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Flavors
by J.C. Sun
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Disclaimer: The characters within are not mine and never will be-- I'm
just stealing profit/money/fame/credit from the lap of Paramount with my little
criminal endeavors.
Feedback is gratefully slobbered over.
c 11/27/97
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It was one of those tired nights that involve two beings sitting across from
each other and not knowing the existence of the other, when the only concern
on your mind is whether the substance of choice will last for you next hit.
Your next glassful, your next puff -- whatever it may be. But it was one of
those mute, miserable nights where you get so high/drunk/wasted that
it's all you can do to stagger out the door and collapse in your own
quarters.
Those nights move with a slow, languid honey flow, a peculiar blend of
your own internal misery and the substances throbbing through your veins.
Time seems to drop in slow-motion from the lip of an urn, and sensations
swim through the muddled ecstasy of overload. Colors -- they seem to pulse
out at you, and sensations. . . Through the curtain that drops over your
eyes, they pulse and grab at you. The sigh of a breath, the scrape of a
chair, clink of a glass and the bobbing of a man's Adam's apple
swim out at you, luring you in as you get so drunk, so pleasantly numb. .
It was one of those nights, I remember, with Tom and I seated across from
each other and the flask of synthehol planted between us. No words passed
between us, just the clinking of our cups against the glass table and the
clicks of his ancient timepiece. No words to remind us of that night on
the prison ship, of the alien puppetters, of that planet. Oh dear god,
that planet, with the caves and B'Elanna's eyes like lit brandy
when I caught her in the turbolifts. And the liquid shame in them
afterwards, liquid shame mixed with a half-horrified revelation that ached
my soul just as it sent waves of incredulous joy through Tom. That planet. . .
My hand must have fumbled, for the metal container of moonshine tipped,
swayed and clanked to one side. It was nearly empty, and it made a hollow,
thunking noise; a little clear liquid trickled down the side to drip onto
the carpet, and I watched it go drop by drop. I am not sure why, but my
stomach clenched at the sight of that oily, synthetic material slipping
off the table, not sure why I wanted to lunge and catch them into my
mouth.
But Tom's hand reached out and cuffed me, and for a while, we went at
it best as a pair of drunken men can. There was the sound of things
crashing, a sickening sense of nausea as I swung at him and his body
thudding down my arm. But somehow, I ended up slammed on the wall, his
hands on my collar, body pressed against mine, elbows in my stomach, legs
straddled around my hips, pressing into me, mouth open so I could see the
glistening depths, lips apart, chest heaving, dancing as he panted, the
hardness pressing, his breath slipping down mine.
One of the benefits of synthe is that it doesn't make you smell as if
you've been drinking sewage: it's got a light, pleasant, odor,
somewhere between spearmint and lavender; the drunkards under the Golden
Gate bridge, I hear, have the best breath in the whole of the L.A./SanFran
metropolitan area. A fake odor, very plastic, but such an improvement over
plain alcohol, and it was sliding down my face that night, bathing me in a
unique blend of mint and bitter Tom, sending my nerves flaring into an
itchy awareness. . .
I never knew a mouth could taste that sweet. So sweet, tight around mine,
as I stood on my tiptoes and caught it in mine. So sweet that it made my
head swim and my breath come short. . . So incredibly, incredibly sweet
and trickling down mine, so sweet, part synthehol and part the adrenaline
that arched through my veins like a living electricity, but mostly, the
simple taste of his mouth, pressed hard against mine and sending me
spiraling towards the floor.
So sweet. I fumbled with his shirt, tugging the black and red off his
shoulders with clumsy hands, snapping the bands with movements like ham
hands, trembling to feel his skin beneath my hands. Our hands entangled
and went at cross purposes, but eventually the shirt slipped out of my
hands, rolling off onto the floor. I grasped at his hair with greedy
hands; my hands skittered down the bare damp flesh of his back, and they
stroked the soft dip where his spine met his pelvis. Pressing and I arched
my body to slide my mouth down his chest, hard under a fuzz of blonde.
So sweet.
