Date: Fri, 10 Feb 2012 13:48:01 +0100
From: Malwina Piotrowska <haneganai@hotmail.com>
Subject: No Names

Claimer: All the characters in the story belong to me.


<b>No Names</b>

----

You're on a business trip in an unfamiliar city, meeting long over and a
whole lot of time on your hand before the conference tomorrow noon. It's
evening still, the sun down for hours, weather relatively warm for
December. You wander the streets aimlessly looking for something to kill
time with unwilling to just sit around in your hotel room, but for an hour
nothing spikes your interest. No bars you'd like to enter; no restaurants
or clubs. Nothing.

That is until your eyes encounter a bright blue butterfly neon sign
inviting you wordlessly to have some fun together. It's your gut that tells
you to follow the blue light and that's as much coaxing as you need; your
gut never failed you after all.

The club looks shady, but what the hell. You walk down the stairs into the
dimly lit interior. It looks reddish mostly because of the light, but you
can't be sure, black furniture only adding spices to the semidarkness. It's
a strip club, you notice with amusement and a gay one to boot, a stage
popping out in the middle starring a pole. An <i>artist</i> just finished
his show, the crowd gathered at the foot of the stage catcalling and asking
for more.

You join the catcallers taking a stool somewhere at the front of the stage
as soon as a space opens and then you wait. The light changes making the
interior look blue now and for a brief moment you wonder what other colors
they have in waiting. The beat shifts as well; bass harder on the ears and
reverberating through your chest, music sensual and promising, with a
distinct vocal that doesn't reach your ears. It doesn't need to.

As soon as the next stripper struts down the stage you know that this is
the show you were meant to see. A one in a lifetime. A tribute to your gut.

The man looks young making you wonder for a second if he's actually old
enough to be here, but there's something in his stance that assures you
that he's legal. And even if he's not of age, you don't care. He's a beauty
you're willing to get a sentence for.

Still, there's maturity and experience in the way he struts down towards
the clients. There's self-confidence in the smile he flashes around,
awareness as if he knew well that it was for him that the crowd gathered at
the foot of the stage every night. <i>He knows his assets,</i> you think,
<i>and how to use them to his advantage. </i>

The man is dressed somewhat inappropriately for the stage as if he was just
swooped off the street on his way back from a party; his feet are bare and
for the first time in your life you find yourself thinking of feet as sexy;
black, fingerless gloves move invitingly over a lean upper body snuggly
covered with a simple white shirt, a black vest thrown over it, the shirt
left untucked and you can clearly see why – the jeans the man is
wearing are such a tight fit they look like a second layer of skin. And
they leave very little to imagination.

You skim over his voluptuous body and feel your mouth watering and drying
at the same time. You'd eat him right here right now if not for the scenery
and other men as taken with the stripper's exquisite beauty as you are. You
beat down the sudden and completely unreasonable sting of jealousy and
watch further as the man starts moving slowly to the beat.

You notice skin white as marble, untouched and untainted; a long bare
neck. Prominent cheekbones, a cute nose and peachy lips you'd love to
capture with your own. Eyes dark in the dim, blue light, yet still
captivating, betraying experience and lustfulness. Interest even. Hair a
matching dark color, but more brown than black; curly and chaotic, but in a
good sense of the word, giving the man a disheveled, downright sexy look.

But it isn't just his looks, you notice in appreciation. His moves match
the rhythm of the beat perfectly: slinging out his hips just enough,
gesturing with his arms as if inviting the crowd to join him. God, how
you'd love to take him up on that invitation.

One hand on the metal, other on his hip he circles the pole presenting the
main dish. Oh how you love the delicious swing of his ass, that round,
perfectly shaped bubbly butt that you wish to get your hands on. After a
round he slides down the pole, back against it and legs spread and you
thank whatever gods exist for sitting at the head of the stage with the
best available view.

You're amazed at how something in your groin tightens <i>just at the very
sight</i> of the stripper's clothed crotch.

And it's then, as you lick your drying lips, that your eyes meet and an
electric shock runs through your body. All lightning struck and baffled.

Enchanted.

As if he cast a spell on you you're unable to tear your eyes away from him
even for a second. You just sit there, cock hardening with his every
glance, ready to climb on the stage at the first inviting notion he might
make. But he never does, dancing his clothes off and wallets clean for the
patrons that seem to maintain enough coherency to slip the man bills or
call encouragements.

