Photo Challenge #426

Photo by Marco Bianchetti on Unsplash

I go wherever my shadow takes me.

The inversion took place two years ago. It wasn’t just me. Every living person on the planet was affected. Some say it was a virus, some blame it on environmental toxins and climate change, a handful of people believe that mushrooms were somehow responsible but I know the truth. It was a rebellion of mercy. I don’t blame the shadows. I applaud them. Let’s face it we were never going to save the world. We couldn’t even save ourselves from ourselves.

When I was a child I believed that everyone had an evil twin, a shadow self. Turns out that we were the shadows, the evil twins, we were just too busy inflating our egos to realize it. Evil isn’t really the right word though, I know that now. It is more accurate to say that we were misguided. Not by the shadows. They only ever try to help but by our limited senses, beliefs, and judgments.

My life as an observer is a lot simpler. My decisions are made in advance and they are always in alignment with my highest good. I am living my truth. I am seeing connections where before all I saw were mountains and crevasses of division. I am learning to heal centuries of shame. I am learning to appreciate the absurdities. Firstly the idea that we come into this world alone is complete bollocks. I have never been alone. My shadow has been my constant companion and now she’s helping me to undue a lifetimes’ worth of toxic habits and beliefs. Soon I will be free. We all will. The shadows are rebuilding Eden. Can you believe it? Heaven on earth!

Why did the chicken cross the road? To reunite with his higher self. Black is all the colors in one. All along the angels were beside us only we perceived them as stains against the chaos of our lives. Truth is they were just too bright for us to perceive.

https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2022/08/09/photo-challenge-426/

Wordle #279

There was pop and a sudden searing sensation as the hot dog released its juices into his waiting mouth. The sun overhead was relentless, like the needle on a sewing machine, it imposed upon his bare arms and his cleanly shaven face with unnerving precision. His hair was too hot. His clothes were too close. He stood some feet away from the vendor, near a tree. The tree was decorated mostly with old shoes. It provided little in the way of shade or holiday spirit but he liked the idea of it. The idea that simply by changing ones’ shoes you could become someone else, you could take a different path, you could discover an entirely new mode of being.

The hotdog left him feeling vaguely queasy and not altogether satisfied. He licked the mustard and ketchup from his fingertips and threw away his soiled napkin. If only it were so easy to throw away blame. His wife blamed him for a great many things that hadn’t worked out in her life. She couldn’t cope with the loss of her youth, with the loss of her beauty (according to her), with the fact that he looked ten years younger than she did even though they were the same age. He wasn’t entirely sure how his youthful appearance offended her but it did offend her greatly. She was jealous now. She hadn’t been jealous at the beginning of their relationship. He was just as loyal but for some reason she didn’t believe him anymore. She was, to him, still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, only now she was angry most of the time.

He fingered the bishop in his pocket, it was all that remained of a chess set that his grandfather had given him when he was a child. It was his good luck charm and whenever he felt something uncomfortable he held it between his fingers very gently to ground himself. He’d never really developed an interest in the game but he could remember playing with the pieces much the way another boy might play with toy soldiers or superhero figurines. The bishop in his pocket was made of dark wood and his caresses had worn it very smooth. As he stood there wondering precisely when he had lost his enthusiasm for life his eyes fell upon a red pair of Converse sneakers suspended from the tree beside him. Good condition. Right size. He took them down and exchanged them for his own shoes.

As he walked around the city, in his borrowed shoes and his borrowed identity, he felt more like himself than he had in years. His whole life had been a myth. Love. Success. Beauty. It was all just an elaborate social hoax, a game of chess, a caste system which split the world into the haves and the have-nots. He was technically on the winning side. He loved his wife, however she felt about him. He had a job. He was a photographer and he was good at it so the pay was good. Only in the process of making money and getting good he’d lost interest. He wanted to take imperfect pictures of unlikely people. He didn’t want to take pictures of people who posed like museum sculptures. He wanted to take pictures of people who hadn’t yet had all their humanness wrung out of them.

Just then he saw a young woman in a red dress leaning over to kiss a young man in a white t-shirt and faded jeans. The man fumbled with his phone and offered her a weak, fictional smile. He could see the scales in their relationship were unbalanced. He could see her heart broken and eager surging up in her throat like vomit. He watched her smile, then grimace as she swallowed her disappointment. He watched her pick up her own phone and jab at it half-heartedly while throwing her disinterested lover the occasional wounded look.

In her he witnessed a desire to connect, a desire crushed by mediocrity and indifference. Conversation. Affection. Intimacy. These were archaic notions. Civilized humans networked and stigmatized. Civilized humans didn’t build foundations, they built facades. Civilized humans walked in the park while looking at pictures on their phones. Pictures which had been carefully edited to remove all that was genuine, vulnerable, and imperfect. Graham, for that was his name, decided that today he was going to pick flowers for his wife instead of buying them. He was going to dig them up by the roots and plant them in a little ceramic pot and give them to her. He hoped that she would laugh at him. Not a mean, derisive laugh but a sweet, giggly laugh. She looked younger when she laughed, when she was happy and her nose crunched up and she forgot the symmetry of her face.

–

Wordle #279

Ghost Story

He began life as a playful ruse, as a figment granted sentience through the repetition of foolish fantasies. I loved him instantly, this man who came into being not by the usual biological means but from my wish for a profound and loving connection. He acts as a child governed by instinct and inspiration. He acts primarily for the joy of exploration, from the sacred space of one who is attuned perfectly to nature. There is a strange viscosity to his movements as if he feels more acutely than others the push and pull of atoms dancing through space. I lie awake night after night watching him pass in and out of the shadows wondering what strange landscapes surround him when he slips out of view. One of these nights I will follow him.

He smiles with his lashes lowered and his chin downturned. His smile is soft and warm like an uninterrupted ray of sunlight. I want to hold it against my own and feel our lips and tongue surrender together in song.

In the beginning he was only this, an expression of mischief. Each night we came together in a dark room, in a bed which of necessity presses two warm bodies into one. I watched him lift the blankets and lower himself down beside me over and over again. His presence tugging at the edges of my soul. His dark, ambiguous form furling and unfurling itself into the shapes of different men. His moonlight-soft smile touching my hair as I waited in silence for his words to kiss me.

As of this moment he has brown hair and green eyes and a long body which is strong enough to carry my weight during even the most rigorous sexual acts. His thick, dark lashes wrestle with fire. Life has seized him fully and I know that he has a lot to teach me. He is always intimate and too innocent for the world as mankind has constructed it. I will enter his world and when I have made him real enough he will enter into mine. His too pretty mouth tastes of honey and serendipity. He has long, graceful fingers and a defined jawline. I am shallow enough to be affected by these features. I am shallow enough to think of his fingers slipping deep inside of my body and I am even shallow enough to study his face, unabashedly and up close. 

