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Title: Die Sprache der Blinden 11b/?
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
laguera25
Fandom: Rammstein
Rating FRAO for graphic sexual content
Pairing: Richard Kruspe/OFC
Disclaimer: Richard Z. Kruspe is a real person, with family and friends who love him. I am not one of them. I do not know him. This is a work of complete fiction, and should be read as such. No defamation is intended. For entertainment only.
A/N: This chapter contains graphic sexual content, more graphic than anything that I have previously written. If smut offends thee, or if RPF smut makes you uncomfortable, then now is the time to use your BACK button.
Part I Part IIa Part IIb Part III Part IVa Part IVb Part V Part VIa Part VIb Part VIIa Part VIIb Part VIII Part IX Part Xa Part Xb Part XIa
It had been a dance conducted in private, a waltz performed in two-two time and far removed from the leering, lidless eyes of cellphone cameras hidden discreetly on the nightstand or behind the sunken, empty barrow of his stage pants. That she would take from him had been beyond dispute; at its heart, sex was nothing but a biologically-mandated act of mutual cession, but he had also understood as he'd swayed in her meandering, intoxicating embrace and moved eagerly against her roaming hands that she would take nothing more than what he offered. She would not leave his bed clutching her panties like a souvenir and tell everyone about their liaison with his seed drying on her thighs and in the corners of her mouth. What happened here would remain here, held in secret by two entwined bodies.
He'd guided her backwards until her calves had bumped the edge of the bed, and then he'd eased her onto it, a graceful dip at the end of a waltz. He'd mouthed and nibbled at her exposed neck as she'd sunk onto the mattress, and she'd arched for him, eyes closed and breasts upthrust. He'd bent his head and suckled one of her nipples through the cumbersome, blunting fabric of her bra. Her eyes had widened, and then she'd exposed her ivory neck and writhed, hips open and thighs parted for a lover who had not yet staked his claim. She'd been debauched and wild and fierce, with hair tousled and chest heaving and eyes blazing with inarticulate want, a fire nymph in the throes of surrender, and his throat had been dry and constricted as he'd stretched out beside her, the urgent heat of his cock brushing her hip and outer thigh.
Sensitive nipples, he'd mused as he'd bent to tease the other.
She had been a foreign and exquisite instrument, and he'd learned to play her by painstaking degrees. He'd learned, for instance, that she shivered and tittered if he flicked his tongue against the shell of her ear, and that she was enamored of his tongue. No matter where he flickered, lapped, or laved, he'd been rewarded with unmistakable signs of approbation--panting and writhing and clawing her hands in the bedspread--and when he'd slipped the wet blade of his tongue into the shallow cup of her navel, he'd thought she was going to come on the spot.
He'd also discovered that she possessed a wicked mouth of her own, one that felt no shame in slurping his rough-padded fingers between plump lips and bobbing up and down with dreamy, hollow-cheeked languor or in teasing his nipple with her sharp white teeth and soothing the prickling scrape they left with the wide, wet blade of her tongue. She had nibbled and sucked and tasted with abandon, hands on his hips or shoulders or curled around the shaft of his cock, and when she'd risen over him on her knees and taken his swollen cock into her wicked, mischievous, schoolmarm's mouth, one hand curled around his shaft and the other braced on the mattress, the pleasure had been so quick and sharp that he'd thought he was drowning.
Her mouth had been like sun-warmed velvet, hot and wet and greedy as she'd moved her lips along his shaft and swirled her tongue over his glans and along his frenulum, and he'd wanted to close his eyes and lose himself in the glorious sensations radiating from between his obscenely splayed legs, but he'd also wanted to drink in the mesmerizing sight of his witch of the wood with his cock in her mouth. Her back had been bowed, a minx in luxuriant stretch, and her ass had jutted proudly into the air. Her hips had matched the rhythm of her mouth, had rocked in long, protracted strokes as she moved from head to base and in short, jerky thrusts as she'd bobbed furiously, cheeks hollowed and lips slick with saliva and the salty musk of his steadily-rising need for release. They had even moved in a wide, hypnotic circle whenever her tongue had circled his glans or her cool, dry palm had closed around his straining prick and begun to rise and fall and twist in a ceaseless ouroboros of motion.
It had been erotic and sublime, a vision from the halls of Asmodeus, and he'd felt drunk and delirious as he'd watched her move over him. Her hair had shimmered in the flat, rose light of the setting sun, and one bra strap had dangled at her side like a severed tendon. One firm breast had been exposed, the nipple flushed and puckered and needy and glistening with saliva.
