Introducing....
Jul. 24th, 2003 08:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparkindarknessIan. Newish boy. Recovering at the minute from Ahrimadan's emphatic assertion over who gets priority in my brain.
I'll split this in two because it seemed quite long - it probably isn't since my vision is blurring a bit, but it might be.
Not sure whether I will send this, or any of the others to that gay times competition thingy though. Maybe if I do the artsy fine toothed comb editing thing. Maybe.
Of course, secondary problem - I really aren't brave enough to be outed over it. Ah well, at least I might get some head space now.
And at last, I have a character who isn;t supernatural or mystical in any way. kinda.
Anyway, enough babble. Onwards!
Ian stared dully from the alleyway at the passing cars. Watched them slowly crawl close to the curb, shaded faces peering out the window at the wares on display. Hungry eyes following the myriad goods like children in a sweet shop. Wondering what the products taste like. Wondering how sweet they are.
The wares smile and wave. They strut back and forth, dancing and posing to the customers. Like mice prancing for the cat’s amusement they call seductive promises and hidden pleasures. Like deer baring their necks for the wolf, they flash their bare skin, adjust already skimpy clothes to show more flesh.
Ian grinds his teeth as he watches another pick up, a poor girl all of 16 stepping into a car with a stranger. Further along a boy who looked still younger nervously stepped into another car with another shadowy customer.
You couldn’t save everyone, he knew that, but it killed a part of him to let those cars drive off with their poor, desperate passengers. No, not tonight, he had bigger problems tonight; he had to make his own living tonight, and it was no cleaner than theirs.
For the hundredth time he checked his clothes. His denim short-shorts had been even more severely cut back until it was clear he wasn’t wearing any underwear, and that he had no tan lines. If any doubt remained, the slits cut into the buttocks of the tight shorts gaped slightly, showing nothing but smooth tanned skin. His t-shirt was similarly butchered. The midriff had been cut out, showing a flat stomach with a set of smooth abs. The neck and sleeves had been heavily cut back to show glimpses of a nicely defined, nearly hairless chest. His shoulder length blonde hair had been tied back into a tight pony tail, leaving his face bare and unadorned. Without the hair to distract the eye, the high perfect cheekbones, and full lips were astounding. But even these amazing features were overshadowed by his vivid emerald eyes framed by thick long lashes.
One last check to make sure everything’s still in his bag he carries on one shoulder, he walks out onto the street, looking for his customer. He forced himself to smile at the cars driving past, flashing perfect white teeth at the shoppers. Fighting revulsion, he stalked seductively across the concrete, pausing against a lamppost to slide provocatively down it, stroking the metal lasciviously. The cars slowed down, you could almost feel the wonder in the air - how could any man look that good?
Most of the cars drove on, casting last lingering looks at Ian as they went, but someone that beautiful was out of their league, too gorgeous, too expensive, too experienced. Ian watched them go with disgust veiled in his eyes. A few, who couldn’t read between the lines, or thought they had enough cash to cover did stop. Nervous, sweating men looking desperately over their shoulder wringing their hands, trying to hurry the conversation. Powerful glaring men with hate dancing in their eyes trying to hide who they were and what they were doing behind angry eyes and brutal hands. Oily, greasy men with leering smiles and quick, eager hands. Predators all, almost as bad as the man he was looking for. He bit back the temptation to take them down, these creatures who would exploit the desperate. He choked back his rage, he had a bigger fish to catch.
He sent them on their way, with subtle words and account breaking figures, and a couple of times with well placed kicks. Some of them wouldn't be preying down here in the future at least. Perhaps it would even make a difference. Perhaps.
The night grew late, but he didn't tire. He thought about Simon, his eyes staring blindly at the sky. He remembered Michelle, choking, desperately looking for words before her breath stilled. He would not hold another in his arms as the life left them, refused to see another life cut short.
The car drifted down the street. A sleek, black model with no plates, no markings, nothing, Just black paint and tinted windows. The other cars pulled away, seemed to avoid it, like fish parting for the shark among their midst. here was a worse predator.
