From clarkson!ub!csn!magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu!math.ohio-state.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail Wed May 4 19:06:24 1994 Path: clarkson!ub!csn!magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu!math.ohio-state.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway Lines: 250 Sender: daemon@cs.utexas.edu Message-ID: 199405040315.WAA08576@cs.utexas.edu NNTP-Posting-Host: cs.utexas.edu
++ PieceFromNightJazz ++ wi.2739@wizvax.methuen.ma.us'
A Piece from Night Jazz
For whomever might enjoy it. There is sex, bondage, S&D, and little, though, of violence. Derek/Horse is recovering from an interesting bout with an unknown drug that's heightened his sense of smell as well as creating a strange empathy with everyone else that has ever taken the drug. His Master, Morgan didn't take the drug, and there were some definite problems as there was also a slight antipathy for those that haven't taken the jazz. It turns out that the Yakuza big wigs have promised death and destruction to those that spread the jazz as it's doing the impossible and uniting the waterfront.
One of the ladies who has taken the jazz, Trey, helped them figure things out and talked with them for a while on how to deal with the scent problem. Tan is Trey's boyfriend, and a waterfront gang member. As they were leaving her apartment, Derek and Morgan spotted three Yakuza hitmen; and Derek went to check on her, but was stopped at just seeing an empty, quiet apartement by one of her neighbors...
I hear a breath of relief. His foot is on the gas almost before I have the door closed, though he doesn't try to rush the narrow alley. "Did you find her? Are you all right?" Emphasis on the last words.
I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. "No." and pause for a moment, "I didn't find her. The apartment was empty, but there was a light blinking on the radio console. It was locked, the windows locked, and the neighbor across the hall was more protective than most." I chuckle a bit ruefully, "Wish all folks in the city were like that, watchful for people breaking into neighbors' rooms."
I sigh once, and almost under my breath, "Am I all right?... I'm frustrated, I'm confused. I don't know what to do next or even if there is anything I can do. I don't have a clue as to wheither or not she's O.K. I don't have a clue as to what those three goons were doing around her apartment. I don't know if I can stand the consequences of what I did for a lark...." I let it trail away into the darkness.
He turns away from the waterfront, heading for I-5 and home. The alternation of dark and light through the windows passes like meaningless scenes on a vidscreen, intangible and disconnected. With the adrenaline gone I'm weary to the bone, and frustrated through and through. The shadows flicker over my eyes and I relax into their chaos and then sigh.
Out of the randomness, I can only think of one thing to say. "I love you, Morgan Rothman," then half laughingly as only truly serious things can be said, "Master of my heart and body, you're probably the only thing that's made sense in this whole thing."
He snakes out an arm to grasp mine, hard. I can almost hear him searching for words. In the end he says nothing, but his touch is hard enough to give me a little of his energy.
Then quiet for a little while longer. "When I was inside, did anything happen?"
His answer is curt as he concentrates on the traffic, "I didn't see anything. Damn quiet for the Market. I wonder where they all are?"
The CooRooRoo, I think, but I don't say it. Show down, OK Corral, and then chide myself for my over active imagination. Does it matter? I'm supposed to be out of it, right? There's still a part of me that aches at that, even more than the tiredness that gnaws at me.
Saved...
I've never wanted to be saved. I'd rather take the lashes, thank you, and turn punishment into pleasure. Damnation into delight. Was I really thinking that just by joining I'd be able to turn back something of the tide that was creeping up on them? No. I didn't even know about all that when I took it, all I saw was that hint of sadness, the tiredness...
The same sense of frustrated exhaustion as I have now, in Tan's face that night. I wonder, for a moment, how he feels knowing that anyone that he brings in might die from it... and then realize with a shiver that he had known that, wanted that when he had gotten me to join. He had been disappointed when I had been turned away from death.
For a moment, I just hold myself still against the fear. The next moment, we're pulling into the driveway and the lights wake me up as the house comes to life to greet us.
In the entry alcove, Morgan turns to look me over from head to toe, slowly and with possessive intensity. At last he spins me around with deft touches, pulls my shirt off over my head. One finger lingers an instant over the brand, then he undoes my pants as well, strips me to the socks with a single smooth gesture. "Shower!" he says, smiling. "Even I can smell you."
The water has a smell of its own, chlorine and piping, but it's blessedly neutral, and it rinses everything else away--the cloying perfume, my own fear, tobacco smoke and city rain.
As the last evidense of the night goes down the drain, I close my eyes, and put my head under the water, rinsing my hair again. The white noise of the rush of water fills my head, mercifully emptying it of everything. A cold touch in the middle of my back startles me from my mindlessness. I freeze, and then two arms come around my torso, and Morgan hugs me to his cold body.
"Mmmm... warm." he says, and joins me under the spray.
I shiver once and then I can scent him, touch the familiarity of his body, and the adreneline shot drains away. I turn around to look him in his sea green eyes.
"May I, sir?" I ask.
He smiles and nods.
His lips are almost as cool as the rest of him. I put my arms around him as I taste his mouth, slowly, tentatively at first. As tentative and almost clumsy as the setting up of a scene, as the first touches before sex. Exploring a little, skimming the surface, hoping for the treasures to come, but not pushing it, not yet. The taste of the water now beading on his skin has a hint of salt from his skin. My hands trace the smooth hardness of the muscles of his back, moving down to trace the muscles of his ass, and I feel them flex under my touch.
