This was easier than I thought. I could see his fear washing off him like the rain as he made his way here, just sheeting off like he were dumping pitchers, buckets, tuns of fear watering the room with insecurity and tension. I don't think I've ever broken anyone quite so anxious. The second I straddled him, I knew what he was afraid of--the same thing he was here for. I could've sworn I'd sworn off virgins, but this one laying on my doorstep reeking of sweat and vomit and rain needed to get a bit more than just some easy-offs and a kick back out to the landing.
Oceans of the criminally vulgar, and insane.
And nothing inparticular.
He got his pie tin back, I'd found, rummaging through his luggage. He weighs about sixty kilos, and the backpack weighs ten. Three textbooks, a lab notebook, three spiral notebooks, a pair of drumsticks, half a dozen various pens and a hairbrush. In one of the side-pockets of the rucksack, there's a collection of neatly-folded Ziploc sandwich bags, not new, but clean and bearing traces of water in the corners from when they'd been rinsed out. I signed the pie tin for him, because he needs a souvenier. Not that he won't remember this.
He was piled up in the center of my living room, unconscious. I found him coming in the front door from work--secured building, my ass--passed out at the door to my apartment. I've had surprises coming home from work--phone books, greeting cards from my friends, the occasional FedEx package--but nothing like this. So on the basis of the unique situation, I pulled him inside. Every time you see someone hefting around a limp body in a film, it's a lie. It's *never* that easy. I managed to be soaked through with Cyanide by the time I got him to the living room. I took off his jacket and shoes and socks and drained the shoes over the sink & set them under the radiator. The jacket and socks I tossed into the dryer.
I came back to the living room to see him spread-eagle ready to be quartered, oblivious to the world at large. I felt like I'd pissed myself with the cold of the rainwater from his threadbare navy wool peacoat finally clinging to my thighs in the infernal heat flowing from the radiator. I couldn't work like this. I kicked off my relatively dry shoes and herded them under the davenport. I took two minutes to strip to nothing and stretch the cold from my body. A pair of team warm-ups from the glory days of my cross-country running championships made it so I'm presentable, and I salvage a tee-shirt from the basket in front of the dryer, and I'm ready to go. I snatched one for him, too. I'm nice that way.
He'd rolled his head to the side, and his breathing was slow and labored. I straddled him like I did on the couch, later... this is where I got the idea, actually, but I straddled him on the floor and hovered above him. The black velour was soft and rasped against my knuckles as I traced the center line of his chest, in time with his breaths. I removed the glossy black buttons from their cotton sphincters, smooth and reflective jet and tarnished silver retainers of propriety, holding the armour of his white shirt against his skin. Undressing him was like removing layer after layer of chain mail and padding. It's all soaked through with the tears of heaven.
I could feel the walls close in as I unbuttoned the cheap broadcloth Van Heusen down to his threadbare ribbed, white singlet. Under the rough texture of the cotton tank, I could see the mixture of narcissism and starvation required to create a ridge of abdominal muscle suitable for a rhythm section. I had a stick to play the washboard with, but you never play an instrument without getting the owner's permission. Still, it never hurt to look.
When I pushed up the translucent cloth of his wife-beater, I could see the infinitessimally thin trails of midnight hair running down the shallow cleft from his sternum to the belt which rode just below the jutting ridges of his hips. Mikhail always said I was thin, and compared to the unsuitably younger man beneath me I'm the model of health.
I coughed as my fingers rasped over his smooth, caramel skin, catching in the slight ridges of flesh defined even in his completely slackend state. I kissed his face as his breath came over my cheek in intermittent unconscious pulses. His neck was slack above my fingers, caught in his hair. If he woke up, I'd be caught, but from the slight swelling I could feel between his legs I doubted he'd argue much as prisoner or willing participant. But he was wet, and I needed to do what I could to prevent him getting sicker. Especially on my floor.
