sagged back, spent, against Chris, who sagged back, spent, against the shelving unit. They leaned there for a long moment, Chris' arms looped loosely around Toby's waist, as they caught their breath and surveyed the mess.
"All that paper... Toby, you know I'm gonna have to charge this to the Psych department," Chris said finally.
"Fuck you," Toby laughed, gingerly hauling his jeans back up. But he desperately hoped, as he moved over to begin picking his way through the reams of sheets strewn across the floor, that he'd be able to salvage enough reasonably okay copies of The Catholic Shepherd to present to Sr. Pete.
"Greedy boy. And you say I'm the pig." Chris zipped up and sauntered over, holding out a slightly crumpled sheet of paper. "Nice shot."
Toby sighed in dismay as he took in the smeared and footprinted Catholic Shepherd cover page in Chris' hands.
"I gave the lamb a facial, I’m going to hell."
"Beecher! Sister Pete's been looking for you!" Mineo's voice boomed at the doorway.
"Uh..." Toby looked up, stricken.
Mineo leaned in and glanced around, eyes lighting suspiciously on Chris.
"Keller, don't you have someplace to be? Get out of here before I throw you in the cage."
"See ya later," Chris mouthed, shooting Toby a wink and sliding the rumpled, come-spattered cover page onto the top of the pile of collected sheets in Toby's hands before leaving. Toby knew it wasn't really the time, but he couldn't help watching Chris go, eyes resting fondly on the dangerously low slung fit of those marvelous blue pants.
"Beecher, what the fuck?"
"I, uh, had a little problem with the machine," Toby started, but Mineo waved him off disgustedly.
"I don't want to know. Just clean this place up."
"Now I'm gonna have to get Rebadow in here," Mineo continued to grumble, scowling as he reached for his radio. "I mean, what were you doing, Beecher, copying your ass?"
Toby bit his lip, feeling the warmly pleasant soreness radiating inside his jeans as he bent to pick up more papers. He glanced down at the top sheet Chris had given him and almost choked when he noticed the lascivious leer now toner-streaked onto the face of the lead lamb.
So going to hell, Toby thought. And then he started to laugh.