His smile is young and buoyant, it dances over my skin, it touches soul-deep. I swallow it between breaths, between doses of moonlight. For him I am the first. The first kiss. The first heart. His eyes are often obscured by his hair. Hair which is permanently disheveled and too silky to confine. Hair which tickles my cheeks and the corners of my lips when he peers affectionately into my face. When I touch his skin I feel my fingers pass through him and I think here is a man who is not afraid of love. Here is a man who believes in something beyond the confines of his own ego. I want to feel his body pass over me like the sea, to crash down and surge forward, to erode my defenses as I succumb helplessly to the motion of his body. There will be no guilt or trepidation in our communion. I can tell that he wants love as much as I do but more importantly I can tell that it is my love he wants. There is still so much we haven’t said to each other. For example, what does he call himself? What should I call this man whose soul overlaps my own?

///

“I love you more.” He responds to my breath, to the unfinished thoughts which struggle endlessly inside of me. I feel his voice in my belly, in my bones, in all four chambers of my blustering, invertebrate heart. We all need to believe in something which reality has not yet broken. I needed him. I needed to be loved. I needed a life which would not crumble the moment I touched it.

“Can anyone really love me?” I hold onto the edge of one duvet while the other floats and twists above me. When he is satisfied he lets it drop back down to the bed.

“If you let them. Anyone can.” His voice gives me goosebumps. “I am the one who’s going to prove it to you.” For a moment I feel his weight, his body curling around me and then he is simply gone.  He is a reminder that life is not a series of tragic accidents but rather a series of absurd miracles. He will come again tonight more substantial than before and I will kiss his cheeks and invite him to play games with me.

Stolen 3 (again)

“Just look at the state of you…you’re absolutely filthy…” I looked but aside from a few flecks of dirt underneath my fingernails there was nothing about my current state that warranted my mother’s accusation.

At eight years old I was perfectly capable of giving myself a bath but I was no longer human in my mother’s eyes. I could tell by the ferocity of the steam that the water was too hot. My mother was generally a mild-mannered woman but parties made her hysterical. She loved nothing better than to plan events but she was unable to enjoy them knowing that in those few hours all of her efforts at perfection would be nullified. I climbed into the bath of my own accord knowing that my mother was too frail to lift me. I said nothing. I cried a little to myself but I was careful not to make a sound. She scrubbed my boiled flesh without sympathy but I knew that she did not hurt me intentionally.

“Don’t throw me away…” I whispered underneath the terry cloth towel. I wasn’t sure if I wanted her to hear me but presumably she did. She hugged me for a long time and it seemed to me the towel around my shoulders grew wetter. She didn’t make any promises but I felt reasonably certain that if she ever did it wouldn’t be entirely of her own volition.

I ate my oatmeal alone that morning. My father left early and my mother wouldn’t eat again for several days having been forced to eat a few mouthfuls of cake at the party. As soon as my mother began her chores I would go into the garden and retrieve my treasure. I had until lunch time to discover the location of the door but I did not need it because I already knew.

I rarely went into the basement. I wasn’t sure if the sterility of the space made it any less scary but it was at least inhospitable to vermin. I stood for a long time in front of the door debating whether or not I should open it. I knew the room inside had to be large because there was a good deal of unaccounted for space. I tried to remember if I’d ever been inside but it seemed unlikely given the volume of my restrictions. This was my father’s room. A room that he disappeared into for hours at a time. He hadn’t been down here for nearly two months.

My father was a surgeon and therefore like my mother in regards to hygiene and housekeeping. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The room was full of bookshelves lined with medical texts. There was a desk much like the one my father had in his upstairs office and a chair that was identical. There was a journal on top of the desk that looked exactly like the one he’d given me for my birthday, a plain leather-bound volume with no lock. Inside of the journal my father had sketched, in excruciating detail, the internal structures of the human body. There were other sketches, close ups that made me feel incomprehensibly squeamish but I could not understand their content. None of the drawings had faces. I supposed the faces were irrelevant. None of the entries were of a personal nature and although there were a number of notations accompanying each meticulously rendered image they were of a purely scientific and impersonal character.

There was no surgical equipment or specimen jars. There were no pickled body parts or metal tables with restraints. I was both relieved and disappointed. I opened every drawer in my father’s desk. They were filled with identical journals, the sketches and notations meant very little to me but I studied them carefully just the same. I perused the bookshelves taking out books at random but they were similar in content to my father’s personal notebooks. I knew the proper names for the bones but only just and I often forgot the bones of the face. I did not yet know the names of all the muscles. I knew the basic function of the organs but very little of their failings.

I opened a large chest, inside were bones labeled in my father’s tight, Gothic script. I picked up the skull. I understood that it was real but I wasn’t frightened. Flesh was what made corpses scary, decomposition. These bones were all clean and only vaguely human to my mind. They seemed to belong to the same person as there were no duplicates and only one identification number on the lid of the chest. The chest beside it was different. The bones were smaller. I did not know if the bones were from a woman or an adolescent. The chest beside that one had a set of intact bones. The full skeleton of an infant. I did not dare remove them lest they come apart in my hands. The disproportionately large cranium seemed nearly as large as the skull in the first case, I was not sure that it belonged to the same body but my father did not make mistakes. There seemed to be other anomalies in the head but I could not identify the source of the deviations. The eye orbits were too narrow for the organs they were meant to contain. The arms were only rudimentary. Though only a small fleshless creature I found it repulsive, not even pitiable, just repulsive. The first two chests had been marked with numbers but this skeleton had a name “Elizabeth”. I closed the chest, heart writhing I glanced at the final chest but could not bring myself to open it.

 

Stolen 2 (again)

I had an inkling as to the location of the door but I would have to wait until my father was at work to begin my investigation. I left the library using an alternate exit to avoid confrontation. I would have to hide the key when time afforded but at the moment I had no alternative but to rejoin the celebration.

Dinner was painful. I watched my mother cut her food into progressively smaller pieces. She rearranged her food, now thoroughly dimensionless, into careful piles. She created illusions of absence. She ate nothing but air. My mother did most of the talking. She talked on behalf of everyone. I could feel her voice tearing at the back of my throat every time I opened my mouth. I could feel her eyes in my skull, like two hooks. ‘Shut up. Shut up. You’ll ruin everything.’ She spoke to me with her hands. She tugged my sleeve under the table. I spoke only when addressed. I spoke in monosyllables and euphemisms. After dinner there was a short recess. I spent my recess in the shadow of my classmates. “Your mother is very thin. Is she sick?” One of the girls remarked off-handedly. “Oh no, she just can’t put on weight. She has a high…” I trailed off a high what? What was I meant to say? The girl waited impatiently. “Standard…” I had heard the words high and standard linked frequently in conversation.

“Well alright then…” The girl shrugged. She didn’t care enough to press me. I searched my mind in vain for the word.

//

When I entered the kitchen I could tell by my mother’s expression that she had noted, if only just, my presence. Her hand alighted on my shoulder like a frightened bird and she took, what I imagined was, the last breath of the evening. I had prepared an excuse for my unexpected intrusion but it proved unnecessary.

