by Anagi
---
Disclaimer: Paramount owns 'em, nobody's paying me, everyone
will be returned before they're missed.
If you are not over 18 and/or can't see the erotic possibilities of
two sweaty men in compromising positions, move along.
**This is not my normal writing style.** I'm trying to decide if I
like it. Let me know what you think because, as always, feedback is the
drug of my choice. Please keep me an addict.
---
He wakes me the same every night. Gentle kisses upon my brow; hard, nude
body pressed to mine. I tell myself each time I go to sleep that tonight
I'll turn him away, I'll be strong. I try to believe, but my
loneliness makes it a lie. I try anyway.
He doesn't speak and somehow it makes it easier. I can almost pretend
it's a dream, that I'm pliant and soft in sleep instead of open
and willing beneath him. But my body knows him, recognizes him, has
imprinted his touch and it responds despite my resolve.
Lips brush my mouth and I yield immediately, shamed in my lack of
resistance, but he doesn't care. His kisses are intoxicating and I
can't help but taste him; the flavor of his favorite scotch, the heat
of his breath. Deep, full kisses that explore my mouth and ravage my
tongue; that batter my will until I'm trembling and he hasn't even
touched me with his long, skillful fingers.
God, those fingers. They start their dance by skimming across my face,
delicate little brushes, leaving sparks in their wake. They replace his
mouth and I take them in, licking their length, sucking at their tips,
until he gasps his pleasure. Wet, they wind a familiar path down my chest
to pluck at my already hard nipples, erect and aching. His mouth follows,
hot and damp, scraping and bruising. Tomorrow I'll heal every
mark,erasing the reminders of my weakness. My secret humiliation. But at
this very moment, where no one can see, I secretly treasure every single
bruise that marks me as his, and his alone. He toys with me, plumping and
squeezing the muscles of my chest so he can suckle and bite the sensitive
tips to his heart's content, and I relish it.
I want to hold him, stroke him, run my fingers through his hair but, as
always, I only dig my hands deeper into the sheets beneath us. I wonder
for a lingering second what would happen if I changed the game, if I
reached out and touched him as I longed to. We would be equals and I would
no longer be the needy one. Would he lean into my caresses, would
he kiss my fingertips. . . but I'm frightened and I never do.
Coward. So instead we reenact the same scene over and over, performances
given nightly; stuck between what if and what will never be.
I can't contain the moan that breaks low in my chest as those nimble
hands move downwards, swirling over my stomach, coming to a fluttering
halt around the head of my cock, stroking, petting, possessing. He smiles
against my skin at the noises I make, rewarded by my inability to control
myself. As recompense of my own throat's disloyalty, he drags a thumb
over the wet head, bringing it to my face, allowing me to lick away my own
essence. My mouth tries, against my will, to convey my feelings to him, my
need, my love, but my tongue has never been that eloquent and he
pulls away once he's clean.
His mouth replaces his hands below my waist and I can't breathe
properly, wanting so desperately to surge upward with my hips but knowing
he'll only play out the torment longer if I do. We've waged this
battle before and I always lose; the defeat forfeit in the pleasure I
receive at his victory. His mouth moves over and around me, small tastes
of the plumed head, nibbling little kisses to my shaft, mouthing the heavy
sac beneath it.
His hands gripping the backs of my thighs and raising them to his
shoulders makes my heart jump and my cock weep. It knows what happens
next, it wants what happens next, and it feels no betrayal. It doesn't
understand the shame of an indifferent mouth changing you, transforming
you into a sensation; into something that has no other need than to be
filled and possessed and taken.
He hesitates over the center of my body, his warm breath scalding me, his
wet tongue drawing random designs above and below idly. He's waiting
for me to surrender, to be the first to give in. I won't, I
won't, I won't. My silent chanting beats in time with my harsh
panting. The designs grow less idle as my silence lengthens, they start to
curl and twist, closer and closer to the bitter core, until he's
circling it, barely touching it, taunting me with the lack of him. A
sudden, full contact suck at my body wrings a cry of his name before I can
help it. It doesn't matter, he hears the surrender in the one syllable
and gives me what I want.
A hot, pointed tongue slips into my ass, fucking me roughly then gently
rimming around the edges until I'm pushing against his mouth
whimpering, begging him to fuck me. Begging with my straining body, my
rasping breaths, and Oh God my voice, deceiving me through clenched
teeth. "You bastard. . . please. . ."
He flips me aggressively, bringing me to my hands and knees, head bowed
and submissive. He presses into me; the ease of his entrance mocking me.
For all my rebellion, he has yet to come to me and find my body tight.
Does he understand the self-inflicted punishment of my actions; the cool
slide of lube, the gentle stretching done before I lay down to sleep? Or
does he simply see a foregone act of surrender that I prepare myself for
him. He never mentions it, perhaps he knows it would stop if he says the
words that make it real. It doesn't matter anyway. For all that I hate
it, I gladly take the reward.
My world shrinks until all that's left is the heat and flame that fill
me, the rhythmic beat of his thighs against my ass, the slapping of his
balls. His pilot's hands grip my hips and guide me as purposefully and
steadily as he steers Voyager. He reaches around and strokes my burning
cock in time with his thrusts and I can feel the tightening begin in my
balls. I want to shout my pleasure out to the world but I can only manage
the earthiest of moans that contains his name. He grunts in acknowledgment
and speeds his motions, slamming himself in further and further. Twisting
and moving, he hits the spot that freezes the moment, causes my back to
arch and my climax to spill into his hand. My ass clenches about him and I
can feel him jerking inside me, and everything shatters and then falls
into place.
We collapse in a silent tangle, sweating and unable to breathe, but still
connected. He holds me tenderly in his arms until the shaking stops, his
cheek resting against my shoulder. Maybe we sleep, I'm never sure, but
some internal clock tells him her shift is ending and it's time to go.
He rolls from me and I listen to him dress. I'm tired and trying hard
not to slip into sleep when he eventually leans over me.
Finally he speaks, nothing more than my name, but I hear the unspoken
words in it and I can sense the pain behind the silence. One sweet kiss
and he's gone. But if I'm quick, I can brush my fingers against
his wet cheeks and say my own goodnight.
He gives what he can; I take all that I can get.
And it has to be enough.
---
End
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