Ian set his teeth and strutted towards the car, swinging his hips, waving his arse, and bathing it in a slow smouldering smile that made the rest of the prey on the street gasp. Male and female, all eyes were on him as he reached the curb. With a slow, exaggerated motion, Ian dropped his bag, before bending, ever so slowly, to pick it up. There was a soft susurration of breath, all business had stopped as everyone, prey and predator alike, paused to watch the denim shorts tighten around Ian’s perfect backside. The rents in the fabric gaped still more, giving just the smallest, teasing glimpse of tanned curved skin.
He straightened up and stretched, throwing his arms above his head and drawing his body into one taught line. Rolling his head over his shoulder he gave the car a wicked smile, heavy with promise.
The window in the back of the car wound down with an electronic whir. The man within stared at Ian with naked hunger, waving him over with one pale, perfectly manicured hand. Ian strutted over and leaned in the window.
“Looking for something tasty, mate?”
“Yes, something very... tasty.” The man’s voice was educated and cultured. It sounded trained, like an actor’s or an opera singer. A voice for dinner parties and quiet conversations in smoke filled drawing rooms. A voice for declaiming loudly on centre stage. A beautiful rich rolling voice that filled the empty street as if it were a perfect auditorium. Ian blinked, trying to fight the fog in his mind, the seductive echoes that rolled in his head and tightened his skin with goose bumps.
The door opened, and that flawlessly pale hand touched Ian’s wrist, using the gentle feel of skin to pull him into the opulent black leather interior. The leather sighed as he sat, whispered as the black silk of the man’s shirt slid across it. The door closed and silence enveloped them, the easy company of the street could easily have been another country. Here they were alone.
“Would you care for something to drink? I find there is a fine wine for all occasions, and no conversation should suffer for lack of a vintage, don’t you agree?” Ian smiled vapidly and gushed his agreement, his perfect white teeth like a moonbeam in the black interior. He struggled desperately in a sea of gentle happiness and crushing comfort to control his words and concentrate. He gritted his teeth behind his smile and remembered Simon’s ravaged body. It was enough; the names of wines and great vineyards that had rushed to his tongue in an attempt to impress his host faded in the bloody image of memory.
The man poured two glasses of sweet, slightly sparkling white wine, passing one to Ian in an elegant, practiced gesture. Every move the man made was smooth, every little facial expression, every little twitch and fidget so precise as if he had practiced every one for hours in front of a mirror. Ian raised the glass to his lips, keeping his eyes on the man’s tight, close mouthed smile as he mirrored, perfectly, Ian’s gesture. Almost, anyway. As Ian sipped the wine he fought the mental fog and saw the wine touch the man’s lips, moisten them until they shone, slick and inviting. The level in the glass didn’t decrease.
Ian giggled, pretending to sneeze at the effervescent vintage, through slitted eyes, he caught the man spill his glass on the floorboard. Ian emptied his glass in one long motion, like chugging a beer, before grinning at the pale, black clad form. His smile was ever so slightly crooked, his rambling, ignorant compliments on the wine just carrying the hint of a slur.
The man smiled an refilled the glass, allowing a small hint of white teeth shine through thin strong lips as Ian emptied the second glass as quickly. At the third he was laughing, a melodious, perfect sound that rolled through the car and filled Ian’s head.
“Ah, the French describe wine like this as l’eau de douche, do you know why?”
Ian leaned forwards, trying to form a puzzled frown. It was hard, for a moment he said nothing, fighting the man’s overwhelming personality. He bit down his tongue, already forming words, dangerous knowledge he shouldn’t know. Finally he settled for shaking his head, mutely. This man was good. Very good.
“It means ‘shower water.’ Quaint isn’t it?” Ian choked back a reply, swallowing it in a too loud, too long laugh. He grinned awkwardly, allowing his eyes to unfocus a little. The man smiled and stroked Ian’s cheek, noting how his eyes didn’t track as well as they should. The man’s skin was cool, almost as chill as the wine glass it had been holding.