Morgan's response is gentle, his return kiss simply an acceptance of what I give him. His arms come around me and I move forward into him, chest to chest, body to body. His arms close against mine, and I delight in his strength against mine. The kiss deepens on his part, and now it is I who respond. He kisses me deeply, his tongue just brushing my teeth, against the ridge of my gums.
He turns us, and the water comes down between us, flowing and caressing us with its warmth. I close my eyes against the stream that trickles from my hair. The hair on his chest prickles against the smoothness of my skin. Water runs over my back and legs, I feel it catching and spraying from where elbows and arms meet, at the junction of our torsos. To get closer to him, I tuck my face into his neck and hold him close as he holds me close.
Safety in strength, safety in familiarity, safety at home...
Warm, relaxing darkness.
The next thing I know, Morgan's arms are painfully tight around me. "Wake up." he says, shortly, and shakes me hard, once.
"Yes, sir." I find myself slurring the words a little and sigh.
Morgan opens the door to the shower, and the mist in the bathroom swirls away from the motion. "Stand here." he leans me up against one of the walls of the shower and dries himself off. Then with quick, ready strokes, he scrapes most of the water off of me with one hand, then he pulls out a brown towel and dries me off more thoroughly. The rough texture of the cloth brings the warmth back to evaporation chilled skin.
He takes my hand and leads me to the bed.
Morgan pulls the covers aside, and puts me down on the soft, flannel surface. Familiar, worn leather cuffs wrap themselves around my wrists, and two clicks and my arms are spread. The stretch feels very good. Simply the feel of the cuffs stirs me, makes it hard to swallow, quickens my breathing. I test the tension and feel the muscles pull and relax all across my arms and chest. "Very good." he whispers, "Again, my Horse, again." So, looking up at him, I pull again at the cuffs, hands clenched into fists, making my biceps tight and hards. A finger traces the edge of an arm, and I gasp at the feather light teasing.
He is in a teasing mood tonight, or, perhaps, an exploring mood, each and every inch, detail, and feature, he goes over with his hands, sometimes with his mouth. The soft, wet carresses make me gasp, and tug. Long strokes along long muscles, tender caresses of lips and fingertips, the bone deep massaging of his hands makes me limp again. Back and forth, he plays me, plays my body. Never so slow that I drown in my tiredness, never so fast or hard that I can even dream of cumming. He gradually builds the tensions until I feel a sheen of sweat all over my body, until my breathing is deep and hard. I can smell my own sweat, smell the arousal in him, in me. The room simmers with the musk, and my cock is so stiff it's almost touching my belly.
His hand grasps my cock. I cry out at the direct contact and twist involuntarily, thrusting against the touch. He chuckles, breathlessly, and rides my buck easily, making sure I get no more friction than the initial contact. The touch turns cold and then I realize that he is applying lubricant to my cock. Cool, cold gel that serves to make the pressure just a little less urgent; the phyisical pressure that is. I look up at him with wide eyes, wondering what's going on. And then I don't care anymore as he accepts me within him.
Tight, so tight.. and softer than I remembered. The ring scrapes against the stiffness of me, and Morgan moans as he comes down, all the way, onto me. He half falls forward, his hands on my chest. Two hard, almost hurting amounts of pressure on my chest, one still cool, still moist with the gel. I feel his heels dig into my flanks, and his weight shifts back, buring me more deeply within him as I moan at the weight, at the friction against the inner skin of my cock. I can feel him trembling as he moves up on my impalement of him, his face is fierce, concentrating inwardly. He seems almost oblivious of me, and he comes down on me, again, and the world blows away at the movement.
A tumbling chaos of mounting tension, I can hear myself gasping with each stroke. The sound of Morgan's breathing, his moans drive me further, faster, higher, and hotter, as his body begins to meet mine. The tension in my groin, in my legs, in my arms builds and builds and builds, until my head is back, eyes closed, fists clenched, teeth clenched, my heels hooked against the bottom edge of the bed; and I'm just barely conscious enough to hold myself in.
I hear Morgan's voice say something, but it's not until he repeats himself, his body stilling, that I understand what it is that he says. "Say please."
A grinding of mental gears, pulling me back from the edge. Regaining control of my voice, I sob a breath, and then whisper, "Please." He only strokes once. Something deep and hot comes to the surface, making me groan with it, something bittersweet with despair and surrender. I twist under him, but he rides me easily.
"Please." Again.
"Please." He moves again.
"Oh, Raven, Morgan... please, Master, PLEASE..." two more strokes, and I start to just babble, pleading for each stroke, each caress, each touch requiring a surrender from me. Tears start to flow hot from the corners of my eyes, and I'm not sure why. I close them. With each please, I can feel him tightening on me, stroking me deeper and harder within him. The rhythem he puts to me, starts to take me over, reducing my vocabulary to nothing but grunts and cries; but he keeps going until I'm blind with the sensation, and my limbs are trembling with the buildup of tensions.
"Go, Horse, go..." he says in the language of my childhood, and I obey, surrendering my body to his ministrations, completely. Losing all control as I explode in a bucking, crying orgasm. He even rides the orgasm, pushing my body into helpless spasms until I'm sobbing for breath, for orientation. Each spasm cracking the ropes from my wrists to the legs of the bed.
When he finally stops, I drop into the now damp heat of the bed. The softness of the flannel pillowcases strokes my sweat damp face and neck. My breath still shudders from my body, but it begins to slow. I feel his hands at my crotch, with Kleenex, and then wet wipes; but it fades in and out as I fade into sleep.
------------ Quarterhorse wi.109@wizvax.methuen.ma.us
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