Fog lingers under the city's seven bridges, and the water of the Willamette River is alive with the lights that line both sides of it. City of Lights is what Portland calls itself. Not quite Paris. But it has dreams...
On the busy strip of Southwest 5th Street in downtown Portland, both sides of the street are crowded with shops and the young. The hip and the dark-clothed. The trendy and the subtrendy. And even at ten o'clock, though most of the shops have closed, there is a constant hum of foot-traffic. It is on Northwest 5th Street were the most lauded of restaurants and clubs are located. One of these, predominantly catering to the beautiful men seeking others of their kind. "The Satyricon" is a three-level club, catering to Goth as well as more mainstream tastes. Even the Goth clientele, who hang out in the basement, are of a quality New Port could only dream of. The upper two levels are dominated by the fashionable and the handsome.
It's Friday night. It's packed. The faces are alive with smiles. With lust. With laughter. With alcohol. The air is full of the static that will make them cling to one another. The dancefloors are busy -- but not overcrowded. There are as many watchers as there are participants. Near the dancefloor, are a pocket of young men that Versace would be proud to have in his stable. But ... look around... the club is full of such...
The blonde speaks not as he wanders within the confines of the space. This...is certainly more like it. Already his mood lifts, moreso because of the atmosphere of vibrant mortality. It presses upon Ian in ways that gladden his melancholy heart.
As it is his way, he too is dressed in black. It sets off the brilliance of his hair and eyes. Unlike most evenings, he does not hide his silver eyes or his preternatural walk. Motions surreal are the cadence of hands and feet, as if one frame is removed from the movie shot. Those who venture to look at his face are rewarded by beauty and intensity, silver eyes appraising opposite for long moments. Desire is met with desire as he allows his own need to rise, lifted upon the heady emotions that rule the room.
So much may this city boast than the one which has detained you for the past twenty-five years. More like Seattle, but without that sense of oppressiveness. Though Portland has grown tremendously in the past decade, it is still far less European than its northern near neighbor. But it is far ahead of New Port and its one club...
The lights. The music. The shadows. These suit well your preternatural motions. You are The Dance. You are Rhythm Itself. It is not you who move to the sound and song. Sound and song are ripples of your own existence. Your own motion. And for each look you give, desire is met. They are drawn to you. And in the shifting, pulsing neon, do they not seem like fireflies around you? Up ahead of you, a well-built young man. Coming off the dancefloor. Partnerless. For the moment. The shine and salt of perspiration upon his skin. His dark brown hair cut short and neat, but ultra modern. Athletic, and dressed in an iridescent shirt untucked over black trousers. One moment, the shirt is silver. The next moment, it is streaked with red. With blue. With violet. With indigo. Handsome... American....
He has a strong heartbeat. He smells of salt -- sweat -- and expensive cologne...
He is not so casually dressed. Or perhaps it's elegant casual. Black pants and prayer-cut blazer have but a sheer white shirt beneath. A cue taken from someone else. But as he sees the one leaving, Ian comes to a halt in his meandering. A smile is offered to someone showing interest as he passes, but silver eyes return quickly to see ahead. On other nights, he would perhaps follow the young man's steps as he walked around the club, enjoying a drink and his friends. But this night, he is not so quick to pounce. He is a beautiful thing to look at, this one, and watching him keeps The Other close to his heart.
He becomes statue-like in his posture as arms slip to his side. The blazer moves as well, it's flat collar and lapel opening down his sheer midriff. If others watch him, he does not notice. If he stands in the way of dancing, he notices that not either. Right now, a furnace is being allowed to stoke, bellowed by the energy tapped from those squirming and living around him.
Ah, the American. The Northwest is renown for its casual attitude -- everywhere but in this club. Everyone is dressed in their... most alluring. Silk. Leather. Mesh. So many colors. The vibe is clearly dance-mix to cosmic techno, and as the beat kicks in again the club erupts. Even your young American. He closes his eyes. He is smiling at Nothing. And even though he is paces away from the dancefloor, he moves....
