alwayslaughing
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- Sep 6, 2003
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My first story here. Thanks to lapetitemort for contributing scenes from her point of view, and to hellishkitten for being my beta reader.
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I.
It’s late. You offer your excuses as you exit the party, leaving your co-workers behind as you head out into the cool night. A taxi is waiting. There’s no chatter of conversation on the way home – no “Where have you been?” “What do you do?” “What’s a pretty gal like you doing out on a night like this?” – just the sound of city traffic around you and the gentle lull of car-motion that nearly puts you to sleep. You slide out of the taxi and go into your flat.
You yawn as you go inside. Your roommate Jen is away until the New Year so you have the place to yourself. It's nice and warm so you decide you’ll stay up for a bit before going to bed. Before you can take two steps from the door, there is a knock. You think maybe it's the taxi driver and you try to figure out what you left behind but when you open the door, You see instead a slim, dark-haired, dark-eyed, bearded man with a gaze that looks right through you and you don't even quite know what he says but the next thing you know he steps inside and closes the door behind him.
"Oh, can I help you?" He must have the wrong address. You miss part of what he says next because you’re too busy staring, but he steps inside and you move to accommodate him. Normally this would be very odd, even alarming but for some inexplicable reason you feel comfortable.
"Why don't we sit in the lounge?" Soon we are sitting on the sofa facing each other from opposite ends. Your visitor talks in a soft, deep voice that feels vaguely hypnotic. It's like audible chocolate and you could listen to him for hours. He regales you with tales of his travels, of things he has seen. He compliments you and his eyes explore in an unashamed fashion. Are you blushing? You must look like a giddy schoolgirl.
Is it you or is it warm? You still have your leather jacket on. He has thrown his dark overcoat across the armchair, and he seems to be quite at home and very comfortable here. You mean to ask him what he's doing here but each time you think about it he catches you with his lilting tones and you forget. As you listen, you feel a tingling in your throat and it seems to expand throughout your body. You take a breath. He whispers your name and you feel the hair rise on the back of your neck. Your senses are fully alert. Does he see this? He smiles fleetingly, his dark eyes appearing to penetrate into your soul.
"Do you ever look," he asks, "At the way the dark of the night closes in, making a cloak that surrounds the room, yet see how the dim light of the lamps or candles keeps it at bay? But it's only an illusion, don't you think? It is, after all, an echo of the darkness inside of each of us. Longing to be rejoined with its reflection. Haven't you ever felt that way? There's something quite lovely about this darkness though. It is warm, and cool at once. Encompassing. Gentle. Firm. I could look at you, for example, draw closer to you like this (he illustrates), and lean over so close I'm nearly touching you. And you feel what? Uncertain? Nervous? Excited? There's something here isn't there? A magic, or an intensity. But beneath it, there's a sense that something really terrible could be hiding. Oh, it's in all of us. The closeness precedes intimacy but is it safe or dangerous? Or can't you tell?"
You can feel the heat from his body, you can smell him. Your heart is beating faster now. You drift for a moment but he continues to speak in that soft yet powerful, enchanting tone he has and he pulls you back into his orbit.
His fingers flutter upwards and across your neck, pausing over the spot where he will feel the blood crashing. You can almost hear it in your own head. Your skin tingles. You take a breath and exhale. You touch your cheek and it's warm against your fingers. Your neck itches where his fingers touched you. It feels good though. You want to rub it but that seems wrong. Did you chuckle? Maybe, it did tickle. Just a little.
He holds your gaze in silence, the ghost of a smile on his mouth. You have one leg tucked under you and his fingers alight on the seam of your jeans and gently trace. He's crossing a boundary for sure but nothing too extreme. His other arm is along the back of the sofa. He runs his hand up the sleeve of your jacket, squeezes gently. He smiles at you and then says, "You must be quite warm in that jacket."
He pauses, and then continues, "Why don't I help you with that?" He helps you out of your jacket.
No that's not quite true. He takes the jacket from you and you let him. He pulls one arm gently towards him and tugs at your sleeve, releasing your arm from inside. As you lean slightly forward so that he can slip the jacket out from behind you, his hand grazes your side and lingers a second too long, brushing lightly from just above your hip to just below your ribs and you see a tiny twitch at the corner of one side of his mouth as he notices you flinch. As he helps you tug the jacket over your second arm, it happens again, and again that flicker of a smile as you try not to recoil from the sudden tickling touch.