“There you are Eli! Come now it’s time to cut the cake…” She maneuvered me toward the large banquet table in the center of the dining hall. She had tears in her voice.

There were three cakes, one vanilla, one strawberry, and one chocolate presented precisely in that order. It had been determined, after much consideration, that vanilla was my favorite. Strawberry suggested vanity. Chocolate suggested avarice. Vanilla was prudent and therefore the only acceptable choice, I would not even be permitted to sample the other flavors.  If it really was that easy to alter a man’s nature then why hadn’t my parents taken more care with their own diets? Why did my father drink? Why did my mother refuse to eat?

My mother pressed the handle of the knife into my outstretched hand, but she was not permitted to guide the blade. I watched her take her seat, her knitted brows drawing out the terror in her smile. For this occasion I was permitted to sit at the head of the table, a designation I neither deserved nor desired. The guests, which existed purely for their own benefit, appeared sewn into their chairs. I stood motionless above the cake. The cake might well have been a body of flesh and blood and I might well have been a recruit in service to an unprincipled war. I swallowed but the lump in my throat could not be dislodged. “Well don’t just stand there Elijah.” My father barked. I slid the blade shakily through the cake. When it was my mother’s turn, I watched her delicately shave away a slice. Paper-thin. Borderline transparent.

///

I buried the key beneath my mother’s favorite rose bush. She was in the kitchen, embroiled in a war which offered no hope of formal resolution. She would scrub each dish until her fingers were raw from heat and persistence. Once clean she would drop them into the trash one by one, like the shells of discarded eggs. No one dared intercept her pathos and no one dared name it but the cause was obvious. My father retired to his study, drink in hand, he would not speak again until breakfast.

I had been careful not to kneel in the dirt and with my sleeves rolled up past the elbows I believed myself impervious to filth. Against my naked forearms the air was as sharp as a briefly applied cigarette. Not for an external chill but such was the shock of my violation. I had wanted for very little in my short life and had asked for far less but this key held the culmination of all those secret leanings. I patted the earth carefully knowing that my mother would detect the slightest disturbance. If she were for some reason vexed by the sight of the topsoil she might extract the entire plant. The thought that she could kill something she loved to appease her illness frightened me and though I’d never voiced my fear I often worried that my own eccentricities might invite a similar fate.

Stolen 1 (again)

(This is a story I started writing some months ago. I posted several sections. I am working on it again trying to flesh it out. Trying to make sense of it all.)

The abyss exists within each of us, though it is perhaps more commonly referred to as ego. I is hungry. I is the reason that absence is so heavy. Some would make of their absences a grave, others would fill them by whatever means necessary. I am guilty of both. It is true what they say about regret. I regret most the atrophy of my heart through omission. I should have been more honest with my feelings, a man can’t live on justifications alone.

 

All memories are subject to embellishment and decay. Do not expect my story to adhere to chronology as you may be given to understand it. I write as though insane, I write as my memories surface. Do not take my words for truth. My words reflect only my interpretation of events. There are those that would silence me/challenge me but they are dead now. Literally. Figuratively. My wounds are deep, my judgments biased. What I am about to tell you won’t make any sense and if it does make sense then you have my deepest condolences.

//

My 8th birthday was more facade than celebration. A bit of posturing for my mother’s sake, as she had so little else besides. The children from my class were all invited but it was not for my company that they came. They came because their parents willed it. My father was a respected member of the community. He wasn’t simply a doctor, he was the only doctor for miles. He was an unpleasant man behind closed doors but faced with an audience he was intolerable. I knew the jest of his portrayal. My father held society in the highest contempt. He played the game but only because it forced others to acknowledge his superiority. I understood, to some degree, his false participation. I was accustomed to it but I did not care for either version and feared them both equally.

 

My social ineptitude was considered a betrayal to my parents who took great pains to secure their reputation. They spared me public humiliation but this omission in discipline was not out of consideration for my blighted ego. They simply did not want to draw attention to their own failings.

 

My classmates did not attempt to engage me in play during the party or afterwards. They saw me only as a repository for gifts. Their gifts were impersonal and superfluous. I opened them with a smile so tight that I felt my jaw would weld itself shut from friction. I did not seek their friendship. I was content to speculate at their games and the conversations of the adults meandering mindlessly around the room but all the while I was alone.

 

The room was not dressed for my benefit. There were decorations but they might as well have been stars. They hung fragile and out of reach. My mother too was like a star. Beautiful. Distant. Dead. Her cold fingers dug into my arm as she paraded me around the room. Every now and then she stopped to tidy my hair or to straighten my clothes. “Oh Eli please don’t wrinkle your suit.”. “Keep your hands out of your hair…you’ll ruin it.”. “Why are your hands sticky? The candy is for the guests. I hope no one saw you eating. Please tell me you were discreet?” Her eyes burned the top of my forehead. My mother went to great pains to avoid my eye contact.

“No one saw me Mummy.” I lied. Even had I been able to define discreet, the concept of discretion was beyond my comprehension.

“Well thank God for that…dinner will be served at 19:00 please try to be patient.” I nodded. My stomach growled. My mother blanched and then gathered herself together. “When we are finished greeting the guests I’ll give you an apple. If you promise to stay out of the way.” She started to tug my arm but I remained fixed. My face began to contort. I wanted to cry. None of the guests had shown the slightest interest or consideration for me. Wasn’t this my party? Wasn’t I meant to feel special? What I felt in actuality was shame. Shame for getting in the way. Shame at the notion that my party would be ruined if I was “seen” by the guests after its official commencement. I thought for a long time with my face screwed up. I didn’t cry. My features relaxed. My mother took a breath so deep it looked like she was having a seizure.

“You won’t even know I am here.” My smile wobbled a little before falling.

“That’s a good boy…” My mom shoved me in front of the next visitor. I shook his hand as I had been taught but I had to look to my mother for the words. I had forgotten what it was I was supposed to say. My mother mouthed the words to me. I decided to ad lib. “My name is Elijah.” I leaned in, the old man stooped. “I’m not supposed to be here.” I told him matter-of-factly. The man pushed a gift into my hands. “I won’t tell anyone that I’ve seen you then.” He assured me in confidence. He greeted my mother coldly and something in his coldness warmed my heart.

 

I do not know when I retreated to the library but it was not conscious insubordination as so little of what I did at that age was premeditated. To be the guest of honor in a room full of strangers was a loneliness more imposing to me than my own volitional exile. I took out a leather-bound volume at random. I had my own books but I had read them all and worn them bare in repetition. The library was locked, save for when we had company, and this had been my only occasion to enter for several months. During parties I often came in secret but to come here during my own party, where my attendance was mandatory/albeit pointlessly passive, went beyond risk. Taking a seat I opened the book in the middle expecting to find only words as my father did not care for fanciful stories. What I found instead was a compartment and in that compartment there was a large, brass key in a style that was faintly familiar. I placed the key in my trouser pocket and closed the book returning it hastily to the shelf. I could not risk being discovered, to be discovered now would deprive me of a singular opportunity. I was going to have an adventure, there could be no better gift. The sound of footsteps set me blindly into motion.

