Come Here, Rukawa (LEMON)
Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway. (Hindi ako ang nagmamayari ng mga tauhan ng SD, si Inoue ang gumawa sa kanila. Ang mga sumusunod na pangyayari ay hindi kasama sa tunay na istorya pero magsaya ka na lang sa pagbabasa '--')
Summary: Having fun doesn't always have to mean filthy vices and making love doesn't always have to be with women; a realization for someone like Hisashi Mitsui who's been a hedonist all his life. MitRu-RuMit. One shot. R&R.
Warning: For the love of the Lord, be warned; lemon content, quasi-pornographic lines, explicit language, and a whole babble about dirty stuff.
3 things you can find yourself engaged in after practice ran late in Shohoku gym; 1) go home and hole up as usual, 2) extend daily grind hours by staying behind (you don't get paid overtime for winding your spring double times of course) and, 3) find temporary solace or ecstasy in midnight clubs. Number 1's not purchased by my habitual drift lest emergency props up; it's kinda against my religion to be stuck behind my house's entrance door 2 hours before sun up. Number 2's a rare case though I do resort to it more often than not; if I feel like hazing myself to the bone I might as well burrow myself back in the gym and rehearse my shooting range for extra vantage, aside from that, it's not really my fave agenda nor do I deem it rewarding. The last one, however, is another story; sort of a pro forma activity I get myself in the moment Ayako blows the whistle and announces that practice is over. Attending late night bars on a regular day to day basis is something I can't jack in; somehow, I find it as a quintessential supplement to what I give away during school hours, and putting a stop to it could be the nail on my coffin. A very hedonistic vanity I'm nurturing over there. The instinct has been with me since time immemorial; I can't quite recall the times when I fail to indulge myself in excessive pleasures after being pared down in basketball games. It has been a mechanical round about in my life's schedule since going on 16; having a full swing with girls over the tables and tugging them all the way to the nearest hotel buildings to gun away all night. I barely place regards on laws concerning minors, curfews, and all promulgated crap the community applies; and somehow I can always manage to sneak out safely and frolic up to dark. Not that I'm raising my stakes over these notorious exploits, considering my health problems, but sex for me is a vitamin or a mineral that replenishes all energies lost during the previous moments. Honest to goodness, if intercourse as such could just hurt I'd probably be in an ambulance with my breath hanging in a threadbare, and rabbits could just snuff it at the earliest stages. In any case, sex must have a common based dosage to maintain one's figure and drive as portrayed by our most prominent sex gurus. I do have a subliminal, if not truthful, faith in that.
Now since sex itself has somehow stolen its way through this, I might as well boil things down on a personal level, y'know, squabble about the skanks and harlots I've made a pass on. I can't say I remember most of them; probably just a tithe. Not that this lot is worth remembering but sometimes we do tend to keep recollections when we aren't drunk or intoxicated (and yes, I do shoot a lot even if I'm sober), 'ayt ? Women of the ilk are practically homogenized by one outstanding trait (I use 'trait' because it seems that they're like that per se); they'd sleep around for cash. It doesn't count if the customer's looking like a mad dog or a limp string bean or an ancient pedophile or a dyed in the wool nympho or a big shot hottie; they'd probably even hit it with a lesbo. As long as he/she's got dope the ticket is in his/her pockets, follow? So far, customers aren't a spoke. But things become variegated among these lowdown tramps when it comes to 1) looks, 2) attitude, 3) status, 4)age, 5) and performance. The basics. Looks are no problem as long as you're blind (a cataract would do as a defense guard as well); no kidding. An ample of them are netted out from the country's remotest provinces that few of them hardly act as and look like badly tanned, if not unsuccessfully cremated, yokels. A couple could probably pass as roughly hewn human beings, the rest is a forbidden fact. No sugar coating; plainly speaking, 90% are a hideous pack so if looks are what you're after you'd be written off the first minute for sure. Next stop is the attitude; well, most of them are docile as a domestic pup; that's what they get paid for. Still there lingers the recessive allele; one perfect example is the one I did months ago. This woman sure has a foul slit of a mouth on her; always says 'fuck' instead of 'screw' or almost any verb for that matter, it'd take 6 bottles of detergents to clean out that filthy mouth of hers. This is the kind clients should avoid; the mal-educated attitude of such population, a deplorable case. Third is status, which