There had been little sound save for the wet suction of Calliope's mouth and her soft pants and grunts of exertion and pleasure, soft gasps and moans and hums that had washed over his slick, sensitive flesh and made his hips rise of their own volition to urge her on. The creak of the bedsprings as she'd shifted, the rustle of bedclothes. The distant, drowsy hum of the television set in the living room.
She'd taken him deep and emitted a queer, keening cry that had caused his hips to buck and the flesh of his nape to ripple into hard knots of gooseflesh. Calliope's hair had fallen into her face, obscuring it. He'd reached out and brushed it aside with gentle fingers. Her mouth had been working furiously, and her eyes had been open and fixed on the coarse thatch of his pubic hair. Another choked keen, and he thought he'd detected a shadow of something darker behind her expression of wild abandon.
He'd thought to stop her, to ask her what was wrong, but her mouth had wrought such magnificent magic on him that he'd simply propped himself on his elbows and lost himself to the moment, eyes half-lidded and fingers fisted in the bedspread and on one bare thigh and hips surging against the insistent, suckling of her mouth.
She had been beautiful, Venus in full splendor, flushed cheeks and pale skin and coyly-undulating buttocks. And her crown of fire, of course, that lovely hair that had caught the sun and transformed it into silken fire, a prayer shawl that had obscured her face and cascaded over her slender shoulders.
Not a prayer shawl, he'd thought stupidly, drugged with the pleasure that had coursed through his veins like absinthe and laudanum and coiled in his cock and belly like an impending cramp. It's a cowl. A red one. He'd smiled drunkenly at that. She'd been his woodcut witch made flesh, and he'd reached out to cup the back of her skull and guide her. Not to force her; that was for the disposable women whose names and faces he would not recall in the morning, the ones whose mouths were made for nothing but that and were full of nothing but tongue and teeth and useless bleating.
She'd made to descend lower still, to take his balls into her mouth like a sacramental offering, but he'd caught her chin and coaxed her upward instead. If she'd brought her formidable skills to bear on his balls, then the road to mutual satisfaction would have been decidedly short and dismally one-sided. Much as it pained him to admit it, twenty-one had been a long time ago, and if he'd spent himself then in the avaricious warmth of her mouth, there had been no guarantee that he would would be able to rouse himself again, at least not before she grew impatient and bored and returned to the surer satisfaction of her book.
She'd curled beside him, one hand in the center of his chest and her hair tickling his nose. He'd tilted her chin upward and kissed her, groaned at the taste of himself on her mouth, mingled with the taste of her.
"Lie back," he'd murmured, and she'd complied at once, unfurling with loose-limbed grace.
He'd hummed in approval and slipped a hand beneath her to fumble with the clasp of her bra. She'd laughed and raised up for him. The clasp had released with the subtle spring of loosening fabric, and he'd pulled off the bra and tossed it aside. She'd laughed again and pulled him down for an unhurried kiss, her hands cupping his cheeks and running her finger through his hair. She'd tugged on the meticulously-gelled strands and the shorter strands just above his nape and sucked his bottom lip between her teeth and nipped. The bright spark of pain had startled him, and he'd recoiled.
"Sorry," she'd murmured. "Sorry, sweet." She'd brushed her soft lips against the memory of her sharp teeth in an act of wordless penance.
It had been word that had moved him, the unexpected endearment. He had been called many things in bed by women whose vocabularies had dwindled to that of basest need. "Baby" and its permutations were the most common, the preferred nomenclature of mouths rimed with liquor and the copper and iron aftertaste of their boyfriends' cock. He'd also been called "fucker", "you gorgeous bastard," and "hot son of a bitch." His Japanese consorts had often called him "Richard-san". Caron had called him "honey." She had in the beginning, any road. By the end, when the fucking was infrequent and little more than a matter of course and grudging need, she hadn't called him much of anything. She'd closed her eyes and pretended he was someone else or ridden him with her hands braced on the headboard and her gaze locked on one of her portraits that hung above the bed. Margeaux had never called him anything but Richard and grunted and lowed and commanded him to fuck her harder. No one had called him "sweet." He'd thought that perhaps his mother had called him "schatze" when he was small, but that could have been wishful thinking or an accidental endearment intended for his sister.
Sweet. The unexpected syllable had washed over him like benediction and anointing oil, and he'd been so surprised that he'd momentarily forgotten his lust and stared at her.
