The BLTS Archive - Will and Colette by Orlando (ajfgdm@globalnet.co.uk) --- Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek. Feedback: As long as it isn't serious, this story isn't. Warning: Some language; some nudity; some drugs; some screwing... :o) Some US, some UK, English. It's forever and a day since I posted fiction, so if the formatting's screwy, I do apologise. :o( Archive: Asc/eml, BLTS. Thank you. Enjoy! :o) --- A pack of Marlboro in the back pocket of his faded Levi's. The pocket is missing a rivet, the blue jeans are button fly and the seams are fraying at the ankle. His stash is all neatly rolled into joints. They fill his battered tobacco tin like nine perfectly-made hospital beds. His waistcoat's old leather and battered like a deep-sea fisherman's hands. The stash tin, with the name "Tom" scratched into the lid, crossed out, and "Will" written over it, is making his pocket bulge. He's carrying his whiskey bottle in a battered green, Starfleet-surplus, rucksack with one clasp missing. The whiskey is down to the last couple of inches because he's forgotten to get more supplies, and is of the throat-cutting kind. He's been here long enough to grow out his hair. It's pulled back with a purple leather lace. The sun's behind him. It sinks reluctantly into the sea like an egg cracked into wet paint. No one would believe he wasn't born on this beach, that he hasn't been here for ever. Although he doesn't feel it, he looks his age even in the benevolent light of this late summer late afternoon. He's shaved his beard into a goatee, but the grey stubble growing back on his sun- burned cheeks is grey like crematorium ash. He's wearing a white open necked shirt of cheesecloth or Indian cotton; it's something low- quality and kind of transparent. It works well with his tan that's darker than endangered mahogany. Tiny pearl buttons climb all the way up the front, some are lost, and most of those that aren't miss the tabs they're supposed to button into. Bare feet. Battered sandals hooked over two fingers. What else? His watch stopped at 4.20 during a day, or a night, he can't recall. He doesn't consult it, so you can't even say it reads correct even twice a day. Someone is waiting for him in cool sand where dunes wear skirts of sharp, fragrant sea grass. She's a pretty young thing with soft breasts like tiny apricots. Her hair is shoulder length and has grown out of its style; it's blonde, but that may only be because it's benefited from a month of neglect and relentless sun. She's wearing blue jeans cut high over her thighs and skirting the swell of her ass. When she moves, denim is pulled taut over hips and her belly flashes a swordfish tattoo. She's barefoot. Her toes are painted frigid pink like the sea shells on the shoreline. A cheap bracelet around her ankle is decorated with a single tangerine stone. It flickers against her skin like an imprisoned ember. She waves excitedly like an enthusiastic windmill when she sees him, and the smile she flashes across yards of beach is wide; all perfect cold white teeth and frosty pink lips. She's wearing a crocheted bikini bra and it'll be fifteen years before she realises that neither she, or a summer, with be this young and pristine again. Hiking towards Colette, across sand that steals his strength as he traverses it, Will fancies he can see her perfect coral nipples standing to attention like freshman cadets. He reaches her. She tosses back her head when he kisses her cheek. His face is coarse like her father's was when he kissed her goodnight as a child. She crosses her ankles and folds, ass first, into sand. He tosses his bag at her and she unscrews the cap of the whiskey bottle. She drinks it while watching him trawl the high tide line for drift wood. She's impressed when he returns to their arbitrary place to live through the night with quite a haul. She watches him make fire with matches from his pocket and a gizmo that's just too hi-tech to belong here. She thinks he's been doing this fire-making thing for more summers than she's been alive, certainly for more summers than she's been away from daddy's house. She shimmies her perfect ass closer to his and lays her head on his shoulder. She can smell him. He smells of ocean and UVA. He smells of tobacco and whiskey and weed. She presses her thigh against his. He's older than she is. His shoulders are broad and even though his eyes have a fine mesh of white lines around them, they know what to look for and what they're looking at when they see it. He's bigger than she is. He's just big. The size of him, the weight of him, frighten and excite her. He could hurt her. He could take care of her forever. He could cause her real damage. He's a gamble. Fuck me. Her small, warm hand settles into his groin. Her fingers are slender, and he wishes he hadn't noticed again her bitten-down nails with their remnants of aubergine polish. When