is a little off the line; there's the high class chicks and the euphemistic obituary known as the women in the street, not meaning your average Janes but of course the pick up women. I get a good share of the former when I'm stable and hog the latter when I'm hard up; just your pragmatic way of riding on the turn table. Difference between the classes isn't much of a digit either; if the girl didn't tell you she's from this group you probably wouldn't know till she shows you the bill. I did mention that they aren't the pretty, exquisite crowd of hookers like what you see in the movies such as 'Pretty Woman' and 'Identity' so it wouldn't really get to someone's neck that such distinguishing lines subsist. Fourth is age; I couldn't care less as long as she's not a soggy menopause. Most customers do enjoy their roles, however, if the girl's mature enough to know all techniques. Other than that nothing's really off the hook with older workers; they all have more or less the same size of holes anyway. And last is the performance. Some have infantile experience, some turn you up ok, but most are adept in this filthy profession which is why I change buddies almost every night. Right there is a clue to what I really am; a playbull or just plain bull, like Greg Kinnear's character in the flick 'Someone Like You'; once he's over doing a girl he'd go looking for another whom he hasn't slept with. Angles for multifarious sets of women damn near every night and doesn't like doing things more than once; typical me. But instances crop up when you're starving for one particular worker and that, as far as I'm concerned, is just file. You'll need to screw one girl more than once to get on top of it. If her service is liked by many she'd most possibly be scrapped from the stockroom all the time; so make sure you get to be more intimate with her which is as good as saying bed her as much as possible otherwise you'll miss her menu and come off almost empty handed by selecting from those who're hung out to dry. My thing? Nah. Performance is all I'm over the hill with since I can easily make do with a blindfold. Simply put, there's not much a heavyset excitement or delight in these things; just carnal lust or any sentient urge that'd soon eat itself up like a cannibal is taking over me. I'm probably just succumbing to my hormonal dash or I maybe mentally sick given that I'd rather die than to be a masturbating or a plain celibate. To a lesser or greater extent, there's just nothing anyone could change as one couldn't transform a wind into a ravaging tornado; things for me would go on running like a mill and not stop working out in the appointed end, which tells you why I'm again--for the umpteenth--inside Heartbeat club along Q______ Avenue.
I chose a compartment somewhere in the room's corner spot; a four-seater area. The place is frighteningly caved in, like a secluded underground compound with no virtual ventilation anywhere; makes me wonder where the cold's seeping in or where the hell is the fire exit sign. Basically a place where claustrophobic attacks become prone to patients. Here is like any other club; there're the stairs leading to the rooms in the next floors, restrooms, a flat dance floor, an elevated level in the right wing like the ones in opera houses, and a pole-less stage of about 20 meters as the main attraction. The approximation of the atmosphere is on both ends of the scale; equally extreme with no in-between. Could be carrying the feel of a pre-war serendipity or a post-war toast, something like that; it wouldn't probably make sense to anyone at that after all, I'm that lame at describing feelings. The lights are translucent crimson tooled with dark blue strobes that dance along with the mo town rhythm of the background. Marvin Gaye's record's being played by the band tonight, 'Heard it Through the Grapevine.' 70's blues aren't that tight to me but they sure give one a kick back for relaxation, if ever, I'd rather like to hear from Cheap Trick or Led Zeppelin when we talk about classics or fossils, say. Unfortunately, these guys' pitch doesn't just meet with disco house requirements so Black music are the frontliners to places like this. Music here is a sort of condiment they serve; the whole ambience being the main dish and the women as side ones. If any of the 3's missing; the whole wouldn't probably be considered as a fun place to be; so they're all needed for a more conducive atmosphere. Not too many people are present; familiar faces are visible though, the frequent bar pupils as usual, the dregs of society, and a number of fresh faces with fear printed all over them as if they've been forcefully hauled in front of the club's entrance. They're probably just here for rebellious domestic reasons or in the process of their christening as frequent novices, but then it's not really my business to pinpoint which is the veteran, the amateur, and the mug players. What I'm here for is to get laid as usual. None the more interesting, but here I am.