I can't remember what happened after that, as time -- the universal
constant-- seemed to pop out and do a back flip with a three-quarters
spin. A droplet of sweat traced it's way down his back with a slow,
ecstatic trembling, but the pucker of his mouth across my belly seemed to
flit by on the wings of hummingbirds, barely registering, yet tantalizing
tangible. Our hands wandered down each other, our mouths following; his
nails skittered down my belly, and I arched against the floor as his mouth
pressed into my skin, my hands tangling within his hair as I pressed
myself up against him, gasped like a landed fish trembling beneath the
fisherman. My hands dug into his neck, and sweat slick flesh grew hotter,
damper until my face seemed to shimmer back at me from the burning metal
of his skin. He shut my eyes and laid me against the floor, his mouth
burrowing into me as my eyes drifted shut and I drifted loose upon a wave
of pulsating sensation. His mouth here, there, his hands on the inside of
my thighs, under my knees, teeth nipping at the crease between my thigh
and my hips. . .
And there was a whoosh of chill air across my back; a smile curled my
face. It was a pleasurable if painful sensation, the juxtaposition of two
extremes.
It didn't dawn on me that anything was amiss until Tom stopped, and I
felt him raise himself off me. Rolling to my side and peering out of
pleasure glazed eyes, I saw B'Elanna's face gleaming from the
doorway as a pale, twisted frightened thing amidst a glowing halo of
brown. Turning to Tom, I caught him by the chin, brown to blue, blue to
brown, then brown to a brown so dark and desperate so as to be black with
hunger.
And so we stretched out our arms and brought B'Elanna in out of the
cold.
Gently, Tom kissed her, bending down to bring his mouth across hers in a
delicate air brush of a movement. I circled around back, watched her back
arch as his mouth pressed deeper, and I saw his hands creep around the
black cloth of her uniform. Slowly, starting at her nape and brushing
aside the dark hair that crackled and clung to my hands, I flicked aside
the fasteners. Each one made a soft, low popping noise, a staccato beat to
the low moans that were escaping from her mouth. The overtunic slid off
her shoulders with a soft rustle, falling to the ground in a stiff heap to
reveal the tight-clinging yellow undergarment. She raised her arms and I
peeled it off her, my fingers slipping over sweat damp skin, caressing the
gentle swell and dip of her shoulders and the knotted muscle of her
shoulders. I made a note to myself to give B'Elanna a massage
sometime. . .
Brown eyes caught blue, and Tom slipped his fingers underneath the black
elastic band of her trousers and eased them down to her knees as I pulled
her panties down, easing them over the soft curves of her, allowing them
to slither down her thighs even as I drew my thumbs up the soft white
insides.
We laid her down upon the carpet far more gently than we had gone down
ourselves, for somehow, we sensed the importance of this endeavor. I
caught a bead of gleaming sweat between her breasts and dipped my tongue
in it, sampling the flavor as she arched up to meet me. It was salt -- as
I expected--yet unexpectedly sweet, like the coffee of her skin and the
cream of her arousal, blended with the hot vortex that was her mouth.
These I discovered later, as I wandered down her body, taking the left
side as Tom kissed the right. Where our hands met we smiled; where our
mouths met, we kissed. I rocked though a world of sensations, of feeling
and pleasure from the arch of the body beneath me as well as from the
meetings of bodies.
Tom lowered himself between B'Elanna's legs as I slipped my mouth
over hers. . . Her arms wrapped around me and bore me close. It is a
fascinating experience to have a woman arch, writhe and moan beneath you
and to know only that someone down south is doing something extraordinary.
With a gentle tug, Tom raised my head from the delights of her mouth and
he slid his fingers into mine, damp, moist and pungent with the taste of
her. My tongue tightened around them as he drew me between her legs and he
moved to her head.
Once upon a time, long ago, I told Tom I wanted to know what
B'Elanna's face looked like when she came. Once upon a time, I
did, and I still do. I want to see what shape her soft red mouth forms
when the waves rock her, whether her eyes squeeze shut or if she meets it
eyes open, frank.
She looks angelic.
At least, what I think an angel should look like -- an angel like
B'Elanna.
Her mouth stretches, lengthens, and yet at the same time, manages to
fill, darken, appear so soft as to seem impossible. A smile crossed with a
gasp of pure wonder, an O of delight into a triangle of emotion so intense
that it almost seems painful. Her cheeks flush a dark cherry shade, lost
between brandy and apples, while her forehead smoothes out like a breadth
of fine linen as her nostrils flare. A low, rich sound emerges from her
throat, a low gutterral sob, and she arches against me, hips circling in a
rhythm harmonic to mine as she came in a soft, sudden gush that drenched
me, and I shot deep into her and we tangled into each other more deeply
than we had before.
And for a long time, there was only the sound of heavy breathing. Of
three chests, each rising and falling to a different time.
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End
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