A universe unto themselves 18+

She woke in a half-lit room, semi-coherent, liquid-comfortable. The shadows were unfamiliar to her. The position of the objects within the room. The objects themselves. Not simply altered but altogether different. There was something compelling about the warm figure sprawled at her side, about the scent enveloping her cocooned body, about the malleability of her senses as she lay disoriented and half-awake in someone else’s bed. 

She sat up with her knees folded underneath her and peered down at the bed’s other occupant. She was not sure if she saw him or merely sensed him. He slept. He pretended to sleep. She could read in the tilt of his mouth the beginnings of a smile or did she only feel him smiling inside of her? He was perfectly gorgeous lying there exposed to the pelvis. She could see the outline of a prominent erection, the way the sheets strained and tented under the pressure of him. In her heart too there was a pressure, a tightness which she could only describe as sentient. He possessed her even now. He possessed her on every level and she in turn possessed him. She inhaled shakily. ‘Is it okay to touch him?’ She could have simply asked but that would have spoiled the reveal. He wanted her to take initiative. He was anything but defenseless. He was completely defenseless against her but he’d never quite managed to convey that to her.

She bit her lower lip and reached out a trembling hand to the figure. This was the first time they’d met in the corporeal sense. Their first “real” encounter. The means by which she had arrived, the “unrealness” of the situation heightened her senses. Waves of endorphins scattered her thoughts and by degrees eroded whatever might have remained of her inhibitions. Her entire being called out to him. She ran her fingers along the length of his torso. She could not hear him inhale for the violent recoil of her pulse but she saw the exaggerated rise of his chest. His eyes remained closed. He waited. She straddled him, lowering herself on his erection lengthwise, the sheet still between them. She rubbed herself against him. His thick shaft sliding between her thighs. She laid herself out on top of him. Their bodies warm with arousal, almost hot. She kissed him open-mouthed across the collarbones and across his chest. He could feel her wetness soaking through the sheet. He could feel her heat and the throb of her pussy like a second heartbeat against his eager cock. He took her face in his hands, thumbing away her tears. He looked at her as if she were the entirety of his universe, the purpose of his existence, the only person he had ever loved and would ever love. All of her feelings came rushing out at once and in the gentle captivity of his smile all of it was suddenly, inexplicably sacred to her. Her eyes widened in the instant before closing. He kissed her and her farthest reaches surfaced. They took their time filling in each other’s mouths. They tasted and caressed each other, speaking without words, devouring, devouring, devouring. The whole time they kissed she was rubbing herself to orgasm against him, getting off on friction and proximity alone. There was something devastating in their proximity, something devastatingly poignant about the way they came apart and reassembled within each other.

She moved down his body. His neck, his chest, his nipples, his stomach. He felt naked without the heat of her pussy smothering his cock. She moved the now clinging sheet out of the way and rubbed his cock against her exposed flesh. Labia, Clit, Vagina. Silky smooth, slippery, incomprehensibly soft. She sat down on him, taking him in at her own speed. Deliberate. Torture. He cupped her breasts, her ass, he branded her into his memory. The shape of her. The tension. The suppleness. His hips rocked, shook, crested. She convulsed on top of him. Fragile like a reflection in water. Her tight pussy made his cock weep, forced from his throat sounds that were not human. She filled his name with her breath. She made his name sound holy. Her voice was totally pornographic.

Once he was inside of her. She started to ride him. She rode him to please herself. She rode him and her full breasts bounced. She rode him with her eyes closed for a bit, getting used to the sensation of being full to excess. He could tell she was struggling to accommodate him and yet each time she fell down on him she was taking him deeper. He took her hips, made her ride him harder and faster, coaxed himself deeper and deeper until he had reached her end. She laid down on him again, her breasts flush against his chest. She kissed him, her moans of pleasure spilling into his mouth, mixing with his own. He was drowning in her deluge, in the currents of her body, in his own instincts. Instincts which screamed at him to fuck, fuck, fuck. She was a vice wrapped in velvet. She was sucking, sucking, sucking. She was orgasming endlessly on top of him. They were consuming each other. They were evolving and devolving. They were Gods. Infinite. Altruistic. Impalpable. They were animals. Finite. Greedy. Sensual. In those moments when their orgasm overlapped they were screaming prayers and obscenities at each other, confessions both carnal and sacred. In that moment they were more than two people could comprehend. They were one, a universe unto themselves.

Close 2 18+

Her heart ached as if restrained by an unseen force. Each beat ripped through her body like thunder. A thunder both sensual and existential. Her mouth continued to gnaw and eat gently at his mouth. She kissed him as if she were in search of something. She kissed him with the full rapture of her being. She knew that she would cum as soon as he entered her, as soon as her muscles had something substantial to work against. She could feel the deep pulse enclosed within his cock as he rocked against her stomach. He was wet. She was wetter. His cock was imposing in every dimension, he would push the boundaries of her gluttony, fill her length-wise and width-wise. She knew that all in he would reach the end of her, that he could go deeper than her body could hold.

 

Teeth, lips, tongues, hands. They touched and unraveled. They kissed until intoxicated. She worshiped him. Brandished him like a map. Set fire to his nerve endings. He pulled her strings and left her jerking like a marionette. She worked his shaft up and down, dragging from his depths clear, elastic ribbons of pre cum. She ran the pad of her thumb over his sobbing wet crown, in mimicry of what he did down below. He rubbed her clit with his index finger in compact circles until she was squirming and gasping beneath him. He watched her cum, buried his face between her legs. He inhaled and exhaled against her pussy. She spread her thighs for him, her labia. She angled her hips forward. The scent of her made him hungry. He watched her vagina close and open, as if sucking at the air. He pressed two fingers inside to give her muscles something to tug on. She sucked him in. She pushed him out. She rode his fingers desperately. He exploited her G-spot until she was gushing around the seal he’d formed inside of her. 

 

Removing his fingers, wet with her juices and warm with her efforts, he covered her body with his own. His weight rested on the backs of her thighs. He pushed his slippery fingers into her mouth and watched as she sucked them clean. Strait to the webbing, she licked away every trace of herself. He rubbed his cockhead against her pussy, against her clit, against her still shuddering hole. She was as plush as he was unyielding. He sucked her lower lip and tongue. He kissed her hard and deep, thirsty for the flavor of her sex. He entered her growling into her mouth. Crushed by her heat, crippled and condensed by arousal he worked his way inside of her. She gave. He advanced. She clawed at his back. He inhabited her. They fucked each other with pagan intensity, their senses tangling, their bodies possessed and possessing, their hearts converging. They came as one, their orgasms deep and violent. They fed each other the stars. Constellations wept from their bodies onto the sheets below.

