Streetlights, people, living just to find emotion, hiding somewhere in the night

[jaeresteade]

Sunday, February 7th, day 252
Wee hours of the morning
Whitechapel inn, upstairs

This is why I hate weekends. I’m told that people in other lines of work actually enjoy them, use them to go out and generally have the good time they can’t other nights, when they have to get up and work in the morning. The difficulty I have with this is that the places

Comments

[regularblack]

Ever so faintly, I can see the steam off the top of the mugs. Whatever it is smells like something out of the pastry shop. I pick up the second mug and hold it between both hands as I watch the bartender strip down in a flash. It's almost a challenge, the way he does it and it has me thinking that I'm behind in the race. I'll undress while he's gone then. Thank my lucky stars I washed up this morning, in the freezing cold water at the farm since the heater doesn't work terribly well.

A little tattoo I can't make out from here on his chest, and a hell of one cross his back. Looks like it took a long time to put something like that down. I have a vague memory of what that symbol's supposed to mean, but I shove thoughts like that right out.

Reluctantly, I set down the warm mug and set to tugging off my own clothes and trying to keep them to an orderly pile on top of my boots. It will be warmer sitting under that blanket to wait then. I feel that stir of longing, down in the pit of my stomach, thinking about the the spare, strong lines of the man's body as he moved. Not a bad decision at all, I congratulate myself.

[jaeresteade]

I think about the look in his eyes all the way to the bathroom. It’s been awhile since anyone looked at me like that, and in those eyes it makes me feel a little less tired going down the hall than I did coming up it. Normally I would take my good sweet time washing up. Plentiful, clean, hot water is still something I can’t take for granted. Not tonight, though, when I’ve got something considerably hotter waiting for me in bed.

I wonder how much he wants to talk first, and what about. There’re some things I want to know, some things that need to be said, and then I’m hoping he’ll let me put my mouth to better use. I like to talk, can’t make it tending bar if you don’t, but I’ve been talking all night, and I’m sick of calling people ‘sir’ and asking what they’d like. Would like to be asked what I like tonight, and call a man by his name. Not a gentleman, either, but someone who knows how to get up at the ass crack of dawn and go out and work with his hands and his back until it’s dark again. I can respect a man like that.

The cold hits me when I get out of the shower, and I’m almost shivering as I dry off. Cold air doesn’t do much for a man’s pride, so I wrap the towel around my waist for the walk back to the room. Spend most of that walk thinking about what to say and trying to get my damp hair into some kind of order. Arkady’s in bed when I come in, clothes in a pile by his boots. I take a moment to appreciate the view. “Damn, that’s a nice sight to come in to,” I say, and mean it. I pick up my mug from the table to give my hands something to do while I lean against the locked door. “You mind telling me how old you are, and whether you’ve done this before?” Never hurts to ask, and if he’s offended, I can make it up to him with interest.

[regularblack]

I chuckle, and raise my mug in salute at Jarmym when he enters. The sight of him in just that faded towel is enticing, almost even more so that he provocative nudity earlier. I notice he has a scar on his leg and wonder what the hell caused it. Doesn't look like something intentional, like the tattoos. I like to look at him, his skins is a bit lighter than mine and his hair much darker.

"Twenty two," I answer easily. Twenty two, and I don't know if I should think of myself as young or old. I hear life is shorter than it used to be. "And yes, I've been to bed with a man before, more than once. Unless something's drastically changed, I think I remember where all the pieces go." I don't tell him that it's been almost two years since the last time but I figure that won't matter so much. It's almost fun to be so brash about the topic. "Nothing ever terribly exotic unless you find having sex out of doors fancy."

[jaeresteade]

Twenty-two. Damn. Man could pass for ten years older than that, but I’ve got three years, not to mention three inches, on him. He’s got more than a stone on me, though, all of it muscle. Everything I’ve got goes to string, always has. Well, if he didn’t like what he saw, he wouldn't be looking at me like that. “A roll in the hay, you mean? Not my idea of fun. But good to know about the rest.”

