| Stef's Stuf |
| Too Many Lives: Chapter 3 |
| It was just sex and it was sweaty, and rough, and frenzied. It was the sex you have when you can't tell where one person begins and the other ends. There was breathing, gasping, groaning and no words. No coherent words, but so much was said. It was the sex they had to have. It was the tough, serious sex of people denied too long. It was bruising and wet and they made a slapping noise as their bodies came together. When they changed positions, they became weightless, spinning over and under the other, well balanced and of the same thought. More. Whatever it was, they wanted more of it. They came, not together, but not caring. Fingers gouging into flesh, pressing and kneading and pulling their bits closer and rubbing them harder and pushing themselves to more sensation. Hair grasped in needy fists and pulled, tongues swapping spit and tasting sweat. And when their eyes finally opened and they saw the havoc wreaked on their bodies, two feral smiles mashed together for another round. It was sex and it was wonderful. With throats raw from sucking in air and the ache of strained muscles and rubbed raw flesh and salt stinging scratches, they finally rested. They were momentarily sated, defeated, by the deficiencies of the flesh, but with minds still running on full power. It was like music. A rhythm that pressed into the groin, and made a home there, refusing to leave until driven out by force. The force of hands, cocks, driving hard into that rhythm, claiming it and using it. But some vestige of that music remained even after, in the sweet nothingness of the afterglow, in Jack's fingertips lightly brushing over the head that rested on his belly, rising and falling with his breaths, eyes closed, lips curled in a sated smile. He kept stroking lazily and lovingly the face and the jaw of his lover. He felt his fingers slipping across his lips and being sucked in and tongued with a slow tired tongue. It would have been enough for most people, but there was power here. The need long denied created its own irresistible force. Lennie rolled over and slipped his mouth over Jack's nipple. His hand found Jack's cock, again, and with a gasp they were off, again. The music in their souls urged them to excess, and with the desperation that true need brings the sex was, again, spectacular. It ended in tears. Not weeping or sobbing or in pain. There was exhaustion sure, but it was the empty feeling of having nothing left to give, no room to take more. Whatever they had done, their actions and intent had proved sufficient. They both needed those tears. In the quiet stillness of the old Victorian house, Jack turned a sweaty cheek to his pillow. He could see the stars through the window. He could feel a warm hand on his hip, and an equally damp face pressed close to his back. He closed his eyes, and his breathing slowed, steadied. Lennie's hand slipped over his waist and pulled him closer. "Love you, Jack" "Love you too, Lennie." They both fell asleep, smiling. ************ And Jack woke up. <This,> He thought, as his hand wandered on his own volition trough the other side of the bed, searching for someone who wasn't there, <is absurd.> Absurd or not, however, he was lying in bed with a very insistent erection. A glance at the time told him that it was the middle of the night and that he didn't have to get up. Vaguely he wondered why his mind kept playing those tricks to him, but the urgent throbbing of his cock easily leaded him to distraction. He allowed himself the luxury of time. As he began to run his hands slowly over his pyjama top, he tried to re-capture the flavour of the dream. He moaned softly as his fingers glided over his tight nipples, trying to imagine Lennie's fingers touching him there. His mind grew more focused on the dream, as he let his hand slid beneath the waistband of his underwear and take hold of his cock. He got caught up in the re-run, in the playfulness of sex that was half wrestling, with both participants fighting for dominance and pleasure, giving and taking without the real need to find a winner. He was so close now, so close to the edge, as one hand tightened on his cock and the other clutched at a fistful of sheet, and his body writhed on the bed. He imagined the strength of the firm, hot body of Lennie pressed against him, and it felt so natural he didn't waste any time musing about the fact it was a man's body he was fantasizing about. He couldn't care less. When he came, he came hard, arching off the bed into his own hand and yelling harshly as he rode out the pleasure he had become. He lay on the bed for a long time as he came down and his breathing and heart rate returned to normal. Finally, as his body cooled he became aware that his boxers were soaked, he got out of bed and headed for the bathroom, getting rid of pyjamas and underwear along the way. He stepped inside the cubicle to enjoy the warm spray. "Ohhhh," he breathed as that deluge caressed him. The water felt wonderful against his skin. He turned so that the spray hit his chest, stimulating sensitive nipples, before it trickled deliciously down to his groin, rippling through the grey-black curls there and running off the sides of his cock. He found he was repositioning his legs to enjoy even more the sensation of the hot water cascading down his skin. The heat was filling him now, moving around him in steamy swirls which made up the embracing arms of a ghost lover. He got some soap in his hands from the wall dispenser, rubbed them together to start up a warm lather, and then covered his chest, his arms, his shoulders, his head, neck and face in the creamy white suds. He stepped into the spray and felt the cleansing rinse tumble over him. The water seemed to pelt him even harder, and the steam was moving all around him, into and out of his lungs, lightly caressing him and yet enfolding him in a white shroud of privacy. More soap, and he was now eagerly, urgently dropping his hands to his cock, enjoying the feel of himself in his own hands, imagining they were Lennie's hands on him. The Lennie from his other life, the one who loved him and didn't miss an opportunity to show him how much since that moment on the attic of his house in Maine. "Ohhh, yes," he said, just for his own ears, almost not recognizing his own voice. His felt light headed to the point he had to steady himself with his hands on the shower wall, waiting a long, long minute until the world stopped spinning around him. Then roughly shook himself, finished the shower and got out, wondering at this sudden and unusual upsurge of his libido. <What's going on with me?> he whispered, touching his head where the stone had hit him. He tried to recap the events of the last hours. Since the last vision was surely a dream, he felt positive every one of previous ones were dreams too, which meant he wasn't going crazy. Gay maybe, judging from the nature of all his dreams, but not crazy. He laughed, relieved. His mind wasn't getting wasted and still belonged to him. Probably it was trying to tell him something about some dormant desires related to a certain cop, but he could deal with it. How he still didn't know, but It really didn't bother him that much. If it was a phase, related someway with his accident, it was doomed to pass with or without his help. If it was permanent... Well... It could take some time to adjust to it, but as surprising as it was, it wasn't the end of the world. <If a man is guilty for the things that go on in his mind...> When, clean and dry, he climbed back into bed, he wished for a moment to be back in "his" little Victorian house in Maine, with the starry night out of the window and his lover next to him. That Jack wasn't alone anymore, and was loved. "Lucky bastard." Continue on to Chapter 4 Send us some feedback Back to the Story Index Disclaimer: These characters belong to Dick Wolf and NBC; we're just borrowing them for fun, not profit. |