The sound unmakes him—words eroding silence—and the voice...
Naked in the motel's grimy dusk; the perfumed reek of soap, remembered
diesel oil and sex and he is wicked hard. His breathing hitches, rasps
across the liquid pulse of blood. He cups his throat there, finger and
thumb each at point of jaw and feels the heavy beat against his palm. Life.
Real life beneath his hand. His own life, perilously close. He imagines
the spilled heat of blood across his chest and groans. His skin is slick,
his sweat thick and oily still
Oil. Flowing, filling. Owning him and wanting... With memory, the sour
tang of terror floods like metal in his mouth. Terror and desire. Never one
without the other now. And yet he can't resist.
His hand slides down, pulled by gravity, by the weight of lust. Fingers
graze the brown coin of a nipple. Tender flesh draws tight as thumb and
finger tease the newly risen bud.
"Make it hurt."
The voice, implacable, is like the drench of blood: terrible and thrilling.
He whimpers and obeys: fingers tighten, crush, grind hard enough to catalyze
pain to pleasure. Desire spikes and sizzles; spirals down to a tight,
glowing coil in his groin. Air hisses sharp between clenched teeth. He's
shaking with want, wishing for a clip, a pin, something hard and bright to
hold the pain in place.
But he has only this, his one handed mudhra, his kama sutra pose. He almost
laughs, lips peeling back from teeth like a death's head grimace. He holds
the pain, holds it, feels lust run glutinous strings from white hot nipple
to the cock heavy weight between his legs. Could he come from this alone?
From pain and fear and the pornographic image of his own helplessness?
Could he...?
"My turn now." The voice again. Low, knowing, rough with it's own dark
desire. Oh God, what will you do to me? he wonders. What will I let you
do? Wild buck of hips. Left hand pincers on the nipple, right hand frozen
at his side.
Oh God...
The answer falls like scales from his eyes and his heart falters at the
sudden, unveiled truth. Anything. Any fucking thing he wants. He looks
down at himself, shadows limned with yellow neon light. Naked, hand to nipple, blood-darkened cock heavy and hot as an animal between his thighs.
A long-fingered hand, not his own, slides around his left hip; another
snakes over his right shoulder, light catching the bright flat blade of a
straight-edge. Cool fingers wrap around his cock; cool steel lights gently
on his throat. He groans, leans into that deadly embrace. His head falls
back onto an unseen shoulder as he thrusts into that elegant grip.
The hand works him hard, each stroke a matchhead flare of pure desire. The
razor at his throat taps feather-light against his skin. Oh God, he thinks,
I could, oh God. A sound escapes him, gut-punched sob of need ascending
like a generator's whine. Toward ecstasy. Culmination. Oblivion. His
hips buck wildly. His eyes roll back, lashes flutter closed against his
cheeks. And the hand at his throat withdraws.
Hm? he wonders at the odd percussive tug beneath his chin. And a curtain of
wet and chilling heat falls across his chest, branding comprehension on his
flesh.
Jesus! God! It's done. Done and he is...dead?
Time stops. For an instant he is poised in moveless, changeless space and
everything drops away—pleasure, pain, fear. Terror and desire sublimate
to nothing and just for that one instant he is in a place of dark and
perfect peace.
And like a roar from behind orgasm takes him and he is over the edge, and
falling, rising, screaming out the name of his brand new religion. Choking
out one final prayer for mercy to his once and future god...
"I was thinking about Chinese." Fingers trace delicate lines on the roll of
muscle at the back of his neck.
"Hnh." he says. No answer but it's all that he can muster and even that
small movement of his throat lights the fiery line of pain the razor made.
"Alex?" Tentative. Ginger. "Alex, are you really okay?"
"Okay," he lies. Or maybe tells the truth. How the hell would he know? He
shifts, buries his head beneath the pillow, not quite ready to emerge and
gaze upon the beaming countenance of God.
But God is restless, twitchy.
Alex feels the bed bounce as he moves down to lie shoulder to shoulder. Lips
brush his cheek, warm breath mists the tender flesh inside his ear as lord
and master speaks.
"I don't think I like that game," says God. Alex makes a sound that
couldn't really be mistaken for a laugh.
"'S okay," he says, his voice like sand on cotton. "We only have to play it
once."
"Well, good,"
For a blissful moment fingers pry the tension from his neck, and then:
"So howzabout Chinese?"
Jesus, Krycek thinks. Every other fucking night, Chinese. But still:
"Sure, Mulder," he says, softly. Reverently. "Any fucking thing you want."
end
Theophile
by The Spike
"Do it, Alex..." says the man who rescued him from hell.
