“All right, are we in character or out of character?”
He laughed. Softly. “We’re discussing Boethius. It’s your call.” Boethius is not usually so amusing, but this time I think I want to make an exception.
He’s a blonde. I’ve always had a weakness for male blondes. Maybe it’s because they remind me of elves.
I really don’t want to talk about Boethius.
He held out his hand, and asked, “May I have the honour of this waltz?”
*
It’s so seldom that you can find a partner to do ballroom dancing. Courtly dances are one thing – half the role playing gamers in my social set are medieval re-enactors, and many of them are in the SCA, so dancing is actually a cool thing rather than something to be ashamed of – but waltzes, fox trots, and the like are another matter entirely. I wasn’t very good at waltzing, actually, but waltzing gave me an excuse to touch him, and I like to touch people when I flirt; the physical contact is nice. I let him guide me to the dance floor, but once we were in the middle of the room, I took the lead. I’m better when I lead.
He kissed my hand. Electric shock.
“The whole room is staring at us,” I murmured, and giggled. “We’re causing a scene.”
“And?”
I giggled again. “I’m supposed to be married!”
“The same could be said for certain other celebrities I know of…”
“Was that in character or out of character?”
He smiled. Blue eyes. Blondes with blue eyes are the worst. They make me drool. Actually, I don’t think it was just the fairness, because I’ve seen a few dark-haired beauties as well, with eyes to match; I think it was his girl-like thinness. There’s a certain sort of androgeny possessed only by elves and Goths, and he had it. No fair. “It’s your call.”
The music built to its first of many miniature crescendos. “I can’t really tell anymore.”
“I want you to kiss me.”
Were it not for the music, I think I might have stumbled. That, and the game – a game makes every bizarre social interaction go so smoothly. Such a lovely little icebreaker. I moved for his lips, lightly brushing their warmth, tasting his breath. I wanted more, and pulled him closer. We had stopped moving, were standing in the middle of the empty dance floor, two skeletal figures wrapped in stiff costumes and makeup. He was warm in his formal garb, the black velvets and brocades and laces bought on sale…I brushed his cheek, then gently drew his neck toward my mouth. Must make a good show if we’re going to do this right. Oh, I’m going to do penance for this one later. The carotid artery is easy to find; it’s beating. If you’re going to do something, do it right. Waste not, want not. All work and no play makes Johnny a very dull boy. His pulse is throbbing through his thin, soft skin, and he tastes of sweat. Oh, sweet.
He gasped, and pulled away – hey, he’s not supposed to do that; oh, well, we’re in public anyway – and then began kissing me. little kisses, tiny kisses, all down my neck. Oh, hell. I can see what’s coming. What the heck, he’s cute, this is fun, and it’s probably very entertaining to the people mixing and mingling around us.
He bites. And despite myself, I cry out.
“I think we’re going to need a room if we keep this up,” I say at last.
“Do we have a room?”
I’ve been alone for the past two weeks; I will be alone for another month. “Yes, we have a room.” Nervous laughter. “I think we’re being stared at.”
“Then we should probably get a room soon.”
“Probably.” I straighten, brush off my clothes, put the mask back on. “Now I *must* attend to my guests.”
*
He drove me home. Our hands brushed in the car, barely, shyly, knowing how much more could be done. My housemate had already returned home, and gone to bed. Tiptoe up the stairs; he’s a light sleeper, mustn’t wake him.
The bed dominates my room.
“Would you like to sit down?” I ask. It’s my room. He moves toward the bed; I reach for him in the dark, holding him tightly, feeling the bones of his body through the layers of fabric; push him down onto the bed underneath me. I want to feel what’s underneath those clothes. Seek out his tongue. It’s there. Quite expertly, too. His hands move against my somewhat thinner and more modern layer of lace and moire taffeta, pressing at my breasts. I know this is a game; I want more, he wants more. I know him, he knows me. We know each other. Why else would we be here?
God, his pulse is loud.
“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” he asks. He’s not as cool as his words might have originally came out. A point for me.
“And you?”
