He sleeps. With me he sleeps, for only me, and he is mine. Blades of light cut the shadows across the bed and highlight the gray in his hair - that slutty black hair, curled and plastered to his forehead, his temple, his cheekbone.
Oh, will he be fucked.
I fist my grip around his bicep like a wrench and flip him onto his back and smile, gratified to see his eyes snap open for an instant before I crush his face into the mattress.
"Light." L is pale - translucent - both angel and demon, both black and white but never, ever a single shade of gray.
I peel apart the domes of his hard, muscular ass and bend down to lick it, taste it, savor it. It isn't easy, for L squirms, jumps and writhes, he gasps and calls out my names.
"Be still." It is a command.
"God." His voice is strangled, and he freezes.
I smile, and my tone is gentle. "Good boy." Crawlng closer between his legs, I plant a hand on the mattress, hovering above him, moving my width to push in between those white hemispheres of his, in the wet of my spit, up and down. When I find the hottest point, I push in deep, adjusting myself until there is no space between us. L shudders and gasps, he flinches and weeps; and I will not allow him to get used to this - for he does not wish it. So I pull out and hammer him like the God that I am, and I strike
and I strike
and I strike
But I am not finished, so I pull out, flip him to his back and lifting his ass, I slide myself forward to drape his legs over my shoulders. I shove myself in, make him work for it. When he's like this, L is nothing less than astonishing. Exquisite. His forehead, his temples and his cheekbones remain plastered with his sweaty, curling hair and my strikes begin anew, but deeper as he calls out my names. Strike one to the left, strike two to the right, and L, oh L he is dying inside, he is dying outside, he is already dead and he screams - he screams my name:
"Oh God!"
And I hear him; here I come, and I come. And both do we shudder and sweat and sigh and die.
Just a little.
_less-than-three_3