He was completely unconscious; helpless. A total submission with no permission. I felt caught. Every time I moved, I flinched for fear that he'd catch me touching him--his nipples, his chest, tracing the outlines of the tattoos inked on his chest and navel, swollen from the rainwater washed into his skin which is almost translucent from the saturation. He was centered on the raspberry throw rug on my apartment's hardwood floor, and I wanted to lay next to him to warm him up, to fill him with my heat. Instead I lifted him to my sofa and I re-dressed him in a long-sleeve teeshirt featuring the name brand of some surfing company i'd only heard of and purchased because there was a 2-for-1 sale and I was in a mood for heather grey. You never really appreciate how nice it is to dress yourself. When your target is unconscious, dressing him is difficult--nearly impossible.
I was getting cold, and the radiator was still thumping to life against the winter rains feathering down outside. Most folks said an apartment like this had *character*. I like it for the washer & dryer, that's all. I started coffee in the hopes that it would warm me up. I also took a drink of bourbon because that had a distinct psychological warming effect. Regardless, I didn't want to be caught waking this beautiful young thing on my sofa while in my jammies.
So I put on the weekend clothes. Easy jeans, a plain white t-shirt--large-tall because I like the length--and a heavy cable-knit cotton sweater that can go out but never really leaves the house. I wear it about when I'm alone and chilly. I brushed my hair, too, to get some of the water off the ends. I managed to tie it up and stuff it under a beret on the way home, but it always ends up tangly and wet, somewhere.
I sat on the couch and placed his bare feet on my thighs. The cuffs of his trousers soaked the cushions. I should've taken his pants...My hands went along the inner seam of his worn black fatigues, and I could feel bone and muscle relaxed but firm under the supersaturated canvas. His hips are sharp, and they jut above a waistband with worn belt loops and simple cinches to take up any slack. He shivered beneath my palm, gliding lightly over the water-roughened cloth, and I held my breath, positive that I was caught and done for. It was just my hand pushing water out over the thin line of flesh between the hem of my shirt and the waist of his trousers. I took a deep breath and relaxed a bit. He felt good under my hands. I didn't want him to wake up. I didn't want him to leave like the rest of them did. They always leave.
So I opened his trousers and pulled the zipper down. He was asleep, and he was going to go into shock if I didn't get him out of these soaking-wet trousers. I had to check his breathing, too, since he was so thin I couldn't see his chest rise and fall. But the truth was I just wanted to lay against him. He looked delicious laying there with his trousers unfastened and wearing my shirt.
So I laid against him on the couch, and I kissed him while he slept. I wanted him awake. I wanted him to kiss me back. I wanted his arms around me like they were last month with that fuckwitted practical joke and the consequences. I could taste the salt of his skin mixed with the rainwater from his hair as I kissed down his neck, biting gently to avoid waking him up. I wondered if he'd complain when I bit him for real, like Mikhail did, stating that pain was the meat of life and we didn't have to inflict it on one another to feel it.
Fuck that noise. Would this Cyanide kill me? Was I poisoning myself by playing my tongue over his gilded nipples or the rough black sun on his navel? Was I asking the hemoglobin in my body to be swallowed by a simple reaction when I hoisted his hips up off the couch and slid his slim hips out of those soaking black fatigues.
He wore simple Y-front briefs that featured a silkscreened flame pattern in black, orange, and gold along the legs. I stood up swiftly and let his legs crash back to the couch. He moaned, slightly, but he didn't wake. I pulled at the cuffs, and the trousers slid off his bony legs. I wanted to die.
I felt guilt at stripping him without his consent. I covered him with the knit afghan my mother let me take as I trotted off to university on scholarships of track and dreams of art. I went to the kitchen to fetch my coffee, steaming in the pyrex pitcher under the filter basket. I started water on the stove. I couldn't sit still. I went to my room to find something to make him decent, so he wouldn't freak out and know that I'd raped him in his sleep.
Fuck, I'm uncontrollable.
