NIKA

KAoru and The Pinky Kid

They don't know how they got there and they don't care much either. All they knew was, they are alone and they are together. The taller man opens the door and lets in the guitarist, who enters with long strides. "Want something to drink?" "I don't like alcohol." "Sorry I forgot." Sheepish laughter follows. "Tea? Coffee?" "It's okay, really. It's not what I'm here for anyway." A short silence when the two men look at each other, studying. "No... Not for that..." The taller man gaze becomes hungrier, making the guitarist twist his lips up and a little snort of amusement escapes the smaller man, usually described as timid, shy and cute. "No, I'm here for sex." This is supposed to be happening on mutual consent, better making that very clear one more time. "Un." The guitarist kicks off his shoes and enters the apartment, piling kitsch everywhere, a Persian carpet in the middle of the living-room. Well, he is not here to discuss matters of taste either. But the room is like the man he is going to have sex with. All the way down to the pink vases and pastel-colours. The tall singer steps to him, his partner turning around and without any hesitation they crush their lips together, a little hesitantly at first, then getting to know the mouth of the other, they rub tongues in growing passion, eagerly, uncaring. Then they part, panting but not smiling like lovers would. This is not love. Not even sympathy. The guitarist likes his partners big-eyed and thin as death. The singer likes them curved and older, getting them to get him. But getting at them in the end. They strip carelessly. No signs of embarrassment, because when the sex is over all of this will be forgotten. What turns them on is the thought of sex with silent consent of no attachment coming with it. And the thought of controlling the other. They harshly kiss again, giving the other no air to breathe no thoughts to think just the pure feeling of unrefined, devouring desire. Slender fingers dig into the waist of the taller singer, echoed in a scratching of long fingernails along the spine of the guitarist, forcing the skin open. A pained moan escaped the lips of the victim, only increasing the arousal of both of them. The start to move their hips arousals trapped between them, hot and demanding. They sink the carpet, first on their knees, the back of the guitarist now ornamented with artful red lines. His hands move from the waist to the shoulders of the singer, pushing him backwards. But the singer resists, stemming against the force pushing him down. He starts to grab the shoulders of the smaller man himself and tries to get him on the carpet, seeking to get on top of the fine body, getting in control, craving the surge of power. But his partner resists, also attempting to best the singer. All the while they kiss bruisingly, tongues struggling, trying to conquer the domain of the other, getting more powerful, losing a little of the sexual purpose turning into a fight for superiority. The guitarist leaves the mouth and goes down to unknown territory, nibbling down the throat with short soft bites, just making clear that he knows how to use his teeth. The bigger man isn't impressed, he just topples the guitarist and buries him under his broader frame. "I've got you now, baby," the singer grins evilly, voice pitching with triumph. The man under him snorts with ridicule. "If you think you're on top..." The guitarist seems not in the least defeated. He shoves the singer away from him, slightly. But the top doesn't want to be subdued. He leans down and licks the left nipple of his partner, despite the struggle. A moan makes him delight in victory. But then glistening pain lets him squeak in pain, as a set of teeth bury themselves in the sensitive crook of his neck. He backs away, anger sparkling in his large eyes, his hand flying up to the bleeding wound insti writhing, moaning, denying in vain. The body of the guitarist covers the heaving form under him in a slow fashion, grinding their erections together, making sure that the singer feels him very delicately close. Then he invades the half-open lips, from where little gasps escape. While kissing he reaches down, encloses the penis of the singer in a secure grip, pressing down his thumb on the tip lightly. The reaction of the singer is so strong, arching his back, coming up from the carpet, he nearly falls off. He retains a chuckle and leaps into a fast rhythm, massaging the singer's erection. The cries grow louder and desperate, fingers rise up to clutch at his shoulders, when the breath hitches suddenly, the body under him getting rigid. The sudden silence is broken by a long high-pitched wail, announcing a mind-breaking orgasm. Not waiting for the singer to recover and start to question who is in control here, he flicks the relaxed figure over on his stomach, his victim much to weak to resist. Fist he makes sure, his own erection is covered in still warm semen. "I'll be on top..." comes a soft protest, only serving to make the guitarist smile. "Yeah, sure..." He opens the legs of his partner, slides between and positions himself. The body under him is still powerless, but very relaxed, when he slowly enters, a sharp hiss hits his ears. Then he dives in deeper, it changes into a moan, no pained edge to it. Deeper he forces himself and is rewarded with more groans. He leans forward to the ear of the singer. "Who's on top now?" Before he begins to move, he bites the lovely neck once again, just to prove his point. He shows no mercy in his movements, shaking the helpless body under him. But the tempo brings pleasure to the singer, his nerves suddenly alight with lust, making him move in unison with the guitarist. They find themselves on the edge of climaxing faster than they had expected. Eyes of both widening in surprise when it hits them, sends them over the edge, screaming, uncaring. The neighbours might hear them, even the whole city might hear them, they yell non the less. Then it is over. The Persian carpet now stained with semen and sweat. The guitarist gets up, the afterglow still running in his system, but in his mind he's already looking out for his clothes. He dresses while the man on the carpet turns around, defeated more than one way. He was not on top. He is unable make the guitarist stay after he got what he had come for. His body burns with shame, rug-burn and some ripples of post-orgasmic haze. The guitarist comes down to ruffle his hair in a friendly way, that is all. He cannot utter a single word, as the smaller man leaves. Door closing and he is sure: he will never let this happen again.

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