You can't care about that though; you're trapped in a world consisting only
of you two, in a world that it's for you that he flexes his muscles in the
most endearing way, bending and then snapping back; treating the pole much
like you'd treat a lover twisting around it, writhing and wrapping his legs
only to lean back and stare at you upside down with a smile that burns into
your retinas. In a universe where it's for you that he sheds his clothes
one by one; his vest the first to go, unbuttoned slowly and thrown
somewhere into the crowd.

His shirt the one following, deft fingers playing with the buttons as he
dances on the stage, shrugged of his shoulders until he just lets it slide
down his arms and you're burning up for him even more now. Taut muscles on
a lithe body, pale skin gleaming in the light with a sheen of sweat you'd
gladly lick off him; pert nipples that draw your eyes, your tongue out and
licking over your dry lips as you're too far to let it play with the
beautiful nubs.

Sun. He's scorching you and it's much like gazing at the sun from up close
and for quite a long time without anything to shelter your eyes, protect
you from the burn. He's like a magician turning the blood in your veins
into boiling lava with just the intensity of his gaze, with the lustful way
he moves.

<i>And it should be banned to move like that in public,</i> you think for a
brief moment as his body flexes, his hips thrusting in your direction, the
dedication seemingly undetected by other clients. It feels more and more
like a private show designated to torture you, to drive you insane with the
need to touch if even a strand of his dark hair, an inch of marble skin.

Or yourself for the matter. To ease some of the coiling heat.

The man's eyes always seem to return to you, no matter how far bent he is,
how straight, turning or backing up against the pole. Or nearing a client
at the edge of the stage, looking like a prince granting mere peasants a
glimpse of his wealth, forgiving if one of them reaches out to touch
because he knows that they just can't resist. Not him, not his beauty. Even
if all they do is mar his flawlessness.

It's you who minds. You, who'd know better how to touch him,
cherish. Worship the gift he'd offer you. But it's not you he approaches in
his dance and you can hardly stand to watch the blissful expressions the
ignorant fools around you wear.

Jealousy like nothing before burns inside of you with a fire comparable to
the flame he awoke in you with his dance. He is the one at fault for your
loss of composure; he's the one holding responsibility for every hungry,
dirty thought that flashed through your mind since the beginning of the
show.

And he is the one who should pay for that.

When he turns to look your way while stepping closer to some long-haired
blonde it suddenly hits you that he <i>wants</i> you to be jealous, for you
to think of him as <i>yours</i> to have.

He <i>wants</i> you to see how many want him, need him, long for his
closeness, how much they want for him to approach them. He wants you to
because he <i>wants you,</i> you realize.

Even though that knowledge doesn't ease the sting of hatred as the stripper
slides his fingers upwards the blonde's neck and chin leaning in impossibly
close moving away just in time to escape the possibility of a kiss. Much to
the blonde's regret.

You can see it clearly now, how he avoids getting close to you with perfect
grace reserving himself simply to looking at you from a distance and it's a
smoldering gaze he has. You can see how his body drives towards you and
stops at some kind of invisible barrier that only he feels.

You can see all that and yet it doesn't help relieve you. On the contrary,
you feel it more now, more intense, more electrifying and it takes all of
your self-control not to join him on the stage, tackle him down, shed the
rest of the material he's clad in and fuck him there like you both seem to
want to.

You wait, your whole body trailing after him like a compass. Like the
predator that you are hunting down your pray; waiting for it to tire down,
stumble or simply give in. Rigid, but you don't even try to feign
indifference since you want him to know that he affects you, though not how
badly you want him.

<i>I've got it bad,</i> you think when the stripper teases the crowd,
teases you playing with the hem of his jeans, unhooking a button and your
cock twitches beneath the constricting material of your pants. Your breath
catches for the thousandth time that night as the zipper goes down and
there's not even a hint of boxers or briefs underneath.

Mother. Of. God.

It's almost too much for you. You want him to show it all, expose himself
to light, all sublime unmarred marble, perfection personified that you
imagine him to be. You want him to keep the jeans on so none of the others
can <i>see</i> what you want for yourself. You're torn. You're drawn to the
stage pressing closer against its edge.

