Weekly Quickie entry to the prompt "Pride"
|Pride is sin. They always told him that. He never believed it. In all actuality, he knew it not to be the case. Sin lived over in St Petersburg, running a very successful investment consultancy.
He let his eyes travel over the dance floor and bar area below him, seeking out a likely candidate. The multicoloured lights, the strobe flashes, gave the people an almost demonic appearance, their gyrating bodies tentacles of agonised life. He smiled when he spotted his next victim.
The young man was seated at one corner of the bar, legs splayed in studied nonchalance, elbows resting wide on the bar top, glass in hand — eyes down. Such a human, such a male, posture. It screamed: Look how tall and broad, how dangerous I am, but please don’t see me. It made him smile. He liked humans.
He saw that blond head twitch as he moved closer, the instinctive reaction of prey to the approach of the predator it did not see. By the time, the little blond would know him for what he was it would be too late. Only when he stepped between those splayed legs, close enough to tease but not to touch, did the head raise. Cerulean blue eyes, wide and lost, in a strong face. What a contrast. He never gave the young man a chance to protest, merely took his hand and pulled him along.
Dark room, smooth skin. The taste of whiskey and man. His hands finding the smooth lines of muscle under the shirt. He loved the breathless moan as his teeth scraped along that hard jaw, his tongue laved the small sting.
“What is your name?”
The question, just as breathless, made him smile. Names, dates, people — they all lost their meaning after a few millennia. He bit the earlobe to distract. He never answered that question. It felt wrong to lie when he held a lover in his arms. Still humans had the need for names, needed to have the rationality driven from their minds to let in sensation.
The shirt became bothersome, so his hands urged the other man to remove it. He revelled in the beauty of the body revealed, the movement of subtle muscles ind the velvet of the skin, the fine sheen of sweat on sun bronzed arms. His mouth watered and for a moment he did not know where to touch, to taste, first. The hesitation was enough to break the spell, to let his would be lover falter, shy away. He saw it in the eyes flickering away, the tension seeping into shoulders. He cursed himself. A beginner’s mistake, not worthy of him.
He flattened his palm over the rigid abs, quivering under his touch. Gently, slowly he let his hand wander to the sensitive skin of the flanks, over the hip, pulling the other man in. Lips, cold and frightened, remained hard under his mouth. He did not push, did not intrude. He kept his touch light, tentative, soft. He was a practiced hunter.
Teeth were not only made for biting. He nibbles and licked, stroked over the sensitised skin and felt it soften. When the other man angles his head to meet his lips he knew he had won — more than just a kiss. Time stretched, became little more than touch and taste, scent and sensation. Moans swallowed on breath. When his fingers struggled with the buttons of the jeans he was more than happy the other man had worn cotton and not the ever more popular leather so hard to peel off. His fingers met velvet and steel, warm skin over hard desire.
He fell to his knees, took the hard length into his mouth, swallowed deep. A scream filled the little storage room and he revelled in it, the evidence of the other man’s abandon. He loved to push them this far, to build a bulwark of sensation so strong they forgot the world, forgot themselves, forgot even him. They forgot to be afraid that fist time a man touched them.
His tongue stroked over the bulbous head, sought out the taste of chalk and salt there, the musk. Pre-cum. The young man was already close. He hummed, the sound travelling from deep in his throat to the cock in his mouth. He felt the other man twitch, tense. Not yet, he had not played enough yet.
The balls were tight, and smooth. He let his fingers play with them, before circling the cock base, pressing down just enough to hold of the orgasm hovering. There was no doubt his grin was evil at the yelp, caught between pleasure and pain. Now he could play.
He took his time, movements leisurely and sure. He played thoroughly, his tongue swirling over the head, playing along the line of the foreskin. He liked it when men were uncircumcised, there was a special pleasure in playing with rarely touched areas, a special taste. Only when the other man’s knees threatened to buckle under the sensation did he let go, did he abandon playfulness for a more serious pursuit. At the screams he drank in the pleasure, drank deep and was satisfied. For a night.
For a long time he held the other man, stroked over hair damp from sweat. Neither spoke. But when they broke apart and returned to the nightclub there was a different quality to the young man’s walk, his eyes travelling freely, and openly, over the hedonistic crowd.
He whispered in the young one’s ear as he left him. The man deserved an answer though he would not recognise it as such. His eyes travelled upwards, saw his sister, Pride, and smiled at her.