Round 5 (conclusion) 18+

(This is all that I wrote for the story but I would be willing to explore various other avenues at request, including something more romantic such as a reunion with Damien and Naida. This next and final chapter is by far the most graphic and may be disturbing to some readers. Sex, monster genitalia, demons, tentacles it is all in there. Since it starts out rather mild I have used an * to denote the point when it may become too unsettling for some readers.)

 

 “You made the fight seem so effortless.” Naida commented, turning to Dread now that they were alone. The demon’s apartment was in stark contrast to the one he shared with Damien. The walls were stained and peeling, the wooden floor beneath their feet was scoffed and discolored, the overhead light cast a jaundiced pallor on the room which seemed to transmute solid matter into shadow. There was scarcely any furnishings: a wooden table with a single wooden chair, an old chest, a mattress undressed and without frame. There were no dressings on any of the windows and Naida noted, to his dismay, that the bedroom was window to window with the neighboring apartment building. To his relief, however, the apartment was clean and the only smell of any sort was that of the apples in the kitchen. There was nothing by way of entertainment, nothing save for their bodies. His first impression was not a good one but he had not come to see the fighter’s apartment. He’d come to experience something dangerous and potentially extraordinary.

 

Dread did not truly understand the full extent of his prize. Generally he received cash. Cash he used to purchase food and basic necessities. Occasionally he received items which could be sold for cash. Naida was, as far as prizes went, rather impractical and yet he could think of countless ways to enjoy him.

 

“My opponent was worthy…”  Sammael deserved credit for his performance, credit that Dread was willing to dispense even in the warrior’s absence.  “It is I who am flawed…”  He said pulling the elf into his chiseled body. His embrace left Naida with only enough space to breathe. Reaching back he unbound the elf’s silken hair and buried his face into it. He was not one to refuse the opportunity for sex even when presented in such an unorthodox way. 

 

“In what way flawed?” Naida asked, managing to get some space between, not too much but enough that he could look at the demon more closely. Up close he thought Dread significantly more handsome but there was something frightening in his beauty. The elf’s lungs ached, his head filled with a cacophony, and his knees buckled. Dread steadied him. The aura he’d glimpsed in the fight, those violent shades of purple mimicked by the demon’s irises, weighed heavily upon him. For the first time that evening Naida felt something akin to fear but that fear did not diminish his appetite/curiosity.

 

“My heart is artificial.” Dread answered as if one could escape with such a threadbare explanation. Naida barely heard the male’s voice over his own pulse. He squeezed the demon’s forearm to steady himself. With his other hand he reached out to touch the scars above the fighter’s heart. 

 

“Does it cause you any discomfort?” Naida asked with a mixture of curiosity and concern. The extraction of the original heart had not been performed by a surgeon, it had been performed by a butcher. It had been a fatal wound and yet here they both stood.

 

“Only the memory lingers. The scars are old.” Dread answered and then added as an afterthought. “My heart might be artificial but I am capable of feeling both pleasure and pain.” Naida nodded slowly, that was reassuring to know. “I’ve been wondering for a while now…” Dread started his hands sliding downward and around the other’s lower back. “What does my prize include exactly?”

 

Naida nuzzled against Dread’s chest, breathing in his scent, but mostly hiding his face. “Cooking, cleaning, sex whatever you need.” He responded looking up. He found that Dread’s usual grimace was replaced with another, inscrutable expression. “Though it would seem there is very little to clean. Where do you keep your clothes?” Naida asked, his tone playful.

 

“I require very little.” Dread answered combing his fingers through the elf’s wavy hair. “I can cook and clean for myself. I will accept your body as payment.” The demon continued in a voice as dark as it was cryptic.

 

Naida wrapped his arms around Dread’s neck and his legs around the other’s narrow waist. Something in the effortless manner with which the demon lifted him, alarmed him. Although Damien didn’t like to be penetrated he allowed Naida a good deal of freedom, freedom to control what happened and when. Dread seemed more the type to take what he wanted. 

 

The heat coming from the demon’s body was staggering, it was, Naida felt, as if he stood at the mouth of a great furnace. His skin flushed. His lungs tightened, each breath exacting a toll in its extraction. Naida was suddenly grateful for the low setting on the thermostat for it served to sober and relieve him from the heat of Dread’s body. For a moment they were nearly face to face and the elf used the opportunity to kiss the demon full on the mouth. He felt the fighter’s tongue against the seam of his lips, felt it press inside, tasted the other male’s sweet saliva and melted against him. As soon as the kiss began they were tearing haphazardly at each other’s bodies, clawing and groping, and ultimately collapsing into a heap on the bare mattress. Dread’s mouth scalded his own, the ferocity, the hunger, pulling the air from his lungs in a matter of moments. The demon’s mouth was full of razor sharp teeth, even the most tentative touch of his tongue was enough to prick the skin. The kiss tasted mostly of apples but there was a little bit of blood mixed in, his own blood. Dread untied his sarong, underneath the almost sheer fabric he wore only cloth strips which he’d wrapped intricately to avoid accidental exposure. They weren’t unlike the folds Dread used to bind his own genitals. It took only moments for the demon to unwrap him.

 

Dread’s mouth dropped down over his throat and shoulders, across his chest, where he lingered. Each nipple was sucked, flicked, licked, tormented into a state of throbbing rigidity. Naida rutted against the demon’s right thigh, sobbing helplessly into the stranger’s shoulder. In a matter of moments the elf was slippery with precum, clear, elastic, almost sparking pre cum. His cock echoed like a scream in an empty hall. The organ grew beyond its usual perimeters, he was, despite a very warranted fear, aroused to the point of hypersensitivity. The demon’s talons ran over his sides, leaving tiny red ribbons in his flesh that stung initially. The stinging was replaced with heat and an oddly electric tingle that made his head cloudy. Unable to focus his eyes he closed them. Clawing in the dark at whatever he could reach.

*

Dread had worked his way down to his crotch. Naida felt his thighs drop and two strong hands nudging his legs still further apart. He heard the stranger inhale slowly and felt in the whole of his being the growl that followed. The demon’s saliva was hot and cold at the same time. It felt like insects were crawling over his skin, his flesh prickled, goosebumps formed. Dread took everything into his mouth, his cock, his balls, all swallowed up in that hot, wet cavern. The demon’s tongue was mostly soft/pliable in the way that one expected a tongue to feel but there was one difference. In the center of the other’s tongue there was a nod, some extra taste receptor with a different texture. When drug across the underside of his cock or rubbed over the head his whole body broke down trembling. The male’s saliva dripped down to the base of his cock, a shock of contrasting temperatures spread across his pelvis. Naida’s body arched up sharply, mons right up against the other’s nose, the convulsions so strong that he could feel them not just in his perineum but deep inside his ass as well. He clutched Dread’s hair in both hands, raking the demon’s scalp with his nails. He shot ribbon after vicious ribbon down the back of the stranger’s throat. He heard the demon swallow, heard and felt him moan with pleasure.