She'd gazed uncertainly back at him, convinced perhaps that she'd ruined the mood with her ill-timed nip. She'd worried her lip with her teeth and tugged on the bedspread. "Are you-?" she'd begun, and then he'd closed his mouth over hers and breathed against her until she'd relaxed into him. The roar of black water had been loud in his ears, but he'd told himself that it was nothing but the rush of blood and the sussurating, throaty echo of the ocean just beyond the terrace. The black waters had proven too dangerous and too painful to swim in them again.
She had proven as tactile as he, and his hands had roamed her body with gluttonous impunity, fingers dancing over the spars of her hips and along the pale, smooth flesh of her thigh, and his palms had cradled her shoulder blades and her buttocks and cupped her breasts, and her shallow, rapid breaths had made the latter flutter beneath his hand like a trapped butterfly. He'd kneaded and mouthed and coaxed, and she had rewarded him with exquisite noises that had sung along his nerve endings like the note from an Aeolian harp. Whimpers and moans and mewls and stuttering, ragged chirps that had stoked the fire in his blood and made his swollen prick strain against the limits of its fashioning.
He'd saved her cunt for last. It was his favorite part of the ritual, the unveiling of his lover's sex. It wasn't the cunt itself, though he never hesitated to indulge thereof, but the moment of absolute exposure, when that which was hidden and slyly intimated was laid bare and made plain beyond all doubt. It was the point of no return, when promises made would either become promises kept or promises broken. He loved that moment, that tipping point decided by swollen flesh and slick, glistening folds.
He hadn't uncovered her right away, but had teased her through her panties with the thick, rough pads of his fingers and watched her twist and buck against his hand and chew on her knuckles to stifle the moans that had threatened to spill from her working mouth.
"Do you want me to stop?" he'd whispered as he'd tormented her clit with lingering circles of his thumb
She'd shaken her head. "No, God, no." Muffled by the bony stoppers of her knuckles.
An incremental increase in pressure, and she'd pistoned beneath his hand. "Then why are you biting your knuckles?"
Another torturous circle, another muffled cry. "They might hear," she'd panted, and ground frantically against his hand.
He'd licked his lips and leaned down to press a moist kiss to the unyielding ridge of her collarbone. "So what if they do?" He'd increased the pressure but maintained the same excruciating slowness." She'd cried out, more sharply than before, and rocked against his hand. Another warm kiss on her collarbone, and then he'd risen with a sinuous arch of spine to whisper in her ear. "Do you really care, Calliope? Hmm?" Another kiss on the shell of her ear. "Only in America do men expect their women to have the chastity of saints and the skill of sinners," he'd purred, and let his thumb work. "But I am not an American, and I don't care how loud you are when you come."
She'd laughed at that, a loose, staccato cackle like the rattling of chimes, but she'd kept her knuckles pressed to her mouth.
He'd reached up and gently pulled her hand away, and then he'd kissed the center of her palm. "Do you remember when I told you not to apologize for your passion because there was too little of it in the world?"
A grunt that might have been assent or an incoherent bleat of pleasure. She'd been so wet, even through the fabric of the panties, and he could feel her urgent, simmering heat. He'd wondered how she would taste, how she would smell, like woman and blind, stupid need, warm stones and sea salt.
"Now I'm telling you that there is too much shame in the world. Don't add to it, Calliope. You're too smart to fall into such stupid, useless traps, and too beautiful to hide yourself."
Stupid, useless boy, his father had scoffed. Spouting such ridiculous, lovestruck poetry like a teenage boy. The voice had been remote and insignificant, however, smothered by the immediacy of Calliope beneath his stroking hand and expertly-probing, curling finger. Besides, his father had been wrong. He hadn't been in love with Calliope. He had cared for her, yes, cherished her companionship and valued her friendship, but that had been all. It had certainly not been love that had motivated him to lie her down and lay her bare and make her sing with the strength and knowledge in his hands. Just lust, he'd told himself as he'd watched her mouth gape in ecstasy and a bead of sweat bead on her breastbone like a nascent diamond. Just lust, safer and purer in its intent. Love had been a weakness he would not court.
"Bitte, bitte, Calliope," he'd crooned, and tapped the swollen nub of her clit with a quick press of his thumb.
Her hand had fallen to her belly, and she had sung shamelessly then, a high, clear cry of unbridled delight. "God. Please, Richard. Please."
"Please what?" he'd asked, though he'd known damn well what she'd wanted. It had been writ large on her face and her endlessly-rolling hips, the lascivious spread of her legs to allow him greater access. He'd wanted to hear her say it, to surrender the last of her inhibitions.