I drill my pocket for my lighter and puff up a Marlboro Light. I beckon to the waiter and triple my order for White Russian; he seems to be an ok chap, pure character and ageless. Uhmm, ageless because by his looks one could simply negate age's significance; if he says he's 17 everyone would've agreed, if he says he's 26 everyone would buy it just the same. I may want to have the same magic by which any age would just fit me; sounds cool, I could be immune from youth-related protocols if it were me. 5 minutes have passed; my cigarette scalding in half and my wine exquisitely served in an elegant decanter. The place reeks of squalid caprice with some clanky crowd patter to add to the sound pollution, and I'm mingling with it. I may even be a principal part of it in a deeper sense. I gulp down a couple of glasses; the substance isn't fierce enough to send burning sensation down my throat, should've gone for a double cocktail instead. Not that cocktails hit you fast in the head but these stuff sure give a layback relief once they've been given a swig; vodkas sans partners such as this one in my grip only stir a bunch of eddies inside my head, y'know, the dizzying swirls that knock you out almost mechanically after a third shot. And sure enough you'll get a hell of a headache in the morning; a nerve wrecking hangover as how it usually pays off for drinkers. I'm now prodding my third glass with a Pyrex mixer; still no go. I'm trying to rewind my memory lane to envision the women I've slept with just in case they come up to me and lure me under the covers; I could make up a couple of them but none resembles anyone here inside. I wonder if all of them are out on a day off at the same night, likely. I down another glass; one after another till my bill becomes longer and longer and my pocket shrinks to the smallest size it can get. Still no shadow slithering up to me. Doesn't anyone care for a night with me? This is chaos. A legendary devastation in my history book. Sigh. I request for a bag of wasabi chips to kill time with; an empty stomach during intercourse isn't advisable, it reduces appetite in a major scale. I munch on it till no grain sprays out of the bag when inverted and continue to sip alcohol till my cheeks go florid with rising blood and arteries. Then I begin to feel like tumbling headfirst on the table's surface; my neck's rigidity starts to decrease, my shoulders declining in a sloped motion, my eyesight becoming blurred and beady, and my respiration decelerating quickly. Other than the fact that imaginary riffs are assaulting my eardrums, right now I know next to nothing except that the alcohol spirit of the wine is taking its toll on me; not a very friendly way of taking revenge after being decimated to a drop, I guess. I shook my hands in an attempt to produce wavelike radiation through my veins so as to refrain them from being numb but the damn vodka did prick my spot really hard. I strive to find my smarts to pull me out but ideas just don't bounce off and keep on vanishing on thin air. Damn, I feel like a drugged punk.
Somebody's heading this way; a chick or a hooker who's probably able to catch the sound of my honking horn. An un-ceremonial approach from a sleep-over partner but hey, have I got a choice? I can't yet make anything out of this figure going nigh me but I sure can tell she's heating up inside. She fixes herself square in front of me and reclines her back on the wall. My eyes are still dysfunctional; so what I'm literally seeing now is a myopic vision. I can very well identify even the miniscule bits of trash on my table but an inch farther than that, all I can detect are distorted double images and this creature in front of me is no more than a watery picture of a body. Even trying to peep through the fog from my cigarette is kid's stuff compared to trying to see through this heinous obscurity jumbling with my eyesight. But I can feel her presence transmitting something through me, like a moving air that's so positively alluring I could just snag her by the collar and go straight somewhere where we can lay back and undress. My head's still swimming away and all I can feel is the weight anchoring my brain, pulling it vigorously to drown in an unfathomable ocean of lethargy and headache. The person just sits there watching me battle against this evil phenomenon and no matter how hard I try to shout help, my voice only comes out as sleepy yawn. Finally gravity wins over me as the whole of my upper part poises itself to fall down the surface of the table as if I'll eventually pass out and begin to snooze on job. I suddenly feel a hand fondling my back and trying to reclaim my former stance. She lifts me back to assume sitting position; her scent is redolent and somewhat masculine but ensnaring nonetheless, like the type that you'd look for when you're barred inside a dungeon. Really cute smell though. She places an arm around my waist and put mine on her shoulders; only now that I learn she's trying to scoop me up from the bank. By full reach of my awareness, it'll suffice it to say that she's going for a good go with me. I feel myself smiling; a distinctive smile that precedes good sex. I'm not sure why I'm letting this happen all the while when I can't even see what she looks like(not that I care about looks); something inside just tells me that I need to put a bit on the side with this person no matter what. I just have this off-centered hunch for god knows what reason; we're going to f*ck like crazy tonight, mad is it? And here it's been co-opted that we have the same connected intuition 'cos here we are scraping by the stairs for the love rooms. See? It all amounts to the same thing; sex-starved pair on the loose, me being the other half.
I hear a door creak open; next thing I know is I'm on the sheets. I begin to strip; skin to skin, I'm feeling every ounce of heat ricocheting on my layers. I'm still dead drunk and inarticulate but I still do know how to tell if I have a limp or a hard on and right now it's damn the latter. The woman isn't beside me; the sound of the open faucet in the bathroom next door tells she's getting prepped. I close my eyes and rummage through this obdurate headache; I'm meaning to get composed again but it just won't come off, I'm still blind and dumb and hell drunk. A door closes and subtle clunks of footsteps are heard louder and louder. Bed shakes a little. Someone's crawling on top of me; naked, fiery softness producing a hushed friction hovering above me, and a hand-playful, sly thing,- is gently grabbing on my erection. My length's getting stiff each second ,and a desirous moan is leaking out from my breast as I reach climax for the first time of the day. I feel a slow breath against my face and at perfect response, I thrust out my lips to kiss her face, her cheeks, ears, bangs, and lips. I give it further, licking all over her down to her neck; smooth plane against my tongue. She withdraws and puts her fill as an old timer; licks me back all over down to my throat, chest, stomach, until finally going down on me. The way she nibbles on my cock is beyond ethereal physical sensibility; oral stimulation has never been this heavenly, surpassing any elation brought about by vaginal moisture during the methodological process of sex itself. This is the sole and only excuse I can take on getting on top of me; an optimum fellatio. I never place myself under any body lest it be that thing, and mind you what she's doing down there right now is good in every sense of the word. She sure sucks right and not just right as in fine, but admittedly the best one I've had. It's controlled, taken cared of, yielding, and undeniably hardcore. She swallows every drop of my cum every time I come and man, I just love it that way. Most girls would probably rush to the bathroom the moment a modicum of semen touches their tongues and spit it straight on the toilet bowl to be flushed. But this girl rocks hard for ingesting it all. She does all the work, dirty or not, without asking to be reciprocated; it's like she's doing it with a limp blow up doll. Pity I can't return her favors; I'm too drunk to even bat an eye on her. Only one thing's a bit catchy in the scenario though; she's one aggressive bitch, and a little virile in her movements. Whatever; now that my dick's no longer heavy with sticky, oozy fluid, I can doze off comfortably.
