Cock juices and laboratory-grade eyedroppers?  Stick out your tongue for some kinky and delicious fun as we turn a terrific story really, really gay.

ReM/Mixed Erotica: Dropping the Hint
Authorized reM/Mix by Confidant of "Dropping the Hint” by Jeremy Edwards.
Find the original M/F story here.
© 2007-2013 Jeremy Edwards. All rights reserved.

My partner Dorian has one or two eccentric habits.

I should explain, first, that Dorian keeps early hours at the chemistry lab, where he and two other graduate students arrive at 6 a.m. daily; eat lunch at 10; and lock up at 3. Personally, I don’t see why the inorganic molecules that Dorian studies should force him out of bed at 5 a.m.—that would seem more fitting in a field like botany or zoology, where everyone’s up with the sun. But my understanding of chemistry, like my understanding of most things outside the world of finance, is limited, and perhaps the experts have determined that nitrogen and helium are at their friskiest at breakfast time.

And so Dorian gets home before me, five days a week, and has ample opportunity to shed his work clothes, shower, and slip into the special lab coat that he uses as a dressing gown. It’s an absurdly bright shade of white, which boasts scientifically credible long sleeves and yet forces his jockstrap to peek out beneath the hem. I have no idea where he obtained it (campus supply or fetish boutique?), but he says it’s very comfortable.

I clatter through the door a few hours later, an impeccable accountant who is hopelessly disorganized and indecisive outside his office. I rumble in precariously like a badly-packed luggage cart, ready as I’ll ever be to enter the slightly baffling world of private life after another proud day of fiscal magic.

Each time I cross the threshold, I feel a wave of gratitude for the fact that Dorian runs our life. My guiding principle is that if a matter can’t be settled by recourse to a printing calculator, then I don’t want to be the one in charge.

Dorian, as I said, has one or two eccentric habits, and he often greets me at the door with a laboratory-grade eyedropper behind his back.

You see, he likes to drop me hints, in liquid form. So he’s taught me a variety of signals, instructing me in the semaphore that he operates via small samples of fluid. When he smiles and says "tongue”—where many a partner might say "hello”—I close my eyes and render the aforementioned organ accessible to him. I must look quite a spectacle, sticking my tongue out like a brat in a custom-tailored suit; but it’s for Dorian.

Sometimes I taste a drop of olive oil, meaning that it’s my turn to cook. A flash of red wine from the eyedropper, and I know we’re dining out. Worcestershire sauce indicates that my mother has phoned and is expecting me to call back. Lemonade translates into movie night.

But tonight is even more special than movie night. I know this because after I walk in the door—and am duly prompted to extend my tongue—I taste a drop of something that doesn’t come out of any bottle in our well- appointed kitchen.

I taste a drop of Dorian, of Dorian’s precum. In a glorious moment of sensation, I experience that complex collaboration of something that tastes a little bit sweet like a nectar and something that tastes a little salty like caviar ... and an assortment of other masculine elements that taste like—well, like I’m about to cream myself.

The sample is fresh as hell; and I know that while he listened to my car in the driveway, he was bending over, flipping his lab coat hem up with his left hand, and using his right hand both to edge his jock out of the way and to suck his fluid into the dropper. He doesn’t need to be in that position to get the sample, of course; but he showed me once how he does it, and it’s just as I’ve described. Dorian is dramatic, even when he’s alone in the house. Moreover, the position itself makes his cock drip. He explained this to me that first time, as he pumped the little black bulb and gave up his essence in a beautiful travesty of science.

You may have surmised, more or less, what a drop of Dorian on my tongue signifies in our house. That it doesn’t have anything to do with calling my mother, for instance.

And tonight, I don’t get merely the one drop. Just when I’m about to open my eyes, I feel a second drop, then a third; and each tastes more essential than the previous one. The flavor of Dorian’s masculinity awakens taste buds I’m otherwise unaware of possessing. More and more of my tongue tingles with each drop. It’s now a long enough series of drops that I’ve lost count, despite my proficiency with numbers, and my mouth—my entire head—is so full of him that it’s almost too much delight to contain. I feel an impossible, animal impulse for an instant, like I want to shove my cock into my own mouth and fuck the hell out of my nectar-infused tongue. But as his juice soaks into me, I calm down just enough to proceed rationally. I finally open my eyes.

He smiles, then leaves me standing there with his taste in my mouth.

I still have my briefcase in my hand, and as I hold it idly at waist level I feel my cock pressing against it, tingling through my trousers against the attaché’s resistance.

The briefcase gets put where it belongs—the stool by the microwave—but my cock will need to bide its time. Because those drops of Dorian in my mouth lead my mouth straight back to Dorian. Meaning that other parts of my anatomy just have to get in line.

He’s still in his lab coat when I reach the bedroom, but his well-stained jockstrap is gone. He’s facedown and squirming a bit. I know that on drop-of-Dorian nights, he’s already worked up by the time I get home, and he can barely stand to wait. In fact, I think he sometimes sneaks in a quick warm-up round without me.

Yes, Dorian runs our life, and I’m never disappointed in the results. He has everything figured out, and when he serves up his fuckhole, I know it’s because my mouth upon him is what he wants more than anything in the world—more than food, more than sleep, and a lot more than a movie.

His ass looks birthday-cake sweet beneath the kinky laboratory housecoat. I see it for just a moment until, sensing my presence, he rolls onto his back and spreads his hairy legs.