She'd gulped and panted and cupped one bare breast in a rhythmically-kneading hand, and soon, her squeezes had matched the assured stroking of his thumb. The sight had weakened his resolve, and he'd nearly abandoned the game and mounted her, pulled her modest panties aside and ridden her until they'd both been spent and boneless atop the coverlet.
"What, Calliope?" he'd rasped unsteadily, eyes fixed on her ivory fingers as she'd rolled a swollen, pink nipple between her thumb and forefinger. He'd idly wondered if she did the same while masturbating, legs spread wide in her stifling bachelorette's bed or in her bathtub, eyes glazed and fixed on a liaison unfolding somewhere beyond the flaccid curve of the spigot and a cloudbank of scented bubbles hiding the feverish ministrations of her hands as she fucked herself with page-stained fingers. "All you have to do is ask, Hexe. Just open that pretty mouth and let the truth come out."
Hands opening and closing spasmodically on the coverlet. Hips flexing as she'd risen to meet him. "Please. Please. Fffff-" Little more than wind in the leaves.
Not enough, and yet his hunger had been great, and he could not deny her--or himself--entirely. So he had pulled down her panties to the calves, and then he'd let his avid gaze rake over her slick, exposed flesh and the neatly-trimmed thatch of copper curls above her vulva. He'd run his fingers through them and been rewarded with a sigh he'd felt rather than heard, a subliminal thrum that had reverberated through her muscles like an ague.
"Jesus Christ, Kruspe, you make leering hot," she'd muttered drunkenly, and he'd thrown back his head and laughed because it had been so odd, and so very Calliope.
How could he deny such a lofty compliment its just desserts? So he'd begun his work in earnest, had stroked and tapped and fondled and slipped one, two fingers inside her, and with each new flourish of his educated hand, his witch had come undone. She'd cried out in the indecipherable glossolalia of Eros that every body understood, be they dumb and blind and simple as a backwater peasant in the far reaches of Silesia. Occasional fragments of recognizable language would tumble forth, spit like a pebble into the humid air between them, gabbled exhortations of want and mindless approval. "Fuck," and "Oh, God," and "There," and "Yes," a sibilant hiss through clenched teeth or a guttural grunt wrenched from the back of her throat. And once, when he'd flicked the engorged nub of her clit with his finger, he'd thought he'd heard, "Sweet," again, a plosive rush of air from the center of her heaving solar plexus.
He'd delighted in watching her unravel, in watching her lose her sophisticated polish and devolve into a creature of instinct and desire, unfettered by prim clothes and careful thought and the constructs of acceptable behavior. Sex was the truest barometer of the soul beneath the skin, and he'd known that Calliope was a firebrand behind her cool facade, a libidinous nymph who reveled in the pleasures of the flesh. She'd writhed and thrust against his rhythmically-plunging fingers, eyes and hips rolling, mouth open in a slack, noiseless gape, and she'd strained against the binding tangle of her panties around her calves. He'd chuckled at her flustered pique and obligingly yanked them off. He had not, however, tossed them aside to join the jumble of clothes strewn around the bed. Instead, he'd wrapped them around his hand and used them to stroke his aching, twitching cock, and the white-hot surge of pleasure had made his hips surge and his eyelids flutter. Calliope, who had been watching him despite her own ecstatic delirium, had groaned and given a convulsive shudder.
In truth, he'd been surprised by her utterly visceral reaction to his ministrations, her rapacious ardor, and he'd wondered how long it had been since she'd invited someone into her bed. She hadn't been a virgin, surely; she'd mentioned previous sorties into the sexual arena with flower-wielding lotharios, and in any case, her oral prowess spoke to a long and cherished acquaintance with the mechanics of seduction. Besides, there had been no elastic resistance to his probing fingers, no hesitation in her thrusts. Still, her fervor had hinted at a woman at the end of a long drought, a woman who had nearly forgotten the taste and texture of pleasure taken from another.
Not everyone is an indiscriminate whore, Richard, Caron had noted drily, and flicked the ashes of her stolen cigarette. Maybe she actually has standards and doesn't put out for anything with the proper equipment just so she won't have to be alone. A pause as she'd taken another drag from the cigarette that never seemed to shrink no matter how much it burned or how many ashes she flicked out of sight. Then again, she's letting you between her legs, so her standards can't be that high.