...an old man's crouching in front of our garage fingering a car's piston; obviously peeled away from his car's hood to be repaired at once. He's got only a couple of equipment in his oversized engine kit; a screwdriver and a pen knife. How did a pen knife plunder its way through the damn box; don't ask me, I thought it was supposed to be a lock pick or some sort. Anyhow, picture this; a lanky old coot lounging somewhere in front of my house because his wheels just broke down and he's about to fix the third degree damage by excellent use of a screw driver and a pen knife. He says he's a mail man. I don't even know why a mail man would ride on a *Ford 850i '86 model to deliver a fucking letter. But he's into it anyway. He drops the cylinders and turns to me. He's asking for a glass of orange juice sprinkled with raw grains of Chinese rice, about 21/2 tablespoons he emphasizes. When I ask what with the silly grains he just says it'll get the engine working. Without a word, I acquiesce to this and head for our kitchen. I make a glassful of the hilarious recipe. The glass's slippery base slides from my palm and drops---twang...
A dream. It's morning. Limpid sun strokes are permeating through the almost transparent curtain; no lights or lamps on, just the natural clarity sent by the skies is reigning the area. Every piece of furniture of the room is in the right spot as it was yesterday; save that our clothes are draping everywhere. So last night's wild escapade did take place in here. The place is so quiet; a silence that follows a grisly massacre is lingering with the most infinitesimal particles of the bedroom. There's an idyllic air sweeping through the space which seems to spill out from a particular presence inside the room, not mine for sure. A merciless hangover is tormenting the insides of my skull but from its modesty, I know it has quelled down considerably. I search with my eyes (which are now wind down to normal vision); Someone's perched on the sofa bed adjacent to mine. I scratch my lids for a more accurate view. A raven haired, white skinned someone is blankly watching me. Kaede Rukawa. What the fuck is he doing here? Now I'm baffled 11 times. His face is lodged on me; effeminate, scornful visage of the freshman whom I play with everyday. 2 deep blue orbs against my naked torso. He's stripped too; only a pair of red boxers is girthing him. Did I pass on an orgy last night? Was Rukawa with us all the while? Where's the faceless, wonderful woman on top of me? Sigh. All those are nulled by Rukawa's presence in a fast pace. It's crucial to fill in the blanks now.
'Where is she, Rukawa?'
'What she?'
'The woman, asshole. The one who did me last night; where did you hide her?'
'No woman.'
'The fuck d'you mean by 'no woman?'
'No one. Just you and me.'
'You and me? I smell bullshit.'
'You were drunk.'
'Yeah, I fucking know.'
'I brought you here.'
'No bullshit to badness, Rukawa. Answer me; where is she? I need to pay her for last night's great fuck. I know I wasn't dreaming so quit pricking around me.'
'No need to pay me.'
'What d'you mean...'
'We banged away, sempai.'
'Kiss my ass.'
'No woman. It was me, sempai.'
Stillness. No woman. He and I. Last night. Best sex of my life. Hang on; I didn't get to enter her. Just gave me a hand and blowjob. Just that. Enough of the stupid periods. I didn't see the woman's face; there probably wasn't one anyway. But Rukawa. He raped me while I was dead drunk.
'You fucked me while I was asleep, didn't you?'
'...' nods.
'I thought you were a woman and you took advantage of my temporary betise. You senior-raping son of a gun! How can you-'
'You liked it, sempai.'
Me? Liked it? But...On the bright side, it's the best one I've had so far. I Probably even loved it. How did he learn to suck like that? Am I angry? I shouldn't be, perhaps...I should return the favor; it was good, extremely good indeed. Yes, maybe it's my turn to work on him now just for payback. My first time with a male. I don't know how to, but here goes nothing.
'Come here, Rukawa.'
