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Post by αℓℓı on Sept 6, 2009 23:29:23 GMT -5
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STORY ONE - Liquid Gold
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Heat. It's hot; so hot, I don't think I can breathe. And yet, here I am, still alive, breathing anyway, sweat rolling down my back in tiny little rivulets. The hot air is getting to me, filling my head, burning my brain cells; I can't think and all I know is that I cannot see. I cannot see the bedroom around me, the ceiling, nor can I even see the body pressed up against my own. But then I realize that it is simply because my eyes are closed, shielding my pupils against the outside world; I don't want to see this. I'm afraid to see this. What if I don't like what I see?
But when I open my eyes--taking in a breath as I do, for my lungs feel like they're ready to burst--my own vision meets gold. Liquid gold. So hot, it melts my pupils, it melts my soul, boring holes in my being. I'm so sure he can see right through me, see past my face, past the oceans and through the mud--that mud which coats my body, a dirt I cannot be rid of. I'm absolutely certain he can see into my mind, into my past, and that he's judging every little thing I do.
And yet, he smiles. It's nothing more than a smalls mile, so little it's hardly there; it even shows his canine teeth, tucked safely behind his bottom lip but still more pointed than my own. Like a vampire, I can't help but think; and vampires can see right through you, they can smell your fear. And they drink your lifeblood right out of you.
His hands are rubbing along one of my hip piercings, toying with it, testing it; he wants to see my reactions, I decide, but I also decide to not give him any. And yet, despite my own desires, my lips part slightly, throat vibrating out a little moan, my hips pressing up against his hand, his body. I'm overwhelmed by this need, this desire, and my thoughts trace back to his fangs. He's touching this filthy body of mine--and he simply must know how dirty it is--and yet, he flashed me that smile? Perhaps he did it to show me his fangs; after all, he does know. Was it a threat? It had to have been. He's going to kill me from the inside out, destroy my body and then my soul; he'll lap up my blood, my essence, then I'll be gone, completely and entirely owned by him.
I want him to, I realize, leaning back my head. Bleached, pure-white hair falls over my shoulders, sending a shiver down my spine as the tickling sensation shoots through my arm. He's my vampire, my owner, and I'm simply letting him take what I believe he wants, because I want him to own me entirely. I want to give him all I am, even if it is tainted; even if it is filthy. Even if he doesn't want it, it is his, because I decided to give it to him long ago.
His head dips down, lips pressing against the flesh of my neck. I can feel him searching for my jugular, as if he can read my mind; but he does not pierce it. His nose and lips run so faintly against my skin that I feel like I'll go insane, but then I melt at the sudden, comforting wetness of his tongue trailing along my skin. I shudder, my body pressing up against his; he's holding me there, trapping me against my own bed, one hand holding down my shoulder, the other teasing at my hips. But that hand soon bores of the silver jewelry adorning my flesh and lowers, pointed fingernails trailing down my waist and to my pubic area, where hair would greet him had it not been waxed off merely a day before. I hear him hiss a 'Tch' under his breath as his fingers play along the smooth flesh, ever so slightly slick from sweat. I wince, and I'm sure he notices; what's with that? I wonder for a moment if it displeases him, but I can't help but chide myself. That's always how it's been; I've always waxed hair from my body as soon as it starts growing back. Or at least, I have for many years. But I can't help but wonder if he is growing tired of it, and it forces me into a state of self-consciousness, turning my head away from him as his lips enclose on a small, sensitive spot of my neck, sucking on it. I feel his teeth nibble against it and wish he would simply sink his fangs into it, draw out my blood, draw out my life and leave me to die so that I could cease existing. I don't want to exist in this shame; but again, he seems to read my mind, and I don't even realize it until the hot air feels cold against the wet section of skin--and before I can even register why it feels like such, his hand removes itself from my shoulder and he pushes my head back to the side, liquid gold churning, as if eager to enter me, take me, devour me whole. Again he allows his head to sink, to become partial to gravity, and his lips meet mine, though mine open easily.