He'd wondered, as his fingers had slid and curled and flexed within her, how many had see her like this, naked and raw and divested of her civilized clothes, hair wild and pupils blown and nerve endings on fire with a need only they could fill. He'd wondered who had been the first to see her so. Had she been a young girl of sixteen, fresh and wild and unsullied by disappointment and bitter experience, or had she been older, a college coed with a head full of dreams and a clear vision of how the world ought to be? He wondered where it had happened, that first meeting with Asmodeus. Had it been on a grassy knoll beneath an old oak tree, surrounded by the leavings of a picnic and paper cups of bottom-shelf wine, or had it been in the musty, unromantic confines of a backseat, caressed by torn vinyl and enveloped in the smell of teenage boy and motor oil? Mostly, he'd wondered if she remembered the face of the man who'd taken her virginity in a blur of blood and sweat and desperate movement, or if she saw him only in shadow, as he saw the girl who'd introduced him to manhood on the floor of a youth hostel when he'd been seventeen and friendless in Prague.
It had been a hypocritical selfish train of thought. He had seen hundreds of women in such states of abandon, perhaps thousands. He'd debauched secretaries and debased lonely housewives looking to avenge themselves on their boring, inattentive husbands. He'd seduced naive hayseeds from Bavarian dairy farms and romped with exotic and well-versed Tokyo escorts who'd sucked his dick with jaded, carefully-schooled lasciviousness and charged a handsome sum for the privilege. He could recall the faces of very few and the names of even fewer, and he hadn't given a moment's thought to what become of them once they'd left his bed or his hotel room.
So he'd had no right to wonder, to wish he'd been the first and only to see such splendor, but he had, selfishly, jealously. He had also been smart enough to keep his mouth shut and focus on the rhythm of his pumping fingers and the cool sheath of her panties around his cock
"Dammit, Richard, please," she'd pleaded, her gaze burning and fixed on the steady rise and fall of his hand between his legs.
"Please what?" he'd croaked, determined that she should break. If she hadn't, he soon would have, would have either arched and spilled into the flimsy simulacrum of her panties or mounted her in a flurry of tangling limbs and ridden her until he was insensate, explicit invitation be damned.
He'd smiled at the flash of indignation in her eyes at that. She growled, and the sound had traveled straight to his balls. You know what, her vivid green eyes had replied, but her kiss-swollen mouth had answered, "Please fuck me."
He'd laughed, a deep-throated rumble in the center of his chest, and cupped her cheek. She had immediately turned to mouth his palm. "Ah, my schoene Hexe, but nothing would give me greater pleasure." He'd tossed aside the rumpled wadding of her panties, but he hadn't removed his fingers from her greedily-clutching sex. Instead, he'd slipped a third inside her and rubbed slow, purposeful circles around her clit with the callused ball of his thumb.
"Ah. Ah hat." A bark of surprised, and she'd fixed him with a vaguely accusatory glare, as if to say, This is not at all what I had in mind, but her rolling, surging hips had never slowed or faltered. Indeed, they had increased their tempo, and her gasps had become more ragged and urgent. She'd bitten her lip and clenched around his fingers.
"I know it's not precisely what you had in mind, Hexe," he'd purred, and nibbled on her ear, "but I might not be so attentive when...the times comes, and we should both enjoy ourselves, should we not?" He'd gently bitten her dainty earlobe and relished her whimper of approval. He'd wanted to see her come, see her consumed by her abandon and twisting in the fiery, unrepentant grip of St Vitus.
It hadn't taken long. A dozen circles and she'd risen off the mattress, mouth slack and eyes rolling and hips grinding and hands scrabbling for purchase on the bedclothes. She'd spasmed and fluttered around his fingers, and she'd cried out, a single, sustained note that had risen in pitch until it was little more than a screamy breath. It hadn't been the garish, theatrical howl of a porn star, all sound and fury and blank, dead eyes signifying nothing, but the clear tremolo of an opera diva flourishing her scales. It had been pleasure and completion and joyous epiphany, hosanna on the mountaintop, and she'd smiled as she'd sagged limply into the mattress in a tangle of red hair and sweat and heaving breasts and trembling thighs.
"Jesus Christ," she'd panted, and run shaking fingers through her hair.
"My megalomania hasn't reached those proportions just yet," he'd tutted mildly. "Though I'd like to try my hand in a stage production of Jesus Christ Superstar someday."
"As Jesus, I take it," she'd drawled, and gasped as he'd withdrawn his fingers from her.
"Or Judas," he'd admitted, casually. Then, before her precocious, magpie's mind could pursue that thread of conversation, "But...I am not here to discuss my theatrical aspirations."