The car stopped. The door opened and reality returned to the black haven. A house, tall and stately, elegant and old, loomed over them. Protected on all sides by a moat of isolated garden, ringed by a curtain wall and guarded by expensive security systems. Ian stepped out into a second island of solitude.
“Nice place! This all yours, or is it flats and stuff?” He slurred his words and widened his eyes in awe, while keeping the man in his field of vision at all times. “Guess you got the money to pay my tab, then?”
The man took his arm, pinning Ian’s bag between them and started the long walk up the stark cold gravel. “Be assured, I can pay many expenses. Do not cheapen this perfect meeting with crude talk of finance. Tonight you are a guest in my humble abode.” His voice was leaden with disapproval. Ian lowered his head, shame taking him before he could think. He barely managed to pout and look up innocently with liquid emerald eyes. He felt the man tense at the display, his tall frame stiffening with desire.
Now was not the time to slip. He pulled images of Simon to the forefront of his mind, flashed vivid memories of Michelle’s last terrified minutes. He hammered them into a shield around his thoughts, and looked again at the man with unclouded eyes. He had been lead within the house, through elegantly furnished hallways, up a stylishly decorated staircase, to this door. He took a deep breath, and turned an eager, nervous look to the tale aristocratic man who held his hand.
He pushed the door open. Ian’s eye was instantly drawn to the dark oak four poster bed, dripping in red cushions and black covers. It sat on a vibrant Persian rug that covered most of the hardwood floor. Four tall wrought iron stands surrounded the bed, topped with branching candelabra. The soft flickering light was eaten by the dark oak, making the red silk shimmer, dark, wet and alive.
There was nothing else in the room, just the bed. No dresser, no wardrobe, no second door. No mirrors.
Ian took a few seconds while he allowed awe to cross his face, before stalking into the room, before the man. His movement was practiced, even as he added a slightly drunken stagger to his step. It was the walk of a man who’d seen many a stranger’s bedroom. The walk of one to whom seduction was a profession.
He sprawled on the sheets, giving the man a look of jade fire and a smile to make angel’s weep with need. The man swallowed, so hard it seemed to echo around the silent room. Ian held eye contact, and ran one hand down his chest. He toyed with the frayed ends, the small tears, eyes never leaving the other man. Slowly, so very slowly, he slid the hand under his shirt, steadily baring more of his tight, sculpted abs, more of his firm chest. With a sharp motion he through the t-shirt off, to pool on his bag at the side of the bed.
Ian ran his fingers up his nipples, circling those dark circles of firm flesh. He closed his eyes and moaned, softly. His eyes cracked open, heavy lidded.
“Hungry?” He made the word a deep rolling purr. “Or aren’t I tasty enough for you?” His words and tone was sulky, his full moist lips pouting, but his eyes burned with arrogant challenge.
“The wine makes you bold, little one.” His word’s were strong. The tone was that of a drowning man staring at a life jacket. He advanced in a predatory stalk towards the bed, but his eyes danced, running up and down Ian’s body, unable to concentrate solely on that perfect visage and it’s challenging eyes.
“I am master here.” His hand moved, a pale flash Ian’s eyes could barely follow. It seized him by the throat and pulled him close until their bodies were pressed together. Ian didn’t move to stop him. He went limp, whole body submissive, arms still by his side, naked torso pressed against the man’s silk shirt. His trembling lips were inches from his captors. His every muscle screamed submission, and defeat. His nervous face and quick, sharp breaths spoke of fear and obedience. But his eyes burned with emerald challenge, inches from the man’s icy blue gaze. The man glared, even as he trembled with a lust so strong it transcended wanting; it was need.
The man gripped Ian’s shorts, the ripped denim gave faintly under the powerful grip. With an almost casual gesture, giving the lie to the huge strength in those hands, he pull the cloth away from Ian, seams bursting, cloth parting with a thick, heavy sound. Ian lay naked against the man’s chest, for a few intense seconds his body was pressed against the thin silk and linen of the man’s clothes.