I want him. I need him. I need this. And yet all I can do is give a pathetic whimper as his tongue invades my mouth, sending my heart aflutter so easily that it skips a beat and my belly fills with lust, my body trembling under the weight of his own. But the kiss is short lived and his lips return to that ever-sensitive spot on my neck, nibbling at it. One of my arms is curled around the middle of his back, fingers riding up and down the ridges of his spine. My other slips up, fingers loosing themselves in his jungle of purple hair, not at all intimidated by it's unbridled pride. My fingers press against his scalp, urging his head down further against my neck, as if I were a ghost and he could simply pass right through me. But he knows he can't, and I know it too; and he catches the hint. I swear I can hear him laughing at this, my masochism, so unreal in that it does hurt. He presses a sharpened tooth to my flesh, teasing me. Perhaps he is not, but I feel like he is, and I shudder, hand putting more pressure against his scalp, forcing the tooth into my skin, past a layer or two, easily drawing a trickle of blood. I must be a masochist to want him to do this to me; but it is not the pain I enjoy. Rather, it is something I dislike quite a bit. It is, in fact, the pain slowly fading into a numbing feeling that turns me on, further and further into this spiral of red, of pink, of purple and white and hot, blissful passion.
He pulls his head away, despite my arm's resistance, and lowers then lowers it again, this time down further, sticking out his tongue and pressing it to my collar bone, teasing the skin where I'm extremely sensitive. As if only to make me desire him more he quickly abandons the spot, his tongue moving down just as his hand has done; while the wet muscle traces circles around my left nipple, his hand is stroking along the base of my cock, pinky finger rubbing against it's side as he presses it between my balls, as if to reach for the piercing not far beyond. His index finger runs up along the side, his hand following slowly while his teeth sink into the hard little pink nub above. I'm sitting up, now, though at a weird, slightly uncomfortable angle, with my shoulders and neck supporting my weight against the cold wall. My hands move to loose themselves in his hair, unable to reach far enough forward to pleasure him at the same time.
It doesn't take his fingers long to slide up the length of the shaft; his thumb and index finger pinch the ball at the top of my apadravya piercing; his pinkie wraps around and rubs against the ball at the other end of the diagonal glan piercing, but soon his palm is rubbing over the head and he's working his fingers, stroking up and down, occasionally playing with my balls while his tongue continues to tease at my nipple. My body is completely weak and I've almost given in to him entirely, but even in my slavery I still want. I still desire, I still need. I still thirst, I still hungry. I am only human, and my desires cannot be suppressed. I whimper his name, but I am not entirely sure he hears me. Nevertheless, my fingers move down, cupping over his ears and forcing his head up. I want him to look at me with those eyes of his, those eyes that have melted through every single one of my facades; I want him to see through me as if I were glass. But he takes it as something else and moves his free arm up, wrapping around my neck, and while his hand still works along my throbbing cock, one finger tapping at the little hole, rubbing my precum in little circles, his head has moved forward and his lips have captured mine once again.
I'm his. I'm entirely his. A slave. Nothing more. He owns everything that is me; my body, my soul, my heart. My thoughts are clear to him because I know that he can see right through my mind and into even the darkest corners and while I am afraid of what he can see there, I embrace him, my arms tight about his neck. This time my tongue fights back, our hot breaths mingling; I'm sure mine tastes of peppermint for, before the room was darkened, I was pleasantly sucking on such candies. His tastes of poison, an addictive poison that reminds me briefly of alcohol, but the flavor is something of which I cannot quite place. Even so, I savor the flavor, enjoying it thoroughly.
Without knowing it, I had somehow given myself entirely to him. I cannot remember when. All I know is that he owns me. He owns me entirely, and I am his; and he is free to give me away if he ever so wishes, but I will still cling to him, like a pathetic little child. Isn't that what I'm doing now, anyway?