He notices, licks his lips and drops to his knees and you swear under your
breath realizing that it's you he is crawling closer to on all
fours. You're standing now, but no one notices as you're clearly not the
only one, leaving your chair with little grace as he moves closer.

The lights feel dimmer; music quieter and so seems the crowd, though it's
more like there is no one else. Just the two of you somehow finding
intimacy in the packed club, limiting the time and space to your breaths
mingling on the other's face, eyes meeting up close, hunger hovering in the
air.

You don't know how he managed it, but you're about to <i>burst</i> just
from the sheer <i>proximity</i>. Something you have never experienced
before. You can only guess what it is about him that works you up so
much. It might be his eyes, brown gaze so powerful that you were under
their spell in seconds. It might be his beauty, uncanny, exquisite. Or the
whole package. It's simply <i>him</i>, the aura he has. The way he looks,
works his body to please everyone around and especially you. Deliciously
debauching. Corrupting.

Just like that he owned you. As if, for once, you were the prey.

And as you think the night can't get any better he leans in towards your
ear, all hot breath and a dripping, sweet voice.

"Wait for me at the entrance."

That's all you get, drinking, savoring the words as he crawls backwards
towards the centre of the stage. Backing against the pole before standing
up and dropping his long fingers to his jeans again.

The crowd roars and encourages. You remain silent as your eyes hold cutting
off all the other patrons again.

The material inches lower agonizingly slow stretching seconds into hours of
awaiting the climax. He's just about to reveal the grand prize when…

The music stops with a loud bass, lights explode, fade down and he's gone.

It takes a moment for you to notice, since you were momentarily blinded,
gather your jaw, adjust your pants and leave your place at the foot of the
stage among bravos and calls for more. You're a bit dazed as you head for
the door, passing tables and customers while running his image in your
head, voice in your ears.

You're not nervous or anything. More excited for what might come or for who
was sure to come. A bit frantic as you leave the stuffy, dim club in favor
of clear, night air; your breath turning into vapor, winter cooling you
down slightly. But then he's there and you heat up again taking in the
sight.

He's wearing a lot more now, something you have to blame the season for; a
blue checkered scarf wrapped around his neck, a mid-tight long, grey coat
sheltering him from the cold. His curls are his hat, your hand his glove as
he pulls you for a brief,

"Follow me."

and doesn't let go until you're inside again and the night long past,
turned into dawn.


---***---


"My name's-"

He places his lips over yours silencing you momentarily.

"Shhh. We don't use names around here. With me you have no name. You are
free of such boundaries. You are unrestrained. There's nothing to hold you
back, no responsibilities to control you. You are a tiger outside of his
cage."

"But you need a name to moan." All matter of fact.

"I will call you Tiger then."

You try it on your tongue and he swipes it away with his, wet muscle taking
the words and rolling them with a distinct, cock-tightening ruaw.

"What about you?"

"You want to moan my name? Everyone around here calls me Kitten."

"'Kitten'? You look more wildcat to me."

He laughs at that causing you to smile in return.

"There's more to house cats than you think. <i>Trust me</i>."

He whispers the last two words directly into your mouth in such a way that
you'd trust him with your life.


---***---



You're not sure where he leads you. You couldn't care less about your
surroundings when he tugged you after him with a distinct sense of
urgency. You thought he'd bring you to the nearest hotel – that's what
you wanted to do after all, but there's no reception or lobby as you enter
the building. Just a set of stairs and two pairs of doors on every floor
the two of you pass. And then he unlocks and pulls you inside, hand never
leaving yours.

His place, you guess, but don't waste time looking around. There'll be time
for that afterwards. After you're both satiated and the coil in your gut
eases. After you claim him yours for the night.

After you catch him.

Right now it's he who kisses you first, all delicious pressure and
perfectly fitting curves against the length of your body. His fingers in
your hair, yours on his delectable ass you longed to touch for what feels
like an eternity.

You back him against the wall in a heap of your coats and scarves kissing
the breath out of him, feeding on murmurs and gasps, little
moans. Worshiping his lips, gums, palate; numbing your taste buds with his
rich taste. Forgetting all about air for the moment, or how much you need
to touch more of him before it becomes unbearable.

By the time you pull away you're both a mess, though he's more rumpled than
you which makes you grin smugly.

