[Fic] No Title (G-Ri)
Title: (None)
Fandom: Big Bang
Pairing: G-Ri
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Stripper!GD
Notes: Hmm....I originally wrote this awhile ago, but doma_arsonica wanted "weird," and I wanted to give her something ASAP in thanks for writing the incredibly hot story~~ "No such thing as Monsters," which can be found hhheeerrrrreee: doma-arsonica.livejournal.com/3344.html#cutid1 . So...it's probably not exactly what you were looking for, but more of that type of fiction might be coming later...<3
-----
He’s on all fours, on top of stage, leaning more heavily on his forearms. His body is stretched like a cat, with his upper body abreast with the cool wooden floor of the stage, and his ass is up in the air, the squeakiness of his black leather outfit not heard over the deep bass of the music that resounds throughout the room. Even the heavy breathing of other patrons in the room drowns out the sound of his movement. He leans forward, darks eyes filled with a sort of macabre lust, slightly obscured by his long, thick bangs. His lips are puckered and apart as he moves forward further, his long thing fingers pulling himself closer to you, sitting at the edge of the stage. But his eyes are open. Are you supposed to kiss him, when he’s giving you a look that clearly says, “I’m only doing this for the money”?
“I’m not going to kiss you unless your eyes are closed.” Your voice is clear, even over the heavy sound of the music. You lean back into the cushioned seat, legs apart; arms folded across your chest, staring him in the eye as he freezes, his body still in the cat-like stretch. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before his canines bite the plump redness. He stays silent, eyes still opened.
“Or if that’s not what you’re interested in,” you drawl out slowly, “you could entertain me in another way.” You flick your wrists to straighten your long sleeves, and lean onto the stage, left arm positioned over the other. He tilts his head to the side and pulls his body forward, sliding hips against the wooden floor. His eyes are still locked with yours, lips parted and shining with saliva, as he picks himself up with a gymnast’s grace and walks over to the pole in the middle of the stage. There are already several others on other poles, but this pole is directly in front of you. He places a hand around the cold metal, taking his time to wrap each individual finger around the thin pole, before jerking his body towards it and turning his head away as he drops down, the pole situating itself between his thighs. You look on, unimpressed, as he gives you a clear view of his arched neck, the paleness of his skin contrasting starkly with the black of his hair. He slides his palm, fingers down, over his leg before slipping past the waistband of his tight black pants. He turns his head to look at you and doesn’t speak a word.
He leans back, his shoulder blades against the wooden floor, and wraps one leg around the metal pole. Pushing his hips up, he slides the pole between his thighs as his hands roam over his own body, over his stomach, his chest, his neck, messing up his hair - he gasps in ecstasy (probably pretend) as he continues to roughly rub himself against the now warm metal. And then, as if none of that had ever happened, he is in front of you again, on his knees, his hips pushed out, hands in his own hair.
He slides his fingers down his chest, his thumb and forefinger catching the zipper of his leather vest. He drags it down, so goddamn slow, his other hand dragging heavily down the side of his thigh and up to meet his other hand to stop it from completely unzipping his shirt. He sticks one hand in his shirt, pushing aside part of the material to expose his flawless skin and thin woman-like figure. It falls off his right shoulder, and he brings up his shoulder as if to shrug it off. His chin smoothly brushes against his raised shoulder, and he rolls his head around as his left hand slides down between his thighs. His right hand stays up higher, caressing his own nipples, his head still thrown back. And then he rolls his head back around, his mouth a small ‘o’ as he pants heavily. His eyes are cast downward, and you shift uncomfortably as you notice, perhaps a bit too late, that he is staring at your suit pants which do little to no good to concealing the obvious protrusion between your thighs. He slowly brings his eyes up, sending burning sensations through your bloodstream, before settling on your lips.
He really wants to kiss you, doesn’t he?
Then his left hand does what you’ve been waiting for: it unzips his pants, revealing that he, as most strippers do, came to work without and sort of underwear. His hand fully submerges itself beneath the material and stays there, jerking, pulling, causing his mouth to begin panting, saliva building up in the corner of his mouth and trickling down his chin. You do not even realize that your mouth has exactly mirrored his, and you find that your hands are itching to touch something - either yourself, or, more preferably, him.
He seems to read minds.
A slim leg drapes over the side of the stage and his knee comes in contact with your chair. Soon his crotch is in direct contact with your stomach, and his obvious hardness only puts you on an even more incredible high. He drags his hips down until his crotch is meshed with yours, his eyes still dark, lusty, and wide, his thick lip coated once again by his slick tongue. Your hands have already positioned themselves on his leather-clad ass, but you decide that’s not what you want to feel at all; as hot as leather is, what does it compare to the silky smooth sensation you know his skin will leave you with? You push your fingers down his backside, causing him to instinctively cringe at the coldness. His pushes his hardness against yours, his back arching until he gets used to the ice of your fingers and he gasps as you begin to massage his flesh. You slip your fingers between his cheeks and rub, making him shiver. Then you hear it, the clenching of his fingers around the couch fabric. His hands haven’t touched you yet - he’s leaning on the chair for support, and you can’t decide if that makes you angry or more aroused.