I set my mug down on the table and cross over to the bed, squat down so I’m looking up at him. The towel’s not hiding anything, but if he wants it off, he can take it off himself. I’ve thought out what to say, but some things aren’t easy to get out no matter how much you think about them beforehand. “What happens in this room stays here. Trust you that much, or we wouldn’t have gotten this far. Also trust you’re not going to give me the clap, and I haven’t got anything to give you, either.”

Some things you can only say looking a man right in the eye, and his are very, very blue looking down at me. Hard to read, too. I push on. “Don’t have many limits, myself: no blood, no shit, and don’t pull my hair. Other than that, I’m game for anything you want to do. Hard’s better than soft, slow’s better than fast. You feel like telling me what to do, that’s fine. Don’t leave marks anywhere that’ll show in the morning. That’s how my tastes run. Anything else you want to know?” There’s not much he could ask now that I wouldn’t answer for him. Just hope he doesn’t laugh in my face after that little speech. I think it’s better to get everything out at the beginning, but some people feel differently.

[regularblack]

He's so serious, so earnest in his words. So... sincere. That's the word for it. I wonder where he's been, what he's lived in the past that he knows so clearly what he likes and what he doesn't.

"That's pretty clear. I'm a plain man I suppose, but I'll gladly tell you what to do if that pleases." More than anything I want to tell him just to get in the bed with me. I reach out slowly, follow the line of his jaw to this neck and down to his chest. I tap my fingers twice on the mark on his chest. Close enough now to see it is a name, it is the only thing that gives me pause.

"Just want to make sure I'm not causing trouble with anyone else," I say. No telling whose name that is, and if they have any claim to the man's heart or bed.

[jaeresteade]

Didn’t do any of the things I expected him to: kiss me, hit me, laugh at me, add some preferences of his own. He was in a position to do a lot of things, and what he chose to do was touch me and ask about that mark in that way. Plain men don’t go around saying they’re plain. This is a good one, and looking him in the eye has become just a little too much right now. I look down at his hand.

“I’m not married, if that’s what you mean.” It isn’t, I know. “Not promised, either. We could skip merrily down the street hand in hand, and she wouldn’t bat an eye if she saw.” Still can’t bring myself to say her name. “Meant to have it taken off, but that’s expensive. I’ll get around to it someday.” I won’t. “Right now-“ I put my hands on my knees and straighten up, able to look him in the eye again. “I’m looking for someone to fuck me into the mattress, and I’m thinking you’re the man for the job. If that's what you had in mind for the evening, that is?” I raise an eyebrow and wait to see what he'll make of this.

[regularblack]

Someone lost then, or never had. Probably more complicated than that, but his answer is enough to ease any qualm I might have that I'm trespassing. I decide not to pry into whatever ache that tattoo marks. He backs away from it smoothly and quirks that eyebrow in a way that reminds me of insouciant stripping earlier. I lean over to set the mug safely out of the way.

"Come on down then." I reach out to tug the towel free from those lean hips. Damn but he's a good looking man and bold as can be. I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Smiling, I pull him down to the bed and kiss him hard on the mouth. He's awfully good at this, I think hazily, before I become carried away in the salty sweet taste of his mouth and the feel of his hands on my skin.

[jaeresteade]

This time, he does exactly what I expect him to: just wraps one of those big hands around my arm, pulls, and I go down. Gets rid of the towel first, too, smart man. Landing on top of him is one of the best things that’s happened to me in a very long time. The man is hard in many ways, and he wants my mouth. Takes it, too, and who am I not to kiss him back?

Can’t lose control completely, though. I make sure to keep my hands busy, which is no great hardship. It’s wonderful to be able to appreciate those muscles properly. His hands aren’t idle, either, and not terribly gentle, which is very much to my liking. His calluses scrape. I’d almost do this with no brandy involved at all.