The dean and nothing but one night stands since Mikhail left. Shit, it's been almost 4 years, now, and I'm still not thinking with anything other than my prick. But I've got a pot of water started for tea, and I'd make my special hangover cure for him because he deserved at least that. The water boiled and I re-dressed him below the waist. He wore the same polyesther warmups that I wore not even half an hour ago. He didn't notice me pulling them around his hips and tying the cord off.
I hoped he didn't, anyhow.
I left him to attend to his elixr. A regular potion of love. I went through a phase where I thought I was some kind of alchemist, way back in the glorious days of youthful indiscretion. I kept a whole stock of magical herbs and fungus and other batshit to make love potions and spells and sage to burn and things that would make my space and body pure and my life that much better for serving something outside myself. Turns out that really all they did was stink and make me throw up. I think I may have managed to catch a buzz, once or twice, but I was never the scientific type. I sure as hell found out what worked for hangovers, though.
So I mixed for him a concoction of chamomile with a trace of wintergreen and some valerian root mixed in. I let that steep in a ceramic pot. I went back to check on my charge and sat with him while his cure cured in the cute little pre-fab wunderkettle from some Swedish furniture factory. I brushed out his hair to keep it from turning into a knot, since it was sticky from those idiot spikes he wore on top of his head. I managed to end up with a wet crotch, again, for the love of Mary, Joseph, and Jesus Hallowed Christ on a round, red, rubber crutch. I finished brushing his hair, now a flat, drying, mildly adhesive mess instead of the wet, sticky, knotted rat's nest it was before. I laid his head to the side and I slid out from under him. He stirred slightly, but when he was still again, I kissed him lightly on his acid lips and traipsed off to change yet again.
The only thing I found in the categories of appropriate, clean, and dry was a pair of old beach shorts that I'd lately taken to using as pajamas. The elastic was a bit ragged, and there were a few indiscreet holes, but I was wearing skivvies and they managed to keep things corraled most days.
I went to check the tea in my summer best. I took a taste, and it was that proper blend of dry mouthwash that makes this stuff work wonders. I added two tablespoons of baking soda and a few more of sugar. I poured a mug for him and gave it a taste--a bit salty, and you can never quite cut that slightly camphor taste, but any fear of ulcer was immediately erased. Hefting the twin burdens of mug and teapot I was immediately reminded of my feet in socks, slick but not frictionless on the slight grit of the linoleum and hardwood flooring. A wave of mild paranoia washed over me, that I'd drop everything and be caught mopping cold tea and porcelain shards while cuckolded by my guest for a klutz. But Tybalt does everything perfectly, never a flaw to the outside world.
I knelt slightly and nailed the rheostat attached to the lamp with my shoulder. The light ticked on, then dimmed as my shoulder clicked the voltage down as I made my way forward. I saw his hand move against the light, swatting it away. I set the teapot on the floor, and open his right hand--still a bit wrinkled from the overdose of water--to place the warm mug in. I suppressed a giggle as my hair fell into his face and his nose wrinkled at it.
"Sit up, Precious," I told him. I took the cup from him and eased him up to something resembling vertical, his eyes closed until his back was firmly cemented to the back of the sofa. He looked even more terrified than he did the first time. I sat next to him, perhaps a little too comfortably, judging by the way he jumped. I gave him the overlarge cup back and told him to drink.
"What's in it," he asked. An irony that Cyanide was paranoid about poison. I listed the ingredients off at him and he sipped at it cautiously like the first drink from an unknown watering hole. He attempts to swallow it, mug and all.
"It's not going anywhere," I told him and chuckled. He looked about ready to jump me and drink my blood. I responded to his unspoken demands by fetching a glass of water from the kitchen. In the time it took me to return from the kitchen, my guest returned to being stunned instead of the borderline relaxation I'd left him in. I opted for my comfy chair, instead of the sofa, in order to make him feel more at ease. To make myself more at ease, I partook of one of those vile paper demons in the red box.
"So are you potassium or sodium," I asked him as I lit the cigarette and leaned forward on my bare knees. He shrank away from me, and made some noise as if he didn't understand.
