Monday, 13 August 2018

Night falls

Another random(ish) but generous excerpt. 


I'm watching him float in that grey space filled with the blue and black glowing haze, that place I neither can or really want to go to, but that I love imagining, I love feeling it reflected in my own mind and body, I love being the one that takes him there; and here I am now, again, balancing on a ridge between my own lust and the focus I need to hold his need in my mind.

And to have him like that -- slutty and desperate and trembling in staggered breathes, pleading for something that he could just take but he's given me to control as I please -- to have him like that takes me into another other space. The place where the hot, wet, purely carnal desire meets the sharp, shimmering focus of power, merging together to make me shiver in excitement that takes the sexual and transforms it into something beyond and above, a heady high that nothing else compares to.

I can't take my eyes off him. 

He's getting ever closer, losing his self there, almost gone, his whole body given to the buildup of pleasure, all of his pleasure to be given to me.

I am suddenly shaken by a need to touch him; no, not just touch him, not even hurt him this time, not to make my mark, not yet; I want to fuck him, so much that it makes me moan and swear, though the remains of reason tell me it wouldn't be ideal in the circumstances, so I let that thought go, aware that there is still time. I moan through my own racing breath, reach between my legs to cover my fingers in the slippery fluids and lean over, grab his hair at the back -- it's short, so I grab his right ear too -- pull him back, awkwardly, to the side of the headrest. 

His face is now close to mine, my right hand pushing his chin up as I cup it between my thumb and fingers, slide lower to his neck. I don't want to choke him but I can feel that the pressure restricts his airflow a little, my palm on his constricting trachea and it makes my whole body shiver.

He's tensing, not knowing what's coming, almost ready to start fighting me, torn between the impending orgasm and the instinctual reaction to the threat my hand on his neck implies. I move my hand up, the thumb stays under the chin, the fingers up along his jaw and towards his mouth. I push them all in, not too deep, I don't want him gagging or throwing up there, just want to be inside him, somehow, and this will have to do. It feels like I am fucking his mouth with my hand; he starts sucking my fingers in rhythm with my movements.

I can feel his arm moving against my chest as he is stroking faster, his body tensing and although he can hardly talk, he manages, "So close now M... please... may  I... ooooh... please..."

I pull his head further back, my fingers digging under his tongue, my thumb pressing harder, my face moving closer to his, "Open your eyes, J. Look at me."

Right there on the edge, the dark brown eyes fixate on mine, waves of energy washing over me, the power and desire in a hot ball, glowing, pulsing. I nod, slightly.

“Now, slut boy. For me. Come,” I say, barely managing to keep myself from shouting.

I feel his body buck, a deep groan spilling over my fingers. His features twist and contort as the orgasm shakes him into that ecstatic expression so alike to agony. I can't take my eyes of his face, his pleasure resonating in me, flowing from him to me, becoming mine.

I reach down to his groin, meeting his cum-covered fingers and cock, scooping as much as I can, bringing it  back up to his mouth, rubbing onto his lips, feeding deeper, his eyes are closed now but he licks and swallows obediently. I smile, then lean down to his face again and taste him.

His breath is slowing down, deepening, though he's shaking, little shivers travelling through his body. I let go of his hair and ear and pull him closer to me, both my arms around him, a tight embrace; hold him, his face below my shoulder, somewhat awkwardly across the gearstick and the handbrake. 

I am worrying about the way I manhandled his face earlier, remembering the tightening of his airway under my hand, the heady mixture of his fear and elation mirrored and reinforced by my own. I am scared now, scared of what might happen, and scared of what I might do, and yet riding an exhilarating wave that I don't want to break. 

I'm also horny as fuck, and we still have a few miles to drive.

“You OK, J?”

He mumbles a low but seemingly confident yes, so I shake myself out of this moment, push away my tiredness, let go of him completely, grab a blanket from the back seat and throw over him. "Sleep now, boy. It's not far."

He seems to fall asleep before I even get back to speed on the main road, and no wonder, he's been travelling for a day and must be jet-lagged and exhausted. He stays asleep throughout my brief stop at the shop in the next village and throughout my quick meeting with Callum, who glances quickly through the window and smiling, adds a surprise packet to his usual wares before driving off in his battered Defender.

I drive on as the road gets narrower, steeper and wilder; hamlets thinning out to single houses; all passing by in a blur of a fast-falling night and my own tiredness.

I can't see him clearly in the dark, but I know he's sleeping next to me, and although there is a part of me that still finds it hard to believe, I am getting closer to accepting that yes, it's  actually happening now, yes, he's here, in this car, on this road, herenow.