She'd laughed, bells and smoke, and eyed his tumescent prick, which had been long and heavy against his belly and slick with saliva and pre-come. "Oh, I should hope not." She'd licked her lips and curled her fingers around him, and he'd closed his eyes and arched into the contact. It had felt so good, not the dirty rut of an after-show fuck, with sweat from the stage pooled in the crack of his ass and his skin still clammy with the residue of flash powder and damp denim and stage makeup still caked to his skin, but clean and sweet and unhurried.
He'd draped himself over her with persnickety care, propped on his elbows so that his weight didn't drive the air from her in an unglamorous woof. Calliope had smiled up at him, and her hand had slipped between their bodies to clumsily stroke the swollen head of his cock.
"Perhaps this is an inopportune time to broach the subject, but is there anything I should know before I succumb to my baser nature? I'm on the pill, and it's been...quite some time since my last romp," she'd said diffidently, though her hand had been lascivious as ever, a serpent coiling restlessly around a totem pole and constricting with peristaltic regularity. "I guess I'm asking if there's any chance I'll be tweezing crabs out of my pubes or pissing fire when the rush wears off." Another well-timed squeeze and she'd drawn her velvet thumb over his foreskin and frenulum with wicked intent.
He'd been so startled by her unexpected use of the word "pubes" and distracted by the merciless industry of her hand that he'd forgotten to be indignant at the implication of carelessness in his sexual habits. In fact, he'd found it hard to concentrate on anything but the warm friction of her hand and the soft rise and fall of her belly grazing the base of his cock. "Mmm? I'm-I'm quite clean," he'd assured her, and dipped his head to one ample breast, which he'd nibbled and laved with logy relish. "I got tested just before I left New York. I get tested three times a year as a matter of course." He'd sucked her firm, peaked nipple between his teeth and worried it with his tongue, and her free hand had entangled itself in his hair.
"However, if you would be more comfortable, I have protection."
She'd gazed up at him, her mouth curved in a knowing smirk, and only the relentless work of her hand had forestalled his urge to squirm. He'd opened his mouth to explain, but she'd pressed her fingers to his lips and shaken her head. "No. You've made me no promises, and you owe me no explanations." Still, he'd thought he'd detected a flicker of sadness in her eyes, there and gone before he could grasp it. Her stroking hand had risen and fallen over him like a heartbeat, and her thumb had stirred around his frenulum, firm and slick with his fluids. He'd groaned helplessly and nearly missed it when she'd asked, "This protection, would you have to get up to get it?"
He'd forced his lust-clouded mind to focus on the words from her mouth rather than the overpowering messages being sent from between his legs. "Yes."
"Mmm. Well, I'm afraid I can't have that," she'd purred. "On the main, I find sex with a condom like a gynecological exam." Richard had wholeheartedly agreed, and besides, he hadn't been sure his legs would support him if he tried to stand. He'd cried out as she'd given him a firm tug and ground her hips beneath him in wordless promise. She'd coaxed his ear to her wet, plump mouth. "I swear, Kruspe, if you give me the clap, I'll curse you in words your grandchildren haven't invented yet."
He'd sputtered helpless laughter and cupped her face in his hands and plied her with open-mouthed, tongueless kisses. Oh, my Calliope, he'd thought fiercely. But it hadn't been love. Love was painful and dangerous, shards of glass that slipped beneath the skin and cut everything they touched. It had been only need and mutual kindness.
Calliope had shifted and slithered beneath him, opening her hips and parting her thighs and drawing up her knees to clamp them around his sides, and then he had been there poised on the cusp of joining, the head of his cock nudging her folds. She'd sighed and opened for him, but he had hesitated, had braced himself on his elbows and bent to sniff her neck, vanilla and almonds and sex. It had been heady, and he'd drawn in deep when he'd pushed into her and held it in his lungs when she'd cried out and risen to meet him.
She'd been relaxed from her first orgasm, and he'd met little resistance to his intrusion, though she'd been snug around him as he'd rocked his hips in search of a mutually-satisfying rhythm. She'd been warm and wet and glorious, and the friction of her cunt against his foreskin with every thrust had ignited a slow, simmering heat in his belly and coiled a velvet fist around his spine. He'd made his strokes as long and teasing as possible in the beginning, had nearly withdrawn from her only to press forward again at the last moment, and she had made the most intoxicating noises in response, soft, hiccoughing moans and breathless sighs, and her eyes had been wide and glazed, as though she'd been in the throes of heroin dreams without end or beginning. The noises had mesmerized him, and he'd done his utmost to encourage them for as long as he could, until she'd laughed and locked her ankles around his ass to prevent further escape.
