Seven minutes eight seconds

The young man has removed his shirt. He is surprisingly hairy. A spicily ginger treasure trail snakes southward below the elastic band of his shorts. He licks his lips and slides long sensitive fingers down past his belt, brings them back up to rub his furry pectorals.

"What the fuck is this?" A pair of mugs clunked down on the sideboard as Ianto clambered over the sofa balancing a tray of assorted crudités.

Jack glanced at the back of the DVD box for the umpteenth time since inserting the disc. "It says it's American History X."

"It's definitely an X," muttered Ianto, popping an olive tapenade between Jack's willing lips. "Bite." There was a satisfying crunch as his friend and boss complied. "Good?"

"Good!" Mischevious fingers purloined a second helping.

A pair of baby blue shorts falls to the floor revealing muscular legs. He has a tattoo of thorns around one thigh. This he rubs in a circular motion with one hand as his others explores the rising mounds of his nipples.

"You know you ought to report him to the police," Ianto said sternly biting into a filo package of goats cheese and red onion marmalade. "That's the third time he's done that to us.  What was it you asked for last week?"

"One Hundred and One Dalmatians."

 "Well, they certainly all had spots." He took the opportunity of Jack chuckling to pass over a stilton and anchovy vol-au-vent. "Careful, it's hot."

 Jack wriggled down on the cushions, licking the filling from his fingers. "These are fantastic, Yan." He bent his neck forward and pecked Ianto lightly on the lips transferring a few crumbs in the process.

The Welshman tutted in mock annoyance. "What happens if some kid asks him for My Little Pony?"

Jack's eyes bulged as a piece of pastry went down the wrong way. After a moment the coughing fit subsided. "Ianto Jones! Stop trying to make me choke.

Thighs clamp rhythmically together. Over the beat of the eighties soundtrack comes a series of loud moans.

"Have a slice of porcini and shiitake pizza." He took some for himself fighting the food's natural disposition to droop at the edges. "I think the base is too soft."

The other man reached over and slowly lowered one suggestively into his mouth, licking the pointed tip with his tongue. "Have you ever seen Tom Jones? With Albert Finney?" Rather than wait for a reply he scoffed the slice then stole another vol-au-vent.  "We should get that for next weekend."

"I am not going back to that awful rental shop." Ianto was adamant. "God knows what he'll give us next. Anyway what's wrong with the chain store at the Centre?" A bit of pimento had fallen onto his shirt leaving a small pink stain. "Bugger."

Jack's hand hovered uncertainly over the tray. "What are these?"

"Salmon parcels with sweet chilli dressing. Then those are beef patties with horseradish. And the ones on the end are artichoke and celeriac mousseline with pimento."

Oil is poured into a palm. There is a wet slapping sound as the man works the lubricant into his skin. Slick, slithery.

"Fish is very moist," Jack murmured, nibbling the end and letting the sticky sauce dribble over his lips. "I love the kick from the pepper." He wiped the drops off with his thumb and licked the gatherings. "This is sheer bliss. What on earth have you done for an encore?"

Ianto grinned from ear to ear. "Peppered chocolate torte with almonds blanched in orange water." The smile faded slightly. "It's not quite ready yet. Needs to chill a bit to firm up."

"I," said Jack heavily, "am replete." He threw his arms over the back of the sofa, caressing Ianto's nape with his left hand. "You, my beauty, have surpassed yourself."

The young man is breathing heavily now, gasping in time to the movement of his wrist. There is a faraway look in his eyes.

They stared at the man on the television as he fell silent and the next scene slid into view.

"Corrie's on in a moment," said Ianto retrieving the coffee from the sideboard. "Shall we give dessert a few minutes?"

Jack burped and reached for the remote.