I decide that I don't want to act like some simple preteen. I'm seventeen, now; my birthday wasn't long ago. Seventeen, for some reason, feels so much older than sixteen; I feel less like a child and more grown up, so close to that golden, legal age, so close that it no longer even matters. So what if I'm not quite eighteen? So what if this man is years older than me? What should that matter? Love cannot be measured in years. It is measured in the moments of memory and heart.
There's a pause in our tongues' battle; he's taking in a deep breath, the hand around my shaft slowed for a moment. I take this as an opportunity and raise his head further, one hand pushing him back and forcing him up on his knees, raising him and holding the lowest edges of his ass while I follow, moving to tuck my legs under me, knees boring into the bed while I wrap an arm around the small of his back.
Is it enough for me to love him with every bit of my entirety? Is it enough for him? I can't help but wonder; it is enough, for me, that he even bothers to spare a glance in my direction, for he is so wonderful and so amazing. I realize that, without this man, I would surely die. I could not bear being apart from him. I learned long ago to not give all of my love to one person, for if they were to leave me, there would be none left to give myself. But I so easily surrendered to Noah, so easily ripped out that pulsating muscle and urged him to take it. It doesn't matter if he takes it with him when he goes. It doesn't even matter to me if he does go, even if eventually; because, instead of thinking of that, for now I have settled my thoughts upon this--that he is here, sharing his passion with me, his heat with me, giving me his love and affections. I don't even want to waste the mental energies of thinking about the 'what ifs'.
His hands are doing something that my own did earlier; loosing themselves in my hair. I imagine some are grasping the pure-white hairs, perhaps shivering as if in the wake of a cold snow. Others, I figure, are running along the various pink streaks, perhaps racing each other, though his hands are hardly moving. I sink down further, tongue stuck out and leaving wet trails along his skin as I go, before I'm finally sucking at the flesh just beside where his tangle of public hair starts. I don't mind the hair at all; I think it's delectable, honestly. And yet, I'm so against having my own pubic hair stay on my body and grow out. I'm opposed to hair anywhere on my body, really--besides my head, of course. I wonder if he cares, and I believe that he must. I rub my nose against the brilliant purple hairs, tongue rolling through them and down to his own cock, licking at it as I trail down, my head turning ever so slightly so I can easily suck on it as I descend, though I feel it stiffening and rising ever so slightly as my mouth works against the meat. It is hardly another second before my lips enclose around the head, toying with the edge of the sensitive frenum, rolling along the edge of his circumcision. It's not something new to me; my parents had me circumcised at birth, and I've never even been with an uncircumcised man before. I used to--and still wonder--what it'd be like, but my curiosity isn't great enough to make me go out and try for myself.
My tongue toys with that sensitive piece of skin for a moment before I decide to press the tip against the little opening, playing with it before I suck on it, tongue rolling circles around the circumference of the head. I feel him shudder up against me, arching his hips forward with desire. I wonder just how great his desire is; does it match my own? Does he crave this as much as I do? I can't read his mind. I'm only human. But I know he can read mine, because he's so much more than I am; he's perfect, he's everything. Sometimes, I swear, I believe he's a god in human guise.
He hisses my voice as I nibble against the edge of his glands before finally taking him into my mouth, cheeks hallowing in as I suck hungrily, a little saliva rolling down the corner of my cheek. I can taste his own precum dribbling along my throat, slowly making way down as if to burn my insides slowly, so slowly. I want it, too; I want to devour his juices, swallow them up, allow them to burn me completely so that he knows how much of me belongs to him--everything.
I don't have a gag reflex and, for some reason, I feel as if it surprises him every time I manage to take his entirety into my mouth and down my throat. Even so I still feel like I'm choking, like I'm drowning on his precum, and I love that sensation, the sensation of near-death that grasps at me. The metal of his own piercing is cold against my throat, but I somehow ignore it. Eventually I must breathe, however, and I allow the hardened muscle to slip from my lips, though I still press them against the leaking head, tasting the flavor. It's delicious; he's delicious. Delectable. And aroused, I can tell, for, without my realizing it, his cock engorged while reaching into my throat, bouncing a bit as it left my mouth's hold, sticking up eagerly, wet and slippery with my saliva.
