Anybody could suck a boy's cock, but only Gabriel could market it as alternative medicine.

Hollywood. He straightened his bowtie, wafting onto the patio with a tray of sparkling water as elegant tanned ladies gossiped about the latest innovations in reality TV programming. One woman fingered her pearls nervously, and he topped up her glass. "First time?"

She glanced at Sam. "Is he...legal?"

"Not only is he legal," he said, pulling the naked boy before her, "He's never so much as kissed a girl."

Gabriel's scam was two-part: a diet clinic on one side, a pastry shop on the other. Having convinced everyone that fellatio tricked the hunger part of the brain, he had opened an exclusive club where the glitterati could practice anorexia and then run next door afterwards for a well-deserved snack.

Her hands shook as Gabriel slicked Sam's cock with a tube of ointment. "What is that stuff?"

Gabriel smiled, stuffing the tube back in his pocket. "Special sauce to help you relax," he said, leaning down to whisper in confidence, "It's just a numbing agent with a little mint flavoring, prevents any...happy endings."

"What's wrong with that?"

He wagged a finger. "Calories darling."

Sam looked away. He'd been passed around like a bag of chips all morning, his wrists secured at the small of his back by leather handcuffs. His erection hung off him like a phantom limb, present and yet disengaged, and as the woman took it into her mouth the smell of pie floated through a nearby air vent.

"Hey Gabe," he said, when the woman finished sucking on him ten minutes later, "Can I run to the kitchen to eat?"

Gabriel checked the clock, the rush would be starting soon. "Make it quick."


Dean shut the oven and wiped his face on the shoulder of his cotton shirt. A clutch of women had cleared out his supply of apple turnovers that morning, and he had circled back to the table to roll out more pie crust when he noticed a shadow by the back door.

"Hello?"

His eyes traveled up, up over miles of flat brown muscle to a woman's mouth and strangely feline eyes, an adolescent fantasy with bangs. Clad only in bluejeans, Sam had the unholy physique of someone who ran five miles a day on an ice cream scoop of tuna salad with the Viagra already ground in, and Dean felt hairs prickle on the back of his neck. "Can I help you with something?"

Sam's eyes glinted, hunger overriding his usual timidity. "Got anything to eat?"

Dean clicked his teeth. "Gabriel's already on my ass about eating at the workstation," he said, gently pushing him toward the door, "The food's for customers only."

"Come on, I got a dollar in my pocket," said Sam, his breath hot on Dean's face, "Doesn't that get me something to eat?"

Dean studied him. "What's wrong with your hands?"

Sam said nothing. He was so used to working around the handcuffs that he forgot he still had them on. Dean didn't push the question, and gestured to the table. "Have a seat, you can help me with something."

"What is it?" Sam asked, pulling his bare feet up on a bar stool as Dean disappeared into the walk-in freezer.

"My problem is," said Dean, arranging three small cakes before Sam, "I've been hired for a wedding next week, and I don't know if these cakes are worth shit."

Sam's mouth was wet. "So?"

"So," said Dean, sinking a fork into the first cake, "Taste this and tell me what you think."

Sam closed his eyes for the first taste, biting down on the fork as he sampled strawberries and black pepper, chocolate and cayenne, mango and chamoy. Dean smiled at Sam's noises of appreciation, clients usually never took the time to savor his work.

"Which is your favorite?"

Sam eyes snapped open, pink puffy lips sealed over the end of the fork, and Dean's heart thumped in his chest.

Dean had missed a smear of frosting along his jaw. Releasing the fork, Sam stood on tip-toe and pressed his mouth to Dean's face, sucking away at clean skin and the faint tang of aftershave. Dean tried to push him away, but not very hard. "Stop that."

Sam formed words against his neck, breathing him in. "Starving..."

Dean caught the edge of the table with one hand, the other burying itself in Sam's hair as mixing bowls clattered to the floor and sent up a fine cloud of flour. He'd watched Sam on the sly for a while now, and didn't want to risk a wrong move. "They're gonna hear us."

But Sam weighted him onto the cool metal surface, closing his teeth over Dean's top shirt button and spitting it across the room to ping off an oven. "Dammit!" said Dean breathlessly, hurrying out of his shirt and flinging it aside as Sam straddled him. Even in the cuffs Sam was easily the stronger of the two, wide shoulders looming over him.

They lay beneath a cone of light, Sam's face lost in shadows as he watched Dean's chest cave in and out. Two months of Gabriel's numbing agent along with Sam's mournful duty as a human lollipop had killed his ability to jerk off, and Sam wanted to be enjoyed.

"Undo your belt."

Dean slid his hand down, not breaking Sam's gaze. "I don't wanna ruin you."

Sam bent down, trailing soft, wet kisses down Dean's belly. "You won't."

The head of Dean's cock peeked out from his boxers, thick and red and dripping. Sam breathed hard, fixated, but dared not touch it. Dean cupped one hand to the boy's cheek, and pulled him back up. It wasn't his first virgin.

"Kiss me."

Sam kissed a little too hard at first, but Dean led him, angling his face until they fit better, soft lips molding to his. The cake spices still lingered, and Sam sucked at his mouth as if it would quench the slow burn that had been building since he took that first taste. Dean lifted his hips, but Sam slammed him back down, his baseball bat of a cock grinding into Dean's.

"Fuck's sake," Dean breathed, "What's your hurry?"

Sam panted, hair sticking to his neck in sweaty ringlets from the heat of the ovens. "I'm...HUNGRY."

He thrust against Dean's naked cock once, twice, breathing into Dean's open mouth. And resonating together on some silent frequency of need Dean's teeth sank into his plush lower lip, balls rising up inside his slacks, and without meaning to he grabbed his cock in his fist and shot a rope of hot jizz across his chest until his head knocked against the table and he huffed out, boneless.

Sam eyed it, glittering in the light like spun sugar. And looking up through his bangs he slowly, slowly lowered his head and extended the tip of his tongue. Dean watched him with a strange fascination, back arched, cheeks flushed, pink tongue running the length of his body in a long, slow lick that made Dean's cock twitch for a second round.

Then the timer dinged, and Dean looked at the clock. "Fuck," he hissed, pushing Sam away, "You have to get back."

Sam rolled off, wet and stinking of sex. Dean swabbed him down with some rosewater and hoped desperately that Gabriel wouldn't notice. "Run run, before the rush hour starts."

Sam pressed his lips together as Dean dressed. "You wanna...get dinner after work?" he asked, the thought of clients cooling his ardor, "I don't have anything to eat at my apartment..."

A line of women began to form in the lobby, and Dean looped an arm around his waist. "Don't worry baby boy," he said, his voice very low, "I'll save a little something for you."