An excellent dancer. How he moves. Though your Other may be graceful, he is not ...this. There is something more than graceful about it. It is electric. It is connected utterly to the rhythm. It is sexual, in that way that mortals do ...so naturally. And that electricity surrounds him. And soon there are others dancing nearby. Watching him. Watching you. You... you are the beacon that captures the eye. Have you noticed at all how the dancefloor has...shifted toward you? Drawn to you. A swirl of humanity, seeking to press against you. Know you. Have you. Be had by you.
Including the American with the iridescent shirt. You are going to watch him? He is going to move for you. Is that not part of it? The shirt is silver. The shirt is red. Blue. Indigo...
You are beautiful... Ian allows himself to think, smile growing without his realization. If the dance is for him, the audience is rapt. Silver eyes watch eagerly, rising and falling along the dancer's body. They are hands, the long stares, caressing as they pick up details of how he moves. It is true...only mortals move that way...and it is one of the most compelling elements of humanity. Preternatural motion is elegant, but it is unreal. Not earthy and sultry as this. Not a string to draw heart and loins forth. To make one thirst, when there is drink everywhere. There is reality in the dancer's body that is unknown to the undead. Ian can always appreciate it...and prefers it.
Thought is motion. As the idea crosses his mind, Ian turns to someone beside him, touching his shoulder and drawing him forth. A bend of his head causes blonde hair to fall at his eyes. Words are quickly uttered, and rising from the command, Ian's shoulders move. Eyes return to the moving spectacle ahead, lest he forget that he is being so relished. The blazer begins to slither from his shoulders, and once to his hands, is taken by the one nearby. He scurries off, word given to him to take the blazer to the coat check and bring Ian back a receipt. Right now, Ian is too occupied to leave. Shoulders square as he looks back to the dancer, the sheer shirt defining and shimmering on its own.
It is the difference between Clever Pantomime and True Existence. No Immortal can truly capture it. Not even you. You who are a master among children. You have seen more, known more, felt more, experienced more. But through him, it is all Real. Not even your Other, who is ungodly, is nothing in comparison. He is a phantom -- he seems a phantom. And you wondered why he did not wish to.... follow an act of four similarly handsome American men? He plucks the strings subconsciously. Unaware. His body moves because Life demands it...
He is beautiful? He cannot hear you. He cannot feel the thought. But he smiles at the attention -- or is it the music. And he is on the move, even as the music swirls, the pulse cascading. The dancefloor shivers. He shivers. He cannot help but be drawn to you. Like so many others. You are becoming...surrounded. There, a glancing touch. There, a soft hello. There, a closer scent of a different cologne as mortal men pass you by. As your jacket is taken, your American is moving toward you. Not as graceful as your Other. There is a kind of unfamiliarity with his own body -- a kind of mortal carelessness. For they are never in their skin for very long... before they must surrender it. They do not have the Knowing that you and your Other have...
The dance strokes against one other, passing by. The shirt is silver. The shirt is red. Blue. Indigo. As he moves. As he twists. As he turns. As hips move with the promise of other dances. Will you ever dance with another again? That kind of ...surety is in the small smile he gives you. Ah, perhaps there is something there...like your Other... after all...
Feet are riveted to the floor. A smile is returned for the one given. Appreciative and appreciating. If only he knew. Would he dance so, for one like Ian? So carelessly living in the one chance he's been given? So carelessly offering to give up the once chance he's been given. Reddish ring gleams as fingers are laced before sheer midriff; slender hands flexing and laxing.
Here... Ian thinks, his blink slow as his shallow breaths. Come here, beautiful...William... he thinks, indigo eyes flickering back at him. That is the color he sees. Dark hair falling in churning twists and motions. Ian sighs, something melancholy wishing to overtake him, but in the following blink, he cannot but ask again, come here.... Instinctively, clasped hands open subtly at beneath the eye of the crowd, an invitation to his embrace.