I think I hear him whisper something but I'm not entirely sure; I look up, tongue lapping at the clear, white-tinged cum. His hands are running down my neck and pressing down on my shoulders; before I realize it, he's back on top of me, our tongues raging war in an attemp to dominate each others' mouths, feverish in our lust.
I moan through the kisses, deprived of his dick in my mouth but satisfied just the same by his tongue. I feel his hands pulling at my legs and realize that he's between them, his cock rubbing against my own. I feel the bottom of his Prince Albert touching my flesh, sending a shock of cold through the heated muscle. One of his hands has stretched and enclosed around the two shafts; ours are roughly the same size, though I'm positive his is one or two inches longer than my own, though I know his is thicker, for sure. That would bother, or even insult, some people, but I don't at all care; I prefer it that way, in fact.
It's not long before his mouth is back at my neck, attacking my collar bone and biting against it, now not even hesitating to gnaw sharply into the flesh, to draw blood and lap it up, leaving bruises and love marks all along my throat flesh. One of his hands are dancing up and down my body, toying with anything that seems to make me moan; his other has lowered, playing for a moment with my cock before slipping downward, rubbing against that guiche piercing of mine, playing with it. I wonder if he enjoys knowing that it hurts every single time he enters me--and I'm certain that he can't wait to tease it with pain. I'm certain he can't wait to enter me, and my thoughts are soon proven as one finger pressed against and into the awaiting pucker, another finger following it soon. I'm positive that he's laughing to himself at how my hips seem to follow his fingers, craving and hungering, needing.
I absolutely must have this man. I must have him in every possible way.
It doesn't take him long to realize this, though I'm sure he already knew. It doesn't take him long to comply with it, either, as I feel his fingers slip out of me; soon, the damp head is rubbing against it in ways that I'm sure his fingers must be controlling; drawing circles around the rim, teasing and tantalizing me as he rubs it against my entrance but refuses to enter.
He turns my head with his free hand, eyes pouring into mine expectantly. But my own roll back and I raise my head, one hand rolling down my chest and belly and cautiously touching along my own cock. The other moves sideways, and I'm groping for the bedside lamp table, grasping the little handle of the top drawer and pulling it out as far as possible, knowing it would fall to the floor if I removed it any further. It's difficult to rummage through the mess filling the drawer but I wind up taking very little time in finding a pink, squishy, hourglass-shaped tube. I can't tell but I think I slam the drawer closed after I've removed the tube, practically shoving it at his chest. He's impatient tonight, not even haven wanted to allow me to wet him properly. I imagine hopefully that it is as simple as assuming he is as horny as I am, and I believe that must be the case when he swiftly sits up, pushing up the cap and squeezing a dapple of the liquid directly on my entrance, not even bothering to warm it in his hands. I shudder sharply, visibly, the sudden cold filling me with an unpleasant sensation that is quickly overrun when he rubs the head of his cock against my opening, getting just enough of the lube on the tip to press into me. In my mind I'm trying to imagine just what it looks like, the pink-tinted lube smeared along my reddened flesh, his cock in my ass, pressing deeper and deeper. He's in a lustful rush and I'm glad, because I am, as well, and I'm not sure how much longer I can last.
My arms are suddenly around his neck, though I'm not sure when I put them there. He's set the lube aside, going so far as to put it on the table properly. I'm pulling him toward me, back arching and pressing my body against his as his arms lean into the bed, head pressed against mine. His eyes are closed and the lusting look on his face is so beautiful that I decide I am not worthy to gaze upon it, and close my eyes as well, hips arching further up against his as I feel his pubic hair tickling me before he pulls out a bit. But he retracts only for a second before returning into me, his pace slowed at first before his lust forces him to quicken.