He nips that smile off as he starts stripping you out of your shirt and
backing from the wall until you're in the bedroom, knees hitting the edge
on the bed before you plop down. He steps back just as you reach out for
him beginning a show for your eyes only. The vest he never had time to fix
falling off first, swiftly fallowed by his half-way buttoned shirt.

You're a bit surprised and more than satisfied to see a stripper want you
that bad, professionalism lost in favor of getting naked as fast as
possible without actually shredding his clothes. He must be getting so many
offers, so many must strive for him, you're sure. Yet it's you who he chose
for the night, you who he took home with you. You: half-naked on his bed
and a step away from your prize.

It flatters you, that he feels the same urgency. Makes the atmosphere in
the room burn your lungs. Makes goose bumps crawl all over your skin as you
anticipate what's surely to come. But you have no need for imaginary
pictures.

This time he pulls the jeans all the way down and then he's standing before
you in all his naked glory. Beautiful, glowing and ready. Perfect just as
you imagined him to be.

He helps you out of your pants, eases down your boxers and makes you thank
whatever gods exist for creating that mouth and for letting you two meet
the way you did. He manages to find all of your weak spots within seconds,
tongue and teeth, wet, tight cavern and skilled fingers. He takes you deep
as he holds you down, fingers digging into your thighs as he swallows
around you dragging a deep, low groan from your mouth.

It's bliss you never knew before, experience you expected and don't want
him to have, it's heaven on earth and you're pretty sure you now know how
paradise feels like even as you're about to enter hell – the heat in
your gut overbearing.

It's too much too fast so you tug him away to see your semen color his
picture-perfect face. He doesn't complain, even smiles up at you as he
licks of the bits that he can reach with his cat tongue. Seeing him
disheveled like this makes you ready to go in a matter of a few lungfuls.

Taking his hand you lead him to stand up in front of you; hard, glorious
beauty straining and rubbing shamelessly against your other hand. He's
so… <i>sybaritic</i>. Pleasant to your senses: his sublime looks, his
sweet taste, his dripping voice, the feel of his delicate skin. His
smell…

You realize that you haven't learned his fragrance yet so you lean in,
licking a long trail upwards from his navel, nuzzling his abdomen with your
nose as you memorize his scent like a dog before hunting. It doesn't seem
to bother him – the fact you're sniffing him like this, learning to
find him in a crowd. It looks like he enjoys it, actually, or your hand
working him harder than before is the only thing he cares about right now.

You rub him until he bucks and stains you white, peachy lips parted for a
long, guttural moan – the kind of sound that makes something tighten
in your groin. He remains upright supporting himself on your shoulder until
his coherency returns and you're done licking him clean.

He looks at you with hunger-dark eyes and orders you around once again.

"Lie down on the bed." He seems to like having you at his mercy, obeying
him. It's not what you usually do, following instructions, but tonight
you're willing to go with it, see where it goes and enjoy it to the
fullest.

"Are you always this bossy?" You ask for the hell of it and future
reference, because you're adamant on making this more than a one night
stand even if you'll have to stalk him at the club. Still, you move to the
center of the bed and then towards the pillows propping yourself
comfortably, eyes never leaving his face. Studying him for signs of desire.

Like slightly rushed breath on parted lips, teeth worrying his lower lip
and tongue licking over it when he meets your gaze, dilated pupils making
his eyes more black than brown.

His erection straining, twitching as he nears you on the bed probably at
the dirty images in his mind that he plans to share with you tonight.

Oh yes, he has it as bad as you if not worse.

"Only when I want something really bad." He replies after a minute long
eternity as he crawls over you, sitting down on your legs and leaning
forwards to nip your collarbone. Your breath catches; more because of his
words and the tone that carried them than the teeth grazing your skin.

He knows his trade; eager hands driving softly over your stomach and chest,
skimming down your sides while his mouth takes a different path going for
your throat. Again you're reminded that he wants to be the predator tonight
and that you'll let him play his game as long as he keeps sucking on your
Adam's apple like that.

One of his hands leaves you and you sense more than feel it moving to the
side. There's a bit of rummaging, but you never look to check too focused
on the wrongdoings of Kitten's mouth. It's strange to think of him as a
kitten when he assaults you like this, leaving little bruises all over your
throat and making you love every second of it. It doesn't fit the image at
all, but you suppose it'll have to suffice for now, forgetting the train of
thoughts altogether when he straightens up on top of you and you see the
tube of lube in his hand.