With a wordless cry, the man threw him back, against the headboard. Ian lay stunned, sprawled on the dark sheets. He raised fiery eyes to the man, standing tall and immobile at the foot of the bed. The man’s eyes roved down Ian’s perfect naked form, repeatedly wandering the peaks and valleys covered in soft, smooth tanned skin. Like a magnet, his eyes were drawn low, down to where, nestled in a gentle blonde forest of hair, Ian lay, hard, firm and full.
He stared, motionless, with penetrating, blood-shot eyes, for what seemed like hours. Not a twitch, not a breath, not a blink to disturb his contemplation of Ian’s perfect body. The tension in the room soared, until the air hummed and sparked, so thick that Ian could barely breathe.
With a sharp, abrupt move, he tore his shirt down his chest. Pale, ivory skin shone in the rent of the black silk. The skin was almost to perfect to be real, almost glowed in the soft light. Suddenly, with that one, fine movement, Ian was the spectator, mouth open with quiet awe as the black silk fell away to reveal a perfect body. A body that fashion magazines would gladly, eagerly, fight over. A body that would never appear in a porn magazine - no it was too perfect. It would be almost sacrilegious to lust after such marvellous wonder. It was a body for statues and fine artists, a body to inspire true images of the divine, for surely only the sacred could possess such a form.
Those long fingered, perfectly white hands, pulled the ruined remains of his shirt from his body, letting every inch of pale skin be revealed to the envious eye. Those hands dropped - so painfully slowly - to his belt. They teased the leather free, and slid it slowly, sensually from the loops that confined it. The leather hit the floor, the noise was too loud in the thick, silent air. The thick linen trousers were unfastened, rustling like some predator in high grasses. They slid to the floor. He stepped forward, one small, smooth movement, out of the trousers to stand palely nude at the foot of the bed. Eyes of drowning lust and eternal confidence gleamed redly at Ian where he lay, almost cowering, in the sheets. Ian stared, the challenge in his eyes faded, the slightly drunken smile wiped away, all acts, all pretence stripped aside as he stares in pure wonder at the ivory god before him.
I'll split this in two because it seemed quite long - it probably isn't since my vision is blurring a bit, but it might be.
Not sure whether I will send this, or any of the others to that gay times competition thingy though. Maybe if I do the artsy fine toothed comb editing thing. Maybe.
Of course, secondary problem - I really aren't brave enough to be outed over it. Ah well, at least I might get some head space now.
And at last, I have a character who isn;t supernatural or mystical in any way. kinda.
Anyway, enough babble. Onwards!
Ian stared dully from the alleyway at the passing cars. Watched them slowly crawl close to the curb, shaded faces peering out the window at the wares on display. Hungry eyes following the myriad goods like children in a sweet shop. Wondering what the products taste like. Wondering how sweet they are.
The wares smile and wave. They strut back and forth, dancing and posing to the customers. Like mice prancing for the cat’s amusement they call seductive promises and hidden pleasures. Like deer baring their necks for the wolf, they flash their bare skin, adjust already skimpy clothes to show more flesh.
Ian grinds his teeth as he watches another pick up, a poor girl all of 16 stepping into a car with a stranger. Further along a boy who looked still younger nervously stepped into another car with another shadowy customer.
You couldn’t save everyone, he knew that, but it killed a part of him to let those cars drive off with their poor, desperate passengers. No, not tonight, he had bigger problems tonight; he had to make his own living tonight, and it was no cleaner than theirs.
For the hundredth time he checked his clothes. His denim short-shorts had been even more severely cut back until it was clear he wasn’t wearing any underwear, and that he had no tan lines. If any doubt remained, the slits cut into the buttocks of the tight shorts gaped slightly, showing nothing but smooth tanned skin. His t-shirt was similarly butchered. The midriff had been cut out, showing a flat stomach with a set of smooth abs. The neck and sleeves had been heavily cut back to show glimpses of a nicely defined, nearly hairless chest. His shoulder length blonde hair had been tied back into a tight pony tail, leaving his face bare and unadorned. Without the hair to distract the eye, the high perfect cheekbones, and full lips were astounding. But even these amazing features were overshadowed by his vivid emerald eyes framed by thick long lashes.