He'd begun to fuck her in earnest then, had shortened his thrusts and increased their tempo and captured her hips in his hands and molded her to him. Soon the air had been redolent with the smells of sweat and writhing bodies and filled with the sounds of creaking bedsprings and urgently-smacking flesh and wordless hymns to God. Calliope had been all sound and sinuous motion, gasping and moaning and crying out against his shoulder or into the hollow of his throat, and though her hips had been trapped by his hands, her torso and belly had twisted and arched and tightened, and her hands had been everywhere--in his hair on his face, snaking down his back to cup his ass and teases his perineum with shameless fingers, teasing his aching nipples with a pinch or scrape of nail.
While her hands had been all furious motion and scrabbling desperation, her mouth had been all deliberate purpose. Her kisses had been numberless, soft and cool as dust against his burning skin and sweet as wine against his lips and a soothing counterpoint to the frenzy of his surging hips and her roaming hands and encircling arms. She had lingered over them, had savored the meeting of their lips as a precious sweetmeat. She had teased and nibbled and flicked her tongue against his lips, coaxed them open and explored him with languid sweeps of her tongue. She'd breathed and laughed against his mouth, and he'd laughed in turn and released one of her hips to cup the back or her skull and tangle his fingers in the luxuriant softness of her hair.
She hadn't been a talker, thank God. Nothing annoyed him or ruined his libidinous moods faster than a woman who narrated their interlude like David Attenborough crouching in the tall grasses of the Serengeti with a pith hat and an eight-millimeter camera. Calliope hadn't been a talker, but a hummer and a keener and warbler. When she had spoken, it had been in gabbled, garbled bursts to exhort him to thrust harder or faster or to please touch her there, to express her pleasure in their sweaty-limbed union. But mostly, she had spoken with the warmth of her lips and the eagerness of her hands and the urgency of her hips.
"Oh, oh, Christ," she'd said, her voice thin and strangled and her mouth muffled by the curve of his shoulder. Her hips had slammed against his, and her fingers had contracted into claws. Her short-cropped fingernails had raked down his back and left a baked-pavement heat in their wake, and then she'd cupped her hands beneath his pistoning ass and begun to clutch and knead. "Oh. Oh. Ah, ah, ah. Oh, Jesus. Oh, Richard, sweet, oh, please. Oh, please, please, please," she'd babbled, and then dissolved into guttural incoherence.
Her customary elegance had deserted her, but her intended message had been clear in the mounting tension around his cock and her ragged, staccato breathing. His witch had been hurtling pell mell towards the abyss, and like Jack, he could only go tumbling after. Higher brain functions had deserted him, and he could only cling to her and rut and murmur at her in the only language he remembered, the coarse German consonants as blunt and unrefined as the motion of their entangled bodies. He'd pleaded with her to come, to surrender to him, and she had responded with arched hips and upthrust breasts and the inchoate, immutable, and immortal language of naked desire, a language without syllables or alphabet or phonemes, without form, one that cannot be taught or recorded or passed down, but merely understood, drawn from the mouths and skin and pores, and only then by the people who speak it. A universal language of two.
Mouth on her throat and hands on her breasts and nipples beneath his fingers and tongue, and the scope of the world had narrowed to the join between their thighs and the fluttering velvet fist around his cock. Calliope's heels had dug into his ass with such force that he'd been sure there would be bruises in the morning. He'd molded her to him, buried his face in her hair and inhaled the scent of her shampoo and moaned as instinct had overshadowed reason and he'd driven mindlessly into her.
She had gone perfectly rigid, her body thrumming and vibrating with the force of her impending release, and then she had begun to convulse around him, head thrown back, eyes wide, legs spreading helplessly as she'd succumbed to her release. Her cunt had seized and then begun to flutter around him, wet and swollen and sucking, and she'd laughed as she'd ridden out her climax, a cracked, musical titter that had stirred his blood.
Sag mir, Calliope, he'd thought as he'd held her weakly-spasming cunt against his thrusting prick and listened to her gasp and shudder and pant against him. She'd been so slick, so damn sweet, but he'd needed to hear it one more time, that amazing endearment like a benediction from the gods. Sag mir noch einmal.
Calliope, who had let her head sag against his shoulder, had raised it with an effort and blinked at him in dazed befuddlement. "Not yet, hmmm?" she'd slurred. She'd kissed him and begun to move against him again, though her movements had been feeble, as though all the muscles in her legs had sprung and turned to wax. So wet, so sweet.