END
A/N: I did put a caution. Please don't condemn me for this. It's un-edited so just ignore the typos and errors. I may want to work on a sequel if it turns out okay but I'm gonna make it discreet and conservative. Thanks for reading.
Summary: Having fun doesn't always have to mean filthy vices and making love doesn't always have to be with women; a realization for someone like Hisashi Mitsui who's been a hedonist all his life. MitRu-RuMit. One shot. R&R.
Warning: For the love of the Lord, be warned; lemon content, quasi-pornographic lines, explicit language, and a whole babble about dirty stuff.
3 things you can find yourself engaged in after practice ran late in Shohoku gym; 1) go home and hole up as usual, 2) extend daily grind hours by staying behind (you don't get paid overtime for winding your spring double times of course) and, 3) find temporary solace or ecstasy in midnight clubs. Number 1's not purchased by my habitual drift lest emergency props up; it's kinda against my religion to be stuck behind my house's entrance door 2 hours before sun up. Number 2's a rare case though I do resort to it more often than not; if I feel like hazing myself to the bone I might as well burrow myself back in the gym and rehearse my shooting range for extra vantage, aside from that, it's not really my fave agenda nor do I deem it rewarding. The last one, however, is another story; sort of a pro forma activity I get myself in the moment Ayako blows the whistle and announces that practice is over. Attending late night bars on a regular day to day basis is something I can't jack in; somehow, I find it as a quintessential supplement to what I give away during school hours, and putting a stop to it could be the nail on my coffin. A very hedonistic vanity I'm nurturing over there. The instinct has been with me since time immemorial; I can't quite recall the times when I fail to indulge myself in excessive pleasures after being pared down in basketball games. It has been a mechanical round about in my life's schedule since going on 16; having a full swing with girls over the tables and tugging them all the way to the nearest hotel buildings to gun away all night. I barely place regards on laws concerning minors, curfews, and all promulgated crap the community applies; and somehow I can always manage to sneak out safely and frolic up to dark. Not that I'm raising my stakes over these notorious exploits, considering my health problems, but sex for me is a vitamin or a mineral that replenishes all energies lost during the previous moments. Honest to goodness, if intercourse as such could just hurt I'd probably be in an ambulance with my breath hanging in a threadbare, and rabbits could just snuff it at the earliest stages. In any case, sex must have a common based dosage to maintain one's figure and drive as portrayed by our most prominent sex gurus. I do have a subliminal, if not truthful, faith in that.
Now since sex itself has somehow stolen its way through this, I might as well boil things down on a personal level, y'know, squabble about the skanks and harlots I've made a pass on. I can't say I remember most of them; probably just a tithe. Not that this lot is worth remembering but sometimes we do tend to keep recollections when we aren't drunk or intoxicated (and yes, I do shoot a lot even if I'm sober), 'ayt ? Women of the ilk are practically homogenized by one outstanding trait (I use 'trait' because it seems that they're like that per se); they'd sleep around for cash. It doesn't count if the customer's looking like a mad dog or a limp string bean or an ancient pedophile or a dyed in the wool nympho or a big shot hottie; they'd probably even hit it with a lesbo. As long as he/she's got dope the ticket is in his/her pockets, follow? So far, customers aren't a spoke. But things become variegated among these lowdown tramps when it comes to 1) looks, 2) attitude, 3) status, 4)age, 5) and performance. The basics. Looks are no problem as long as you're blind (a cataract would do as a defense guard as well); no kidding. An ample of them are netted out from the country's remotest provinces that few of them hardly act as and look like badly tanned, if not unsuccessfully cremated, yokels. A couple could probably pass as roughly hewn human beings, the rest is a forbidden fact. No sugar coating; plainly speaking, 90% are a hideous pack so if looks are what you're after you'd be written off the first minute for sure. Next stop is the attitude; well, most of them are docile as a domestic pup; that's what they get paid for. Still there lingers the recessive allele; one perfect example is the one I did months ago. This woman sure has a foul slit of a mouth on her; always says 'fuck' instead of 'screw' or almost any verb for that matter, it'd take 6 bottles of detergents to clean out that filthy mouth of hers. This is the kind clients should avoid; the mal-educated attitude of such population, a deplorable case. Third is status, which is a little off the line; there's the high class chicks and the euphemistic obituary known as the women in the street, not meaning your average Janes but of course the pick up women. I get a good share of the former when I'm stable and hog the latter when I'm hard up; just your pragmatic way of riding on the turn table. Difference between the classes isn't much of a digit either; if the girl didn't tell you she's from this group you probably wouldn't know till she shows you the bill. I did mention that they aren't the pretty, exquisite crowd of hookers like what you see in the movies such as 'Pretty Woman' and 'Identity' so it wouldn't really get to someone's neck that such distinguishing lines subsist. Fourth is age; I couldn't care less as long as she's not a soggy menopause. Most customers do enjoy their roles, however, if the girl's mature enough to know all techniques. Other than that nothing's really off the hook with older workers; they all have more or less the same size of holes anyway. And last is the performance. Some have infantile experience, some turn you up ok, but most are adept in this filthy profession which is why I change buddies almost every night. Right there is a clue to what I really am; a playbull or just plain bull, like Greg Kinnear's character in the flick 'Someone Like You'; once he's over doing a girl he'd go looking for another whom he hasn't slept with. Angles for multifarious sets of women damn near every night and doesn't like doing things more than once; typical me. But instances crop up when you're