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Title: Palmer on My Mind  

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean  

Fandom: JAG  

Pairing: Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer  

Rating: NC-17  

Disclaimer: Still not mine. Pay attention!  

Status: new/complete  

Date: 9/03  

Series/Sequel: This is three in the Soundbyte Series, and follows At Last.  

Summary: Clay muses on missed opportunities.  

Warnings: m/m, underage  

Notes: In the 1980 Summer Olympics, Sweden took the gold for the Men's Épée, and the Soviet Union took the gold for the Three Day Equestrian Event. ~~~~ denotes breaks in Clay's train of thought. A hand is four inches. Thanks to Bob J. Montonelli for the information he was so kind as to pass along. And many thanks, as always to Gail, who wanted to see what happened in that stable.


Palmer on My Mind

Part 1/1  


Clark Palmer was three years older than I.  

In the summer of 1980, that would have made him… Well, that's neither here nor there. There would still have been three years between us.  

We would have met that year if the United States hadn't pulled out of the Summer Olympics. The Administration decided to take a hard-nosed stand on the USSR invading Afghanistan and boycotted the summer games, which were being held in Moscow .  

Not many people knew that Clark was an Olympic class fencer.  

I hadn't. I'd thought he was just a dilettante until I'd finally pushed him too far, and he'd agreed to a match at the academy where I practiced on occasion. I should have realized how good he was after that time we'd gone out to dinner, and I'd challenged him to a duel with our breadsticks. He'd beaten me then, but I'd assumed it was a fluke.  

Clark had offered to use foils, but I was familiar with the épée, that being the sword of choice in the Pentathlon, and I'd teased, "Afraid I'll take you with your own weapon, Clark ?"  

By the time the bout was over, I was sweating and and panting and more than pleased to call it a draw. The only thing that kept me from banging my head against the wall for such a gross misjudgment of his skill was the fact that Clark was breathing heavily also.  

Clark had been selected for the Olympic fencing team, and I was the youngest member of the equestrian team that would have ridden the Three Day Event.  

We didn't meet that year. But if things had been different, we would have.  

I sat on my couch, gazing into space, waiting for him to come home, my legs comfortably spread and my cock in my hand.  

And I thought of how it might have been.  


Girls didn't much interest me, although I had experimented a bit and kissed one who attended the same school as I. She was older and more experienced, and she'd pushed her tongue into my mouth, and her braces cut my lip. It had been… messy.  

I decided kissing was vastly overrated.  

Mother had looked at my puffy mouth, raised a carefully penciled eyebrow and smiled, but said nothing.  


I smiled up at the ceiling and continued stroking my cock just enough to keep it hard. I wasn't interested in coming. Not yet.  

I had a reputation for being emotionally chilly, and it came in handy. To a certain mentality, it was a challenge, and it could make it easier to get information when a foreign agent thought she had overcome my fastidiousness. I'd learned how to kiss, and my technique could be competent, but privately, I'd still thought it was an overrated activity.  

That was until a certain DSD agent had shown me otherwise. He'd growled in my ear, "You need to be kissed. Long and often and by someone who knows how."  

I would have taunted him about that, but the fact of the matter was that Clark Palmer certainly knew how.  


I'd found myself covertly watching the boys who attended the same school as I. They were the ones who made me grow hard. There had been a couple of mutual hand jobs in the boys' room or behind the equipment shed out near the track, but that was as far as I'd gone.  

Mother had taught me well; even at that age I knew I had to guard my actions carefully.  

However, there in that microcosm of the real world, I saw someone who could tempt me to go further.  

A fencer named Clark Palmer.  

Taller than I, with rather prominent ears, although I couldn't see anyone calling him 'Dumbo'. He had a whipcord-lean body, and I watched him unobtrusively during his practice bouts, admiring the iron control he wielded over that sword, as if it were an extension of his body.  