He smiles, and bares his neck, giving me only part of the answer I wanted. A point for him. Such soft skin. How could his neck be so soft? Sweet. I kiss, nip, tease, feeling the warmth of his pulse, exploring his reactions. He’s teasing me, too. I can’t do this indefinitely. I bite, tasting the sweetness and urgency of what I crave under that flesh, coaxing it out. Only a tiny nip, a slight noise of impatience or shock or pain from him, just a second and a tiny hint of silver underneath my tongue. It’s like sucking on a teenager whose teeth are still in braces. But it’s warmer. You don’t fall into a mouth full of braces. I could fall into him forever. He stirs underneath me. His hips are moving against mine; I wonder if he’s aware of it, his movement, his hardness. He probably is. He’s breathing in short, ragged gasps; I start to break free, to kiss his mouth again, bite those lips, but he tastes so good…but then, my hunger can wait. We have a whole night. I kiss him on the mouth, wondering at him, wondering. He is a very experienced kisser. I could get used to this. I’m hungry. I like the way he feels.
“My turn,” he gasps, and takes me, me still lying on top of him, grappling with his limbs. I’m melting. Wait, that’s the Wicked Witch’s line, that’s already been used. I guess I won’t be very original tonight. He’s caressing me with his teeth, gently burrowing into me, riding the crest of my pleasure, then pulling back and sucking gently with his mouth. I know the technique well. I admire his. One point for him. Now he’s going deeper.
His free hand is stroking me, feather-light, all up and down the frame of my body, playing lightly with my nipples, squeezing when my reactions show that this gets a pleasureable result, sharp tingling pain that runs through my nerves and turns to pleasure like quicksilver. I don’t know what to pay attention to, his hand or his mouth, or the breath that tickles the back of my neck. Now I’m bucking against him madly. If only we were naked. “Touch me.” My voice is sharp, desperate, strange to my ears. He ruffles up my skirt, moves his hand underneath it. I’m a river. Breathe on me and I’m sure to orgasm.
He makes his move just as his fingers gently brush against the wet lips of my cunt; I scream. It’s distracting to come; my orgasm takes me away from him, forces me into a wave of utterly solitary pleasure. I want it to go on, to forget all. He’s inside me, I don’t know how many fingers. I wonder how much I’m bleeding. Probably not that much. Biting never goes deep enough to draw much blood, if it’s done right. I wonder if he’s smiling.
“More,” I murmur, “more.” The bone-spiltting waves have subsided into stubborn tremors. “More.”
“You want more?” He pulls out a knife.
“Is that thing sharp?”
“Very.” He demonstrates on the laces of his shirt. Effortlessly.
I’m salivating. Sharp blades always seem to do this to me; I think it’s a conditioned response. You might as well ring a bell.
“I think we’d better get our court garb out of the way.”
It’s odd; all of a sudden, we’re both shy. I’m almost tempted to turn my back to let him disrobe in modesty. “Those laces are ruined,” I whisper as I pull them loose. Pull off doublet, shirt, trousers. Black velvet, blacker in the close darkness. Every man looks good in Cavalier garb. He’s as skinny as he looks; almost skinnier than I am. I trace his ribcage with silent awe. Half dressed, I move away briefly to crank open the window and pull back a curtain, enough to let in some much-needed fresh air; moonlight pours in. He’s so still. I let him watch while I remove my own undergarments.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
He says nothing. We reach for each other. Both our hands are trembling as we caress each other. Shy bodies.
“Who – ”
He hands the knife to me. No other words are needed. “Ladies first,” he breathes. The knife is sharp; it cuts me, though not as gently as I’d like. I suck my hand. “My razors are behind me; I’d rather use them if you don’t mind…” Razors are more sterile, anyway; you only use a razor once. I think I can tear myself away from his embrace for just long enough to get a razor from the discreet little plastic container on my nightstand.
He sucks on my hand while I fumble for the box of razors. It’s distracting. I wonder if he thinks I taste good. I think I taste thin and watery, but to each their own.
His flesh is white in the moonlight. So is his hair. “I trust you,” I whisper, caressing the slim expanse of his shoulders. So beautiful. “Do you – ”
“Yes,” he replies, and kisses me on the mouth again before offering me his back. I can see his spine.