"Are you Potassium or Sodium," I said, thinking I'd hung myself by my own clever little petard. A light clicked on as he brushed hair behind his ear and sipped at the water.
"Potassium," he said without hesitation. I may not be smart, but CHEM112: The Chemistry of Art happened to contain a history of cyanide blue and it finally paid off.
"And what were you doing on my front step, KCN," I don't think he expected me to know the formula off the top of my head, because all he can do is stammer.
I stepped over to him, taking the water glass about to shatter on the hardwood between his feet. He was trying to back away from me, through the couch and into the wall. I couldn't help myself. I leaned forward into him, placing my shins on either side of his narrow lap and lean on his slim shoulders dressed in my tee shirt. I could tell this was about to go very wrong.
"Tell me Cyanide," that old silver tongue slid out through the rasp and smoke. I rested on his thighs, and his hands sprang to life and his palms pushed into my hips, which pushed back. I ran a hand of my own up along his neck and into the slightly tacky singularity of his hair and tightened in on a lock.
"Do I kiss you," I asked as I leaned into him, a slight yelp escaped from his lips as I pulled his hair so he'd be looking me in the eye. "Or do I punch you?"
Oceans of the criminally vulgar.
He said something about sodomy and I took that as my cue. He was almost hyperventilating in panic when I kissed him. His hands locked on either of my hips, unsure of whether to push or pull but managing to somehow work the waistband of my shorts an inch or so South. I had him as we inhaled each other and I fell onto him, folding myself onto him in so much futile human origami. He opened his mouth, and we tasted each other--me reeking of cigarettes and a long-forgotten lunch, him of wintergreen and chamomile and innocence. He breathed into me, his hips rocking under my ten kilo advantage, and his nails dug just below my kidneys in an attempt to pull me impossibly closer. I released his hair and raised myself off of him, his hips magnetically attached to mine. I stood up and let the kiss go with one last lingering bite of his lower lip, and he sank, bonelessly, onto the davenport.
"Stratocaster," he said absently, his eyes locked on mine and I could see their color turn from brown to a black that made his hair look ashen. I was wrong. A gravity such that light can't escape. There is nothing else here. Only those eyes, drawing me inevitably in.
"So what now, Cyanide," I ask him as I hope and pray for various scenarios and exchanges. He sits there, silent for a minute that's lasting a thousand years and I'm feeling myself pulled into strands of angel hair pasta.
"I'm cold," he says with a twitch of his shoulders. He makes an attempt to stand up from the couch but he only makes it eighty percent of the way before his legs give out and he wobbles back. I'm wheezy but I'm still quick. I manage to catch his hand and wrap my other arm under his shoulder, accomplishing two of my goals simultaneously. Won't Mama O'Donnell be proud?
We stand there together for the rest of our lives, his head resting on my shoulder and his arms around my waist. I glide my hands along the valley of his spine, testing each vertabra for sensitivity as he rocks his hips against mine and his hands sink down inside the dual elastic of my boxers and my extremely ratty boardies and onto my ass.
"Cold," I asked softly with a half-laugh, as I kissed his ear. I felt him smile, and then his teeth sank into my neck. I pulled him into me as he bit down harder, tearing at the sturdy knit cotton of my own wardrobe on his back with little effect as I felt myself falling onto him. His mouth was tracing moist, intricate spells on the flesh and tendons trapped between his teeth, spelling out words in some strange, desperate tongue.
"Yessssssss," I hissed in his ear as he raised his right leg and pushed off with his left to leap onto my waist, secured only by his bare feet locked together at my tailbone, grinding himself into me as his teeth tore at my neck.
His gnawing relented and he gave in to gentle licking of the abused area which I could feel as a throb that was somewhere in the teens if I were to number every pressure I could currently feel. He unlocked his feet from around my waist and slid his legs down mine, disrobing me.
Well. No mistaking that.