he turns his head, he can see down her cleavage, what there is of it. She's wearing layers and strings of tiny, tiny glass beads, just the same as all the other girls her age. They nestle between her jaunty little breasts like a multi-coloured river, and Will imagines the strings snagged on her pouting nipples. He can see goosebumps puckering her fresh tawny skin. He can see the white ghost of untanned scalp under her hairline, and the long length of lashes so pale they are hardly there. He can see her sharp collarbone and her slender shoulders that are pink like a medium rare steak from too little care in too much sun. The clip in Colette's hair is a flower, something bottle-green and enamelled in the canter with a buttercup-yellow stamen. She raises her eyes to him and smiles. She reaches for the stash tin that he jettisoned in the sand during his man-make-fire demo a few moments ago. When she bends her back, he can see every smooth bump of her spine. Her blue jeans gape and he can see both the ripe swell, and the beautiful parting, of her sweet ass. Fuck me. --- He lets his fingers touch the base of her spine while she tears the tip from the end of a joint and lights it with one flick of a lighter she found somewhere along the curving shore. She exhales smoke and weed in a cloud of cool blue. He inhales second hand smoke and she presses back against him. The ties of her bra tickle the back of his hand. His fingers tangle in string. He pulls, and unbleached cotton drops from her breasts. Perfect pink nipples rise to greet chilly air. They are beautiful, like coral cones. He wants them in his mouth. He wants to dine on them. Instead, he fills his hand with coarse sand. He sifts it through his fingers and lightly rubs gritty grains against a nipple. He does the same to the other, until every sensation Colette has seems to be focused there. She sighs and Will bends his head. He kisses her nose; bites her top lip; nibbles the hollow of her throat. He thinks she tastes like a mermaid, like mysterious deep-ocean places. She leans back and Will's tongue touches her straining nipples. His teeth make a cage around first one and then the other. While his mouth is occupied, his fingers find the clasp at the belt of her shorts. It's worn and comes apart at his enquiry. The denim that covers her intimate parts is soft and warm, and when Will's fingers touch damp heat, he gets harder. Colette shimmies, raising this ass cheek and then that, so Will can pull down her shorts. Underneath, she is naked and getting wetter. Will inhales. He would know that fragrance anywhere. They could bottle it and test him double-blind and he would know that scent. He is a connoisseur of pussy. This is like spring wine, new and raw. It will be vibrant. It will dance on his tongue. He feels her fingers. They stroke him through his denim. Her touch is more eager than practised. He nudges against her. He pushes away her little hand. She'll bring him too soon. And, besides, his mouth wants to fuck her first. It wants to start at her toes, all wriggling like kindergarten children under a blanket, then circle that sharp bone of her ankle. It wants to blow kisses across her shins and meet her parted knees. He wants to put his knee between her thighs and make her open wide, a little more, a little wider, wider. He helps her to lean back so that the curve of her pussy tilts upwards for his scrutiny. Will watches her face for a moment. Colette's eyes are closed. Her eyelids ripple and flicker like there's something in there with her trying to find a way out. Her lips part, and she pants, one, two, three; one, two, three. Her tongue lies quiet in her mouth and her freckled cheeks blush in anticipation. Will takes her beads and lets them play against her little breasts. He watches the little glass nuggets cluster around her nipples. He lifts the necklaces from around her neck. Will's finger lies against the entrance to Colette's beautiful smooth pink pussy. She is like a pebble polished by generations of waves lapping at her. Her beautiful slit is so smooth he can't believe it's ever been furred. Her labia are just visible to Will's expert eye. Carefully, he parts her, and teases out the lips like an epicure slipping an oyster from its shell. Her labia peep out for him. She gleams for him. She's pink and silky and glowing with something like dew. Will leans forward. His whiskers touch her mons and she moans, but Will hardly hears it, he is inhaling deeply of youthful fragrance. She wants him because she parts her thighs further, and Will catches a glimpse of her anus, and want surges through him. When he purses his lips, Will can feel them crack: his Venus of the Sand Dunes isn't the only one who's been injudicious in the day's afternoon sun. As he prepares to kiss her, as he makes ready to slip his tongue into her lovely body, Will hears voices. They're distant and cordial, and