With a few moves he's turned around, on his knees, bent over your legs and
supporting himself on one arm, fingers twisting in the sheets as he reaches
to his behind with coated fingers, the sudden tension in the room broken by
the groan rumbling through your chest at the sight. Followed closely by
another as the slick digit breaches the muscles it circled and slips inside
all the way in one swift move.

Dear God, what a show.

He's looking at you over his shoulder watching you, but you know that only
because you feel his gaze on you unable to tear your eyes away from the
finger thrusting in an out, in and out, in and out, then two, then three,
the air carrying his wanton voice that wraps around you like a veil
trapping you completely.

And just when you're about to snap and tackle him to the mattress he
extracts his wet fingers with a lewd groan and pushes himself up straddling
your lap and guiding you and <i>oh god</i> you're a perfect fit.

You're lost. Lost in the feeling, lost in the flawless heat that wraps
around you and cuts of everything else, lost in the low, long moan he
releases as he's all the way down and you're all the way in and you buck up
for another inch of sublime.

He holds your ankles and you're propped on your elbow as you move together,
downbeat and grand at first as you hold a hand on his side moving it over
smooth skin; hurried and harder, better, deeper as slow and thorough
becomes not enough.

Then he drops down and stills and he's back to facing you again and it's
pure evil to look so <i>fine</i> when he's riding you as if he'd done it
all his life. His cheeks tinted red and dotted with sweat from effort, his
adorable curls sticking to his face, his neck and shoulders, lips parted as
an escape route for the most beautiful symphony you've ever heard.

Like a concert of classical music the lento he first plays with little
sounds of want and need, masterfully changing his symphony, adding more
variety; notes alternating, becoming louder, urging for deeper for there
and <i>Yes, more!</i>, his trills exalting your pleasure, forcing you to
obey, to follow his lead.

Making you sit up and taste the sounds rolling them on your tongue and
swallowing one by one as they flood your senses and he wraps around you
with his arms holding onto you for dear life. Your fingers dig into the
flesh of his rear lifting him higher and dropping him lower, giving him
more just as he asks you to, granting the wishes that follow.

You'd grant them all, you're sure, already feeling the beginnings of an
obsession. Already certain that you won't let this go after such a
tasting. That you won't release him from your hold until he's embed in your
skin as a part of you.

So you kiss him again for as long as lungs allow, searing and promising,
needy and hungry for more than just this. Singeing your tongue, burning
where your skin touches, but it's such an addictive pain that you'd mesh
with him if you could and you're planning to after this, when you're both
down to earth again.

You push your hips higher; you press him down lower in a continuous,
frenzied rhythm that speaks volumes of carnal.

Until the heat building up inside of you threatens to explode and overcome
so you draw in your legs and push, push, push until you both fall, his back
down on the rumpled sheets as you pump into him furiously and he pumps
himself to the rhythm as his other hand claws at your back and you know
it'll mark and stain red, <i>but you can't care when it's this
<b>good</b></i>.

And you want it to mark and remain as a reminder of this, because it
somehow doesn't seem real and it's too real to comprehend that you're
inside and still lusting for more even when you're just about to blow.

You look at him, <i>look at him</i>, at the eyes half-closed and rolling to
the back of his skull, at the lips parted in an endless cacophony of sound:
curses combining with groans combining with your superficial name for the
night combining with a loud, earth-shattering arpeggio of

"<i>Yes!</i>"

that finishes off broken and torn as still and clutches at you, tears at
you as he burns out and it's a sight so beautiful, <i>empyreal</i> that you
could live the rest of your life on the memory of it alone, feeding on it,
breathing it and renewing over and over and—

And then you're done for arching into him, digging into him to reach and
stay as you shake with the power of the orgasm ripped out of you, just like
the moan pulled from your lips, betraying you at the peak of your
release. Spasm after spasm of liquid fire spreads over every cell in your
body until there's no more life in you to give away and you drop into his
hold.

Your breath mingles in the moist air around you, your body aching just as
his must be especially with your added weight, but you refuse to move,
refuse to leave the heat that held you in so tightly. He doesn't seem
willing to push you out either simply lying here beneath you and getting
drunk on air, though maybe it's the lack of energy you so vigorously stole.

