Vignette

Let's set the scene. It's dark outside and there's a thunderstorm. Inside it's dark and the air smells of incense and cigarettes. It would be cloying except you've got the windows open and the green, wet smell of the storm is coming into your room.

Dozens of candles cover the flat surface of your bureau, their light reflected in the mirror which is tinted amber with age.

You press play and the music starts. Hypnotic techno with a faint middle eastern flair. You could almost imagine nubile young women bellydancing before you, using their eyes seductively in a silent Siren song. But tonight all the young women in the world can't distract you from what you're really after. The boy -- the man caught between a boy and a man, really -- who lies in wait for you has your full attention.

The antique, four-poster bed has been draped with sheets and curtains, producing a sort of tentlike appearance and adds an extra layer of privacy. The sheets and makeshift bedcurtains and pillows are all in deep jewel tones: ruby, emerald, saphire, jet black, and rich saffron.

The boy is on his back, naked, half dozing. His right arm is folded beneath his head and his left hand holds a cigarette to his lips. His eyes are closed and his hips move slightly in time with the music. This last is an unconscious motion, bourne of an inability to sit still and an inherent sexuality he doesn't always seem to realize he possesses.

You watch him for a moment, your own arousal increasing, your erection uncomfortably confined. So you undress, silently, needlessly afraid that if you make a sound you'll startle him and destroy this fragile scene.

The smoke he exhales seems to move in slow motion and as you watch his lips and his hips you begin to stroke yourself.

"Why don't you do that over here?" he says in a husky whisper. So you climb onto the bed with him and you kneel over him, your legs spread, knees pressed against his outer thighs. He stubs out his cigarette and props himself up on his elbows, just a little, so he can watch you play with yourself.

You watch his face and he watches your hand as you stroke slowly, teasingly. This is for show and not release so there's no urgency -- no desire to rush. He's watching every movement. Studying the way you grasp, the speed of your hand, the way your thumb rolls across the tip and then hooks down to squeeze tighter. He's memorizing each spot you linger over and the way you run your nails across each sensitive area. He will remember this later.

"Stop," he whispers eventually, his cock hard and tight beneath you. You lean forward to kiss him, grinding slowly against him. The soft moan against your mouth is like music. His fingers searching for purchase, massaging down your back, pressing into your flesh, his nails leaving crescent-moon marks as his hips raise and his tongue slips past your lips to meet yours.

You sit up, grinning impishly and he blushes darkly, averting his gaze. He allows you to raise his arms over his head, where you make use of the multitude of curtains and sheets, binding his wrists, tethering him to the posts.

Slowly, starting with that mouth you've been watching, you kiss him. Working down slowly, savouring every inch of skin, touching your tongue to each freckle and scar, pausing briefly to tease and suck each nipple before making your way lower until you feel his cock pressed against your throat. Swallowing, feeling your adam's apple roll over, hearing his soft gasp at the flicker of pressure.

Dipping your head, licking teasingly, tongue rolling around the head of his cock, then drawing him in, staying near the tip, keeping your movements small and the pressure light, your teeth grazing against the sensitive skin, shivering with each soft sound or sharp intake of breath your actions cause. In a perfect world this would go on forever, but selfishness and desire eventually take over and you suck harder, drawing him in completely while your hands stroke and explore, massaging and squeezing, nails raking across tender flesh. Your fingers work your way inside him and the shudder that runs through his body and causes him to force his cock deeper into your mouth is worth it.

With your tongue pressed hard against the underside of his cock, you can feel when he gets close to orgasm. In a split-second decision you pull harder, fingers moving in deeper, urging him closer, pulling him over the edge so his come fills your mouth. You swallow hard, tongue moving quickly to catch what you can't swallow. The whimpers and moans that escape your lover's mouth nearly cause your own orgasm so you concentrate on the music, forcing yourself not to hear his gasps.

Kissing him again, passing a small amount of his come from your mouth to his, exploring his mouth with your tongue as your cock presses slowly into him. Unprotected, but with him you know you're safe. He isn't like anyone else. He is yours and you are his and you remind him of this with each thrust that sends you deeper into him. He struggles against the sheets that still bind his hands, wanting to touch you. Instead, his legs wrap around yours, then move higher until his legs are wrapped around your waist and he's pulling himself up against you.

Your bodies pressed together, a second, smaller orgasm shivers through him and you feel his come against your belly. With one final thrust that forces a cry from your lover you tumble over the edge, coming inside him, shivering with the sudden release and the swrapirapidly cooling your skin.

The CD has stopped. You untie his hands and instantly they're on your face and in your hair, touching and kissing and clutching at you. His face is salty with tears and you kiss and lick them away. "I love you," you whisper against the soft skin of his neck as he kisses and cries in your hair.

"I know," he whispers. "I know and I love you."

The words will never be more true than they are in that one moment, but in your heart, you hope they will be.