Date: Fri, 10 Feb 2012 13:48:01 +0100 From: Malwina Piotrowska Subject: No Names Claimer: All the characters in the story belong to me. No Names ---- 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 artist 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. He knows his assets, you think, and how to use them to his advantage. 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 just at the very sight 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. And it should be banned to move like that in public, 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 wants you to be jealous, for you to think of him as yours to have. He wants 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 wants you, 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've got it bad, 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 see 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 burst just from the sheer proximity. 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 him, 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. Trust me." 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… sybaritic. 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 oh god 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 fine 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 Yes, more!, 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, but you can't care when it's this good. 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, look at him, 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 "Yes!" 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, empyreal 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.