Skin
He turns now, eyes closed, face raised to the water of the shower. I
lick my lips, wetting them even as the water douses his skin. Light
creates a myriad of patterns upon his skin, dazzling and beautiful.
His nobility frightens me from time to time, just as it humbles me at
other moments, when we are in the dark and he is moaning my name,
arching up so that his flesh meets mine. His complete submission to
me at such moments, when his hands grip my shoulders, when my tongue
kisses his skin, is intoxicating.
The feel of his skin sliding across mine—the sweat, the heat, the
scent of him—burns me just as it arouses me. I feel his eyes
writing words of possession and love all over me when he looks at me,
his fingers tracing my shoulders, my hips, my stomach.
I watch as he showers: the droplets of water bouncing off the walls,
his shoulders, the floor, his feet. I watch and I think about how I
want nothing more than to keep him safe, whole, and mine forever.
"Join me," he says, and I look up into his eyes, sparkling with
mischief. He deliberately runs his hands down his body, tracing the
contour of waist and hip, thigh and stomach. He allows his hands to
stroke himself, lazily, knowing full well what such a display will do
to me. His fingers, his skin, his eyes, the water.... I cannot resist him.
I step into the shower with him, my hands taking hold of his, and I
touch him, allowing myself to feel the pleasure that is his skin
beneath my hands. His mouth is open, his breath is coming in short
gasps, he is panting as I move my lips to his neck and trace my
tongue down the highway of flesh and bone that leads to his chest.
He moans as I run my tongue across his left nipple, as I let go of
one of his hands and gently caress the other, his hand that is still
holding mine clenching in desire and eagerness for me. I switch
sides, lavishing attention upon his right nipple with my tongue as my
hand caresses the left. He is whispering my name.
He tastes so good. He is ambrosia to me, and as I lower myself to my
knees and take his length into my mouth, he cries out my name and I
taste the nectar that is his essence. He does not last long, he never
does when he is standing and I am kneeling at his feet. He finds the
view entirely too intoxicating, he says, for I am usually the more
dominant partner in our love making and he follows where I lead.
Seeing me on my knees before him, gazing up at him with lust and
adoration, always leads to this inevitable—and rapid—conclusion.
I continue to lick his skin, tasting the water that continues to run
down his form, tasting his flesh. I suck and I nibble and taste—
like a starving man—my banquet is his flesh and the chef has laid
him out just for me. He shivers with each touch of my lips upon his
body, he whimpers each time he feels my tongue dart out of my mouth
to taste him, and I can tell he is approaching release.
"We don't do this enough," he says in a broken voice, as my hand
reaches up to run through the matt of curls below his navel, my mouth
suckling on his thigh, my other hand stroking gently and rhythmically
between his legs.
"We never have enough time," I reply around my mouthful, and he
groans, clutching at the sides of the shower.
"Look at me," I continue, "I want to know you're watching me on my
knees before you."
He moans in frustration and I glance up at him. He has complied, his
fringe soaking wet, heavy droplets of water falling onto my shoulders
as he watches me. I move my mouth upwards again and my tongue sneaks
out of my mouth to gently caress the underside of his hardness.
He is gasping, he is shaking, his skin is stretched tight with
tension; he does not want it to be over so quickly. I only notice in
passing that the water temperature has begun to grow colder—but our
bodies and the heat we are creating more than make up for that. He
has both hands against the wall of the shower now, bracing himself
against my touches, my fingers sliding gently in and out of his body,
my mouth upon him, my other hand stroking his hair. Watching him
watch me as I pleasure him is a joy I do not allow myself very often
anymore.
I know when he is approaching orgasm; I can feel the build up and the
telltale shaking of his body. I pull my mouth away from him, draw my
finger out of his body and stand. He looks at me almost accusingly.
"Why did you stop?"
Oh, his voice, that timbre that is so rich, so full of emotion, so
passionate. I want to hear him say my name forever. Instead I simply
raise my eyebrows at him, and lead him from the shower, turning off
the faucets as I go.
When I towel him dry, I take particular care to be gentle. He murmurs
my name as I dry his hips, his legs, his backside. He makes no
complaint when I lead him from the shower into the small room that is
ours and push him back onto the bed.
Now I can truly taste his skin, and can truly bask in his love and
passion. I am insatiable in my desire, I can feel my own need pushing
at me, but I want to make this last, I want to be able to watch him
as he lets go and allows himself to simply feel.
He lets go of his control by degrees: a lick from me at his ear, and
he shudders. A caress from me at his hip, and he moans. By the time
my mouth has reached his stomach, I can feel him ready for me again.
This time, I do not use my fingers. There is no need. He is making
desperate pleas for me to fill him, to be inside him, to complete
him, and in truth, I can wait no longer. I take his legs and place
them on my shoulders and then slide myself into him until I am
completely enveloped in his warmth, devoured by his body even as I
devoured him.
We move together, shadows and light, skin against skin. He is
touching my shoulders, my arms, my chest, and I am thrusting deep
within him. He thrusts back up into me, and then he takes hold of
himself and strokes himself in time to my thrusts. His head is thrown
back, his eyes wide open, locked on mine.
I cannot control myself any more. Watching him caress his own skin,
tease himself as I tease him so often is my undoing. I sob as I feel
myself climax, crying out his name. I am shaking with the intensity
of release; and he is still touching himself.
As I pull out of his body, gently pushing his legs to the bed, I
watch, mesmerized, as he strokes himself with one hand, the other
massaging the flesh below his hardness. He rubs himself even as he
watches me. I can't stop myself. I reach out and touch the tip of his
hardness with one finger and he moans, a loud, deep moan, a moan of
aching, desperate longing. I move my finger down, across his fingers,
down his flesh, across the back of his other hand, tracing his skin,
even as he is panting and crying out words that I can barely
understand.
When he orgasms, I move, so quickly that I surprise him, and then he
yells, loud and clear, my name, the word `yes,' and I have him in my
mouth and he is thrusting even as his hand touches my cheek.
When it is over, I move up his body, straddling him, my hands flat on
the bed on either side of his head, my knees pressed into the sheets
on either side of his hips. He is grinning at me as he runs his hands
over my back and I lower my mouth to lightly kiss his chest before I
return my gaze to meet his.
He can't stop smiling at me. I roll my eyes at him. He chuckles.
"So... again?"
I collapse on him, my skin on his, kissing him, never wanting it to
end.
"Yes. Again."
End
by
Starkiller
is skin makes me shiver. I watch the water run across that naked
skin, rivulets trickling down his throat to pool in the hollow at the
base of his neck, small splashes against his belly, his thighs.... His
hands run down his hips as he follows the path of the water with
fingers roughened and calloused by life. He has had to endure so
much: his skin is a veritable encyclopaedia of his successes and
failures. His skin is my map to his soul, his essence, what makes him
who he is.