One last check to make sure everything’s still in his bag he carries on one shoulder, he walks out onto the street, looking for his customer. He forced himself to smile at the cars driving past, flashing perfect white teeth at the shoppers. Fighting revulsion, he stalked seductively across the concrete, pausing against a lamppost to slide provocatively down it, stroking the metal lasciviously. The cars slowed down, you could almost feel the wonder in the air - how could any man look that good?
Most of the cars drove on, casting last lingering looks at Ian as they went, but someone that beautiful was out of their league, too gorgeous, too expensive, too experienced. Ian watched them go with disgust veiled in his eyes. A few, who couldn’t read between the lines, or thought they had enough cash to cover did stop. Nervous, sweating men looking desperately over their shoulder wringing their hands, trying to hurry the conversation. Powerful glaring men with hate dancing in their eyes trying to hide who they were and what they were doing behind angry eyes and brutal hands. Oily, greasy men with leering smiles and quick, eager hands. Predators all, almost as bad as the man he was looking for. He bit back the temptation to take them down, these creatures who would exploit the desperate. He choked back his rage, he had a bigger fish to catch.
He sent them on their way, with subtle words and account breaking figures, and a couple of times with well placed kicks. Some of them wouldn't be preying down here in the future at least. Perhaps it would even make a difference. Perhaps.
The night grew late, but he didn't tire. He thought about Simon, his eyes staring blindly at the sky. He remembered Michelle, choking, desperately looking for words before her breath stilled. He would not hold another in his arms as the life left them, refused to see another life cut short.
The car drifted down the street. A sleek, black model with no plates, no markings, nothing, Just black paint and tinted windows. The other cars pulled away, seemed to avoid it, like fish parting for the shark among their midst. here was a worse predator.
Ian set his teeth and strutted towards the car, swinging his hips, waving his arse, and bathing it in a slow smouldering smile that made the rest of the prey on the street gasp. Male and female, all eyes were on him as he reached the curb. With a slow, exaggerated motion, Ian dropped his bag, before bending, ever so slowly, to pick it up. There was a soft susurration of breath, all business had stopped as everyone, prey and predator alike, paused to watch the denim shorts tighten around Ian’s perfect backside. The rents in the fabric gaped still more, giving just the smallest, teasing glimpse of tanned curved skin.
He straightened up and stretched, throwing his arms above his head and drawing his body into one taught line. Rolling his head over his shoulder he gave the car a wicked smile, heavy with promise.
The window in the back of the car wound down with an electronic whir. The man within stared at Ian with naked hunger, waving him over with one pale, perfectly manicured hand. Ian strutted over and leaned in the window.
“Looking for something tasty, mate?”
“Yes, something very... tasty.” The man’s voice was educated and cultured. It sounded trained, like an actor’s or an opera singer. A voice for dinner parties and quiet conversations in smoke filled drawing rooms. A voice for declaiming loudly on centre stage. A beautiful rich rolling voice that filled the empty street as if it were a perfect auditorium. Ian blinked, trying to fight the fog in his mind, the seductive echoes that rolled in his head and tightened his skin with goose bumps.
The door opened, and that flawlessly pale hand touched Ian’s wrist, using the gentle feel of skin to pull him into the opulent black leather interior. The leather sighed as he sat, whispered as the black silk of the man’s shirt slid across it. The door closed and silence enveloped them, the easy company of the street could easily have been another country. Here they were alone.
“Would you care for something to drink? I find there is a fine wine for all occasions, and no conversation should suffer for lack of a vintage, don’t you agree?” Ian smiled vapidly and gushed his agreement, his perfect white teeth like a moonbeam in the black interior. He struggled desperately in a sea of gentle happiness and crushing comfort to control his words and concentrate. He gritted his teeth behind his smile and remembered Simon’s ravaged body. It was enough; the names of wines and great vineyards that had rushed to his tongue in an attempt to impress his host faded in the bloody image of memory.