I was sure that he was, if not gay, than bi. I'd observed him flirting blatantly with the Swedish swordsman, and I'd wondered if he was really attracted to the man, or if he was simply attempting to shake his confidence.  


I paused in stroking my cock and laughed to myself.  

No, no one would call him Dumbo, not if they hoped to live.  

And of course my lover would be trying to throw the Swede off balance. Otherwise he'd have been discreet, and no one did discreet like Clark Palmer.  


I was assigned to room with Sam Barton and Harry Trevalyan, who were the senior members of the equestrian team. They treated me as an equal as long as we were on horseback, but I was ten years younger. As soon as the horses were stabled for the night, they would leave the Olympic Village and go into town to pick up one of the many girls who hung around hoping to hook up with a runner or a swimmer, but willing to settle for steeplechase and dressage.  

I imagined they quickly learned that beneath the jodhpurs and prissy-looking jackets were muscles that had been honed controlling a thousand-pound animal. Even Quasimodo, the sweet-tempered horse I would be riding, could be temperamental on occasion.  

Mother had purchased Quasimodo for me shortly after Father passed away. At fifteen hands, the palomino gelding was a big mount for a child, but Mother never let outward appearances deter her. He was perfect for me, and she knew I'd be able to handle him.  

I'd been schooling Quasimodo in some dressage movements, and I looked to the end of the ring to see if the coach was satisfied. Palmer was standing behind him, his eyes on me, and my mouth went dry and I grew hard. My grip tightened on the reins, irritating my horse, because while my hands were telling him 'whoa,' my heels were telling him, 'go.'  

The coach didn't seem to notice, but Palmer had a little smile on his face.  

"Sorry, Quasimodo," I whispered. I raised my hands and lifted him into a standing trot. He gave a flick of his tail and began to move elegantly in place.  

Palmer seemed to be fascinated with the way I sat my English saddle and the way Quasimodo's girth spread my thighs. I licked my lips, wondering what it would be like to have his hands spreading my thighs.  

I wasn't certain he would accept my advances, if only because of the age factor; I had learned he was several years older than I.  

I forced my attention back to my horse, shifted my weight, and sent him trotting diagonally across the tanbark.  

It took a lot of hard work to get to the Olympics, and it looked as if we stood a good chance of bringing home a medal. In spite of his flashy good looks, Quasimodo was all heart and gave me everything I asked of him. He deserved to take a place in the annals of Olympic record books.  


"Webb, Harry and I are meeting a couple of girls in town." Sam came out of the bathroom, zipping his jeans and smoothing back his hair. "We're having dinner with them."  

I looked up from the boot I was polishing. "Just don't make an all-nighter out of it, Sam. The first rounds start early tomorrow."  

The corner of his mouth curved. "Don't worry. This is important to us too. We'll be back before midnight ."  

They left, joking about showing the girls what very excellent riders they were.  

Mention of dinner made me realize how long it had been since lunch. I stood my boot in the small closet beneath my riding togs, washed my hands, and went down to the communal dining hall.  

We served ourselves, buffet-style, and I piled my tray with a bowl of borsch, a plate of boeuf Stroganov and some rye bread, and a bottle of Coke, and found an empty table. As I raised my spoon to my mouth, I suddenly had the feeling I was being watched. I looked around, but couldn't spot who it might be.  

But at the next table sat the fencing team, Clark Palmer among them. He looked over and saw me staring, and he winked. I felt a blush rise in my cheeks. For a second I thought he was going to join me, then someone at his table drew his attention, and he turned back to them.  

I envied his relaxed posture. He was listening to someone tell a slightly ribald story about a convent full of Irish nuns next-door to a construction site, and his hazel eyes were alight with humor.  

"So the construction worker says, 'Look, Sister, my men call a spade a spade.'  

"And the nun says to him, "Ah, no, they call it a fuckin' shovel!'"  