Somewhere in the tangle of friction and heat and sweat, I remember something that’s bound to be fairly important if things continue in the direction they seem to be going. I pry an arm free long enough to reach down between the bed and the wall. Then I have to pry one of his hands free long enough to put the jar in it. “Hope I don’t have to tell you what this is for.” Also hope he can understand me when I’m gasping for breath, which is entirely his fault. Does he have to do that with his mouth while I’m trying to talk? “Use it up if you have to. Use both of us up.” That’s an offer. If nothing else tonight has been an offer, that is. And I hope he takes me at my word.

[regularblack]

I almost laugh and tell him the first time we stole from the coconut oil my mother kept in her dresser to rub into scars. But there's no breath or time for such a long explanation, not when I'm making sure he's interested in what's next. Because I certainly am and if I wait too long it will be far too brief of a joy. The man has such adept hands and seems to know my body almost better than myself.

"On your knees or on your back?" I ask, my lips right next to his ear. With one hand I twist the jar open. When I have Jarmyn's answer I pull him firmly into place. "Hold still now." My fingers follow the curve of his ass down, between his legs and back up to his stiff cock and I'm generous with whatever he uses for grease. THe appreciate sound he makes sends a throb right through me.

[jaeresteade]

He looks happy to be doing this. Intent on the task at hand, which he seems to think is making me fall all to pieces, and certainly very aroused, but also happy. That’s new, and I find I like it.

I wouldn’t have minded just being manhandled into whatever position he preferred to take me in, but the way he asks makes my stomach turn over in a wonderful way. We take a moment to rearrange ourselves on the narrow bed. I kneel up, my back to him. I never could do this and look a man in the eye during it. Then he does manhandle me, and it is a joy to be pushed around by those hands. He tells me to hold still, as though I would move now without permission. The man could give me orders all day if he used that voice and held me like that.

I know what’s coming next, but he’s almost teasing in his preparation. Generous, like I asked him to be, but barely touching my cock, which is begging for attention. I realize I’m holding my breath waiting for him to breach my ass, and I let it out, trying to relax, hoping he starts with a couple of those long, blunt fingers. “Take your--God, take your time,” I beg, and can’t find it in myself to be ashamed. I’d happily let him fuck me with those fingers until the sun comes up, but I’m thinking he has something else long and blunt in mind for the fucking, eventually.

I want to ask him to keep talking, because that always helps, but when you push people to talk in bed it never comes out quite right. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this, and having seen the size of him, it’s going to hurt a bit no matter what he does, but that’s fine with me. “And stop being nice.” I’m not a girl, or a virgin. I can take what he wants to give me, and I’d rather not have it tied up in tissue and ribbons.

[regularblack]

"Nice?" I chuckle and I slide two fingers slowly in and out before I push in a third. I twist my fingers together, back and forth inside him. With my other hand I reach around to squeeze the base of his cock. "That's what I'd be doing if I was aiming for nice at the moment." When I let go he makes a sound and I smile even though he can't see it. I pull my fingers back and press them in a bit more forcefully as I kneel up behind him. Time to slick myself up, my fingers warm and slippery. I rest my other hand on his back to steady myself before I push my cock inside as slowly as I can.

"But since you asked so nicely, I'll go first and you're going to have to wait to the very end." Start slow, finish hard, I think and close my eyes.

[jaeresteade]

Christ, this man knows his business, almost taunting and very much in control. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve seen his hands, felt them, am halfway in love with them, but those fingers feel ten times bigger pushing into me like he owns me. And he would start with two. I hiss through my teeth and try to relax as much as I can. He hits exactly where I want him to, though, and he is going slow. I can feel him adding a third finger, twisting them together exactly right, stretching me open. When his other hand finds my cock, I gasp. Can’t help myself. He’s not gentle there, either, and his hand is gone far too soon. I can feel my face burning at his words, and something between a whimper and a moan escapes my lips.

He fucks his fingers into me again, harder, and if three fingers feel this big, how am I ever going to take his cock? At times like these, it’s very comforting to know that I don’t have a choice. I am going to take it, and like it, and thank him afterwards. I close my eyes, perfectly there in my head, as I feel the stretch and burn of him finally entering me. I’m babbling now, and if I had any pride left, its gone in a rush of please and stop and yes and his name, all drawn out as I try to catch my breath against the impossibly slow slide of his cock. I cannot take this, I think, there’s no way, and I’m going to make a fool of myself, and he won’t stop pushing.