The man poured two glasses of sweet, slightly sparkling white wine, passing one to Ian in an elegant, practiced gesture. Every move the man made was smooth, every little facial expression, every little twitch and fidget so precise as if he had practiced every one for hours in front of a mirror. Ian raised the glass to his lips, keeping his eyes on the man’s tight, close mouthed smile as he mirrored, perfectly, Ian’s gesture. Almost, anyway. As Ian sipped the wine he fought the mental fog and saw the wine touch the man’s lips, moisten them until they shone, slick and inviting. The level in the glass didn’t decrease.
Ian giggled, pretending to sneeze at the effervescent vintage, through slitted eyes, he caught the man spill his glass on the floorboard. Ian emptied his glass in one long motion, like chugging a beer, before grinning at the pale, black clad form. His smile was ever so slightly crooked, his rambling, ignorant compliments on the wine just carrying the hint of a slur.
The man smiled an refilled the glass, allowing a small hint of white teeth shine through thin strong lips as Ian emptied the second glass as quickly. At the third he was laughing, a melodious, perfect sound that rolled through the car and filled Ian’s head.
“Ah, the French describe wine like this as l’eau de douche, do you know why?”
Ian leaned forwards, trying to form a puzzled frown. It was hard, for a moment he said nothing, fighting the man’s overwhelming personality. He bit down his tongue, already forming words, dangerous knowledge he shouldn’t know. Finally he settled for shaking his head, mutely. This man was good. Very good.
“It means ‘shower water.’ Quaint isn’t it?” Ian choked back a reply, swallowing it in a too loud, too long laugh. He grinned awkwardly, allowing his eyes to unfocus a little. The man smiled and stroked Ian’s cheek, noting how his eyes didn’t track as well as they should. The man’s skin was cool, almost as chill as the wine glass it had been holding.
The car stopped. The door opened and reality returned to the black haven. A house, tall and stately, elegant and old, loomed over them. Protected on all sides by a moat of isolated garden, ringed by a curtain wall and guarded by expensive security systems. Ian stepped out into a second island of solitude.
“Nice place! This all yours, or is it flats and stuff?” He slurred his words and widened his eyes in awe, while keeping the man in his field of vision at all times. “Guess you got the money to pay my tab, then?”
The man took his arm, pinning Ian’s bag between them and started the long walk up the stark cold gravel. “Be assured, I can pay many expenses. Do not cheapen this perfect meeting with crude talk of finance. Tonight you are a guest in my humble abode.” His voice was leaden with disapproval. Ian lowered his head, shame taking him before he could think. He barely managed to pout and look up innocently with liquid emerald eyes. He felt the man tense at the display, his tall frame stiffening with desire.
Now was not the time to slip. He pulled images of Simon to the forefront of his mind, flashed vivid memories of Michelle’s last terrified minutes. He hammered them into a shield around his thoughts, and looked again at the man with unclouded eyes. He had been lead within the house, through elegantly furnished hallways, up a stylishly decorated staircase, to this door. He took a deep breath, and turned an eager, nervous look to the tale aristocratic man who held his hand.
He pushed the door open. Ian’s eye was instantly drawn to the dark oak four poster bed, dripping in red cushions and black covers. It sat on a vibrant Persian rug that covered most of the hardwood floor. Four tall wrought iron stands surrounded the bed, topped with branching candelabra. The soft flickering light was eaten by the dark oak, making the red silk shimmer, dark, wet and alive.
There was nothing else in the room, just the bed. No dresser, no wardrobe, no second door. No mirrors.
Ian took a few seconds while he allowed awe to cross his face, before stalking into the room, before the man. His movement was practiced, even as he added a slightly drunken stagger to his step. It was the walk of a man who’d seen many a stranger’s bedroom. The walk of one to whom seduction was a profession.