He looked down at the ground, his hair masking his face and his gaze as I stood before him in all my redheaded glory. For those of you curious, yes, I'm a real Redhead. I cleared my throat and managed to find his chin beneath the shock of hair. I lifted it up and put my nose to his, using my free left to brush his... our hair, now, as I realized I'd managed to play Rapunzel sometime in the last whatever minutes. Still, I had his eyes, those fathomless drops of midnight.
"Now I'm cold," I said matter-of-factly, stepping out of and kicking aside my hastily applied leg-irons. In response, he wrapped a leg around mine and stood firm. No shock there. He kissed me tenderly on the lips, his tongue darting inside my mouth and circling mine, and ended it abruptly. He looked down at the floor, again, then released me from the leg-lock. His hands smoothed along my flanks and up into my shirt, feeling my frame and musculature. He meandered them about, looking speculatively at me every so often as if waiting for shock or approval. I smiled, without looking--I hoped--too stupid.
He stopped, totally, and stood back from me and looked at me on his own for the first time. There was a grin on his face like he'd just won the friggin' Wonkavator. He looked me up & down and up & down again. I took my sweater and tee shirt off in one throw, now completely starkers except for some crew socks. I watched red delicious mix with the caramel of his cheeks as he made the once-over once again. It was my turn, now.
He's dirty, cold, and in my clothes. There's only one thing to cure all three of those ills. I touch his shoulders and turn him around and hold him to me for one unbelievable moment.
"Come with me," I nibble into his ear and run my hands deliberately too-low over his hips which struggle for more contact. I lean into him and gently push him forward.
It's only seven small steps to my goal of the washroom. The lights in here are nowhere near as kind as the dimmed lamp. That's no worry, though. He startles as I close the door behind us. I laugh low in my throat, and there's no chance in any of Nine Hells that you'll get this grin off my face before three AM.
Wordlessly, I lift my shirt over his head, exposing the portraits inked on his chest. His eyes are half-lidded, now, and I can feel his heart rate increase under my touch as I trace the outline of the dragon circling his nipple and kiss the corners of his mouth. Tiny moans melt through his lips as he tiptoes closer to me. I edge him closer to the sink until I can move no further and he's trapped between me and marble-patterned formica. He attempts to sit on the counter's edge, but when he does I back away.
I run my fingers along the elastic waist of my warm-ups, their forgotten glory being won back in spades, and I locate the lovely drawstring holding them to his impossible waist. Due to my careful laundering, the tiny plastic case that lets the string be re-threaded should it escape is still intact. I take advantage of this to scratch tiny patterns on the washboard of his belly, then down along the line of elastic keeping him clothed. In a fit of pique, I loop it through the ring in his navel and give it a little tug. He doesn't know whether to climb me or bend in half, and I'm not sure which I like more.
I let the string dangle from his belly ring and bat at it like i'm a cat at a ball of twine. Cyanide's hands slide to my shoulders and he's trying to push me down as I come and pin him against the sink, again, kissing him hard. My hand spirits quickly along the line of the drawstring and I get a double-handful of cloth and pull him up towards me as his mouth fastens to mine, devouring my lips in furious bites and sucklings as my fingers trace the interior of those firey briefs I caught, earlier, lighting a fire of their own, but that's not nearly the start of it.
"Hands on the counter, Loverboy," I tell him. There's a moment's hesitation, but his hands are on the counter before I can count one.
"Good," I tell him, and kiss him soft and deep. His hands come away from the counter and I've got them nailed back down to the fake marble immediately, and I've broken all contact from his body except my hands weighing his down.
"Ah," he says, surprised but not hurt.
"I said 'hands on the counter', Loverboy."
"I," he starts and I place a finger over his lips. His eyes are open and looking directly into mine. Without missing a beat his lips are open and my index finger is brushing his molars and he's coming off of it, again.
"Strip," I tell him. It doesn't get any more simple than that. He obeys immediately, though taking his time at the task, untying the simple half-hitch that manages to stay through countless washings. He's stripping like a petrified frosh on his first day of highschool gym. I didn't notice it, earlier, but those firey briefs are just a touch too small for him. He stands, covering himself in shame, almost the inverse of the man who moments earlier fellated my index finger.