You beckon. How can the world not answer you? How could he not answer? There is no refusal. But neither does he speak. So close to you... your eyes held by his -- more aptly, his by yours -- words fail upon the tongue. But why speak? When the bodies may express more. He is just two inches taller than you. Barely noticeable. You beckon... he follows. Caught. In silver. In red. In blue.
His shirt is soft to the touch, like a breath. Neither silk, nor satin. It is a kind of ultra modern fabric. Like the newest blends of rayon. It moves otherworldly. It adds to his sensuality. Come here, you say. I am here, he replies. Not in words. In the eyes. They are a kind of turquoise. Light, but with veins of deeper color, edged with more of a cobalt. Such may your vision show you. He is, perhaps, twenty-three. His complexion is fair, but even. Not tanned -- it is Winter in Oregon. But there is a ruddiness there. The signs of healthy exertion. And he smells of sweat and scotch and Lagerfield...
Near you... at you... he begins to continue his dance. Not merely for you to look upon -- but to have. To share. To join. A hand reaches out. To capture you. His pulse is heavy and strong. That of a heart used to exertion -- and able to withstand it. His form is strong. He is well-built. Attends a gym regularly, by all appearances. But not quite as brawny as you are, perhaps, used to. His hands are large, but well-formed. Slender fingers. Soft. He is a modern worker. No calluses of hard labor...
Words of devotion are whispered to someone else far away. The blonde's eyes delve into pools of turquoise and cobalt, but in them, he swims in a lake of indigo. I love you. Words wanting to be said. They will be spoken in mind and heart and perhaps the one at home will hear. I love you...I had to say it. I miss you. Such are in his fingers as the chameleon shirt is touched, a tremulous exhale of ache hidden from the mortal. Can you see that I love someone else? That I miss him. You are beautiful, like he is...help me forget for a while. In some world, it is a compliment the blonde man pays, his smile and hands here, but his heart given elsewhere. He notes the differences in hand and form, but it is the similarities that he latches onto. Large hands, a body to rest beside. It sets upon his expression as hunger and unabashed lust, though it generates from other desires.
The blonde moves gently with the dancer at first, becoming more and more oblivious to things around him. Noses touch, and the blonde breathes deeply upon parted lips. Warm his breath is when he exhales, heated for many reasons. You...He...caused this. My heart to race, my hands which tighten at the dancer's waist, pulling him against his thin-shirted chest. How he would dance for his William if he was here tonight. The blonde's hips move slowly as his eyes close, a kiss perched upon his mouth to share.
A touch at Ian's arm is ignored. Someone returning with a ticket....
Even as it is becoming the heart of evening here... in that far off place, the sun is approaching its first lighting. Soon, the wide skies over the moors and heath will go lavender and pink and slowly turn to different shades of gold-touched grey. The Bond that exists between the two of you... does not wane with the distance. It merely... takes longer for messages to cross. But you as you speak love, he will feel love. That Other. Even as he and his hound are heading to bed. You will probably receive a call tomorrow...
But, for now, it is only you and this American. This beautiful young man who is so unaware of the life you lead, the bed you keep, and is oblivious to the one who holds your heart. What does he care? He holds you now. Now is All, isn't it? And the others that had pressed and slowly gathered -- as if it were truly by their own volition -- watch the two of you as you go into your own, joined, groove. For some reason, your forms fit perfectly. They would be annoyed, were you not so captivating. You feel strong hands splay at your waist then at your back. Holding on as the dance begins in coupled form. His body is not subtle about what he desires. Every motion is flirtation. Every flirtation is a promise. Every promise only heats the skin, deepens the desire, and adds edge to the dance. Like a vicious circle -- only, delightful. He does not know you love someone else. He only knows your mouth is close. And so you feel the pulse of his mortal heart in the press of his lips. Full. That too is a similarity. The kiss is a second, separate dance. Mouths parted, one to the other. Joining. Parting. Playing. Tugging. Can you feel his thoughts? Can you tell by that look what he is thinking....?
... Is there someplace we can go... Is there somewhere you will take me... Take me...
Muscled biceps flex as his grasp closes, tightening. Even as the kiss is momentarily wild. He tastes of scotch.