I'd been about to tip the bottle of soda to my lips, but fortunately I'd paused, otherwise I'd have been spewing Coca-Cola out my nose. As it was, I gave a gasp of laughter.  

"Breathing Coke's not a good idea. Good thing you waited." Palmer leaned across the small space that separated the tables and handed me a napkin.  

I took it, shivering at the feel of his fingers brushing against mine, then set my hand on the table so he wouldn't see it tremble with the sudden flash of desire that had swept through me.  

"So, think your team can beat the Russians?" Hazel eyes smiled into mine.  

"We'll try our best." I smiled back at him coolly. "Think you can beat the Swede?" I expected him to parrot my words back at me.  


"You're very confident."  

"Palmer's the best," one of his teammates mocked, a discontented look in his eyes.  

"Are you really?" I asked softly, and I wasn't thinking solely of his skill with an épée  

Palmer shrugged. "Yeah."  

"Hey, Palmer, you robbin' the cradle now?" another teammate teased, and it wasn't kind. "He's got a sweet-lookin' mouth, I'll give you that. If you close your eyes, you could pretend he was a girl."  

"Fuck you, Miller." Palmer didn't seem too disturbed, he was smiling, but when he turned to look at his friend, the man went pale and shut up.  

"I thought we were on the same side." I pushed my chair back and stood. "Good luck." I brought my tray to the window in the dish room, and quietly left the dining hall.  

Glumly, I decided I might as well check on Quasimodo. It wouldn't hurt to curry him while I was at it. I wanted him looking his best in the morning, and it would soothe both of us.  


I led my gelding out of his stall and looped the lead on his halter to a ring that was placed at a comfortable height on one of the stable supports. When we'd come in from the exercise ring earlier in the afternoon, I thought I'd detected a slight favoring of his near foreleg. The last thing I wanted was for my mount to pull up lame before the first round of jumps, but the Olympic vet had checked him out and found nothing, and his gait seemed fine now.  

I took his brush and curry comb and pushed his flaxen mane to the other side of his neck while I worked on the one nearest me. He loved being groomed, and stood in a hip slouch, his eyes half-closed, occasionally flicking his tail or stamping his hoof.  

"So this is where you wound up."  

I dropped the brush and comb and brought my hands up to protect myself. Mother had taught me that too. Everyone thought she was the untouchable ice queen, and that was how she wanted it, but she had a past which she was only now sharing with me. Not only had she worked on cracking Russian codes during Project Venona, but she knew how to protect herself with her bare hands, as well as with a variety of weapons.  

"Hey, easy, baby!" It was Palmer.  

I lowered my hands. "Sorry." I could feel the heat in my cheeks again. "I thought I was alone."  

"Obviously. Why'd you take off like that? I wanted to talk to you more."  

"Your friends seemed to have a problem with me."  

"Those assholes? They're not my friends. I don't have friends."  

"I don't have friends either," I heard myself say, and wondered if the blood in my brain had taken up residence in my dick. I never spoke of anything so personal to strangers.  

"Well, I'm sure you have plenty of girlfriends."  

I shook my head.  

"Are the girls where you come from nuts?"  

"Thanks, it's nice to know someone doesn't think I'm a total dork."  

"Are you kidding? Have you looked in the mirror lately?" He stepped close to me, and brushed the lock of hair that tended to fall in my eyes back off my forehead, and I shivered. "Tell me something, baby."  

"Clayton. My name is Clayton."  

"I know. You're Clayton Webb."  

"Then why did you call me 'baby'? I'm not your girlfriend. Or your boyfriend." I was thinking of the Swedish fencer.  

"I don't have a boyfriend."  

It was my turn to look disbelieving, and he just shook his head.  

"Tell me something, … Clayton. If I try to kiss you, will that earn me a punch in the mouth?"  

"If I said 'yes,' would it make a difference?"  

"What would you do if I said 'no'?"  

I ran my tongue over my lips. His eyes were on my mouth. I swallowed, and took a step toward him.  