He sprawled on the sheets, giving the man a look of jade fire and a smile to make angel’s weep with need. The man swallowed, so hard it seemed to echo around the silent room. Ian held eye contact, and ran one hand down his chest. He toyed with the frayed ends, the small tears, eyes never leaving the other man. Slowly, so very slowly, he slid the hand under his shirt, steadily baring more of his tight, sculpted abs, more of his firm chest. With a sharp motion he through the t-shirt off, to pool on his bag at the side of the bed.
Ian ran his fingers up his nipples, circling those dark circles of firm flesh. He closed his eyes and moaned, softly. His eyes cracked open, heavy lidded.
“Hungry?” He made the word a deep rolling purr. “Or aren’t I tasty enough for you?” His words and tone was sulky, his full moist lips pouting, but his eyes burned with arrogant challenge.
“The wine makes you bold, little one.” His word’s were strong. The tone was that of a drowning man staring at a life jacket. He advanced in a predatory stalk towards the bed, but his eyes danced, running up and down Ian’s body, unable to concentrate solely on that perfect visage and it’s challenging eyes.
“I am master here.” His hand moved, a pale flash Ian’s eyes could barely follow. It seized him by the throat and pulled him close until their bodies were pressed together. Ian didn’t move to stop him. He went limp, whole body submissive, arms still by his side, naked torso pressed against the man’s silk shirt. His trembling lips were inches from his captors. His every muscle screamed submission, and defeat. His nervous face and quick, sharp breaths spoke of fear and obedience. But his eyes burned with emerald challenge, inches from the man’s icy blue gaze. The man glared, even as he trembled with a lust so strong it transcended wanting; it was need.
The man gripped Ian’s shorts, the ripped denim gave faintly under the powerful grip. With an almost casual gesture, giving the lie to the huge strength in those hands, he pull the cloth away from Ian, seams bursting, cloth parting with a thick, heavy sound. Ian lay naked against the man’s chest, for a few intense seconds his body was pressed against the thin silk and linen of the man’s clothes.
With a wordless cry, the man threw him back, against the headboard. Ian lay stunned, sprawled on the dark sheets. He raised fiery eyes to the man, standing tall and immobile at the foot of the bed. The man’s eyes roved down Ian’s perfect naked form, repeatedly wandering the peaks and valleys covered in soft, smooth tanned skin. Like a magnet, his eyes were drawn low, down to where, nestled in a gentle blonde forest of hair, Ian lay, hard, firm and full.
He stared, motionless, with penetrating, blood-shot eyes, for what seemed like hours. Not a twitch, not a breath, not a blink to disturb his contemplation of Ian’s perfect body. The tension in the room soared, until the air hummed and sparked, so thick that Ian could barely breathe.
With a sharp, abrupt move, he tore his shirt down his chest. Pale, ivory skin shone in the rent of the black silk. The skin was almost to perfect to be real, almost glowed in the soft light. Suddenly, with that one, fine movement, Ian was the spectator, mouth open with quiet awe as the black silk fell away to reveal a perfect body. A body that fashion magazines would gladly, eagerly, fight over. A body that would never appear in a porn magazine - no it was too perfect. It would be almost sacrilegious to lust after such marvellous wonder. It was a body for statues and fine artists, a body to inspire true images of the divine, for surely only the sacred could possess such a form.
Those long fingered, perfectly white hands, pulled the ruined remains of his shirt from his body, letting every inch of pale skin be revealed to the envious eye. Those hands dropped - so painfully slowly - to his belt. They teased the leather free, and slid it slowly, sensually from the loops that confined it. The leather hit the floor, the noise was too loud in the thick, silent air. The thick linen trousers were unfastened, rustling like some predator in high grasses. They slid to the floor. He stepped forward, one small, smooth movement, out of the trousers to stand palely nude at the foot of the bed. Eyes of drowning lust and eternal confidence gleamed redly at Ian where he lay, almost cowering, in the sheets. Ian stared, the challenge in his eyes faded, the slightly drunken smile wiped away, all acts, all pretence stripped aside as he stares in pure wonder at the ivory god before him.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2003-07-26 01:32 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2003-07-26 12:51 pm (UTC)