Sharply he leans in, the blonde, kiss indeed dynamic. And scotch. A groan is stifled in his throat, and hands that began to seek more, rush headlong around the dancer's waist. Chest barrels against chest, and the dance becomes a tight rock. Forward and back, Ian's hands grasp at the dancer's back, pulling and tugging him. Quickly, release is lost, his tongue answering the unspoken question. Yes...wherever you want...just tell me what you want... William. That name the finish to any desire, to every heated agreement. Yes, William. Somewhere within, he knows what he is doing, enjoying the young man for what he is...and simultaneously turning him into someone he is not. But for now, the blonde does not care so much. Happily he drinks up the scotch, tearing his lips away only to replace them along the dancer's throat, encouraging his head backwards, eyes to the color-strewn ceiling of The Satyricon. Aptly named.
At his pocket, the ticket is still held, the person not quite sure what to do with it, in the face of this.
Satyricon. It used to comprise only the basement club, where Mission UK and the Goth Scene flourished in the 90s. But in the boom of the late 20th and early 21st Century, the club blossomed. Satyricon indeed. Acted out, again and again. On the dancefloor. In the shadows. Under tables. In bathroom stalls. In the stairwell...
The dancing has ceased, but bodies still move. Pushing, pressing. His heart beats Now. And his mouth tears at the kiss. Pulling until the blonde breaks it. As the American tilts back his head, his hips renew their dancing motion. Curving in and out. Up and back. Not just for motion's sake. For you can feel with every inward curl the press of an intensifying insistence. His mouth moves, finally. You can feel the hum of his voice against your lips as he closes his eyes. "We can go to the back... I know a place... I need you..." But the music captures the sound of it. Lost. He looks like he is mumbling incoherent. His body moving, constant. His fingers curl and uncurl. Splay and press in rhythm to the music's persistent beat. Orgiastic. It even covers his groan.
The ticket bearer is a nice young man. Pretty in that thin-and-lean way. Pretty. He looks fabulous with his pierced ears and his platinum hair, cut close to his head. No, this ain't going to end soon, is it. He gets an idea and... starts to slip it...into your pocket. He is drawn no less than your turquoise-eyed American...
I need you.. It rolls as French syllables to a multilingual ear. We can go to a place... When was the last time a man invited him anywhere? And a lovely man such as this, who tugs at the deepest parts of himself. Feeling the hand at his pocket, the blonde's lips hesitantly pull from the fervent kiss, fuller and softer now from the last minute. A faint turn of his head, and he looks to where he is being touched. It takes a moment of recognition, but there comes a light in the silver. Arms remain wrapped around the dancer, insistent upon the young man's place against himself. What is it you want? Expression asks, but the slanted smile already knows the answer.
When the blonde looks back to the dancer, his smile grows. Show me... he thinks, letting his hands lower, giving the freedom of motion. Eyes slip to the one beside him, giving a challenge...Tell us what you want, I dare you....
The ticket has his phone number on it. Call me written artistically in black ink on the white card. But at that look of yours -- at that dare and at that smile -- there is another grin. His. And his hand slides into your pocket. And his hand stays there. The dance of two is now three. The platinum-haired attendant is close against your side. Tell you what I want? In the flick of his own tongue against your ear and a whisper. "Take me with you..." You and the turquoise-eyed American.
The blue-eyed dancer kisses you full and soft. Needing, but yet savoring. As you turn your head, he looks to. Who? Oh, you. And a smile for the platinum pretty-boy with his earrings and his hand in your pocket. "To ...the back," he says against your open mouth, his tongue interrupting his own speech. Pleading. "...Come on...." Please. He is begging. If you said No now? It'd ruin his evening. The hand in your pocket is moving. Fingers trying to discover what they hide through fabric. But then the hand slips out, and the platinum-haired attendant holds up a key. To a ...room? A removed spot of this club. For staff, perhaps. Or... perhaps... especially for this.
