Fandom: The Daily Show/The Colbert Report RPS
Paring: Jon/Stephen (mentions of others)
Rating: Hard R
Summary: Phone fun.
Thanks again to Beta Goddess Carol who is doing an amazing job on stuff she's never laid eyes on.
“Are you still there, Jon?”
He could tell Stephen was getting impatient. Colbert was a monster. He could go to confession at lunchtime, jack off with Jon after the show and probably go home ready to make more Col-babies with Evie.
Jon had the door locked. His pants were off, boxers down around his ankles, phone in one hand and lube nearby, but his dick was lying against his thigh, almost defiantly flaccid.
Usually he was good for a leisurely roll in the hay with Tracy on Sunday morning and still get it up for his phone dates with Stephen, but tonight…nothing.
Now you do this to me? All those times you wanted to play “rise and shine” while I was on-camera and now it’s nap time? Thanks a lot, buddy.
He was still a little stressed out by the Virginia Tech thing and the fact that he’d had all of three minutes to act like a mensch before having to go back to making jokes, plus the McCain interviews were turning into a total bummer.
Not that he wanted to be thinking of John McCain while he had his hand on his schlong. He’d already tried various grips and strokes while mentally zipping throught the playlist of his hottest fantasies, hoping Mr. Floppy would rise to the occasion.
Anderson. Angelina. Anderson and Angelina. Maggie Gyllenhaal’s giggle. (Sexy as hell, even when she was out-to-there pregnant.) Jake Gyllenhaal’s everything and NO, he was not going to think of them together, unless it would help.
Jon could tell from a subtle change in the air on the other end of the line that Stephen’s party was already underway. His fantasy for the evening involved Keith Olberman and Bob Costas getting into a bitchfight over baseball stats and then turning their attention to him. Kinky bastard. Olberman, he could sort of understand, but Bob Costas?
He didn’t want to let Stephen down, so he pulled out his sure-fire, Build Me Up Buttercup, fantasy image. George Clooney, the way he’d looked in their Oscar sketch. The knowing smile. The melting hazel eyes that you wanted to fall into…
Yeah. Melting. It was his fantasy and Clooney’s eyes were all that and more, but on this particular night they still weren’t enough for Jon to raise a stiffie.
“No, Bob, I am not moving to St. Louis to be with you.”
Maybe he should just fake it. Moan and groan a little. Tell Stephen he had George sucking his dick and J-Lo…feeding him grapes or something, while Stephen got off to his bizarre threesome.
No, it wasn’t fair to lie to Stephen like some $2.98 per minute phone whore. They meant more to each other than that.
But he couldn’t tell him the truth either. He pounded his own thing whining in frustration, before he remembered that Stephen would hear him and pick up on his misery.
“Stephen, I’m sorry, man. I guess Rod Stewart was wrong. Tonight is not the night.”
There was a moment of quiet, during which Jon wondered if Stephen was going to get peevish at Jon for being a party pooper.
Instead Stephen’s voice came back on the line, low and deliberate, a far sexier voice than the Colbert Report audience would ever hear.
“Maybe I should come over there.”
“No!” he nearly yelped.
“I could help you relax. Maybe you need a shoulder rub, or something else…”
This was a no-no. A violation of the promise they’d made to themselves and their wives, even though Tracy and Evie had no idea. They could get off on the phone or in the same room as long as they didn’t think about or touch one another. It had worked until now because it had to, because Jon knew that if he actually went so far as to imagine Stephen’s hands or mouth or any other part of him, he’d never stop.
If it had stopped working now, they were in a world of trouble.
With a capital T and that rhymed with something he couldn’t remember because his cock was starting to stiffen against the lightest touch of his fingers, getting harder with each word out of Stephen’s mouth.
“I could kneel in front of you, put my head between your legs, just breathing you in. Oh god, Jon, I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”
“Not as long as I have,” he gasped, clutching his balls tightly. Legs spreading, hips thrusting. Sorry, George. All he wanted was Stephen on his knees. Hot mouth on his cock, so he could look at Stephen’s dark, sleek hair as his head moved up and down. He knew Stephen was talking a good game -- “…sucking you so hard….licking your balls…” -- but he didn’t even need the words anymore. He had his hard-on and his fantasy and he’d broken the rules and it felt great.
He was so close. Hand moving quickly, toes curling in anticipation.
“Oh god, Stephen! Want you so much,” he gasped.
“I want you too, babe.”
And that did it.
He grunted his pleasure into the phone so Stephen could share it, as he came in hot sticky streaks onto his hand and thigh, spasms of pleasure twitching though his body.
Jon gave himself a few seconds to wish it could be Stephen with him in the flesh, but he already knew what a bad idea this had been, no matter how good it felt, and it was up to him to keep it from getting any worse. That meant rushing himself back to normal breathing rather than basking in the phone-sex equivalent of afterglow or giving Stephen any opportunity for the endearments that would doom them both. Why did he always have to be grown-up? It wasn’t fair.
“Jon, are you OK? Was that…”
“Great. I’m great, Stephen,” he said, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice as he took a deep, calming breath.
“So tell me about Keith and Bob.”