“I think you’re wearing a bit too much,” you suggest, well aware that if this were done correctly, this fine-ass boy should still be up on stage and not in your lap. You can feel glares and looks of envy from the other men, and definitely from the women, in the room, who had to be satisfied with either jerking off, or fingering themselves, with their own hands. And here you are, a high paying customer, with the most seductive creature in the entire show writhing in your lap, sliding his body over yours like he was on drugs.
Maybe you shouldn’t have worn your work suit to this…
His mouth is on your neck, his hands have already unbuttoned the majority of your shirt, and his hips continue to pulse into yours with the beat. The dimness of the room, broken only by a quick flash of colored light, seems to make everything alright - even if this is an act of sin, at least it’s done in such a perfect environment, with the most perfect partner. He slides down from your lap, his knees and shins coming in contact with the carpeted floor, and he leans his head against the inside of your thigh. His eyes are calculating and thoughtful, as he stares. His mouth finds the button to the top of your pants and he rips it off, not bothering to spare the expensive stitches. His teeth find your zipper and pull, and you swear you hear him curse when he sees the boxer shorts beneath your pin-striped black suit pants. You find yourself cursing too, when he looks up at you with accusing, hurt eyes. He licks his lips, his mouth so close that it licks your boxer shorts. Your hips jerk. And with not a moments hesitation, he lifts your boxers up and over, and drops his mouth onto your cock.
The foreplay was enough to make you this hard, so his hot, slick mouth savoring every inch of your essence, and you can tell it is almost enough to pull you over the edge. He adds a lot of saliva to your cock, coating it fully, but not staying down long enough to complete his task; instead, he pulls himself up, sliding his body over yours as places his knees next to your thighs.
His pants are just below his knees, his ass positioned right above your erection. You don’t even move, he does everything for you. His hands continue to explore your chest, and you move your hand to mimic his movements onto his body. But what unnerves you is that even as he lowered himself, and as he moves up and down, his eyes are still open, holding yours. He leans forward again, lips slick, and he brushes against your jawbone. Then he whispers in your ear, a breathy moan, “Can I kiss you now?”
You feel you must oblige. But it’s not like you don’t enjoy it. Lucky bastard.
Fandom: Big Bang
Pairing: G-Ri
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Stripper!GD
Notes: Hmm....I originally wrote this awhile ago, but doma_arsonica wanted "weird," and I wanted to give her something ASAP in thanks for writing the incredibly hot story~~ "No such thing as Monsters," which can be found hhheeerrrrreee: doma-arsonica.livejournal.com/3344.html#cutid1 . So...it's probably not exactly what you were looking for, but more of that type of fiction might be coming later...<3
-----
He’s on all fours, on top of stage, leaning more heavily on his forearms. His body is stretched like a cat, with his upper body abreast with the cool wooden floor of the stage, and his ass is up in the air, the squeakiness of his black leather outfit not heard over the deep bass of the music that resounds throughout the room. Even the heavy breathing of other patrons in the room drowns out the sound of his movement. He leans forward, darks eyes filled with a sort of macabre lust, slightly obscured by his long, thick bangs. His lips are puckered and apart as he moves forward further, his long thing fingers pulling himself closer to you, sitting at the edge of the stage. But his eyes are open. Are you supposed to kiss him, when he’s giving you a look that clearly says, “I’m only doing this for the money”?
“I’m not going to kiss you unless your eyes are closed.” Your voice is clear, even over the heavy sound of the music. You lean back into the cushioned seat, legs apart; arms folded across your chest, staring him in the eye as he freezes, his body still in the cat-like stretch. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before his canines bite the plump redness. He stays silent, eyes still opened.
“Or if that’s not what you’re interested in,” you drawl out slowly, “you could entertain me in another way.” You flick your wrists to straighten your long sleeves, and lean onto the stage, left arm positioned over the other. He tilts his head to the side and pulls his body forward, sliding hips against the wooden floor. His eyes are still locked with yours, lips parted and shining with saliva, as he picks himself up with a gymnast’s grace and walks over to the pole in the middle of the stage. There are already several others on other poles, but this pole is directly in front of you. He places a hand around the cold metal, taking his time to wrap each individual finger around the thin pole, before jerking his body towards it and turning his head away as he drops down, the pole situating itself between his thighs. You look on, unimpressed, as he gives you a clear view of his arched neck, the paleness of his skin contrasting starkly with the black of his hair. He slides his palm, fingers down, over his leg before slipping past the waistband of his tight black pants. He turns his head to look at you and doesn’t speak a word.
