From: KassXF <kassxf@aol.com>
Date: 20 Mar 1999 20:55:04 GMT
Subject: NEW:  Every Morning - Sk/K NC-17

Disclaimer:  Not mine
Category:  Sk/K
Summary:  Sequel to The Beginning.....

Every Morning

by KassXF@aol.com

Every morning when I wake, I go through the same sequence.   First, I
notice the heat behind me, the bulk of another body, the scent familiar
even through my disorientation.  The shape and colors of the room, the pair
of work boots near the closet door, they take on familiarity gradually.
He's so predictable, he takes them off in the same place every night.

No, not predictable.  Not even slightly.  Or that heat and bulk wouldn't be
behind me at all. 

I allow myself the luxury of taking it all in, and roll over on my other
side.  He generally has his face buried half in the pillow.  Sometimes
facing me, sometimes not.  But always close.  The bed isn't that big, and
besides, I think it comforts both of us. 

He lost most of his hair when he was young, still in his twenties.  I've
never seen him with it, I would have been in elementary school when he was
in Vietnam.  Despite that, his face in sleep is younger, more vulnerable,
less granite than all too human flesh.  

Today he's facing me, only his profile visible against the white
pillowcase.  Reaching out, I trace the curve of the available ear, hear a
muttered protest or complaint.  I never heed them.  I don't now.  I trace
it again, move my fingertip to a cheekbone.

"You're going to lose that hand," he mutters, eyes still closed, voice
thick with sleep.

"That would be inconvenient," I tell him.

And with the contrary impulses of my warped nature, I do it again.

A hand closes over my wrist like iron.  He shifts his head on the pillow,
dark eyes opening to glare at me.  "Always have to push, don't you."

I wait, unsmiling, unworried.  And he tugs my hand to his mouth and bites
the offending fingertips, not gently, not hard enough to draw blood.
"Stoic," he growls and kisses my palm, the tip of his tongue teasing the
calloused skin.

My mouth curves at that.  I slide my leg between his, inching nearer, even
though there's not a hand's breadth distance between us.  I touch the tip
of my tongue to his upper lip and find myself flat on my back, enveloped,
covered, my mouth taken almost brutally while my cock rises against his
belly and mine.  I can feel the thickness of his on my thigh, put my arm
around his neck and we do battle, brutal, bruising kisses. Kisses until I
am sure I am drowning, who knew this man would kiss, could kiss like this?
I didn't.  I never dreamt of it, never imagined it, never hoped for it.

I am panting when he lifts his head and I push my hips up, rubbing
shamelessly against him.   Now that I've ignited, however, he always takes
his time, slow kisses drifting across my jaw, my throat, a nip here and
there, blunt fingers stroking my skin.

My complaints are pro forma.  I know him.  I know his style.  I know what
he plans to do to me, and despite my curses and pleas, I'm content for it
to happen this way.

Put simply, he likes to drive me out of my mind before giving in. Power
play, pure and simple, we're men, we both have testosterone, and I'm the
younger of us, I'm the pup, the beta, but he's the only one I'd ever show
my throat to, you can take that to the bank.

My nipples harden to pebbles under his teeth and tongue and I can't decribe
the noises I make when he does that.  He deliberately moves his body
against mine, letting the crisp hair on his chest and belly tease my cock
until I can feel myself dripping, until I can feel my balls start to draw
up--Christ, he drives me mad when he does this, and since that's his aim, I
suppose I can't fault him.  After years of terror and rage and grief, this
kind of madness is to be devoutly desired.

And he keeps moving down, hot mouth and tongue and teeth and those blunt
fingers, moving far more delicately than anyone could have imagined, and
Jesus, I feel like I'm standing in a fire, burning, burning....

We're safe up here in the mountains, far enough away from civilization that
no one hears me cursing, swearing, begging, pleading and when he pushes my
legs up and buries his face between them, I scream, raw with lust and
something I can never quite define.

Release, relief, trust, who the fuck knows, but his mouth is hot on me, his
tongue merciless and I slide my ankles over his shoulders, speaking in
every language I know and some I don't.

About the time, I'm sure I can't hold on any longer, about the time I feel
the first flickering of lightning down my spine, he draws away and studies
me.  If not for the fact that his cock has risen and purpled, he'd look
dispassionate.  Maybe he's just trying to figure out how we ended up here.
How he ended up here with me.  But he never asks, never says anything, he
just smiles faintly, strokes a finger into the crack of my ass and I groan.

Every morning, as patterned and elegantly structured as a ballet, or the
DNA helix, or the interior of a crystal.  Predictable as the sunrise, and
unpredictable as the movement of the earth's crust.

That finger stroking me open, slick with lube, and then another, too soon
withdrawn, too soon replaced with something that feels as thick and blunt
as a club, only he isn't brutal, he eases in slowly, watching my face.

Sometimes, I wish I could see *my* face, see what it is that
catches his attention and holds it.  I can never afterwards remember what I
said, or felt, or did, other than the groan of relief and the feeling of
the burn as he slides home inside me.  The way it shifts from that
stretched fire to pleasurable pressure, and the way it makes me writhe on
him, legs tightening over his shoulders to pull him down.

Every morning the same, every morning different, neither of us is that
young any more, it's amazing to me that we still start the day in carnal
congress, fire flickering between us.  Let's face it, I'm well past youth,
and he's farther down the road than I am, and yet this is how we begin each
post-Apocalypse day.  Well, perhaps not post-Apocalypse, despite all the
ingenuity, the technical superiority, the medical skill and genius, the
Others succumbed to Gaia after all.  We didn't have that much to do with
it, I'm afraid, although I like to think we made some small contribution to
the cause.

Not that any of that matters when he's inside me, I could give a rat's ass,
for all I care, they could be running the government, all governments, the
world.  Right now, there's nothing but the flesh, the place where our
bodies are joined, the relentless stroking that brings the lightning back.  

The idea of his cock as lightning rod is one that never fails to
make me laugh, even as pleasure spirals higher, obliterating my ability to
form coherent thoughts or phrases.  So I'm laughing and sobbing, and
holding on to him like I'm afraid he's going to suddenly pull out and quit
in the middle--fat chance, I can see his face, taut with passion, with
desire, with pleasure, and I know that the lightning is coming for him, too.

"Yes," he growls, again and again.....and his hand grips my cock, pushing
me over and I'm howling, head thrown back, baring my throat, pumping into
his cock, his fist, and coming and coming and coming.  Lightning bolt indeed.

It hurls me out of the flesh for a timeless moment of
excruciating, ecstatic existence and then I'm back, feeling him move, short
brutal strokes and a roar of victory.  Feeling the hot slickness of his cum
filling me.  Panting and breathless and I groan, too sensitive for the hand
that still milks me, batting it away.

And then his weight on me, my legs sliding back down as he slowly softens
inside me, his tongue deep in my mouth as he finishes staking his claim.  

Every morning.

At night, we're free from definitions and roles, but every morning I'm the
bottom, the sub, the one who's claimed.  Or maybe reclaimed.

A lot of years playing lone wolf, even being beta is good with him. And
it's only in the morning.  I can live with it.  I can live with him.

He pulls back, balances on his arms above me.  "Alex."  Satisfied,
complacent tone.

I grin, laugh.  "Walter."

He rolls off me, but not without a gentle touch on the truncation left by
my adventures.  The scar tissue isn't as chafed or damaged these days.  The
first thing he did was make sure I had a decent prosthetic. 

The room is familiar again.  No strangeness.  No disorientation.  I wonder
if it will always be this way.  If he'll always have to bring me back, each
morning.  

I should have been dead long ago.

I'm glad I'm not.

Finis