I’m still dressed in a suit, and I’m practically hobbling due to my hard-on. I quickly undress, and when I sit down on the bed, at Dorian’s feet, I see that he’s still clutching the eyedropper. It was in his right hand before; now it’s in his left, which makes me think that he was using his dominant hand, during the moments he awaited me here, for something more skill-specific, something between his thighs.

He sits up, and he hands me the dropper. His legs remain generously apart, and it’s easy for me to procure what’s needed. I bring the dropper, now full, to his mouth, and he drinks of himself greedily while I finger the bulb for him. Then he takes the dropper from my hand and sets it aside. He reclines again, and his legs swing open even further. He is closer to one side of the bed than the other, and his left ankle dangles over the edge.

As I lift what little bit of his garment is obstructing complete, devoted access to his cock, I am overwhelmed by the beauty of this: the beauty of believing that I have no doubt what Dorian desires. He has communicated it to me, after all, in a socially idiosyncratic but chemically accurate manner. I don’t even have to think, to worry for a second about whether I’m giving him what he needs.

I grasp his thighs and plunge my face into his manly epicenter. I can still feel the blessing of the eyedropper, nurturing me like a nipple, guiding me unambiguously with Dorian’s flavor. And as I deliver the first genital kiss I am staunchly confident, as is the stiff cock which I’m carrying like unchecked baggage.

His piss-slit quivers a mixture of luscious relief and heightened tension, as the contact with my mouth both gratifies and escalates his need. I make a full tour of his shaft with my kisses, knowing that he wants to feel my warm, heavy lips at all points on the edge of his passion before my tongue works its shrinking circles toward his frenulum. I visit his beautifully engorged balls, and the pouch reminds me of the eyedropper bulb. I suck it softly, and the increased flow of liquor from Dorian’s slit plays to my concept that I’m bringing forth his wetness by squeezing his fleshy bulb. Then I release it so that I can take another lap around the course.

My cock pulses crazily as his liquid accosts my chin with a desperate lewdness. I take the briefest instant to savor the sight of his wet cock head, to glow with the incomparable buzz of knowing—of seeing, smelling, and tasting—that Dorian wants me, that Dorian needs me, that every inch of Dorian’s cock is writhing in a moisture-saturated anticipation of the moment that my tongue will lick it clean. It makes me feel like I actually know what I’m doing.

As I start to lick him, I note that the taste of Dorian on Dorian is even fresher than what the eyedropper had bestowed on me. When my tongue tastes his fluid straight from the gaping slit, it’s as if I’m drinking it right from the innermost depths of his sexual self—like I have a direct line to the churning reservoir of lust, which bubbles beneath the outer Dorian day after day, until the day it seeps to the surface and suffuses us both with the potent chemistry of desire. The day—such as today—that he greets me with it at the door, his arousal on tap and samples on the house.

I lick all around the crown, with enough pressure that I’m soaking up his juice like a paper towel. But there is, miraculously, an endless supply of precum. Fortunately, my tongue is infinitely absorbent—a claim not shared by even the most aggressively marketed paper towel. And, unlike the typical kitchen spill-jockey, I am not eager to mop up and move on. On the contrary, I feel like I could lick Dorian’s hardon, in luxurious slow motion, all night long.

But this is no infinite plateau; it’s not what a chemist would call a "steady state.” Slowly but surely, his moaned responses evolve from passionate to urgent. His body’s demands implore me from all sides—the swollen cock head that need my kisses, harder kisses this time; the tightened sack that sizzles for the precise flick of an accountant’s tongue tip; the seething slit which bathe itself in a liquid graffiti that begs me to return soon.

I do my best to accommodate all of this. Insofar as it is possible, my lips are everywhere and my tongue is a blur of motion, like an electron in orbit. And this is how it should be; for Dorian is my nucleus and, at the moment, Dorian’s cock is the nucleus of the nucleus, the all-important center of my immediate universe. The delicious core of the world, giving me sweet sustenance, so generously that my face has become sticky with his essence of life. "I love you! I love you!” Dorian screams, a man who didn’t even say hello at the door ... "I love you,” he wails, as his electrified flesh spasms and weeps. Cock juice pools where the hem of his lab coat touches the bed, and his dick seems to embody yet another heartfelt "I love you” as it strains against my tongue.

My own cock is rigid to the point of near-paralysis, and yet I’d almost forgotten about it. But Dorian hasn’t forgotten. And as he puts me where I need to be now, I feel his ass clenching me with desperate shudders. At below-the-waist level, I wallow between his buttocks, twitching and building to paradise; but my consciousness is really in my mouth, which now rests against the base of his neck. I relish the lingering flavor of his sauce, hoarding him inside me even as I nibble gently at the skin of his shoulder and my hips buck uncontrollably down below. Our poles and holes seem as far away as another county, though the echo of my orgasm, when it arrives, rattles distinctly in my head.

At the office the next day, I find the eyedropper in the pocket of my jacket. I’m sure I didn’t put it there—I’m disorganized, but I’m not absentminded. I don’t have to bring it to my face to know that it hasn’t been washed or even rinsed. Its irresistible tang tickles my nostrils as I cradle it in the palm of my hand.

I can’t concentrate on forms and figures this morning, and I spend hours wondering what Dorian will want me to do when I get home. He’s never left me in charge of the dropper for more than a minute, and my stomach flutters as if I’ve been awarded an exciting but slightly intimidating promotion. But he obviously thinks I can handle it, and this reassures me. I remember the luxury in his smile yesterday, right after I’d tongued and tasted him into his ecstasy.

I’m hard again, and a drop of precum crowns my throbbing nostalgia for drop-of-Dorian night. I am a happy man at a desk, sucking on a dry eyedropper while the building empties around me into lunchtime bliss.