The voice, it's hard to place an accent. American originally? Someone who has travelled and perhaps even a 'citizen of the world'. Well he certainly has some stories anyway. "That doesn't bother you does it?" He tilts his head slightly. "That's a pretty blouse," he gestures at the ruffles and for a moment you're certain he's actually going to put his hand on your chest, but his fingers slide down at the last moment.
His fingers gently close on your waist, just above your belt and squeeze lightly. Another line crossed, but his hand has dropped nonchalantly to his side again, and rests on your leg. You're sure he's laughing at your reaction to his touch that time, but he says nothing. Just that twitch of a smile again.
He seems utterly relaxed and self-controlled but you can sense there's a hunger lingering just under the surface that is both frightening and fascinating. He talks with his hands and every now and then his fingers brush gently. Your shoulder, your hip, your waist.
"Tell me something about yourself," he suggests.
You speak, and while he leans forward with his attention focused on you, you've no idea what you're saying. All you can think about is that he is still touching you and you're acutely aware of it. And you think he knows it.
"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asks, when you're done speaking. He's been perfectly polite, this stranger, so you find yourself opening your mouth and closing it again, with a tiny shake of your head. "Here, why don't you slip these off?" his hand is resting on the boot of the leg you have tucked under you. When did that happen? Before you can process the answer to that question, your leg is being gently pulled out from under you and you find your foot in his hands.
As he tugs one boot off, his fingers graze the bottom of your foot. He watches you for a reaction. The process repeats with the other boot. He sets the boots down as you automatically put your feet up on the sofa, almost as though you were given a command. You're pretty certain his mouth hasn't opened however.
You feel drunk, giddy, intoxicated though you’ve had nothing to drink. A warm tingle appears in your belly. You look at the floor and see your boots. Did you take them off? No, he did. He just does what he wants. He's perfectly polite but he knows exactly what he wants. The tingling in your belly intensifies and you feel a sudden shiver of excitement. You draw your knees up and he moves closer, trapping you at one end of the couch. He rubs your knee and gently squeezes with finger and thumb, just above the knee cap. You stifle a giggle or try to anyway.
"Did I say something funny?" He asks, lips twitching.
"No," you shake your head. "Just took me by surprise, that's all.
He nods as if that makes sense. Then with a sly grin he pinches your knee again and this time you make a little gasping sound as you experience a tingle in your kneecaps, and you bat his fingers away. "OK," he holds up his hands. "I'll be nice from now on. How's that?"
"Nice is good," you say. But a part of you is a little disappointed. Have you derailed something?
He doesn't move back though. He runs his fingertips over your jeans. "Sometimes, it's important to be present, to be aware." He says. "Denim has a slightly rough texture." His fingers glide over your belt. "This leather is smooth and warm; a contrast with the cool, metal buckle." He touches your blouse and you shiver as his fingertips worry the material just above your hip. "Pure cotton, nice and soft."
You can feel your heart pounding so loudly you almost want to apologise for the noise.
"Sensations are important, don't you think? Sometimes, it's important just to stop and appreciate exactly what's in front of you." His hand slides up your side. He doesn't quite touch your breasts, he doesn't quite tickle your underarm. He grazes your neck, traces your cheek and then flickers his fingertips lightly under your chin. That makes you giggle and curl up a little. The reaction in his dark eyes tells you that's the reaction he was looking for. "Soft, sensitive skin. How responsive."
Your stomach does a somersault and you feel the need to go and splash cold water on your face but you don't think you could leave the room now even if you wanted to, and do you want to?
You don't think you do.
He backs up slightly, the picture of self-confidence. He pats the spot right next to him. "Come here." And you find yourself doing as he asks. There's something about that voice that makes you want to comply with whatever it asks. It's such a reasonable voice, and little room is left for objection. But that feeling, what is it?
"Don't move," he says and while a tiny part of your mind wonders why you would want to, his hand is on you again. It crawls up your arm and his fingers brush against your neck and he slides over your left shoulder and down your back. His hand pauses on your back, his fingers resting lightly, his thumb curled around towards your front, halfway between your ribs and your hips.
He drags his thumb lightly back and forth with just enough pressure that you can't ignore the sensations. He draws little half circles with his thumb, sometimes reaching down to your waist as his hand expands and contracts. He is obviously enjoying your reaction, and though you're struggling to stay in place, his hand seems molded to your side now; it moves where you move and you can't escape the gentle, persistent teasing against your side.