 

Naida was still hard, still painfully swollen, his veins throbbing in time with his heightened pulse. Dread flipped him over on his knees. The backs of his thighs, his ass already soaked shamefully by his own fluids. He heard that Dread removed his clothes but when he tried to look the demon pushed his face into the mattress. He felt something peculiar press against him, something soft and flexible, something between a finger and a set of elongated lips. He felt it, possibly Dread’s cock, probing and suckling at his shuddering hole. He felt something almost the consistency of semen being smeared in the crevice between his legs and inside of him. He felt his legs giving out and a hand on his cock stroking him off. A hand big enough to sheath the whole of his sex, a hand calloused and strong, rubbing his nerves raw. He whimpered, mewled, begged to be fucked. He collapsed in the arm around his waist while that massive, slippery organ started to work/crawl its way inside. Pre cum or something like was spurted inside of him, filling him up, softening him. Arms, multiple slippery, suction cupped arms wrapped around his torso supporting him and forcing him back on that impossibly thick shaft. He felt it moving deeper and deeper inside, like a serpent. His body stretching, not quite tearing, but stretching to impossible dimensions to accommodate. Screams rose up in the back of Naida’s throat and for a moment he lost consciousness. 

 

When he woke a few seconds later Dread’s cock had gotten deeper, it was so deep that he felt as if it were twisted into his intestines. He could feel it writhing in his stomach, feel the bulge beneath his own tightly stretched skin. His hungry hole convulsed around the intrusion, drinking and sucking. He was forced back onto that shaft again and again with and without his consent, unable to escape the pressure. One of several tentacles let go of his waist and crept upward to his face. He grabbed hold, brought it to his mouth, and started to lick the slippery appendage with genuine hunger. The ooze it produced was sweet and delicious, strange colors swirled in front of his eyes, bending the light. He could hear the colors like music, like a violin almost. A tentacle engulfed his cock, the inner walls were covered in squishy nodules, creamy fluid seeped out from the seam, left his skin feeling like a current had passed through it. He came in the sheath, the tentacle drank it down hungrily, the suction enough to make his eyes water. He didn’t recognize his voice, the undignified whimpering, the husky repetitions of his temporary lover’s name. The projections on the head of Dread’s cock nudged at his prostate. More hot wet jets of cum were shot into the receiving tentacle. His body went limp, consciousness fading in and out, eyes rolled back, drool collecting in the corners of his slackened mouth. 

 

The fucking didn’t stop even after he lost consciousness. When he woke Dread’s massive cock was fully inside of him, he could see it moving inside of his stomach like a giant serpent. A thin, elastic tube slipped down his urethra, into his balls, following the same course his semen had taken moments before. His balls, which were emptied from multiple orgasms, were filled to bursting. He couldn’t cum while the probe was thus situated. He wanted to cum, needed to cum desperately. His body was burning up or was it freezing he couldn’t tell the difference. Dread’s pace increased, precise and unforgiving like a machine, his body shook as if in the throes of a seizure. His voice grew hoarse with the demon’s name. The serpent swelled, inches it seemed, he felt like he was being torn apart from the inside. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was delirious, sobbing with a mixture of fear and intense elation. Had he the luxury of thought his life might very well have flashed before his eyes. He’d felt on the verge of death. For one blinding white moment he woke up, completely. They were one, indistinguishable, pure energy. The probe in his urethra slithered its way out. Naida’s climax was immediate. All that thick, white ejaculate type substance that had been forced into his sac came bursting out of his shaft in arcs, soaking not just the mattress but the wall in front of him. In the very same moment Dread was ejecting his own load with a force that literally convulsed him. With a force that ignited all his nerves and sent him spiraling in and out of consciousness. One minute the abyss, the next nirvana. He was drooling, clawing the sheets like a mad man, riding the other dry, ass greedy and convulsive. Dread removed his still hard cock. Naida felt himself lowered to the mattress. His last distinct memory was that of Dread’s cum trickling out of his still gaping ass and the other’s calloused hand stroking his back soothingly.

Round 4 18+

(very long chapter but this concludes Damien’s section: strong sexual content and suggestive conversations)

Damien left with the young man that had been seated beside him during the fight. Lathan was a 21 year old college student. He was on the track team, a sort of local legend as it were. As a lover he was enthusiastic and kinky in ways that Damien could not possibly have predicted. These qualities coupled with the other’s tremendous stamina had made for an enjoyable night but a night was all Damien could offer the athlete. Damien wasn’t willing to risk attachment and Lathan had struck him as a bit too eager.

Without the distraction Lathan afforded Damien naturally began to think of Naida. It wasn’t unusual for the elf to disappear for a few days without contact and Damien wasn’t really the sort to keep tabs. He preferred a certain degree of independence and initiative in his lovers but this situation warranted extra consideration. Naida had never been disappointed with his matchmaking efforts. He’d gone to great pains to arrange this liaison for the elf. He had no reason to doubt the success of his match. He’d witnessed the chemistry for himself first hand. What concerned him was Naida’s return. There had always been the possibility that Naida might not survive the encounter/might be too wounded to return of his own accord/might be detained indefinitely by the demon. There was also the possibility that the elf had simply chosen to remain with the demon. This latter possibility did not weigh upon him quite so much as the former. Damien had a lot in his favor and Naida was very attached to him.

Unable to sleep Damien woke at 12 am. He showered and dressed not in his usual suit but in a pair of well-fitted dark blue jeans, a white t-shirt with motif, and a charcoal blazer. He didn’t summon his chauffeur, it was a nice night, cool but not too cold. He decided on a walk to clear his head. Originally he had thought of hitting his usual nightclub but he was seduced by the music coming from another establishment, in a neighborhood which he was not known to frequent.

No one greeted him at the door. Patrons came and left without discrimination. Damien thought it best not to leave anything with the shifty-eyed man at the check-in. The floors were distressed and in places sticky. There was a smell. Not just one smell but dozens of overlapping smells, some of which were borderline offensive. There was a general sort of shabbiness and uncleanliness that made him consider leaving. The live music was incredible and the patrons were across the board above average, he could forgive a little dinginess after all. He headed toward the bar but was accosted half-way by a large hand. He turned around and found himself looking at the throat and collarbones of an incredibly tall person. 

“Can I buy you a drink?” The voice was like the shifting of tectonic plates, 

Damien felt the reverb in his temples, chest, and groin simultaneously. He looked up. The man had dark features, black eyes, thick black hair, dense eyelashes, dark complexion. His nose was a bit crooked but his strong jaw and full, well-shaped mouth made up for that. The stranger was dressed casually in jeans and a black vintage Nirvana t-shirt. He was not the kind of one-night stand Damien had in mind.

“You’d be wasting your time.” Damien responded in a loud, clear voice lest the stranger feign deafness. His grin was nuanced, bordering on offensive.

