~*~
Four
--
There was a darker side to everything.
While the poet's heart brimmed with love, the tango dancer had been filled with a lust so raw it pained just as it satisfied, so great it consumed him. He thirsted for the pleasure that would braid itself into his veins, to run in dark and seamless lines between platelets and oxygen.
When the narcotics didn't fill his mind with a haze and the resident green coquette didn't dance and sing for him, he lost himself in the essence of another, always divulging satisfaction from the shadowed depths of humanity, the wasteland of life. He never minded, for he thrived on such dirtiness, its encompassing embrace one of hot blood and shuddering sighs, of cum and half-lidded gazes.
A story of broken trust and tainted passion had been a part of his existence for as long as he cared to remember. Roxanne's slit throat had always snapped back the cord of reality when the encircling arms of love threatened to pull too hard. He'd left his native country in search for solace, but he found it in his passion, no matter if he was on a rotting boat at sea or inside the wild Parisian nightclub.
In the fires of Hell, he thrived; flourished. Fervour was akin to blood beneath his flesh. And Nini had been the first one to sate these insatiable, nearly maddening urges that haunted his every breath. When they melted into bronze and ivory, with syncopated heartbeats and bitten mouths, he found release that pushed boundaries.
His native tongue was brought out by his desire for her. French was lost the moment her fingers carved hot rawness into his back and her strong legs slipped easily about his waist. She absorbed the sounds formed by his mouth. He had done the same with Spanish, but only when he was with her was he truly swallowed whole by fervour. They often danced to remove their clothes, and continued the same beautiful, sweat-slicked motions when flesh was bare and trembled under another's touch.
The satisfaction was one greater than he'd ever known, but the hunger for the taste of her flesh and the warmth of her thighs; the stain on her cheeks and crush of her mouth always returned.
It had become his release. Stress dissolved inside sighs; sadness was lost in the flame that burned in the Englishwoman's eyes. When ecstasy from the outside world made his mouth upturn, he still let a tempest of ragged breaths and bruising kisses engulf him. His singular obsession became the friction of flesh upon flesh; the heave of her chest, the way she shook beneath him.
"Sunset so thickly; let's make it quiet and quickly…" Behind the red velvet curtain; in stone cold bathwater. Anywhere. Everywhere. Tonight she was pinned against the wall above his bed, pale cheeks flushed in pleasure, every particle tingling. She heard the words he rasped through her hazy vision, relishing every sensation. "I could be yours; we can unwind…" They would banish anger and hurt, tangling limbs together, sharing endless kisses that set them on fire.
She'd nursed the wounds on his wrists that evening, holding him in safety as the raging waters of his sickness had tossed. She'd rocked him, fingertips tracing the contours of his face, singing the songs he'd so often whispered into her ear when passion ran high.
His narcolepsy seemed to drain completely in mind and body, a vampire that fed on his joy and left him with only hollowness and fear. The creature ate his heart in great raw chunks and tried to claw out his eyes. There were times when he awoke in Nini's arms after succumbing to the rage of his illness, and upon realizing that he had not been neglected, he crushed her mouth with his in desperation to be infused with life. She always pressed her pale fingers against his jugular on such nights, to remind him of his pulse. It was unnecessary, for he knew that she was the reason his heart beat.
In times before the plague struck him and for hours after, there was often no need to strip flesh clean of garments and turn the goosebumps into hot pearls of sweat. When the desire returned, they embraced it. They'd made love twice already that evening, and he knew that their third time wouldn't be their last. The kisses had begun at dusk and would continue well past dawn.
Sometimes he wanted to love her. He knew her soul was black; he wished to paint it crimson, to awaken it from ice and surround it in warmth. He knew she wouldn't love him. She couldn't. She saw how Christian and Satine's love tore them apart just as it held them together. He held her when she cried and when she ached for him.
Performance rehearsals caused them to suppress their longings for one another. They shared a first love of the stage. It was only after Harold had called the rehearsals to end that they disappeared to relax their stiff muscles and fine-tune their vocal chords. On the rare occasion that they lay side by side in comfortable silence rather than a heated frenzy, fears of sentiment broke the stillness and the bed sheets would seem to scorch with the friction of their bodies.
Opening Night drowned him in his illness once again; the pain that always locked itself inside his bones. For the first time in the many years he had known her, she was not there to kiss away the blackness and to bring him back to the surface of the living. When his eyes opened, he rose unsteadily, afraid of plunging again into the obsidian terror, with not a soul there to break his fall.
When his fingers finally clasped hers and their dry mouths locked together, they watched the Sparkling Diamond and her writer utter finals words of love. With her makeup-smeared cheek against his, he wanted more than anything to say he loved her, but he couldn't, because her mouth would never reform the words.
It was then that he knew life's darkest moment.
--
Song used: "Mezzanine" by Massive Attack, from the album of the same name. Go buy it; I swear it's the best makeout/sex album ever created
Thank you again to the beautiful and splendiferous deity Petal, and this time to Yvi as well, for helping me to make this chapter more than just one ridiculously long sex scene. I think it's pretty obvious what sin I've given to the Argentinean. I'm quite surprised at how quickly this story is materializing. I don't intend on making the chapters very long, but they do what they will. My stories are never in my complete control.
Thank you so much for the reviews. They're very appreciated!