Your lips drop to his skin in a lazy caress, drawing over his clavicles and
neck, throat and chin, jaw and cheeks and the corner of his mouth until he
angles his head and you're kissing him again. Satiated, but still burning
with longing that you can't quite explain.

Not when exhaustion takes over and you fall asleep with his lazy smile as
the last thing that you'll remember.


---***---


The lazy curve of lips if what you wake up to and you wonder if you really
slept or simply passed out. But there's sun threading through the blinds
and over the floor and your body, though sore, is revitalized and ready for
a retake.

The proof of which you rub against his thigh as you lean in for a sweet
good morning.

"No more," He murmurs as you part. but you don't listen simply taking it as
soreness speaking through him. You can go slow and easy on him and you're
willing to show just how slow.

"I'd love to entertain you more, but I have to get up."

"You are up."

"And I can feel that you're all about exploiting the fact, but a shower is
in order as I'm going out in an hour."

You listen, but don't accept his words because you don't want the moment to
end. A staring contest ensues, your smoldering gaze against his patient one
and he wins, obviously – bearing stares of hundreds of hungry clients
every night.

You roll over letting him escape from under you and try your best not to
pout, scowl or let any signs of your displeasure show. It belatedly hit you
– the difference in your worlds, so you just lie there staring at the
ceiling as he kisses your cheek and gets out of bed.

You, a CEO and him – a stripper at a nightclub with thousands of
people passing through every evening.  Many of them probably getting to
touch him, fondle him, some of them much like you and earning a night in
his luxurious arms.

Yet you can't help the unreasonable ache you have for him. You want
something more out of this, something he won't be able to give you. You
can't be the first guy he had, nor the first one who wants him to be
his. And that knowledge burns.

You can't stay here any longer, you can't linger around because it might
end badly. Like this you might still have a chance. If you leave and escape
here, escape the spell he put you under you might be able to put this
behind you. You sit up and look around for your clothes only to find him
watching you with a beckoning smile that makes your groin tighten and the
illusions of escape dissolve.

And you follow him to the bathroom, the stall, the heat and make the best
of what you're allowed to have before you leave. The bruises on his hips
and neck a temporary claim, your kiss a 'see you' more than 'farewell'.

The Tiger-signed card on his nightstand a silent hope that not everything
is lost.


---***---


He is a constant surprise, you decide. Just like he surprised you six
months prior with the strength of his allure, he baffles you now –
even more beautiful in full clothing when he stands in the door to your
office. Uninvited, unannounced and most welcome.

You're confounded, stuck between standing up and sitting down, between
asking how and why. He sees and laughs and the spell is broken and you're
kissing him at the closed door against your better judgment.

But you thought of him night and day ever since you left his bed. Drowning
in possessiveness and dark with jealousy you couldn't help. Wondering who's
he with, who's touching him and bringing him over the edge; if he still has
your card or if he's laughing at your naiveté. Whether he danced that
evening with your marking on his skin.

And now he's here chuckling in the crook of your neck and pushing at your
chest to escape your death-grip.

"Happy to see you too, Tiger." He says when you finally allow him to
breathe. "Sorry to have kept you waiting."

You sit back at the edge of your desk pulling at his hand to keep him
close. You might be using a bit too much pressure on it, but he doesn't
complain. His hold isn't gentle either.

"Why now?" You ask because you have to know. Not how, you don't care about
that anymore. You just want to know a way to place him in your reality and
future and keep him real, not just a daydream.

"I was busy with graduating." He answers matter-of-factly as if his words
made perfect sense.

"Graduating?"

"Yeah, I couldn't go after you before handling school. Would be easier had
you not ran so far away."

"I don't quite understand. What about your… job?"

"Part-time. Danced only a few nights a month. It was fun and paid my
rent. "

Now that's a development you didn't expect so you end up staring at him
hopefully not open-mouthed. And then you laugh at the sheer ridicule of it
all.

And then he's in your lap, pressed and hungry and eating your lips like a
starved animal and you can relate holding him closer, kissing him fiercer
and deeper and more and fuck work and the documents that fly to the floor
as you drop him on the desk without breaking away even for an inch.

You should ask for his name so you can call it properly this time, you
know, but your gut says that you'll have all the time in the world for that
and you know better than to doubt.