he's reminded that the few square feet of the campfire burning at their back is only an island, a moment of intimacy in a public place. The voices pass and when Will's cool tongue slips into Colette, he's rewarded with a shower of warmth. He pulls out his tongue and watches her fingers fan across her vagina. He's never tired of watching a woman open herself for him. It's a beautiful gift they give him. It's more beautiful than anything trapped under glass, alarmed and in galleries. He knows what she wants, and after a moment of fumbling, finds the beads. She jumps slightly when he drapes them across her open vagina. He watches the little glass things nestle into her slick heat. He presses them into her, one strand of beads, two, three. He pushes them deeper and deeper. They fill her up so that just the ends show, like the tails of vitreous red salamanders. He closes her legs and rubs them together. He knows how that sensation feels inside his own body and he watches Colette experience it for herself. She's getting wetter. Will dips a finger into her and Colette tightens around him. Will takes advantage of her tension to tug the strands of beads. When they reemerge, they glisten like diamonds. Will catches a strand in his teeth. She tastes as good as she looks. Better. Colette sighs at her loss. It's okay, Will says, it's okay. He lifts her knees, first one and then the other. He helps her to pull her ankles wide and helps her to sit on her haunches. She's exposed to him. He watches her for moments. He worships at the shrine of the female form. He kisses her hard on the mouth. She's ready for him and her tongue comes dashing into his. While he's kissing her, Will unscrews the cap of the whiskey bottle. The air is filled with the scent of spent weed and coarse whiskey and the fresh spice of a pretty girl. There's a couple of grains of liquor left and Will fills her navel to overflowing. He watches the amber liquid make rivulets and tributaries across perfect tanned flesh. He dips the tip of his tongue into the draining pool, he follows its journey to her vagina. Will's forefinger presses between the folds and cold alcohol dribbles inside Colette. Will feels her tense. Shush, it's okay. Trust me. Trust me. She does, but she still squirms. Her vagina is on fire; her belly quivers. Her chest rises and falls. It's good. Will says he'll kiss it better, and he does. He grips the hips that first brought Colette to his attention and thrusts his tongue inside her. When her body tries to push him out, he will not shift. He won't shift until she finds the fly to his jeans and pulls it open. His cock fills her hand. He thrusts into her tiny palm. She dallies with his foreskin. She weighs his balls. He's hot and arched and straining. He's driving himself crazy. He wants to come in her hand. Will turns her over. He knows she's ready. He knows she'll be tight. She spreads her knees and arches her back and Will fills her. It feels like Nirvana. It feels like he's plunged his cock into a warp core. He can feel the smart of alcohol and the slick heat of Colette's moisture. He can feel the flames of the campfire at his back and he can hear the little whimpers and cries trapped in Colette's throat. She's trying to tell him that he's too big! He's too damn big! Still, she wants him to fuck her. She wants him to be big inside her. She wants him to be hard and strong. Will does all of these things. Will is all of these things. He tries to stave off the orgasm he can feel sweeping towards him like nightfall swept across the beach. He plunges a finger into Colette's pretty waiting anus and her cry makes him jump into warp. He explodes inside her. He thrusts deeper and Colette contracts around him in orgasm. God! God! GOD! GOD!! Then it's over and there are voices over there, and over there. The ocean switches itself back on and the stars are lit again. It's lighter than they remembered and the night is cooler. Will kisses Colette. She's as sweet now as she was at dusk. She's as beautiful as she was last Thursday, hiding in the shade under the Vatta Vhal Markan, a bag of souvenirs between her feet, a headscarf knotted on her head and her chin sticky with pilappin rind. She's still a year younger than Will's career. Will finds the last two Marlboro from their crushed packet. He lights them. Over there, behind that hill, Nioss' all-night bar will have more nicotine, and he'll brew caffeine to keep them awake. They can fill up an empty stomach with deep dishes from the all-night griddle and hide themselves in a blanket, Colette on his knee, to watch morning, when it arrives, come creeping, as it does, from the south. Colette yawns. She's keeping count. Her ninth orgasm. And Will gave her each of them. It won't take her fifteen years to realize how her summer and her lover are both on the turn to autumn. --- continued in Will and Colette II 'Dying at Parties'