Four
--
There was a darker side to everything.
While the poet's heart brimmed with love, the tango dancer had been filled with a lust so raw it pained just as it satisfied, so great it consumed him. He thirsted for the pleasure that would braid itself into his veins, to run in dark and seamless lines between platelets and oxygen.
When the narcotics didn't fill his mind with a haze and the resident green coquette didn't dance and sing for him, he lost himself in the essence of another, always divulging satisfaction from the shadowed depths of humanity, the wasteland of life. He never minded, for he thrived on such dirtiness, its encompassing embrace one of hot blood and shuddering sighs, of cum and half-lidded gazes.
A story of broken trust and tainted passion had been a part of his existence for as long as he cared to remember. Roxanne's slit throat had always snapped back the cord of reality when the encircling arms of love threatened to pull too hard. He'd left his native country in search for solace, but he found it in his passion, no matter if he was on a rotting boat at sea or inside the wild Parisian nightclub.
In the fires of Hell, he thrived; flourished. Fervour was akin to blood beneath his flesh. And Nini had been the first one to sate these insatiable, nearly maddening urges that haunted his every breath. When they melted into bronze and ivory, with syncopated heartbeats and bitten mouths, he found release that pushed boundaries.
His native tongue was brought out by his desire for her. French was lost the moment her fingers carved hot rawness into his back and her strong legs slipped easily about his waist. She absorbed the sounds formed by his mouth. He had done the same with Spanish, but only when he was with her was he truly swallowed whole by fervour. They often danced to remove their clothes, and continued the same beautiful, sweat-slicked motions when flesh was bare and trembled under another's touch.
The satisfaction was one greater than he'd ever known, but the hunger for the taste of her flesh and the warmth of her thighs; the stain on her cheeks and crush of her mouth always returned.
It had become his release. Stress dissolved inside sighs; sadness was lost in the flame that burned in the Englishwoman's eyes. When ecstasy from the outside world made his mouth upturn, he still let a tempest of ragged breaths and bruising kisses engulf him. His singular obsession became the friction of flesh upon flesh; the heave of her chest, the way she shook beneath him.
"Sunset so thickly; let's make it quiet and quickly…" Behind the red velvet curtain; in stone cold bathwater. Anywhere. Everywhere. Tonight she was pinned against the wall above his bed, pale cheeks flushed in pleasure, every particle tingling. She heard the words he rasped through her hazy vision, relishing every sensation. "I could be yours; we can unwind…" They would banish anger and hurt, tangling limbs together, sharing endless kisses that set them on fire.
She'd nursed the wounds on his wrists that evening, holding him in safety as the raging waters of his sickness had tossed. She'd rocked him, fingertips tracing the contours of his face, singing the songs he'd so often whispered into her ear when passion ran high.
His narcolepsy seemed to drain completely in mind and body, a vampire that fed on his joy and left him with only hollowness and fear. The creature ate his heart in great raw chunks and tried to claw out his eyes. There were times when he awoke in Nini's arms after succumbing to the rage of his illness, and upon realizing that he had not been neglected, he crushed her mouth with his in desperation to be infused with life. She always pressed her pale fingers against his jugular on such nights, to remind him of his pulse. It was unnecessary, for he knew that she was the reason his heart beat.
In times before the plague struck him and for hours after, there was often no need to strip flesh clean of garments and turn the goosebumps into hot pearls of sweat. When the desire returned, they embraced it. They'd made love twice already that evening, and he knew that their third time wouldn't be their last. The kisses had begun at dusk and would continue well past dawn.
Sometimes he wanted to love her. He knew her soul was black; he wished to paint it crimson, to awaken it from ice and surround it in warmth. He knew she wouldn't love him. She couldn't. She saw how Christian and Satine's love tore them apart just as it held them together. He held her when she cried and when she ached for him.
Performance rehearsals caused them to suppress their longings for one another. They shared a first love of the stage. It was only after Harold had called the rehearsals to end that they disappeared to relax their stiff muscles and fine-tune their vocal chords. On the rare occasion that they lay side by side in comfortable silence rather than a heated frenzy, fears of sentiment broke the stillness and the bed sheets would seem to scorch with the friction of their bodies.
Opening Night drowned him in his illness once again; the pain that always locked itself inside his bones. For the first time in the many years he had known her, she was not there to kiss away the blackness and to bring him back to the surface of the living. When his eyes opened, he rose unsteadily, afraid of plunging again into the obsidian terror, with not a soul there to break his fall.
When his fingers finally clasped hers and their dry mouths locked together, they watched the Sparkling Diamond and her writer utter finals words of love. With her makeup-smeared cheek against his, he wanted more than anything to say he loved her, but he couldn't, because her mouth would never reform the words.
It was then that he knew life's darkest moment.
--
Song used: "Mezzanine" by Massive Attack, from the album of the same name. Go buy it; I swear it's the best makeout/sex album ever created
Thank you again to the beautiful and splendiferous deity Petal, and this time to Yvi as well, for helping me to make this chapter more than just one ridiculously long sex scene. I think it's pretty obvious what sin I've given to the Argentinean. I'm quite surprised at how quickly this story is materializing. I don't intend on making the chapters very long, but they do what they will. My stories are never in my complete control.
Thank you so much for the reviews. They're very appreciated!