Look at them. Lust held pendent by your very look. Your breath. They move to show you the way. And all around you the frenzy of mid-evening in the Satyricon begins. Men in a kind of bacchanal. The music is relentless. Just like the pulse of their own strong mortal hearts. You can smell the salt upon their skin -- where sweat is pricked against their senses. And something else. Something that plays against their cologne. The scent of Need.
The back. Silver eyes dance between the two that hold him...and he holds. A selection made, despite a room of men for the exploring. Lips purse together -- no objection raised to anything so far -- and one of the blonde's hands runs through his hair, the other pulling at his recently loved lips. He clucks, then smirks. < sparkling eyes say, body echoing the sentiment. His chest turns sheer as he twists to look in the immediate vicinity, giving the show so many richly wish to see. It is pride, no doubt, that carries the blonde forth, smug arrogance at his own blatant virility. As he angles, accepting the attention wishing to be lavished on him, hands come to the backs of each of the young men, stating that his choices are the two at his sides.
The dancemix is acting the part of narrator now. The beat -- the words -- the lights. You head into the splay of colors. You feel the splay of masculine hands against you. The journey is as much a dance as anything. Both move against you .. with you. To the beat that presses them, and you, on. How lucky they are. You can feel their blood lifting to their skin -- their hearts pumping. And wherever you go, you leave a wake of admirers. But you are swallowed from all sight as the journey continues to the back of the club. Will they see you again?
The platinum-haired companion -- your One of Two -- leans against you, pressing. Through the thin linen he wears, there is little left to the imagination, truly. Of what he wants. The key engages the door. Simultaneously, your two lovers engage you. One upon one ear. One trying to find your mouth. Three hands on you, wandering. The fourth, you see, is trying to open the door. It manages. Well-practiced, that. And the key finds the Other Blonde's pocket. One by one you slip with in, you pack of three.
A hallway, lit softly. Remarkably quiet, but for the steady heartbeat of the club's DJ. There are several doors, onyx with golden knobs. It is the third one down... you eventually wrestle toward. Wrestle. With two lovers... beckoning at you. Laughter is beginning. Heady. Drunken. Not on alcohol. On the pleasure of being with You. You hear it. Beautiful. Handsome. I want you. The door is opened. It is as much a small apartment as it is an office. Especially designed, one might think easily, for just such an encounter. Or... encounters. There is a large wraparound sofa. Very large cushions, very plush, ultra modern. Very Euro. From its sleek lines and furnishings to the wall coverings and lighting. Two pairs of eyes look to you then. Two pairs of hands move to free you from your clothes. Or... would you rather the honor of peeling them from theirs?
Once from the limelight, Ian laughs too as hands and lips course over him. A wall is found here, he bumps into one there. It is a dance, of sorts, down hallways and corridors. Giddy with the rush of emotion -- his and yours both -- the well-practiced facade falls away. Instead...a young man enjoying being appreciated by other young men. It's exciting to feel so...uninhibited. Free of constraints. Save one.
As the room is opened to him, Ian takes a quick evaluation. Very Euro. For an instant, there's an ache, a thought of someone else although hands roam his body. Am I allowed he suddenly thinks, wondering upon the heart of the other. But the want and need filling the room swells around him, meshing with his own. Too hard to think when blood becomes involved. Kisses are returned, his eyes closing against the push. Tongues, skin, hands, hair -- each of you are drawn once more to him. The room becomes forgotten. The Other? Images of him pulse deeply within, mingled with an I love you... sent upon fleeting thoughts.
Turning about, the blonde separates himself from the swirl of hands and lips. He teasingly smiles, knowing long faces might follow. But a step is followed by another and he walks backwards towards the circular sofa. Something appeals in all that oddly curved space. And expression settles as he arches a brow to see the pair left. <> He'll not be freed from his own clothing yet. For now, he wants to see what gift he's given himself. Finger swirls in a start-up motion, a turn-around gesture. Undress.
