Summary: Repeated near-death experience would affect us all.
Notes: Written for stagesoflove 2006, Round 2, 'Five Stages of Sexual Arousal'.
#1 - Desire
It's amazing what prolonged, repeated near-death experience can do to a man's (or men's, or even women's, come to think of it) sense of right and wrong, to his morality. The urge to grab and cling, to hold and shelter, doesn't go away, in fact, it intensifies. The need to touch and feel and reassure yourself that you're alive, he's alive, still alive and whole and breathing, well, it changes things. Fundamental things.
Each morning, when you wake, your first instinct is to turn and just make sure that he's still there, still here, with you. But, eventually, that's not enough. You need to touch that out-stretched hand that dangles off the bed, always has and probably always will - he's so predictable.
So, you nudge your bed an inch or two closer, just so you can spread the map out properly on the floor. You wake as soon as dawn sends fragile beams of dusty sunlight sliding under through between the curtains. You reach out, slow and hesitant, and graze those callused fingertips with your own, and that's enough, for now.
And then it's not.
The next time you're down to one last silver bullet, flaming arrow, squirt of holy water, and you both survive to tell the tale, it's automatic to reach out and reel him in. You only realise what you've done when it's too late, when lips have bumped and slid and locked and hands have clenched and legs have tangled.
Too late? Or not nearly soon enough?
#2 - Excitement
You're not quite sure what you expect - a roundhouse blow to the jaw, maybe a look of abject nausea and revulsion as he spits out bitter words that slice your soul like dull knives. You're expecting anything, everything, but his tongue in your mouth, his hands in your hair, holding on, twisting, opening you up and taking everything you've swallowed down and hid.
The solid press of his thigh against your groin, the heavy heat of your cock against his hipbone - it's like a match to an oily rag. Conflagration. Inferno. A flash fire, tweaking every nerve you never knew you had.
You don't even know you're moving till your back slams up against an unforgiving surface. Wall? Tree? Floor? You're too far gone to tell. There'll be bruises in the morning, red blue purple smears of colour that you'll wear with silent pride and quiet awe. But the morning seems an age away.
The here and now is filled with him - over you, around you, in you, on you, he's the air you breathe. He's hands on flesh, he's lips and teeth and tongue and cock. Sharp edges grinding hard against your own.
You've never felt this alive before, this full, this heavy, this ready to do or die, to fly or fail. It's exhilarating.
It's heaven and hell in one testosterone-filled time bomb. The countdown started when your lips hit his, but you don't know what time you've got before it blows sky high.
The fear makes you even harder.
#3 - Plateau of Arousal
It's fast and furious, hunger raw like open wounds; every touch burns and scourges, cleans and purifies. There's nothing left but need and now, the base imperative to rut, to fuck, to totally consume and be consumed. It's insane, and you don't give a damn.
There's no time for naked, that's for later - if there is a later, and you're still not sure of that. There's no time for soft and gentle, tender kisses and caresses, it's a fire beneath your skin, incandescent.
Words are shapeless, harsh amorphous echoes scattering from your mouth and his in fevered gasps. You don't need to hear to understand. You can't bear to pull away to frame them properly.
His tongue's ambrosia on your tongue; his breath's the air that sustains you. His lips are berry ripe and lush, a lure - irresistible - you have to gnaw and suck and taste. He fights to do the same to you.
Hands are everywhere - ass and hair and jaw and groin, grasping, pulling, cradling, teasing. Too much, and still not enough.
Boots knock together, digging in to find the perfect spot, the optimum point of leverage - and there it is. Traction. Friction. The press and slide of seam, of zipper, quite unyielding on your cock. The pain is sweet. You return the favor.
You're riding the thigh he's forced between yours as he rubs off on your hipbone, his pelvis butting hard against your own.
You're so close, almost there, and from the stuttering of his breath you know he's right there with you. You could stay like this for hours, and you will do one day soon, but the buzzing in your ears, in your bones, in your soul, tells you this is not the time. You just need something, just the tiniest extra push to send you flying over the edge - freefalling into white space.
And that's enough.
#4 - Orgasm
The sound of your name on his lips, the taste of his on yours, the way the words blur together, not first or last but mingled in the cool night air - that's enough.
Your head rolls back, eyes blank, unseeing, mouth open in a silent scream as your fingers scrabble for purchase, clawing furrows in the skin of his back beneath his shirt.
There's pain, pressure, suction at the juncture of your shoulder and neck, the cold burn of sharp teeth and pinched skin. It's barely noticeable through the full-body pulse and flood of release, as every nerve ending flares like sodium in water, burning bright and unbearably hot for one eternal, elastic moment.
And then the world snaps back into focus with a sickening lurch, and you realise he's still moving, still coming, the wet heat at his crotch slowly soaking into your jeans as he continues to grind against you, face buried in the curve of your throat.
He's trying to force his cries through the skin below your ear - small, high, broken vocalisations that are more sensation to you than sound. He seems lost.
Every twitch of his hips transfers itself to your cock, still oversensitive and swollen, trapped behind your zipper. You slide a hand into the closest rear pocket of his jeans and pull him closer, snug, tight, to still his movements.
The fingers of your other hand are tangled in his hair; you've gone from mindless rut to comfort in an instant. Your life is so fucking weird.
The adrenaline has faded and the urgency is quashed now the edge is off your hunger, at least for the moment. You can feel every tremble as it works through his frame, every muffled sob and sigh, every half-assed attempt to pull away. You're not having that shit, not now.
You keep him close and turn you both towards the car, and he lets you lead without a word. That freaks you out - he's never been the biddable type; he always manages to ask that one question you've not thought to find the answer for. He's good at that.
The ride back to the motel is made in total silence. He's pressed so hard against the door he's almost hanging out the window. It's not as funny as it should be.
It's ten feet from the door to the bathroom, but you could swear he covers it in one stride. You hear the bolt snick home before you've even put your bag down.
The loud pounding of the water doesn't muffle all the sobs.
You peel down to shorts and tee shirt and you wait, stripping down the guns you used tonight and cleaning them.
You try your best not to react to the way he doesn't look at you - not once - when he comes out. Instead, you take your turn under the showerhead, sluicing off the only proof you have of what you've done.
It disappears in an instant.
The towel is rough again your skin; you use it violently, trying to flay the guilt from your soul with cheap cotton. It doesn't work.
When you come out, he's turned away from you, curled in on himself, in a knot. You take the other bed.
You're not sure what time it is when you feel the blankets lift, feel that long, gangly body easing in behind you. It's been forever since you touched.
You feel his curls on your neck; hear him whispering apologies, lips warm against your nape.
Your answer is the tangling of your fingers with his, the intertwining of your legs with his longer limbs. You braid your flesh with his so tightly you will never get free.