The BLTS Archive - All That I Can Get
First in the Addiction series
by Anaji (nemo@yearningvoid.net)

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Post: PKSP, ASCEM, BLTS

Archive:  Same As Above & R'rain's Slash Archive

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.

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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 its 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 hearts
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.

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The End