This one needs a light touch. I couldn’t use his knife on him, any more than I could use my sewing scissors; it would be too brutal. I cut gently, on the shoulder, noticing that he has scars in his flesh, not too many, just a few. There’s one shaped like a cross beneath the cross-mark I make, and I wonder for a crazy second what would happen if I decided to play naughts and crosses on his back. He is silent, unflinching. He has more nerve for this sort of thing than I do. I don’t think about it; the blood has risen to the surface, sweet wine, and I don’t want to distract myself worrying about my own squeamishness regarding pain. He’s delicate, delicate as his features, not quite as thin as I am. It’s fire in my mouth. I’m moaning. He can’t hold me, but he takes my hand in his and strokes it gently, kissing the knife mark over and over again. My right hand plays with his nipple. I’m not paying much attention to what I’m doing; the blood tastes too good. I always have a hard time tearing myself away from it. I pull away, but when I see that there’s a little more left, I just go right back. Why waste anything?
My hand has wandered a little. He’s wet at the tip of his penis. It helps my hand slide down easier. His blood runs faster; I can hear his heart beating. I force myself away from the bleeding cross on his back and pay attention to a more normal lust.
He gasps. “God, that’s good…” I have to be careful if I’m going to drag this out. I wonder how long I can last. It isn’t as fun when they come after just a few seconds, but when I tease I end up getting jaw-ache.
He caresses my back, plants kisses down my spine, lying down behind me. He’s playing with my butt. He would go for the sensitive spots. His hands find a few places that get loud moans out of me. Then he stops – no fair, I was enjoying that – and I almost don’t notice it when he cuts me. It hurts, but not as much as I thought it would. I guess I’m just not used to being on the receiving end of a blade. I give him credit, he managed to be quite sneaky about that, I was really dreading it…I feel his lips wrap around the wound. He’s good at this – it doesn’t hurt. I have to lift my head to gasp for air. It’s getting dizzy down here. He’s also doing interesting things with his fingers, again; doesn’t he ever tire out? I wish I could pay attention to him – every time I get close to orgasm I drop the ball, it’s so distracting. I imagine what the blood looks like on my buttocks, running down my flesh. If I could reach it I’d take a drink. Red on white. I start to cry out with orgasm, and stifle myself with my hand and the duvet, because I can’t wake up my housemate. It’s so frustrating to not be able to scream.
It’s not the blood that makes me orgasm. I do not have a blood fetish. I just like it a lot.
Oh, this is going to get messy.
One of his thighs is underneath my head. I take my own razor, cut him slightly where I don’t think there’s an artery. He gasps, but my mouth is on him, stifling the pain. I want more. It’s so close to his privates. I feel the heat emanating from him, the desire and need that pulse underneath my hand, mirrored in the blood that oozes under my tongue. Hot blood. Single minded. He’s going to come. I don’t want to waste it; I switch from the cut on his thigh to the head of his cock before it happens. I hate cold sperm.
We lie there on the bed, gasping, shy again. It’s a shock, the intimacy we shared. We barely know each other, except from corresponding online and occaisionally interacting in character – this feels like it ought to be unreal, only it isn’t. Maybe it’s because this was unplanned. The sheets are a mess, I’ll have to soak them in cold water before I wash them. We caress each other, pull each other up to meet each other’s faces again. I love his soft throat, the lack of hair on his cheeks. He must have been teased horribly about his features when he was an adolescent. I hope he realizes how lovely he is now, now that he is in a better environment and older. He feels fragile. So must I. I kiss him; his breath is sweet. Kiss his face, all over its lovely expanse; kiss his hair, his eyelids. Wondering.
They are all so beautiful, and so few of them know it. It hurts.
I press my forehead to his, stroking him gently, breathing in his breath, reacquainting myself with the gestalt wholeness of his being, feeling the tingle as his essence begins to rush through me veins in earnest. Feeling him rouse again. Feeling him enter me. We clutch each other tightly, as if we can fuse into each other if we just put ourselves together in the right way. Maybe we can. It feels like we can. It feels right.
(copyright 1997 by Sarah Larned Maddox Dorrance)