He's sweaty now, gasping, as he pulls his mouth reluctantly away from mine.
"Ah, Miguelito... you put on that angel act, but the devil's in your kiss. Stay with me, baby, look at me. I want to see your face when you come, querido."
I look at him, of course. He says he wants to be me. Well, he's welcome to it. What good did being Miguel Alvarez ever do me? Doubt he'll have better luck with it.
And his hands on me feel so damn good. His grip on my cock, bringing me so close, then stopping, then taking me to the edge again and again and again... pinching and biting at my nipples until pleasure and pain roll into one, the way he puts his hand over my mouth when I start to cry out... like now. I don't even recognize the little squealing sounds I'm making, there's nothing in the world but those mismatched eyes taking in my face hungrily and my hips bucking as I shoot all over my stomach...
Virgin, hell. I wanna know how he defines 'virgin', when he can do all this to me. The way he looks at me might have made me nervous if I thought there was any point to it anymore. He never wants me to do anything for him... pushes me away when I try. I didn't understand it at first. The way he takes my breath away, then sits back with that little smile. He's never even let me touch his dick, let alone tried to fuck me or make me suck him off. I didn't get it at first, but then I realized it was all about control. But I don't care anymore. His hands on me are like fire, and it's a fire I can't resist.
Only I don't know who I am anymore. I can't even wish I cared by now. But I know where he keeps the D-tabs. It doesn't take him long to fall asleep. Then I'm pulling them out, gulping down a handful, and...
where am i again? so hot... like there's a fire somewhere. like i'm going up in flames. end of the world, it all goes up in flames. what did those old ads say to do when there was a fire... oh yeah. stop, drop, and roll. so i'm rolling and rolling and it's nice and cool down here, the floor's kinda hard but it feels nice on my face only i keep hitting something and now it's sort of sticky and slippery but it feels so good to roll back and forth and feel the hard floor, it's so solid, that floor isn't going anywhere. good ol' floor. that sets me off laughing and now i'm rolling and laughing and it's still so hot but i don't care anymore...
Cold water, splashed on my face. He's peering down at me, looking a little worried. my head hurts, like I hit it on something, and there's a thin smear of blood on the floor. I think I'm feverish. Oh yeah. The D-tabs.
"You gotta stop doin' this, mijo. You're my numero dos, what am I gonna do if you up and OD on me?"
He looks worried, as he cleans up my face (what the hell was I doing? My lip is split wide open, and my scalp is bleeding sluggishly) and gets me back to bed. Makes me drink some water. He even kisses me gently on the forehead.
This is maybe the fourth time I've done this. He always acts all mother-hennish. But he still keeps the D-tabs in the same place.
---
Miguel isn't adapting so well. I didn't think this depression shit was going to last so long. It's getting boring. He only stirs to try and distract himself, that desperate need for sensation I've seen so often. Sweetheart's got more Destiny in him than a stack of Harlequin romances, and as for sex...
Well, that is one of the traditional ways to make the world go away for a little while. And he looks almost alive again when he's squirming and panting with pleasure, even if it is only physical pleasure. But he's getting all compulsive about it. It was cute at first but now it's almost tiresome. I don't need this business of having to give him a handjob just to keep him from sulking. But he's so sexy when he's all pouty like that.
Almost makes me want to give in when he wraps those strong hands of his around my waist. But I don't do that. No-one in this world can say they made me come. That's how I like it. Making someone else whimper with ecstasy is one thing. Letting someone else turn you into jelly is something else, and it's something I'll never do. Even someone with smouldering brown eyes and a smell like burgundy silk and a laugh that tastes of raspberries. Not that he laughs very much.
He's got himself a problem, though. My Miguelito's been munching D-tabs like M&Ms, and that's not a pretty sight. Like now, for instance. He's all hopped up, rolling around on the floor, giggling and shit. Busted his lip against the wall, cut his scalp on the bedframe, and now the floor's all bloody, and I hope he ain't expecting me to clean that shit up.
Only I gotta play Mommy now, so I kneel on the cleanest bit of floor I can find and throw a cup of water in his face. "You gotta stop doin' this, mijo. You're my numero dos, what am I gonna do if you up and OD on me?" He looks all sheepish as I get him cleaned off and it reminds me all over again why I bother with him. He's gotta snap out of this self-pity kick, though. Boy needs a hobby or something. I need to ease up on him, if I wanna keep him around. I been pushin' him too hard, maybe. I should find another toy while I'm getting him put back together. One that I can break without cryin' over.
Oh, yeah. I'll find me someone a bit more expendable to play with. I have a few ideas already.
---
First thing I noticed about Ryan O'Reily was his jagged orange voice.
Once I started figuring him out, I knew he'd get all hostile if I told him that. Boy's all Irish this, Irish that. I wanted to ask him why he didn't just move his cute little ass to Belfast when he was still on the outside, but I don't think he would have had an answer other than his fists, and I don't do vulgar little brawls.
It was a hook, though. A really good one. They let us have a little internet time if we want it here in Rush, just like they did back in Em City. You can learn a lot that way if you know what to look for.
I catch up with O'Reily when he's doing his laundry. Nobody else around. Perfect, perfect.
"Dia duit, Ryan."
He just frowned at me. "Jeeya what? What the fuck are you talking about? You takin' your own product or something?"
Madre de Dios, he's tumbling right into my lap. "I'm sorry, I just thought you might speak a little Irish."
"What the fuck, man? You mean that Gaelic shit? Nobody speaks that."
"My Grandma taught me some. I never told you my mamma was Irish, did I?" I so much want to laugh at the look on his face.
"Now I know you're shittin' me."
The smile I give him now is slow, relaxed. "Anyone ever tell you where the Black Irish came from, O'Reily?"
"What kind of bullshit are you talking now?"
"I'm talking about the Spanish Armada, Ryan. Nobody ever told you the story? The ships the British Navy didn't sink got shipwrecked in Galway Bay. From the sailors who didn't die, well... that's where the dark hair and brown eyes come from. Like that pretty hair of yours, honey. You could almost say we're cousins." Another slow smile. Boy doesn't know what to believe. Almost too easy.
"What's that crap supposed to mean?"
"I only thought you might get curious, you know. You being so into your roots and all." From the look on his face I can tell it's time to let him stew. Pulling my stuff out of the washing machine, I flash him a quick grin.
"I gotta hang these up to dry. See you around, sweetie."