DISCLAIMER: Don't own them and I'm really getting tired of writing this.
FEEDBACK: Give it to me one more time, cause that's the way I like it.
Fingers on glass and lips against skin, if he closes his eyes he can almost feel them pressing into him. There is a faint scent of pepper in the air and the whisper of red wine still clings to his tongue. The quiet notes of chimes dance over his body like soft rain and this world is strangely muted; yet he is acutely aware of all the textures and colors surrounding him. The erotic atmosphere leaves him in a state of untrustworthy relaxation, like a good high.
Bodies, all softness and curves, press against him; there is a casual insistence in the hands running up his legs and across his stomach. If he tilts his head slightly he will see brown eyes and a feminine mouth, but this will ruin the illusion and so he is still.
A name flutters through his mind, hiding behind memories better left undisturbed. It darts between the corridors of his mind peeking out playfully. He will not speak it here, but soundlessly lets it roll over his tongue. It tastes of brandy and fine cigars, meant to be savored.
Rustling voices interrupt his thoughts and he is vaguely conscious of his hand brushing against flesh. They whisper of naughty pleasures that will be regretted in the daylight, for now they are safe. Dry lips are tickling his neck, a pink tongue playing with his nipple. These things are not real to him, dreams from the back of his mind. The faces swimming through his vision are nothing more than hallucinations.
He knows this is not true, but the thought comforts him. As he buries his face in a mane of black curls on a head that should be smooth, tears of bitterness burn in his eyes. Thrusting between legs that are much to short he imagines blunt nails raking across his back. With tensed muscles he feels a sweet torture from holding back the moan. His body shudders and at the last moment he pulls back so as not to injure fragile bones.
Peeling himself off of warm bodies he stretches sore muscles, he is fucked out.
But there is work to do.
Standing on a balcony he looks over the city that has drained his happiness, the wind blowing through hair that still flops across his forehead, adding a sense of youth to his otherwise hardened profile. The lights twinkle through the smog and filth that is his chosen home. Only one name is on his lips and he will not speak it here.
FEEDBACK: Give it to me one more time, cause that's the way I like it.
Fingers on glass and lips against skin, if he closes his eyes he can almost feel them pressing into him. There is a faint scent of pepper in the air and the whisper of red wine still clings to his tongue. The quiet notes of chimes dance over his body like soft rain and this world is strangely muted; yet he is acutely aware of all the textures and colors surrounding him. The erotic atmosphere leaves him in a state of untrustworthy relaxation, like a good high.
Bodies, all softness and curves, press against him; there is a casual insistence in the hands running up his legs and across his stomach. If he tilts his head slightly he will see brown eyes and a feminine mouth, but this will ruin the illusion and so he is still.
A name flutters through his mind, hiding behind memories better left undisturbed. It darts between the corridors of his mind peeking out playfully. He will not speak it here, but soundlessly lets it roll over his tongue. It tastes of brandy and fine cigars, meant to be savored.
Rustling voices interrupt his thoughts and he is vaguely conscious of his hand brushing against flesh. They whisper of naughty pleasures that will be regretted in the daylight, for now they are safe. Dry lips are tickling his neck, a pink tongue playing with his nipple. These things are not real to him, dreams from the back of his mind. The faces swimming through his vision are nothing more than hallucinations.
He knows this is not true, but the thought comforts him. As he buries his face in a mane of black curls on a head that should be smooth, tears of bitterness burn in his eyes. Thrusting between legs that are much to short he imagines blunt nails raking across his back. With tensed muscles he feels a sweet torture from holding back the moan. His body shudders and at the last moment he pulls back so as not to injure fragile bones.
Peeling himself off of warm bodies he stretches sore muscles, he is fucked out.
But there is work to do.
Standing on a balcony he looks over the city that has drained his happiness, the wind blowing through hair that still flops across his forehead, adding a sense of youth to his otherwise hardened profile. The lights twinkle through the smog and filth that is his chosen home. Only one name is on his lips and he will not speak it here.