starving for one particular worker and that, as far as I'm concerned, is just file. You'll need to screw one girl more than once to get on top of it. If her service is liked by many she'd most possibly be scrapped from the stockroom all the time; so make sure you get to be more intimate with her which is as good as saying bed her as much as possible otherwise you'll miss her menu and come off almost empty handed by selecting from those who're hung out to dry. My thing? Nah. Performance is all I'm over the hill with since I can easily make do with a blindfold. Simply put, there's not much a heavyset excitement or delight in these things; just carnal lust or any sentient urge that'd soon eat itself up like a cannibal is taking over me. I'm probably just succumbing to my hormonal dash or I maybe mentally sick given that I'd rather die than to be a masturbating or a plain celibate. To a lesser or greater extent, there's just nothing anyone could change as one couldn't transform a wind into a ravaging tornado; things for me would go on running like a mill and not stop working out in the appointed end, which tells you why I'm again--for the umpteenth--inside Heartbeat club along Q______ Avenue.
I chose a compartment somewhere in the room's corner spot; a four-seater area. The place is frighteningly caved in, like a secluded underground compound with no virtual ventilation anywhere; makes me wonder where the cold's seeping in or where the hell is the fire exit sign. Basically a place where claustrophobic attacks become prone to patients. Here is like any other club; there're the stairs leading to the rooms in the next floors, restrooms, a flat dance floor, an elevated level in the right wing like the ones in opera houses, and a pole-less stage of about 20 meters as the main attraction. The approximation of the atmosphere is on both ends of the scale; equally extreme with no in-between. Could be carrying the feel of a pre-war serendipity or a post-war toast, something like that; it wouldn't probably make sense to anyone at that after all, I'm that lame at describing feelings. The lights are translucent crimson tooled with dark blue strobes that dance along with the mo town rhythm of the background. Marvin Gaye's record's being played by the band tonight, 'Heard it Through the Grapevine.' 70's blues aren't that tight to me but they sure give one a kick back for relaxation, if ever, I'd rather like to hear from Cheap Trick or Led Zeppelin when we talk about classics or fossils, say. Unfortunately, these guys' pitch doesn't just meet with disco house requirements so Black music are the frontliners to places like this. Music here is a sort of condiment they serve; the whole ambience being the main dish and the women as side ones. If any of the 3's missing; the whole wouldn't probably be considered as a fun place to be; so they're all needed for a more conducive atmosphere. Not too many people are present; familiar faces are visible though, the frequent bar pupils as usual, the dregs of society, and a number of fresh faces with fear printed all over them as if they've been forcefully hauled in front of the club's entrance. They're probably just here for rebellious domestic reasons or in the process of their christening as frequent novices, but then it's not really my business to pinpoint which is the veteran, the amateur, and the mug players. What I'm here for is to get laid as usual. None the more interesting, but here I am.
I drill my pocket for my lighter and puff up a Marlboro Light. I beckon to the waiter and triple my order for White Russian; he seems to be an ok chap, pure character and ageless. Uhmm, ageless because by his looks one could simply negate age's significance; if he says he's 17 everyone would've agreed, if he says he's 26 everyone would buy it just the same. I may want to have the same magic by which any age would just fit me; sounds cool, I could be immune from youth-related protocols if it were me. 5 minutes have passed; my cigarette scalding in half and my wine exquisitely served in an elegant decanter. The place reeks of squalid caprice with some clanky crowd patter to add to the sound pollution, and I'm mingling with it. I may even be a principal part of it in a deeper sense. I gulp down a couple of glasses; the substance isn't fierce enough to send burning sensation down my throat, should've gone for a double cocktail instead. Not that cocktails hit you fast in the head but these stuff sure give a layback relief once they've been given a swig; vodkas sans partners such as this one in my grip only stir a bunch of eddies inside my head, y'know, the dizzying swirls that knock you out almost mechanically after a third shot. And sure enough you'll get a hell of a headache in the morning; a nerve wrecking hangover as how it usually pays off for drinkers. I'm now prodding my third glass with a Pyrex mixer; still no go. I'm trying to rewind my memory lane to envision the women I've slept with just in case they come up to me and lure me under the covers; I could make up a couple of them but none resembles anyone here inside. I wonder if all of them are out on a day off at the same night, likely. I down another glass; one after another till my bill becomes longer and longer and my pocket shrinks to the smallest size it can get. Still no shadow slithering up to me. Doesn't anyone care for a night with me? This is chaos. A legendary devastation in my history book. Sigh. I request for a bag of wasabi chips to kill time with; an empty stomach during intercourse isn't advisable, it reduces appetite in a major scale. I munch on it till no grain sprays out of the bag when inverted and continue to sip alcohol till my cheeks go florid with rising blood and arteries. Then I begin to feel like tumbling headfirst on the table's surface; my neck's rigidity starts to decrease, my shoulders declining in a sloped motion, my eyesight becoming blurred and beady, and my respiration decelerating quickly. Other than the fact that imaginary riffs are assaulting my eardrums, right now I know next to nothing except that the alcohol spirit of the wine is taking its toll on me; not a very friendly way of taking revenge after being decimated to a drop, I guess. I shook my hands in an attempt to produce wavelike radiation through my veins so as to refrain them from being numb but the damn vodka did prick my spot really hard. I strive to find my smarts to pull me out but ideas just don't bounce off and keep on vanishing on thin air. Damn, I feel like a drugged punk.