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I.
It’s late. You offer your excuses as you exit the party, leaving your co-workers behind as you head out into the cool night. A taxi is waiting. There’s no chatter of conversation on the way home – no “Where have you been?” “What do you do?” “What’s a pretty gal like you doing out on a night like this?” – just the sound of city traffic around you and the gentle lull of car-motion that nearly puts you to sleep. You slide out of the taxi and go into your flat.
You yawn as you go inside. Your roommate Jen is away until the New Year so you have the place to yourself. It's nice and warm so you decide you’ll stay up for a bit before going to bed. Before you can take two steps from the door, there is a knock. You think maybe it's the taxi driver and you try to figure out what you left behind but when you open the door, You see instead a slim, dark-haired, dark-eyed, bearded man with a gaze that looks right through you and you don't even quite know what he says but the next thing you know he steps inside and closes the door behind him.
"Oh, can I help you?" He must have the wrong address. You miss part of what he says next because you’re too busy staring, but he steps inside and you move to accommodate him. Normally this would be very odd, even alarming but for some inexplicable reason you feel comfortable.
"Why don't we sit in the lounge?" Soon we are sitting on the sofa facing each other from opposite ends. Your visitor talks in a soft, deep voice that feels vaguely hypnotic. It's like audible chocolate and you could listen to him for hours. He regales you with tales of his travels, of things he has seen. He compliments you and his eyes explore in an unashamed fashion. Are you blushing? You must look like a giddy schoolgirl.
Is it you or is it warm? You still have your leather jacket on. He has thrown his dark overcoat across the armchair, and he seems to be quite at home and very comfortable here. You mean to ask him what he's doing here but each time you think about it he catches you with his lilting tones and you forget. As you listen, you feel a tingling in your throat and it seems to expand throughout your body. You take a breath. He whispers your name and you feel the hair rise on the back of your neck. Your senses are fully alert. Does he see this? He smiles fleetingly, his dark eyes appearing to penetrate into your soul.
"Do you ever look," he asks, "At the way the dark of the night closes in, making a cloak that surrounds the room, yet see how the dim light of the lamps or candles keeps it at bay? But it's only an illusion, don't you think? It is, after all, an echo of the darkness inside of each of us. Longing to be rejoined with its reflection. Haven't you ever felt that way? There's something quite lovely about this darkness though. It is warm, and cool at once. Encompassing. Gentle. Firm. I could look at you, for example, draw closer to you like this (he illustrates), and lean over so close I'm nearly touching you. And you feel what? Uncertain? Nervous? Excited? There's something here isn't there? A magic, or an intensity. But beneath it, there's a sense that something really terrible could be hiding. Oh, it's in all of us. The closeness precedes intimacy but is it safe or dangerous? Or can't you tell?"
You can feel the heat from his body, you can smell him. Your heart is beating faster now. You drift for a moment but he continues to speak in that soft yet powerful, enchanting tone he has and he pulls you back into his orbit.
His fingers flutter upwards and across your neck, pausing over the spot where he will feel the blood crashing. You can almost hear it in your own head. Your skin tingles. You take a breath and exhale. You touch your cheek and it's warm against your fingers. Your neck itches where his fingers touched you. It feels good though. You want to rub it but that seems wrong. Did you chuckle? Maybe, it did tickle. Just a little.
He holds your gaze in silence, the ghost of a smile on his mouth. You have one leg tucked under you and his fingers alight on the seam of your jeans and gently trace. He's crossing a boundary for sure but nothing too extreme. His other arm is along the back of the sofa. He runs his hand up the sleeve of your jacket, squeezes gently. He smiles at you and then says, "You must be quite warm in that jacket."
He pauses, and then continues, "Why don't I help you with that?" He helps you out of your jacket.
No that's not quite true. He takes the jacket from you and you let him. He pulls one arm gently towards him and tugs at your sleeve, releasing your arm from inside. As you lean slightly forward so that he can slip the jacket out from behind you, his hand grazes your side and lingers a second too long, brushing lightly from just above your hip to just below your ribs and you see a tiny twitch at the corner of one side of his mouth as he notices you flinch. As he helps you tug the jacket over your second arm, it happens again, and again that flicker of a smile as you try not to recoil from the sudden tickling touch.