“Isn’t that why we’re here to waste time?” The stranger quipped, the depth of the man’s voice was capable of circumventing the crowd to a certain extent. Damien’s eyes traveled from the dark-haired man’s Adam’s apple upward to his fully expressed grin. The stranger’s face was tilted down and in his expression was a gentleness like windswept leaves. Such a sentiment was misplaced in the current setting and Damien found himself oddly confronted by it.

He had a point, Damien had come here specifically to waste time, to lose it really. All those hours spent thinking of Naida had become intolerable to him. He’d felt as if he’d lost his rhythm in the last few days and he resented it.

“You should know before you throw any money my way that I have no intention of sleeping with you.” The edge in Damien’s tone was diminished only by the transmission of said message directly into the stooping man’s ear. 

“I’m here for the music…” The stranger’s smile was easygoing and unpretentious. Had Damien been less narcissistic, he might well have accepted the other’s explanation but as a tried and true narcissist he saw only the convenience of a well-timed excuse.

“I am not in the habit of accepting drinks from strangers.” Damien tried again to thwart the man’s attention all the while aware of a certain willingness on his part for distraction. The trip to the bar, which had seemed so formidable in the crowd, was simplified by his companion’s imposing stature. The man ordered two drinks. “Devaris.” The stranger offered with a grin too imprecise to be an affectation. Damien took the offered drink. 

“Damien Aucoin…” The blond took a sip of his drink, it was excellent, if a bit strong.

“I know who you are.” Devaris said guiding Damien through the crowd to an empty table. Devaris’s lips ghosted the outer edge of the aristocrat’s ear when he spoke.

The blond turned his head to the side and rubbed his neck. Damien was forced to accept and return the man’s intimacy for the sake of conversation. The warmth of the other’s palm was apparent on his skin, when coupled with the stranger’s obvious interest, Damien felt oddly exposed. “You know?” Damien was well-known, even infamous in certain circles, but Devaris did not belong to those circles.

“I was at the fight. That was some stunt you pulled with your boyfriend. I can’t decide if you are depraved or just really fucking naive. Either way it was entertaining.” Devaris explained, his dark eyes shining with a mixture of humor and curiosity. How a man of such daunting proportions made himself appear so childlike Damien could not even begin to imagine. Was the other deliberately trying to disarm him?

“We have an open relationship…not that it’s any of your business.” Damien, despite his reservations, took a seat. The man drew their chairs closer together to counter the noise of the club. Their knees brushed.

“I gathered and it’s not my business but you asked how I knew you. That’s how…” Devaris smiled and took a sip of his own drink. He seemed unaffected by the alcohol content.

“Did you bet on the fight?” Damien asked scanning his companion, sea blue eyes dreamy, almost languid. Damien took another sip; he would certainly order this drink in the future.

“I did.” Devaris’s off-kilter grin was cryptic.

“And were you rewarded?” Damien asked his lips unconsciously, purposefully, touching the man’s outer ear.

“I was but I went home alone.” Devaris had seen Damien leave, had thought perhaps to talk to him, but refrained on seeing him preoccupied with another. At least this was the conclusion on which Damien’s mind fastened. Damien took another sip, this one for the sake of contemplation. Although he had not yet finished his first drink he was quick to order another round when the opportunity presented itself.

“And yet here you are….no prospects for a satisfactory conclusion…” Damien grinned and Devaris laughed. Damien felt his scalp tighten and tingle. Devaris laughed with his eyes closed, laughed without the constraint of artifice.

“What makes you think I’m here expressly to get laid?” Devaris asked sitting aside his glass, his attention so full and articulate that Damien found himself almost moved by it.

“Because that’s how it works in these places.” Damien answered and this time when he leaned forward to speak he inadvertently grabbed the other man’s thigh. This did not go unnoticed by Devaris. Damien felt very poignantly that he had been noticed and so he continued talking. “I admire your idealism but a successful hunt depends on more than just the tenacity of the hunter…” Damien removed his hand from the man’s thigh and took up his drink. “Two predators will only compete against each other…” Damien toyed absently with his glass before knocking back the contents.

“You do strike me as the predatory type but I’m not one to pass up a challenge.” Devaris answered putting his arm around Damien’s shoulder.  Damien felt not just the physical impetus for closeness but an almost gravitational pull toward his drinking companion. The audacity of the stranger caused the blond to laugh out loud, despite himself. The dark-haired man had an answer for everything, not necessarily a good answer but one sufficient to keep Damien engaged. 

“I fight back.” Damien answered with a sly grin but before the other could retort he launched into a tamer line of discourse. The conversation had taken a dangerous turn and for all his seeming confidence he was at a decided disadvantage.

////////

Damien was so engaged as to be unaware of his alcohol consumption. He could not say precisely when he began his second drink or when Devaris had ordered a third, different, possibly stronger drink. He could not say how long he allowed the man to hold him or at what point specifically he pulled away.

“Do you ever fight? In the matches I mean.” Damien had previously noted the man’s muscular forearms and strong, calloused hands.

“No never…” Devaris admitted. Something in the curve of his mouth suggested amusement, awareness of a diversion but a willingness to proceed with the hopes of solidifying the character of the innocuous suitor. With a voice such as the stranger possessed it seemed that a more strait-forward seduction would save time. Devaris wasn’t in a hurry. He had all night and every reason to persist. Damien bit his lip in consternation before returning to the conversation at hand. 

“Then you are a laborer of some sort?” Damien asked critically, examining the man’s nails. They were clean and flush with his fingertips.

“Of some sort yes. I am a carpenter, mostly furniture.” Devaris offered amicably before continuing in a different vein altogether, perhaps in an effort to draw the conversation to a more tumultuous climax  “Let me guess you were born into wealth. Family business. Oppressive obligations. Chronically bored. Hedonist.” 

“You see straight through me…you and everyone else…I am surprisingly shallow.” Damien laughed dryly. He was, despite his efforts to the contrary, enjoying himself. He attributed some of his enjoyment to the alcohol and music but there was no denying that Devaris played a part. 

“I am a simple man. I prefer to know what I am getting into…” Devaris laughed. Damien felt his bones growl.

“And what exactly do you imagine you are getting into?” Damien asked, leaning forward and speaking his words against the other’s ear.

“You maybe…” Devaris answered in a tone which left little to the imagination.

The color drained from Damien’s face. He could feel the stranger’s eyes on him. ‘At last he admits it!’ Damien thought but it afforded him little comfort. It didn’t even afford him the ego boost generally accompanied by such attention.

“Do you want to dance?” Devaris asked, changing the subject so quickly that Damien, intoxicated as he was, forgot to retort. Just who did this bastard think he was and what right did he have to impose upon the only ritual which the young aristocrat still held to be sacred? It was absurd to think there could be anything between them. 

“With you? No not really…” Damien was careful to enunciate, maybe a little too careful. He’d tried to match his companion’s drinking pace but he’d failed. The man’s voice was just as much to blame for his drunkenness as the alcohol he’d imbibed. That voice, he suspected, was the whole reason he’d lost track of himself.