Somebody's heading this way; a chick or a hooker who's probably able to catch the sound of my honking horn. An un-ceremonial approach from a sleep-over partner but hey, have I got a choice? I can't yet make anything out of this figure going nigh me but I sure can tell she's heating up inside. She fixes herself square in front of me and reclines her back on the wall. My eyes are still dysfunctional; so what I'm literally seeing now is a myopic vision. I can very well identify even the miniscule bits of trash on my table but an inch farther than that, all I can detect are distorted double images and this creature in front of me is no more than a watery picture of a body. Even trying to peep through the fog from my cigarette is kid's stuff compared to trying to see through this heinous obscurity jumbling with my eyesight. But I can feel her presence transmitting something through me, like a moving air that's so positively alluring I could just snag her by the collar and go straight somewhere where we can lay back and undress. My head's still swimming away and all I can feel is the weight anchoring my brain, pulling it vigorously to drown in an unfathomable ocean of lethargy and headache. The person just sits there watching me battle against this evil phenomenon and no matter how hard I try to shout help, my voice only comes out as sleepy yawn. Finally gravity wins over me as the whole of my upper part poises itself to fall down the surface of the table as if I'll eventually pass out and begin to snooze on job. I suddenly feel a hand fondling my back and trying to reclaim my former stance. She lifts me back to assume sitting position; her scent is redolent and somewhat masculine but ensnaring nonetheless, like the type that you'd look for when you're barred inside a dungeon. Really cute smell though. She places an arm around my waist and put mine on her shoulders; only now that I learn she's trying to scoop me up from the bank. By full reach of my awareness, it'll suffice it to say that she's going for a good go with me. I feel myself smiling; a distinctive smile that precedes good sex. I'm not sure why I'm letting this happen all the while when I can't even see what she looks like(not that I care about looks); something inside just tells me that I need to put a bit on the side with this person no matter what. I just have this off-centered hunch for god knows what reason; we're going to f*ck like crazy tonight, mad is it? And here it's been co-opted that we have the same connected intuition 'cos here we are scraping by the stairs for the love rooms. See? It all amounts to the same thing; sex-starved pair on the loose, me being the other half.
I hear a door creak open; next thing I know is I'm on the sheets. I begin to strip; skin to skin, I'm feeling every ounce of heat ricocheting on my layers. I'm still dead drunk and inarticulate but I still do know how to tell if I have a limp or a hard on and right now it's damn the latter. The woman isn't beside me; the sound of the open faucet in the bathroom next door tells she's getting prepped. I close my eyes and rummage through this obdurate headache; I'm meaning to get composed again but it just won't come off, I'm still blind and dumb and hell drunk. A door closes and subtle clunks of footsteps are heard louder and louder. Bed shakes a little. Someone's crawling on top of me; naked, fiery softness producing a hushed friction hovering above me, and a hand-playful, sly thing,- is gently grabbing on my erection. My length's getting stiff each second ,and a desirous moan is leaking out from my breast as I reach climax for the first time of the day. I feel a slow breath against my face and at perfect response, I thrust out my lips to kiss her face, her cheeks, ears, bangs, and lips. I give it further, licking all over her down to her neck; smooth plane against my tongue. She withdraws and puts her fill as an old timer; licks me back all over down to my throat, chest, stomach, until finally going down on me. The way she nibbles on my cock is beyond ethereal physical sensibility; oral stimulation has never been this heavenly, surpassing any elation brought about by vaginal moisture during the methodological process of sex itself. This is the sole and only excuse I can take on getting on top of me; an optimum fellatio. I never place myself under any body lest it be that thing, and mind you what she's doing down there right now is good in every sense of the word. She sure sucks right and not just right as in fine, but admittedly the best one I've had. It's controlled, taken cared of, yielding, and undeniably hardcore. She swallows every drop of my cum every time I come and man, I just love it that way. Most girls would probably rush to the bathroom the moment a modicum of semen touches their tongues and spit it straight on the toilet bowl to be flushed. But this girl rocks hard for ingesting it all. She does all the work, dirty or not, without asking to be reciprocated; it's like she's doing it with a limp blow up doll. Pity I can't return her favors; I'm too drunk to even bat an eye on her. Only one thing's a bit catchy in the scenario though; she's one aggressive bitch, and a little virile in her movements. Whatever; now that my dick's no longer heavy with sticky, oozy fluid, I can doze off comfortably.
