“Touch…
touch me.”
Were it a
command, I’d ignore it just to teach him better manners. Were it a request, I’d
ignore it to make him beg. But it is neither. It’s too far, too late, too hot,
too fast – there’s no time for commands or requests now. It’s a demand. Natural
and sincere, and burning.
And so I
grant it. Without stopping, without slowing down, I take my hand off his hip,
let it snake under his arm, over his side, to his chest, and then slide my palm
down over his stomach all the way to his crotch. And there I touch him, the
best I can, the way he loves it, a squeeze just a little too rough to stay
gentle, but not exactly painful yet. On the verge of pain, yes. He lets out a
short wordless yell, bucking madly – forth, into my squeezing fist, back, onto
my pumping dick – and his arms, braced against the wall, falter and almost give
way, but he regains control in a second. He’s not quite oblivious yet.
You’ll be
there, kid. Let me touch you some more.
Even though
it’s not really my aim anymore. Not my only aim, anyway. Not even my prime one.
It used to be. I used to make a point of making him forget himself, reducing
him to blind lust, proving that I can do this. Now I don’t. For once, it’s so
easy it isn’t even challenging. He’s not like me. He doesn’t see sex as a
battle for dominance, there’s no ‘conquer/surrender’
there for him – he doesn’t relate it to life at all. Doesn’t think about it. If
it feels good, he just goes for it, like kid for candy. Even if the “it” means
a cock buried in his ass.
And then,
at times you may forget about the aim if the very means of reaching it is so
satisfying.
I bury my
face between his shoulder blades – tanned skin beaded with sweat – and I give
him a bite. He yells again, and I have to quicken my pace because he’s pushing
me to. Because he’s just too good, too hot in my hands, too smooth under my
palms, and his ass, his goddamn ass, so round and firm and always just asking
for a good slap, is so fucking tight around my cock.
I never was
too sorry about not having a huge cock, but I swear I’d never thought that
having a rather small one would come in handy. Not before I got to fuck him.
I’m small, but he’s so tight around me, I’m afraid to think what it would be
like, were I bigger.
“Fuck,
Neil. How come you’re so fucking tight? Do I not fuck you enough? Should be
doing it more often…”
He moans.
He hates it when I call him by his last name, but he loves dirty talk, and ah,
my poor little blond can’t argue with me when he’s going to come in a couple of
minutes.
“Touch me,
Nikki.”
Now he’s
begging. I slap the hand over that moaning, begging mouth, and he sucks at my
palm, and it’s almost too much, but I’m in control. I’m in control, and it’s
not yet time to let go. So I touch him, touch him everywhere my hand can reach,
and keep shoving my cock into that wonderfully tight ass, and he yells, and
moans, and then manages a whole phrase:
“Fuck…
fuck, why do I even like it?”
He’s not
trying to reason with himself. Not now, it’d be too funny. No, it’s an
invitation for some more dirty talk. So I offer him a rather frank answer:
“Because
you’re a slut, Vince. A dirty cock-hungry little slut.”
I’ve had
women slap me in the face mid-fuck for words like these. Some would kick me off
even though we’d be really close to finish. But it’s not the case with Vince,
with Vinnie, who fucking is a dirty
cock-hungry little slut, and isn’t ashamed in the slightest, and doesn’t mind
being called that if I’m touching him.
“Ye-eah,”
is the only word he breathes out, and then he yells some more because I bite
him again. Bite him on the shoulder, bite him on the back of his neck, pushing
his hair away. I don’t bite him because I want to hurt him. I bite him… because
I love the way he tastes.
“To-o-ouch
me…”
He is weak
for touches. So weak it’s almost unhealthy. Even if he doesn’t want to fuck at
first, even if he doesn’t plan on doing anything like that, it takes only some
touching – and his body betrays him. You could pretend it was accidental. Could
just nuzzle against his shoulder momentarily onstage, could just casually run
your hand over his butt backstage, could quite occasionally drop your hand on
his thigh when you’re sitting in a booth at the bar after the show, or, not so
occasionally, brush your fingers over the side of his neck – and in half an
hour at most he’ll end up bracing himself against the wall in a closet, his
moans lost in the roar and rumble of loud music, with your teeth in his neck
and your dick up his ass.
And still
begging to be touched.
God knows,
I could touch him over and over again without any begging.
I put my
hands back on his buttocks, squeeze them, draw them apart, stretching him, and he screams. He keeps screaming, and me?.. I
don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, I only know I could fuck him right
through that motherfucking wall, and he is screaming, screaming like he never
screamed onstage, and his arms finally do give way, and he drops his forehead
onto his forearm, pressing it into the wall, and I touch him for one last time,
and he explodes right in my hands…
And then
it’s my turn to scream and lose my mind.
Later, when
the both of us are able to breathe again, he elbows me in the ribs and pushes
me off. I let him go and lean on the wall, feeling hollow. Feeling suddenly
cold. Wondering whether he hates me now or just doesn’t give a damn.
“You messed
up my pants. Fuck, Sixx, you’re unbearable at times.”
Maybe he
doesn’t hate me. He’s trying to sound annoyed – he always goes for annoyed
impression after such impromptu fuck sessions – but he isn’t really pissed. And
maybe…
Maybe he
even does give a damn.
There’s
only one way to find out.
“Touch me,
Vince.”
Because I’m
cold. Because I feel so lonely left here, standing at the wall in the
semi-darkness of the closet, looking at you as you freeze with your hand on the
doorknob. Yes, Vinnie, you heard me right… did you hear me right?
“Touch me.”
A few
moments pass.
And then,
God bless him, he does.