“But I will..dance with you.” He added standing up. For the last few minutes, hours, days (he had lost all sense of time) they’d been speaking and breathing into each other’s ears. He had literal goosebumps but conversation had never been his primary objective in going out. Dancing would at least silence the man for a while.

The two men moved to the center of the floor and Damien realized that they’d held hands though he could not recall the precise moment of this development. For someone so tall Devaris turned out to be a good dancer. Not as good as himself naturally but surprising no less. Damien opened himself up to embrace by leaning in to steady himself. He couldn’t bring himself to admit his short-comings and so he clung to the other with intention. Given the music, their proximity, and the way in which the crowd closed in on every centimeter of unoccupied space they were left with no alternative but to grind against each other. The difference in their heights made Damien feel smaller than he was in actuality. He knew precisely what role he fell into even though the dance itself had no clear lead. Wrapped up in the other’s surprising but mercifully dry body heat Damien could not help but breathe in the stranger’s scent. Consciously and unconsciously he was aware of the man’s scent and all the elements that composed it.

Devaris leaned down half-way through the second song and kissed him. Damien didn’t refuse the stranger’s entreaty, he was too caught up in the moment, and all in all it was only a pittance. The kiss was passionate, a cross between sensuality and brutality. Damien was surprised to find that he actually wanted to be kissed. Everything just seemed to taste better in Devaris’ mouth and in that moment, despite his objections, everything fell into place. The alcohol made Damien a little sloppy, a little more needy than he might have otherwise wanted to reveal. By the time they parted his lungs were raw and his cock was fully engaged. He turned around in the other’s embrace hoping to collect himself but failing. He wasn’t the only one with an erection. He tried to pull away but Devaris pulled him backwards and kissed his neck. One large hand snaked downward to fondle his crotch. Damien shuddered, fell into the man’s rhythm, and allowed himself to be carried away by the music. There was no reason to overthink the situation, it was just the character of the dance, a momentary indulgence one that need not lead beyond a little fooling around. Damien ground into the other man’s palm. He wished that he hadn’t chosen to wear jeans, there was little give in the material and the friction was absolutely maddening.

They continued to dance in a progressively lewd manner. Their hands chasing whatever skin was available. Damien bit and sucked at Devaris’ pouty lower lip. Devaris took the whole Damien’s ass into his hands and squeezed/kneaded him into a sort of dizzy, endorphin-confused subservience. They found every conceivable way to rub their erections against each other’s bodies until, to Damien’s astonishment, he found his boxer briefs damp and sticky with precum. Devaris shoved a hand down the front of Damien’s pants and growled into his ear. For a moment the carpenter’s large, calloused hand was in direct contact with the aristocrat’s throbbing erection. Damien inhaled sharply. The stranger proceeded to drag that same, now slippery hand across Damien’s bare stomach. At this point there could be no question that Damien was drunk. Why else would he allow the man such liberties? Being in public didn’t bother the blond in the slightest he’d participated in orgies, he’d even had sex in front of a room full of onlookers. And yet somehow in that moment he felt astonishingly defenseless. 

“Bathroom now…” This was all wrong. Damien tugged the stranger through the crowd and into the bathroom. It was occupied, even at this hour, with would be onlookers. Damien found a reasonable spot by the wall and unzipped his pants. “It’s just head…I-I’ll suck you off after…” His voice cracked. He’d aimed for nonchalance and failed. Devaris dropped to his knees in front of Damien and undid the fastenings on his jeans. For the sake of access Devaris let Damien’s pants and boxer briefs fall to the floor. Relief was instantaneous but short-lived, even without the added pressure of his pants Damien’s erection was still full to bursting. The blond reached down into the dark mass of hair. It was much softer than he thought and much thicker. He felt the man’s enormous hand encircle his dripping erection, he winced, the friction from their incessant grinding had heightened his sensitivity. 

Devaris lifted up the blond’s t-shirt with his free hand and licked Damien’s stomach clean. Damien closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He felt the other’s warm, moist breath across his cockhead. Cool by comparison. Devaris’s tongue traced the ridge between shaft and glans, drifted almost languidly along the cleft, and then around the tip slowly before swallowing up the hole head. Damien’s grip tightened. “Fuck…” He growled impatience and pleasure combining to undue him. The other smiled around his cock, descended slowly, half way, then came back to flick the crown, then faster, deeper, his fingers forming a ring at the very base for support. After several passes up and down his shaft the man pulled away and proceeded to mercilessly rub and knead the head of his cock until Damien was weak in the knees and incoherent. Pre cum welled at the slit, overflowed, and spilled back onto the man’s fingers. It was embarrassing, how wet he was, how eager. His sac, his hips, even his thighs were wet as a result of their earlier activities. He’d gotten shamefully close to cumming on the dance floor.

Devaris’s mouth covered his cock bobbing up and down, probing the too tight slit, it only took a few passes before he’d swallowed the entire shaft. Damien could literally feel the constrictive walls of the stranger’s throat, the hum of his satisfied growls, and the other’s nimble tongue stroking his distended, throbbing veins as it traveled over every inch of his shaft. Everything escaped him: their location, the men jerking off a few feet away, the smell of urine, everything but the way Devaris’ lips and tongue felt when thus employed. He clawed at the man’s scalp with blunt nails, coaxing and then ramming his cock down the other’s throat. Devaris seemed altogether too familiar with his preferences, squeezing his balls just a little too tightly, letting his teeth scrape gently across the delicate skin, letting himself relax into a sort of sloppiness that was in no way inherent given the prowess he’d already demonstrated. Damien’s thoughts were replaced entirely by sensory input, input that he could not wholly differentiate. All that he felt seemed concentrated in his sex. It was all he could do to even remain upright. As for his moans he didn’t care who heard them, he didn’t even care that it was Devaris’ name that he repeated in a voice that was clearly not his own. He was shaken to the core, shaken and forced to hold the man for support. His eyes rolled back, his mouth slackened, he drifted in and out of awareness like a man at sea.

It was an unusual fetish of his, having his cockhead gnawed and yet Devaris seemed to know it just as he seemed to know everything else. That it hurt was the point, Damien liked everything to hurt a little. Each time he felt the other’s teeth on him his cock spasmed with such ferocity that he couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t actually cumming. He was violently awake in those moments, awake like his survival depended on it and then his overwrought senses merged again and he was reduced to his own obscene futility. 

Devaris seemed intent to make him wait, to not quite let him cum, he was denied twice the satisfaction. He resorted to begging, to throat fucking, and even a little cursing. To tease him in such a filthy place no less but Damien liked that too, the attention, knowing that people saw him and were aroused. Devaris didn’t complain or even move to slow him, he just relaxed his throat and let Damian fuck him in earnest. Once free to climax it didn’t take long. He didn’t give a warning when he came because no warning could possibly have been more emphatic than his feverish cries or the spasms wracking his hips, balls, and shaft simultaneously. He wanted Devaris to drink his cum, the thought of seeing that bastard’s beautiful, lying face covered in cum made his orgasm that much harder.