At such times the greater scheme of things loses all importance, and all that matters is the herenow, accepted without questioning. The search for meaning and the attempts to understand become irrelevant. Things are, and that is all that matters, without a why, without a how, without a what-for. I reach out with my left hand, briefly touch him somewhere in the region of his knee, reassure myself again that he's really here, that I am not dreaming or imagining any of this. 

I don't know him. I have no idea who he is. And yet he's here, and will be here for the next few days, and I can still taste him on my lips, and I want more, I want more of him, possibly more than I have ever wanted anything or anybody in my life. 

[Fuck. There I go...


Where? Off my rocker, into the void, to deep submission. My velvety electric grey space. Just unreal how you can take me away like that. M, I love it. A part of me is giving in, like I'm turning myself over to you. Heady, dense daze.]

By the time I pull in by the house I can hardly see, staggering as I climb out of the car. The cold, briny air hits my lungs, the damp of the night condensing on my skin, the moon high and pale in the unusually clear sky, the jaggedy peaks tearing the purple darkness on the other side of the inlet.

I unlock the cottage door and, still leaving him in the car, walk in, check things, try to gather my thoughts, rake my mind to see if there are any left.

The fire has been set up in the grate and I light it at the same time as lighting a cigarette, clicking the coffee machine on, realising how ravenously hungry I am, but still, maybe too tired to eat so I peel off the seal and uncork the bottle I grabbed at the shop, pour myself a generous measure, down a large gulp in a way unbecoming what is a a decent enough malt, the fiery smokiness coating my mouth and throat, spreading the warmth from inside and onto my skin. 

I still don't feel like making food but now remember Callum's gift, pull the oily paper off, tear into the greasy flesh of the salmon, firm and perfectly flaking, not like the supermarket stuff, the flavours bursting on my lips, the salt and smoke and the fish itself, reminding me less of my own taste, but of his, the taste that still lingers in patches on of my lips and tongue and suddenly I am again aware of how aroused I am, my clit erect, my cunt contracting almost-painfully, my lips flushed, my nipples hard, my heartbeat rising.

I briefly contemplate the idea of dragging him out of the car to fuck, fast and simple, here and now, on the kitchen floor, the door barely closed behind us; but once I visualise it loses the appeal so I contract my kegels, drink some more of the whisky, tear off another messy piece of the fast-disappearing fish, and that's how he finds me when he comes in: standing barefoot on the tiles in stockings torn after hours of shoeless driving, in front of the kitchen counter, my hair a mess, my makeup smeared, gulping whisky, my fingers greasy, my mouth crammed full of smoked salmon, my thighs sticky with sweat and desire.

I am not sure how long he's been there when I see him standing in the door, leaning against the frame, his bag on the floor by his feet, watching me, squinting a little, a shadow of a strange smile somewhere in the corners of his mouth, a look that's both glazed and hungry in his eyes. 

I think this is when it truly hits me, finally, the reality of what's happening, of what I am doing, here in one of the most remote places in the country with a man I know nothing about, about to pull more walls down. 

I am slowly letting out the animal that lives in my mind, not really thinking about the one in his, and I am scared again, not quite sure if scared of him or of myself; and that fear makes my body ripple with desire, shakes me so much that I turn away, pick up a cigarette from among the debris on the worktop, light it, grab another glass, pour him a drink but not pass it on, lean back against the counter, looking at him.

“How are you, J?”

“I'm hard, M,” he replies, after a pause, his eyes down to the floor, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.

I can't help but let my pleasure and relief show in a smile, drag on a cigarette to mask that, then reply without acknowledging what he said, “Your bedroom is on the right, it's en suite. Don't get dressed after you clean up, just come back to the living room.”

By the time he's done I have had a quick shower too, changed into black jeans and a white shirt, the denim of the trousers rubbing against my swollen labia to remind me of my arousal, as if I needed to be reminded at all. 

I am sitting on the leather sofa in the living room by the fire, the logs burning well, my legs stretched out on the rug, the first drag of a spliff I have just rolled and lit dry and rasping in my lungs, then mixing with alcohol and lust, spreading throughout my body in golden, red crested shimmers. He walks into the room, naked but for the towel around his hips, makes the few steps from the door towards me, stands there without a word. I can hear his breathing, then a muffled gasp when he sees what's there on the low coffee table.

“Get rid of that towel, J, and come down here,” I say, and he does as told, dropping to his knees by my feet, completely naked now, sitting on his heels, eyes down, as I straighten up, lean over, take the black leather collar off the table.

“Do you want this? Do you want to wear it for me?”

He nods, almost imperceptibly.

“Say it, boy.”


Read the whole tale here:


1 comment:

  1. Very real, as if I've been there. Watching or as one of the participants.