"Counter," I say, and he's back against it in half a heartbeat, his hands on the counter and his legs slightly spread. Self control comes at a premium, and by the way his eyes dart from my eyes to my waist that he's not got much more, himself. He's already broken free of his little pit of fire. I move to him slowly, trailing a single nail down his flank, over his hip, and along the elastic leg of his Y-fronts, tracing the inner edge and scratching just a little with the nail. It may be Sunday for the Grin.
"Are you going to be a good little boy, now," I ask, tracing the heavy shapes not at all concealed by his briefs but still concealed by a millimeter of cheap silkscreened cotton. He gulps audibly in reply as he nods.
"I'm sorry," I say as I press the full weight of my naked body in on him. "I didn't hear you," I finish by whispering into his ear, my lips brushing the steel and soft folds of cartilege.
"Y-yes," he shivers and thrusts up into me, aching for that contact. I let him have it, and he takes the moment to sink his teeth into my neck again and the only thing that saves me is the fact that I'm crushing him into the counter so he ceases suckling my neck as if it were painted in Nectar.
"Good," I said and stood away from him again. His desire was painfully obvious, and I was amused to notice that he had the hoodie model rather than the cutaway. I touched him right where I knew his attention would be focused and slid my thumb along his entire length. His hips swayed up, but he didn't move away from the counter. I gripped him lightly between my thumb & forefinger, gently antagonizing him.
"Open your eyes," I ordered at his heavy lids, intent on the sensations below his waist. They came open, but grudgingly, and they still had a propensity to look to the top of his skull for answers.
"You never answered my question, Cyanide," I said, releasing him and running my fingers along his neck, letting them mingle with his hair. I kissed behind where my fingers had been on his neck just moments ago and lingered there, breathing soft and slightly raspy. "Why are you here," I barely spoke as my teeth found a home just below his ear and he struggled not to push into me. He was breathing impatiently and I could hear his heart hammering..
"I could make it finish," I teased him further, my hands drifting back to his waist, "and you could relax," I said, the words echoing off the cold latex and tile walls. I pulled my body away from him so my only contact was that bit of flesh kept captive in a ring made by my thumb and forefinger. "We could lay down," I said, lazily keeping hold of him and slowly working the elastic of his briefs along his length. "Maybe take a shower," I suggested.
"Please," was all he said, trying his damnedest not to buck against my hand.
"Then tell me What I Want To Know," I said and leaned into his side, to show him he wasn't the only one excited to be here, then let him go so he wouldn't be distracted. I thought of sitting on the tub, but that would rather spoil things and then my ass would be cold. "Anytime you're ready," I said and I caught a finger in his nipple ring as I dragged my fingers across his chest, and let it stretch his nipple grotesquely then snap back. He breathes deep and stuttered for a moment, but gains his composure.
"I," he starts, "I came here to...." He can't seem to get it out.
"To plant another coffee bomb? Maybe steal my inhaler this time," I interrupt. I see the words cut into him and I know they're acid, but fuck it. "Did you come here to Ride the Tybalt Pony?"
"I CAME HERE TO THANK YOU," he screams at me and there's a right hook meeting my cheek, right below the bone. I spin with the blow and I manage to catch my fall through the shower curtain on the floor of the tub before I can destroy my torso using a tub wall, but I get enough of a blow to knock the wind out of me. I collapse and I can feel myself heaving as my diaphragm tries to get itself reset by way of large muscle groups. I can't breathe at all until finally something kicks back in and my throat opens to air, and I'm immediately gasping, again, the fucking asthma.
I stumble to the little basket on the counter, a half turn away and in my rummaging come up with one of the seven hundred sixteen inhalers throughout my humble abode. One shallow exhale, a puff on the cylinder, and I manage to get at least an effective portion of the albuterol into my lungs. Enough for a second puff to get all the way in and mostly clear my breating. Only then, do I notice that my face feels shattered and I can fe