The voice, it's hard to place an accent. American originally? Someone who has travelled and perhaps even a 'citizen of the world'. Well he certainly has some stories anyway. "That doesn't bother you does it?" He tilts his head slightly. "That's a pretty blouse," he gestures at the ruffles and for a moment you're certain he's actually going to put his hand on your chest, but his fingers slide down at the last moment.
His fingers gently close on your waist, just above your belt and squeeze lightly. Another line crossed, but his hand has dropped nonchalantly to his side again, and rests on your leg. You're sure he's laughing at your reaction to his touch that time, but he says nothing. Just that twitch of a smile again.
He seems utterly relaxed and self-controlled but you can sense there's a hunger lingering just under the surface that is both frightening and fascinating. He talks with his hands and every now and then his fingers brush gently. Your shoulder, your hip, your waist.
"Tell me something about yourself," he suggests.
You speak, and while he leans forward with his attention focused on you, you've no idea what you're saying. All you can think about is that he is still touching you and you're acutely aware of it. And you think he knows it.
"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asks, when you're done speaking. He's been perfectly polite, this stranger, so you find yourself opening your mouth and closing it again, with a tiny shake of your head. "Here, why don't you slip these off?" his hand is resting on the boot of the leg you have tucked under you. When did that happen? Before you can process the answer to that question, your leg is being gently pulled out from under you and you find your foot in his hands.
As he tugs one boot off, his fingers graze the bottom of your foot. He watches you for a reaction. The process repeats with the other boot. He sets the boots down as you automatically put your feet up on the sofa, almost as though you were given a command. You're pretty certain his mouth hasn't opened however.
You feel drunk, giddy, intoxicated though you’ve had nothing to drink. A warm tingle appears in your belly. You look at the floor and see your boots. Did you take them off? No, he did. He just does what he wants. He's perfectly polite but he knows exactly what he wants. The tingling in your belly intensifies and you feel a sudden shiver of excitement. You draw your knees up and he moves closer, trapping you at one end of the couch. He rubs your knee and gently squeezes with finger and thumb, just above the knee cap. You stifle a giggle or try to anyway.
"Did I say something funny?" He asks, lips twitching.
"No," you shake your head. "Just took me by surprise, that's all.
He nods as if that makes sense. Then with a sly grin he pinches your knee again and this time you make a little gasping sound as you experience a tingle in your kneecaps, and you bat his fingers away. "OK," he holds up his hands. "I'll be nice from now on. How's that?"
"Nice is good," you say. But a part of you is a little disappointed. Have you derailed something?
He doesn't move back though. He runs his fingertips over your jeans. "Sometimes, it's important to be present, to be aware." He says. "Denim has a slightly rough texture." His fingers glide over your belt. "This leather is smooth and warm; a contrast with the cool, metal buckle." He touches your blouse and you shiver as his fingertips worry the material just above your hip. "Pure cotton, nice and soft."
You can feel your heart pounding so loudly you almost want to apologise for the noise.
"Sensations are important, don't you think? Sometimes, it's important just to stop and appreciate exactly what's in front of you." His hand slides up your side. He doesn't quite touch your breasts, he doesn't quite tickle your underarm. He grazes your neck, traces your cheek and then flickers his fingertips lightly under your chin. That makes you giggle and curl up a little. The reaction in his dark eyes tells you that's the reaction he was looking for. "Soft, sensitive skin. How responsive."
Your stomach does a somersault and you feel the need to go and splash cold water on your face but you don't think you could leave the room now even if you wanted to, and do you want to?
You don't think you do.
He backs up slightly, the picture of self-confidence. He pats the spot right next to him. "Come here." And you find yourself doing as he asks. There's something about that voice that makes you want to comply with whatever it asks. It's such a reasonable voice, and little room is left for objection. But that feeling, what is it?
"Don't move," he says and while a tiny part of your mind wonders why you would want to, his hand is on you again. It crawls up your arm and his fingers brush against your neck and he slides over your left shoulder and down your back. His hand pauses on your back, his fingers resting lightly, his thumb curled around towards your front, halfway between your ribs and your hips.
He drags his thumb lightly back and forth with just enough pressure that you can't ignore the sensations. He draws little half circles with his thumb, sometimes reaching down to your waist as his hand expands and contracts. He is obviously enjoying your reaction, and though you're struggling to stay in place, his hand seems molded to your side now; it moves where you move and you can't escape the gentle, persistent teasing against your side.