He leans back, his shoulder blades against the wooden floor, and wraps one leg around the metal pole. Pushing his hips up, he slides the pole between his thighs as his hands roam over his own body, over his stomach, his chest, his neck, messing up his hair - he gasps in ecstasy (probably pretend) as he continues to roughly rub himself against the now warm metal. And then, as if none of that had ever happened, he is in front of you again, on his knees, his hips pushed out, hands in his own hair.
He slides his fingers down his chest, his thumb and forefinger catching the zipper of his leather vest. He drags it down, so goddamn slow, his other hand dragging heavily down the side of his thigh and up to meet his other hand to stop it from completely unzipping his shirt. He sticks one hand in his shirt, pushing aside part of the material to expose his flawless skin and thin woman-like figure. It falls off his right shoulder, and he brings up his shoulder as if to shrug it off. His chin smoothly brushes against his raised shoulder, and he rolls his head around as his left hand slides down between his thighs. His right hand stays up higher, caressing his own nipples, his head still thrown back. And then he rolls his head back around, his mouth a small ‘o’ as he pants heavily. His eyes are cast downward, and you shift uncomfortably as you notice, perhaps a bit too late, that he is staring at your suit pants which do little to no good to concealing the obvious protrusion between your thighs. He slowly brings his eyes up, sending burning sensations through your bloodstream, before settling on your lips.
He really wants to kiss you, doesn’t he?
Then his left hand does what you’ve been waiting for: it unzips his pants, revealing that he, as most strippers do, came to work without and sort of underwear. His hand fully submerges itself beneath the material and stays there, jerking, pulling, causing his mouth to begin panting, saliva building up in the corner of his mouth and trickling down his chin. You do not even realize that your mouth has exactly mirrored his, and you find that your hands are itching to touch something - either yourself, or, more preferably, him.
He seems to read minds.
A slim leg drapes over the side of the stage and his knee comes in contact with your chair. Soon his crotch is in direct contact with your stomach, and his obvious hardness only puts you on an even more incredible high. He drags his hips down until his crotch is meshed with yours, his eyes still dark, lusty, and wide, his thick lip coated once again by his slick tongue. Your hands have already positioned themselves on his leather-clad ass, but you decide that’s not what you want to feel at all; as hot as leather is, what does it compare to the silky smooth sensation you know his skin will leave you with? You push your fingers down his backside, causing him to instinctively cringe at the coldness. His pushes his hardness against yours, his back arching until he gets used to the ice of your fingers and he gasps as you begin to massage his flesh. You slip your fingers between his cheeks and rub, making him shiver. Then you hear it, the clenching of his fingers around the couch fabric. His hands haven’t touched you yet - he’s leaning on the chair for support, and you can’t decide if that makes you angry or more aroused.
“I think you’re wearing a bit too much,” you suggest, well aware that if this were done correctly, this fine-ass boy should still be up on stage and not in your lap. You can feel glares and looks of envy from the other men, and definitely from the women, in the room, who had to be satisfied with either jerking off, or fingering themselves, with their own hands. And here you are, a high paying customer, with the most seductive creature in the entire show writhing in your lap, sliding his body over yours like he was on drugs.
Maybe you shouldn’t have worn your work suit to this…
His mouth is on your neck, his hands have already unbuttoned the majority of your shirt, and his hips continue to pulse into yours with the beat. The dimness of the room, broken only by a quick flash of colored light, seems to make everything alright - even if this is an act of sin, at least it’s done in such a perfect environment, with the most perfect partner. He slides down from your lap, his knees and shins coming in contact with the carpeted floor, and he leans his head against the inside of your thigh. His eyes are calculating and thoughtful, as he stares. His mouth finds the button to the top of your pants and he rips it off, not bothering to spare the expensive stitches. His teeth find your zipper and pull, and you swear you hear him curse when he sees the boxer shorts beneath your pin-striped black suit pants. You find yourself cursing too, when he looks up at you with accusing, hurt eyes. He licks his lips, his mouth so close that it licks your boxer shorts. Your hips jerk. And with not a moments hesitation, he lifts your boxers up and over, and drops his mouth onto your cock.
The foreplay was enough to make you this hard, so his hot, slick mouth savoring every inch of your essence, and you can tell it is almost enough to pull you over the edge. He adds a lot of saliva to your cock, coating it fully, but not staying down long enough to complete his task; instead, he pulls himself up, sliding his body over yours as places his knees next to your thighs.
His pants are just below his knees, his ass positioned right above your erection. You don’t even move, he does everything for you. His hands continue to explore your chest, and you move your hand to mimic his movements onto his body. But what unnerves you is that even as he lowered himself, and as he moves up and down, his eyes are still open, holding yours. He leans forward again, lips slick, and he brushes against your jawbone. Then he whispers in your ear, a breathy moan, “Can I kiss you now?”
You feel you must oblige. But it’s not like you don’t enjoy it. Lucky bastard.