He keeps speaking, breath hot on my ear, and the words sort of center me. I hang on to them and the bed and concentrate on not flinching away and just relaxing into the push. Of course he’s going to come first, and of course I’ll have to wait. How else would it be? And that’s when the pain changes, like I’m looking at it from a different angle, and I can push back and take it and nothing’s felt this good in a very, very long time.

[regularblack]

The sounds he make goad me on, and pushing inside him feels like running my hand through a flame. It takes all my self control not to just end right then and there, especially with the sounds Jarmyn's making beneath me. The slow, rising ache from my groin to my chest builds. Slowly, so slowly. I've no desire to hurt him more than necessary though I get the feeling he might not mind. A long sigh escapes me, and I try to make words out of my sounds but it's hard.

When I'm sure I'm settled into him, I stroke one hand down his chest and to his groin where he hangs so heavily. I squeeze his cock again as I start to move in and out, slowly picking up speed. The sound of flesh smacking together at each thrust spurs me on and I murmur words of encouragement. "Hang on for me, just a bit longer. Good."

The muscles of his back tense and shift under that elaborate cross tattoo. It reminds me of the last time I did this, but the thought vanishes like smoke as I give myself up to the moment.

[jaeresteade]

He’s pressed hard against my back, and we’re finally joined completely. I feel so full, so owned, as though he’s claimed me by this act. He settles in against me, hands moving again, though I can hardly feel them now compared to the sensation of him buried in me. He wraps one hand around my cock again, giving it a brief squeeze that’s just enough to set me back on the edge. I could come, if he told me to, I could fall over that edge right now, but he hasn’t given me the word.

He begins to fuck me in earnest, as though everything that came before was just building up to the slide and slap on his flesh into mine. He’s talking me through this, I realize slowly. The words take time to filter through the haze of arousal in my head. I want to thank him, but my tongue doesn’t seem to be connected to my brain, anymore. I concentrate hard, but he’s still moving inside me, and the only thing I can manage to get out is, “Slower, please. And…the talking helps.” I’m not even sure if that’s clear enough to make out. Can’t concentrate on talking anymore.

I just want this to keep going, hard and slow, forever. I want to hang here on the edge, and feel every stroke strike sparks that flare up and then recede. Feel him around me and in me always. It’s ridiculous, and perfect.

[regularblack]

Soothing a man in this state is almost like soothing a horse, I think. That's also probably the most ridiculous thought I've ever had but thankfully its in my head and I try to shake the set of ridiculous comparisons out of my brain and concentrate more fully on the man. Who is not a horse, but has an equally beautiful line to his back.

So I murmur words of encouragement and slow myself down again. It's agony to do so and takes a lot of will not to just ignore him and finish. I find myself holding my breath at times as I ease back, rocking on that shivery edge. Back and forth, warm as summer time. There's the faintest shine of sweat on his skin, slick under my hands. If I didn't want the release so much, I could probably just do this forever. It feels unbearably good, better than I remember.

[jaeresteade]

I feel him slow down as soon as I ask for it, which must take more control than I can ever imagine having. He keeps moving, a powerful, steady rhythm pounding into me, but he’s murmuring something to me, and I feel that last little bit of resistance give inside. I stop trying to relax, and I just am, somehow. The sharp burn of friction is gone, replaced by a blunted heaviness that hits just right and is exactly what I need.

I want to fall completely, now that I’ve given into this. I can feel my grip on control slipping, but I know I have to hold on. He hasn’t, and I can’t. I’m babbling again, I realize, this time it’s mostly please and can’t. Trying to speak clearly requires too much of my concentration. I can’t spare it. I realize I’m making an idiot of myself, shivering and clutching at the sheets, but that’s really not important. What is important is holding on and waiting for permission. For release.