...an old man's crouching in front of our garage fingering a car's piston; obviously peeled away from his car's hood to be repaired at once. He's got only a couple of equipment in his oversized engine kit; a screwdriver and a pen knife. How did a pen knife plunder its way through the damn box; don't ask me, I thought it was supposed to be a lock pick or some sort. Anyhow, picture this; a lanky old coot lounging somewhere in front of my house because his wheels just broke down and he's about to fix the third degree damage by excellent use of a screw driver and a pen knife. He says he's a mail man. I don't even know why a mail man would ride on a *Ford 850i '86 model to deliver a fucking letter. But he's into it anyway. He drops the cylinders and turns to me. He's asking for a glass of orange juice sprinkled with raw grains of Chinese rice, about 21/2 tablespoons he emphasizes. When I ask what with the silly grains he just says it'll get the engine working. Without a word, I acquiesce to this and head for our kitchen. I make a glassful of the hilarious recipe. The glass's slippery base slides from my palm and drops---twang...
A dream. It's morning. Limpid sun strokes are permeating through the almost transparent curtain; no lights or lamps on, just the natural clarity sent by the skies is reigning the area. Every piece of furniture of the room is in the right spot as it was yesterday; save that our clothes are draping everywhere. So last night's wild escapade did take place in here. The place is so quiet; a silence that follows a grisly massacre is lingering with the most infinitesimal particles of the bedroom. There's an idyllic air sweeping through the space which seems to spill out from a particular presence inside the room, not mine for sure. A merciless hangover is tormenting the insides of my skull but from its modesty, I know it has quelled down considerably. I search with my eyes (which are now wind down to normal vision); Someone's perched on the sofa bed adjacent to mine. I scratch my lids for a more accurate view. A raven haired, white skinned someone is blankly watching me. Kaede Rukawa. What the fuck is he doing here? Now I'm baffled 11 times. His face is lodged on me; effeminate, scornful visage of the freshman whom I play with everyday. 2 deep blue orbs against my naked torso. He's stripped too; only a pair of red boxers is girthing him. Did I pass on an orgy last night? Was Rukawa with us all the while? Where's the faceless, wonderful woman on top of me? Sigh. All those are nulled by Rukawa's presence in a fast pace. It's crucial to fill in the blanks now.
'Where is she, Rukawa?'
'What she?'
'The woman, asshole. The one who did me last night; where did you hide her?'
'No woman.'
'The fuck d'you mean by 'no woman?'
'No one. Just you and me.'
'You and me? I smell bullshit.'
'You were drunk.'
'Yeah, I fucking know.'
'I brought you here.'
'No bullshit to badness, Rukawa. Answer me; where is she? I need to pay her for last night's great fuck. I know I wasn't dreaming so quit pricking around me.'
'No need to pay me.'
'What d'you mean...'
'We banged away, sempai.'
'Kiss my ass.'
'No woman. It was me, sempai.'
Stillness. No woman. He and I. Last night. Best sex of my life. Hang on; I didn't get to enter her. Just gave me a hand and blowjob. Just that. Enough of the stupid periods. I didn't see the woman's face; there probably wasn't one anyway. But Rukawa. He raped me while I was dead drunk.
'You fucked me while I was asleep, didn't you?'
'...' nods.
'I thought you were a woman and you took advantage of my temporary betise. You senior-raping son of a gun! How can you-'
'You liked it, sempai.'
Me? Liked it? But...On the bright side, it's the best one I've had so far. I Probably even loved it. How did he learn to suck like that? Am I angry? I shouldn't be, perhaps...I should return the favor; it was good, extremely good indeed. Yes, maybe it's my turn to work on him now just for payback. My first time with a male. I don't know how to, but here goes nothing.
'Come here, Rukawa.'
END
A/N: I did put a caution. Please don't condemn me for this. It's un-edited so just ignore the typos and errors. I may want to work on a sequel if it turns out okay but I'm gonna make it discreet and conservative. Thanks for reading.
posted by Ria D. at
12:09 AM
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