Date: Mon, 30 Dec 2002 14:37:56 -0500
From: Cyprien Reed <reed@dreamwriter.us>
Subject: RECOLLECTION - a new story

WARNING: This story contains explicit information involving alternative
sexualities. Do not read the contents if they will offend you. If accessing
this story causes you to break local laws (village, town, city, county,
province, state, or country, etc.), please leave now.

RECOLLECTION

You and I dance at a dinner party at The Peggy (Guggenheim) as though we
have always danced together.  That we are both men means nothing to anyone
except us.  The lighting makes this Sargent's Venice, verging on the
abstract, and your coloring is brilliant against formal clothes.  I notice
a Frenchman watching us closely.  He is confident, comfortable with
himself, more elegant than handsome.  From time to time, he touches his
lower lip absently with beautiful hands.  Hunger energizes his attention,
but I can't tell which of us he wants, and I don't think the answer is
important.

At our table, I am seated beside my old friend Elizabeth, a writer with a
more refined eroticism than my own and a fondness for latex gloves.  She is
intentionally striking in black velvet cut so low I can almost see her
nipples from certain angles.  Planned, of course, and executed with style.
We talk about writing, men, dreams.  She engages me, but I'm covertly
fretting about having lost a good cuff link. I'm also watching, with
delight, an electric conversation between you and Elizabeth's lover, Clark.
I want you and Clark to love each other as much (and as differently) as I
love each of you.  I want you to make love together (though I don't believe
he makes love to men).  Seeing your faces so nearly touching intoxicates
me.

The only respectable way to release myself is to move, so I invite
Elizabeth to dance.  She follows with as little thought as I lead.  We
stride together in wide, satisfied arcs, though the music is too restrained
-- I want masks and sweat and bad, smoldering jazz played by men past their
prime.  I want you.  When we return to the table, my missing cuff link
rests atop a folded napkin at my place.  I look up to see you pressing
through the crowd, a perfect French hand at the small of your back.

"No!" I exclaim under my breath, but Elizabeth widens her eyes and offers,
"Let him go, what difference does it make?"  She's right; I know you'll be
back.  "Come on," she adds, "Clark and I will walk you to your hotel if
you'll get us some better champagne than this."  Contented again by motion,
we amble through the translucent night. When we stop to buy a bottle, Clark
argues with me about who will pay. I win.

The rooms you and I share are on the top floor of La Fenice, that little
hotel right behind the opera house.  Elizabeth says they're stuffy, so we
open the windows to the night air. We're laughing quietly, remembering why
we're so fond of each other, when we hear the performers talking as they
spill out the stage door. A bass and a tenor begin a playful goodnight to
each other as they walk off in different directions.  One sings in Italian;
the other responds in French as their voices trail further and further
away.  I send Elizabeth and Clark home, undress, and bathe in the dark.
.......

You smell of sex when you wake me.  Your lips are full, wet; your kisses
hot, your skin so warm you give off light.  I roll onto my back and try to
release myself to you, feeling the words stretch across my mind, "let go,
let him, let him, let him."  You bite my throat; your teeth penetrate our
kisses, you grip the muscles in my upper arms, let go, then push hard
against my chest, raising yourself above me until your arms are straight.
You curl your abdomen and pull your knees up by my sides, try to draw my
soul out through my mouth, and lower yourself without flinching onto my
upright cock.

"Oh yes," I sigh.  And your face says you've arrived home.  I can't
continue to let go; I have to start taking.  I lift up enough to drip
saliva onto your cock, which I begin to stroke with my right hand.  It's
beautiful, smooth, proud.  I wet my left hand and start to massage your
balls, gently at first, then tugging at the skin.  Kissing, licking,
biting.

"Turn around so your back is to me," I tell you urgently, "but don't let me
come out of you."  You use your heels to rotate your body on the axis of my
cock.  It feels incredible to be so solidly against the base of you, your
weight concentrated on my pelvis.  Once you've turned , I pull you back
onto my chest, staying inside you.  I stroke your abdomen, run my fingers
up and down the sides of your torso, squeeze your hip bones, taunt your
nipples, all the while pumping slowly in and out of your ass.  I take your
cock in one hand, your balls in the other, stroking, kneading,
caressing...pumping.  Your head is just below my chin; you turn your face
toward mine.  By straining, we can reach each others' mouths.  Yes, yes,
you are hot, wet, frantically hungry.  I lift you up by your hips, then
pull you back down to churn my cock into you.  You begin to stroke
yourself.  Our kisses are unending, we breathe in gasps.  You're crying
out.  I keep lifting you, then forcing you down hard onto me.  You're
calling, "oh god, oh god."  Your whole body is trembling.  I lift you with
my pelvis so that both our backs are arched.

"Yes, let me!  Yes.  Yes!"  Your body breaks into spasms, jerks, twitches.
I wrap my arms around your chest and hold you as close to me as I can until
they subside.

I roll us over so that you're on your stomach, and I'm on top of you.
Biting hard into your neck, I pull out, slowly and turn you onto your back.
There are tears in your eyes.  I hold your gaze.  I put your feet firmly
against my chest as I mount you, pushing your knees against your chest to
give me maximum access to your ass.  I enter you again all the way to the
base of my cock, holding your eyes.

"You are so beautiful," I whisper.  I have never been this deep inside you,
never felt you this open, this willing.  Long strokes, rolling my hips when
I'm farthest in you, pulling you as hard to me as I can.  Touching your
face, finding you behind your eyes, whispering to you, holding you, cumming
inside you, cumming, cumming.  Inside you...over you...surrounding
you...close to you...close again...close.

I unfold you, stretch your limbs, run my fingertips along them, along your
torso, turn you onto your side and spoon myself behind you. You are
motionless as I pull the covers over us and kiss the marks I've left on
your neck with all the gentleness I know. The last thing I feel is you
taking my hand between both of yours and pressing it to your heart.


Please feel free to send comments to reed@dreamwriter.us