In and out, in and out; repeat, repeat, repeat. Don't stop. Never stop. I don't want him to stop, I don't want this red-hot pain to stop, because it feels so good, it feels so amazing, and I need it so much. But it doesn't last, and that's okay, because the end is so amazing, and I already know that.
My body shudders as I orgasm, the climax obvious by my hand squeezing at my own cock, fingers shivering as they rub up against the flesh, urging out the cum that doesn't need orders. My eyes have opened a tad and as my finger slowly slips down, resting against the base, completely deprived of energy, I notice that most of it wound up on Noah, though a good bit was dripping back onto my own stomach, a little bit rolling into my naval. I feel him still pushing into me but suddenly pressing as hard as possible, as if trying to get more of himself inside me, though he knows he can only go up to his own skin, and I feel his body shudder against my own as he unloads himself inside me, though I know it's not his choice. It's his choice to do this, but the reaction was one his body simply could not help. For a moment he leans against me, my body supporting his entire weight, while he catches his breath. He needs my support, he needs me to hold him up; but he only needs me for a second before he allows himself to sink beside me, onto the bed. He slips out of me with a soft, wet popping sound, and I feel some of his cum dripping from my stinging entrance, but I don't notice the pain. The only thing I can feel is the pleasure rampaging through me, an overload of endorphins and I swear I'm dead; I swear I've perished and gone on to Heaven, though I personally don't believe it to exist.
I allow my body to relax, finally falling properly beside him. I stare up at the ceiling, panting, just as he does beside me. But then I realize he's moving, dipping down so his head is against my stomach. His tongue laps at my naval, licking up the cum that's spilled there. He follows the trail up to my ribcage and I grab his head, urging him up to me; he obeys obediently, as if he were mine and not the other way around. I lock my lips against his, forcing my tongue into his mouth, tasting my own juices on his teeth, against his cheeks, along his tongue. But I also taste his essence, that permanent poison that's like a drug to me, because I need it so much and I cannot refuse it in my system. He leans against me, arms on either side of my head, body pressing against mine once again. My fingers touch his face, one upon either cheek, and I gently push him up at the same time as his own hand brushes aside pink- and white-colored hair from my face. The liquid gold of his eyes looks hardened; he's given me all his heat, so it can no longer melt. It can no longer melt me, it cannot dive into my soul. But it already has, so there is no reason for it to do so further. He knows everything about me, I know, and I don't care at all, because I want him to have everything that is me, I must have him know everything. What kind of boyfriend would I be otherwise?
He smiles faintly, showing me those fangs of his. I can't help but to see them, and need them; he's a vampire, and he's going to drain my lifeblood.
But not again. At least, not again for tonight. My body is tired and even if I nap for a few moments, I realize that I would not be up for yet another go. My arms move to wrap around his neck and I push him off me, though I follow him, a puppy, completely loyal. My face buries against his throat and I lean my body against his side, legs coiling around his, hips pressed up against the side of his own. One of his strong arms wrap around my head, holding my face to him, and I smell the scent of his sweat and it's so amazing, so arousing, but my body is far too weak to pass those signals through my nervous system.
He pulls a sheet over our bodies, the thin white exposing us regardless but enough to keep the air from feeling too cold as our bodies cool down from the throws of passion. My eyes are closed but for a moment I open them, realizing that our hair has mixed upon the dark pillow; white strands dance. Pink meets purple, a mix of our essences. He is purple, entirely purple; the color of royalty, the color of kings. The color of gods. I must be pink, for I am a servant, entirely submissive to his every whim, even with independence in my spirit. I close my eyes, feeling his chest rise and fall so calmly, and I imagine he is already asleep. I do not notice as I fall down after him, not bothering to take the staircase.
I sleep, and I dream. And in my dream, I'm melting.
I'm melting in an ocean of liquid gold. |
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