He became very still and made no effort to protect himself, but somehow I had the feeling that if I tried to swing at him I'd find myself flat on my back on the stable floor, with him on top of me. For a moment I was tempted to see if I was right.  

"No." I waited to see how he would react to that.  

Smart man, this Palmer. He kissed me; he crowded me back against the stall door, buried his hands in my hair, and fit his lips over mine. I waited for the usual sense of distaste to swamp over me. It didn't put in an appearance this time.  

"Oh," I breathed, and he took advantage of my parted lips to slip his tongue between them.  

He stroked his tongue along mine, then withdrew it back into his mouth. "Your turn, Clayton," he whispered against my mouth. "Let me feel your tongue."  

I moaned and grabbed his ears and angled his head so our noses wouldn't bump. "I like your ears," I murmured before I started licking the moist heat of his mouth.  

His hands came down to cup my buttocks, and he pulled me against him and sucked gently on my tongue. I could feel his cock thrusting in lazy patterns against my abdomen.  

"I want to fuck you." His voice was low and hoarse, and I whimpered. No one had ever said that to me. His hand reached between us and squeezed my cock, and I made another small, desperate sound and pushed into his fingers.  

"I've never…"  

"I won't hurt you, I promise. I have something." He ran the edges of his teeth along the side of my throat.  

I nodded jerkily, and swallowed and licked my lips. "All right."  

Palmer raised his head and looked around. Color was high on his cheeks, and his pupils were dilated. "That bale of hay in that empty stall." His hand closed over my arm and he pulled me after him.  

"Should I… do you want me to take all my clothes off?" My mouth felt filled with cotton balls, but my cock was so hard it ached. He had unzipped his jeans and taken his cock out, and was smearing it with something he'd squeezed from a tube that had been in his pocket.  

"Oh, I do want you naked, baby, but not in a stable. Just undo your pants and get them out of the way. How come you're not in jeans? Everyone else is."  

My hands lingered on the button at my waistband. "I don't have any." Webbs didn't wear jeans.  

"No?" He stopped what he was doing. "Guess I'll just have to get you a pair before we leave Moscow . Now drop 'em, Clay." I did. His smile became strained as he took in the sight of my cock, which was tight against my belly. "Pretty boy. On the bale now, on your hands and knees."  

I climbed on and braced my hands in front of me, then waited, shaking a little, and he stepped up behind me. The height of the bale made it perfect for his cock to take my ass.  

"I won't hurt you, baby. I wasn't kidding when I said I'm the best."  

"I trust you, Clark." I don't know why I did. I barely knew him, but I wanted this.  

He pushed my shirt up my back and kissed his way over my spine, while his hands parted my ass cheeks. I quivered when I felt his tongue flick over my hole, circle it, dip into it.  

"Easy, baby," he soothed me. "Fold your arms and lay your head down on them. Spread your legs wider. You're just going to feel my finger now."  

A slicked finger eased into me, and I held myself still, trying to decide if I liked it. He moved it in deeper, touching something, and I gave a small yelp.  

"What did you do?" I asked breathlessly.  

"That's your sweet spot, Clay, your prostate."  

"Can you do that again?"  

"Sure. I'm going to try two fingers. Let me know if it's too uncomfortable." The two fingers moved in and out of my ass, and he brushed the fingers of his other hand over my hip, through the hair that grew over my groin, around the length of my cock to begin stroking it.  

His fingers continued loosening me.  

"I want more, Clark !"  

"Okay, Clay." He took his fingers out, but instead of three returning, I felt the blunt head of his cock against my hole, and he began to push. "Relax, baby."  

I gasped. "Feels big as a stallion."  

He laughed a little desperately. "Thanks for the compliment."  

"Wasn't… wasn't meant as a compliment," I panted.  

He stroked his hand across my torso and found a nipple, and I cried out. "Ah. You like that." He did it again, and I bucked back against him, taking him completely inside me. It felt as if there was a live wire that ran directly from my nipple to my cock  

"Again!" I pleaded, demanded, urged.  

