It was an unseasonably warm day even for July, and the Gay Team compound was heating up in more way than one. Mark, the team's crack shot gunman was putting oven mittens on in the kitchen when the oven chimed.
"Ribs are almost ready, boys!" his voice echoed out into the compound's central chamber. He opened the oven door, and moaned in protest as the heat blasted him the face and chest. The metal tray full of juicy meat clattered as he hurried to set it down and close the oven again. "Why did the AC pick today of all days to quit?" he wiped the sweat beading on his forehead with an oven mitt.
"Gizmo's workin' on it, don't sweat it," said a shirtless Alan Ingus, the team's decorated leader, as he rounded the corner into the kitchen. He'd served in two branches of the US military, managing to rise through the ranks in one before being asked to change for the good of the country, but before all that, his first assignment was to infiltrate the Russian military. He was a Captain in the Air Force, briefly an Officer Cadet in the Russian military before he was outed by his first true love, and a Commander in the Navy. After his departure from the military to serve a higher purpose with the Gay Team, he'd been given the nickname COCC to represent his impressive...achievements. His hairy muscle-bound chest glistened under the fluorescent lights. He smiled coyly, as he popped a fat brown cigar in his mouth.
"Don't sweat it? Is that supposed to be funny? I'm dying in here, slaving away over this hot meat for you ungrateful apes. And don't smoke in here! It's hot enough already."
"Sounds like someone is feeling unappreciated," he puffed his cigar.
"No, I'm just hot, and cranky," Mark fanned himself with his hand.
"Well, we can fix that. Why don't you pop that shirt off and cool down a little,"
Alan smiled and crossed his arms, making his hands disappear behind his biceps.
"Fine," Mark hesitated for just a moment, then peeled his shirt off, the fabric sticking to his lithe, smooth body as he did.
"That's better, now have a seat at the table, and take a minute for yourself," Alan instructed. Mark tossed his shirt on the floor took a seat. Alan's heavy footsteps grew louder until Mark could feel the heat emanating from his body. He then felt a stream of cool air being blow on to the back of his neck, the scent of tobacco and sweat wafting all around him.
"Goosebumps already? I've barely even started," Alan teased as he gently traced his fingertips from Mark's wrist to his neck, and back down his other arm.
"I can't help it," Mark whispered, his back arching involuntarily with pleasure as Alan's fingers began to trace his spine.
"Are you feeling any cooler?" Alan's gravelly voice asked only inches away from Mark's ear.
"Yes, thank you," Mark said with a light gasp through his smile.
"Whaddya say we heat things back up a bit? Like we did with that hot candle wax in Budapest." Alan coaxed.
"Alan, you know we agreed not to do this anymore," Mark replied without conviction.
"Oh, well then how about I just describe what I had in mind, so you know what you're missing. I was thinking we'd turn the oven up as high as it'll go, open the door, bend you over it, and I'll make you cum until you pass out."
Mark held his breath. "Like the sauna in Marrakesh," he whispered as he turned. Alan stared back with his chiseled jawline beneath his perfectly trimmed beard, and the steely blue eyes set beneath his thick, commanding eyebrows. Alan curled one corner of his mouth into a smirk, and held out a hand smudged with black engine grease. Mark, jumped from his chair and ran to the oven. Mark could hear Alan loosening his belt behind him as he pulled open the oven door. "This is the last time, okay?" His whole body tingled with excitement as he placed both hands on the top of the oven for support, and just as Alan reached around to undo Mark's pants, the compound alarm blared through the PA system.
"Son of a bitch," they complained in unison.
"Hey guys," the voice of Rammer crackled through the speaker, "Come to the comm room. This looks like a big one. Sarge is requesting a video call so you better get here ASAP. Gizmo, we can fill you in later, just get that damn AC fixed. I'm tired of sweatin' my dick off. It's a damn underground compound how the hell does it get this hot? Aren't caves and shit supposed to be cold?" Rammer continued complaining over the intercom to no one in particular as Mark and Alan exchanged a final longing glance before making their way to the comm room.
"What's going on, Rammer?" Alan commanded more than asked as he and Mark entered the comm room filled with its many computers and screens used to monitor events all over the world.
"President Frump is up to some shit again," answered the black man with his feet kicked up on the console in front of him. The heat had gotten to him too, as evidenced by his attire, or lack thereof. The layer of fat belied the tremendous strength of the two hairy legs jutting out from the red silk briefs. Resting on his protruding gut sat a sad looking bowl of melted ice cream.
"Jesus, Rammer, why are you eating ice cream?" Mark asked in horror.
"It's a thousand degrees in this bitch, twink, I ain't about to die of a heat stroke without one last bowl of ice cream," Rammer ladled another bite into his mouth, spilling most of it in his burly black beard in the process.
"You're lactose intolerant," Mark retorted.
"So?" Rammer snapped back.