It is a... fate... all men share. Mortal or Immortal. When the blood flows thus, how can thinking be done? Perhaps were they both sober and less aroused they might wonder upon so young a man who has such a natural...control of his surroundings. But the command is not questioned. Instead, they both smile. And for the first time seem to take true stock of one another. Pleasure sweeps through them. A shiver... given next to you. The platinum-blonde... the pretty one... moves with grace. The turquoise-eyed Other moves with a sultry heat. That look to you. Such naked want. So open. The air is alive. The space is narrowed. Here in this room, darker... less pulsing lighting...the shirt is more silver than anything. The occasional wash of red. Of blue. The silky shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a midriff... it shall please you...that is muscled, showing much time spent at a gym. Dark hair begins to become visible. Then his chest. Broad. The silver and iridescent rayon begins to slide over his shoulders. His waist is very slim. Tapered, as well, by time in the gymnasium...
As for the blonde? He is moving to the side of the room... his own clothing falling from him in the motion of the dance. To the music now pouring in. A speaker from the club. Just loud enough. A soundtrack for this sin. His own body is not quite as built but it is lean, athletic. More a dancers form than an athlete's truly...
He and the turquoise-eyed American move toward you, turn to one another. Dancing... unclothing. Their hands wandering over one another. As pants begin to lower... their current ... torture may be seen. Well-formed thighs -- particularly the blue-eyed, dark-haired companion. And between them. Well... as it is said... when God gives... he keeps giving. Both larger than average -- but not what you are used to. But very nice. Very nice indeed. And darkened with lust. Their hands begin to stroke one another, even as pants fall to the floor. They kiss one another... and then they look to you. You...like?
"Very...nice," comes Ian's voice, heady upon an approving sigh. It's accented somehow, but part of it is lost in the pervasive beat that saunters under the increasingly heavy breathing. He leans back against an edge of the rounded sofa, his own slacks falling to pleats at his hips. And so it begins. One is appreciated for his beauty. The other...for the lust he generated from the first moment. The blonde is motioned over first, hand at appropriate side simply extended outwards. Fingers do not rise high as Ian's feet part and plant themselves to the floor. You will be here he thinks, silver eyes cast for a moment before him.
The other, the one who inflamed him, is encouraged by his other hand to his side. He shall have the favor to undress him, to cause Ian to burn further with his hands and lips. Names are unnecessary for now, perhaps ever. What will transpire is perfectly clear, and once directions are shown, Ian puts his hands behind him upon the sofa's back and allows his eyes to momentarily close.
With a parting flick of his tongue, the darker one moves from his platinum partner and toward you. The blonde will have the...intense delight in watching for a time. He moves to the hand that beckoned him -- even as the turquoise-eyed American joins him. Both come to the couch. But as the darker one moves to you -- his mouth immediate against your skin, as if the very few moments it's been since he last touched you were agonizing torture -- the platinum blonde settles at your side. A great vantage point. His hand lightly moves over his length. Pressing...wandering. Until you direct him otherwise. His gaze lifts and lowers from your face -- to the form that is beginning to reveal itself. So beautiful. Goddamn. His lean form tightens with what he sees. The larger one... so athletic... beginning to unclothe you...
The darker one presses against you. His fingers are heated. And though he is gripped by lust, his hands do not fumble. His mouth covers yours momentarily. Pulling. Then moving down your neck. Even as his fingers send the pleats of pants further down over your hips. His hand moving over you. Stroking. Surrounding. Then moving. Fingers go to your shirt. His hips curl inward roughly. The blonde leans in, praise lilting from his lips. lips that land on you next. Bending, his mouth surrounds your nipple and lightly tugs. Two sets of hands wander over you. Pulling... circling. Lightly teasing. Until you direct them otherwise...
As for your Other? Can he feel this? Sense this? Partake in this? Daylight has crested the moors with a lighter shade of grey. Can he dream this...?
If he can feel it, perhaps he can smile at what his lover is beginning to understand. Freedom. A request to learn that he made only a few short months ago. Can you show me what that is, murmurs through tears and confessed ache. Not to think, not to know, not to feel the weight of centuries in something so subtle as another's touch. It's the freedom in a brushstroke, the freedom in a sweep of a hand...and to revel so completely in that instant, it brings nothing but pleasure and joy.