He ran a fingernail over first one nipple and then the other, while his other hand pumped my cock. I bowed my back, trying to take him deeper, and kept rocking my hips.  

As if from a distance I heard the sounds I was making, and at any other time I'd have been embarrassed. Webbs weren't vocal in that manner.  

"That's it. Wail for me, baby!"  

"Pa… Palmer! I feel…" My balls tightened.  

"You're gonna come, Clay." He twisted a nipple just hard enough. He jerked my cock, just fast enough. He shoved his cock into me, just deep enough. I clamped down on him and spasmed around the bulk inside me, shooting milky fluid over his hand. "That's it. Milk me, baby, milk every drop of come out of my cock."  

Palmer held himself still, and heat flooded into my back passage, so much that that some dribbled out, tickling the sensitive skin behind my balls. 

"Did you like that, Clay?"  




I smiled without opening my eyes and continued fondling my cock. "Good evening, Clark ."  

"Jesus, Clay! What would you do if I had someone with me?"  

My smile broadened. "Say, 'The more the merrier?'"  

"Not fucking likely, Webb! I don't share!"  

I opened my eyes. He looked a little disgruntled at having admitted that. "I was only teasing, Clark . I know you'd never bring anyone home without calling to check with me first."  

"Think you know me so well, don't you?" he groused.  

"I know you that well. Now, don't you think you're a bit overdressed for the occasion?"  

He'd already removed his suit jacket and had loosened his tie. "I brought home some take-out from that little Italian restaurant we both like." His eyes were on my cock. The head was a dark rose, and drops of pre come were oozing from the tip. He licked his lips.  

"Why don't you leave it in the kitchen for now? We can nuke it later."  

"Good idea." When he came back, his shirt was off, and his trousers were undone. And I was lying full length on the couch, naked. "If all those assholes who think you're cold could see you now!" He took my right hand and ran his tongue over my palm to the tip of my fingers, tasting the pre come that had covered my hand as I stroked my cock. "God, you taste good!"  

He would have dropped to his knees and gone down on me, but I stopped him. "On top of me, Clark. I want you to sixty-nine me."  

"You're going to be the death of me, baby." The color was high on his cheeks.  

"You think? But it will be such a lovely way to go."  

Clark stripped off his pants and settled himself on me, his knees on either side of my head, and his forearms bearing most of his weight. I could smell the musky scent of his arousal. His cock brushed against my lips, and I parted them, touched the tip with the tip of my tongue, and did nothing more.  

He growled, "Clay!"  

"Fuck my mouth, Clark !"  

And he groaned. He slipped his cock into my mouth and began to move his hips, while he licked up and down the length of my shaft. I gripped his head with my knees and arched up, needing him to suck on me. He laughed, his warm breath ruffling the hairs that surrounded the base.  

"I guess turnabout is fair play." He kept tormenting me until I was twisting and moaning around the cock in my mouth, and then he swallowed me to the root.  

I made a sound deep in my throat, and it vibrated against his cock. He drove it deeper into my mouth.  

I ran my fingers over the crack of his ass, teasing his hole, and jerked when he did the same to me.  

I'd been on the brink too long, and it didn't take my lover very much time to send me over the edge. I sucked harder on his cock, slid a finger into his ass and curled it against his prostate, and had him coming as well.  


He let me slip from his mouth and rested his cheek against my thigh. "This makes up for a really shitty day."  

"Always glad to be of help, Palmer." I nuzzled the skin on the inside of his thigh.  

With a final moan, he eased off me, and I worked my way around until we were facing the same way. I kissed him, tasting me on his lips, sharing his taste with him.  

"Jesus, baby, what got you so hot tonight?"  

"Remember the Summer Games of 1980?"  

"Yeah. The United States didn't go."  

"No. But if we had…."