And despite his moment of reservation a moment past, this is what this is. Pale lashes lower to the world, lips parting to breathe the push of male candor rising from all directions. Kisses cause The Blonde's hips to curl an instant, the muscles already pulling from the building strain. Was it like this for you? he wonders gently, feeling the rise of sunlight bring the fall of sleep. Would you dream of me, loving you as this, loved by you such? Is this what it is like for us? So different is it when familiarity is replaced by someone new. Perspectives change as well. Instead of aching to love and to show, he now enjoys someone wanting to show him, to know completion through him. It is what he often needs from his Love, and now Ian marvels at the reversal.
The falling clothing is greeted with a lick of his bottom lip. Freedom of another sort. And the two men are greeted by a sight: a form preternatural, made strong by supernatural chisel. The slacks fall to Ian's feet, and beneath is but gentle northern skin, magically touched. He inhales, thighs moving as he steps from the linen and moves it aside with a brush of his toes. The shirt's departure required a lift of anchored hands, allowed to helplessly fall...somewhere. That will need finding later.
Otherwise, the platinum blonde's nape is gently touched. Silver eyes open to him, his thumb stroking gently. Lower... he thinks, word quick upon the thought. "Lower." Not simply a suggestion, the word is sent piercingly from gleaming silver orbs, with an encouraging hand to boot.
Was it like this? Yes... and no. In the beginning... following his Resurrection, as he called it, it was this pure pleasure. In times of separation, before the world was Industrialized, this was how he made love to you. Until he could hold you. Take you. Please you. But in later, darker years. In the orgiastic 1960s... it was not about pleasure. It was about exorcism. Of a ghost. Of pain and sorrow. And then... of habit. Done with so little thought. So little enjoyment taken of it. Too much was behind it, you see. His reputation as a lover... and as a frequent lover at that... doused the flame. Until you took him back, here in Oregon. Now, complete Devotion has claimed him. Except, of course, when you permit and partake otherwise. As in Cadiz.
The platinum blonde lowers, doubling over. Needing no further encouragement. His mouth is warm, claiming. His lips soft, enfolding. The grasp around the crown of you squeezing, and then surrounded by the swirl of a deft tongue. And more. Greedy. His mouth takes you fully, clasping and releasing once the whole of you is known. Lust has been building for half-an-hour. Soon, the tempo of his mouth around you quickens. Needy.
And the turquoise eyes of your other companion take in the scene. His groan swallowed by the music that fills this room. He lowers with the blonde and a joined kiss erupts at the crown of your length. Enfolding it, redoubled. The sight of you unclothed -- they are helpless. Poor mortals. Their fate now rests with you. And whatever you ask... whatever you want... you will have. For as long as you desire it. Hands wander up your thighs. Also, parting them to slip between. Every delight is mirrored. Every stroke is echoed. Every surrounding warmth against your length is doubled. Until you desire it otherwise.
"Not you..." Ian whispers, grasping the arm of the brunette. You, he wishes to see and to savor. Muscular arm is pulled back upwards, hand rising along arm and to the nape his neck. Both hands shall rest in the same place, encouraging the one below and holding the one above.
It'll begin here, but it will end in a tangle horizontal on the sofa's cushions. No less curled than the setting itself. The moans and motions will lift and rise loudly, enthusiastically, for a few hours, drawn out to please and fulfill the blonde's newfound needs. His body will take them places unknown. Mouths and hands shall crest in an orgiastic symphony, led by the baton of desire. Each will have their own coda, but in the end, One will emerge still unfulfilled. There will be pleasure as he watches the other two sink into sleep, his body rising to kneel above them, watching their slumber. But hand will touch the crimson that stains his skin, and his body and heart will seek still someone else. There will be no sadness for it, just an ultimate realization that his completion comes from one source only. The body has enjoyed the rides, the spirit is lifted and soaring, but it flies homeward, seeking the comfort and bed of its True Heart.
Posted by rowan at January 26, 2000 10:11 PM