"Please, Calliope, please." It had slipped out, unbidden, from a mouth gone dry with exertion and desperation.
Hands on his face and brows furrowed in concern. "Please what, sweet?"
He'd cried out sharply and buried himself within her, and the world had ceased to exist save for the pulsing ecstasy between his legs and the distant comfort of her arms around him and the cup of her palm against his sweat-matted hair. The thunder of blood in his ears and the muffled creak of bedsprings and the damp cling of Calliope's skin beneath him, and the velvet snugness of her sex milking his twitching prick, and then he'd slumped heavily against her, too spent to be chivalrous.
If she had minded, she had given no sign. She'd merely let her still-trembling legs go slack and carded her fingers through his hair.
It hadn't been love that had made him reluctant to part from her, and it hadn't been love that prompted him to drop kisses to her forehead and sweat-cool chest and caress her sweat-dampened hair. Not love, but simple recognition that she wasn't one of the countless common doxies that he'd bedded and discarded, a courtesy to a friend. A friend whose embrace had soothed the constant itch beneath his skin and silenced the incessantly-chattering voice of the performer inside his head. A friend who had provided a place of solace in the loose circle of her arms.
He'd remained atop her in a loose-jointed sprawl until his sated prick had slipped from her of its own accord, and then he'd rolled off her and onto his back, one hand beneath his head and the other scratching idly at his sweat-sticky belly. "Do you mind if I smoke?"
She'd chuckled, and it had made her breasts sway in a most inviting manner. "After that, I might need a cigarette."
He'd laughed, pleased, and rolled to collect his lighter and crumpled pack of cigarettes from the nightstand. "You're welcome to one," he'd offered, and held out the pack.
She'd wrinkled her nose. "No, thanks. Even if I could overlook the fact that I'd be sending lung cancer an engraved invitation, I'd never get the smell out of my hair."
He'd grunted in concession of the point and fished a cigarette from his rapidly-dwindling supply. "You do smell better than a cigarette."
"Your charm astounds," she'd retorted drily. After a few moments of companionable silence, she'd said, "I really should get up and pee; my mother swears that not peeing after sex is the surest way to a bladder infection, and after six kids, I guess she'd know, but I don't want to get up. It's comfortable, and besides, I'll have to face your smirking friends."
"I wouldn't worry yourself," he'd said around the cigarette clamped between his teeth. "They probably had their ears to the door the whole time." When she'd spared the bedroom door a dubious glance, he'd said, "I'm joking. We're men, not children."
"You say that as though there were a difference," she'd teased, and then she'd sighed ruefully. "I guess there's nothing for it. I don't want to spend the holiday doing an anguished potty dance in some Berlin doctor's office and swilling cranberry juice." She'd sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Besides, the sooner I clean up, the smaller the wet spot I'll have to sleep in."
She'd yawned and groped for serviceable clothes with which to cover herself, and then she'd risen from the bed and stepped over the small hillock of fabric. She'd stepped into a pair of sweatpants with that peculiar grace of women and shimmied into them. Another bend, shimmy, and twist, and she'd slipped into her rumpled t-shirt. She'd turned to him in the lengthening gloam of twilight, her face sharp and alien and her eyes piercing in the deepening shadows of the room. "Unless you would prefer I sleep on the cathouse sofa?"
He'd removed the still-unlit cigarette from his mouth. "No, that I would not prefer," he'd said quietly.
A lopsided smile. "Shall I bring you something to clean up with?"
"Bitte." He'd become aware of a cool tackiness on his slumbering prick and balls.
She'd nodded once and padded to the door, and he'd realized that she was wearing his sweatpants. They'd been too long for her, and the hem of the pantlegs had flapped at her heels, a small dog nipping playfully at the heels of its master. The sight had been absurd and yet so right, as though it had always been and ever would.
Not love, he'd told himself resolutely as he'd watched her disappear through the doorway and into the scalding, otherworldly light of the living room. Not love.
He'd lit his cigarette and taken a deep drag and waited for her to come back, the sound of the ocean suddenly loud in his ears.
Author:
laguera25Fandom: Rammstein
Rating FRAO for graphic sexual content
Pairing: Richard Kruspe/OFC
Disclaimer: Richard Z. Kruspe is a real person, with family and friends who love him. I am not one of them. I do not know him. This is a work of complete fiction, and should be read as such. No defamation is intended. For entertainment only.
A/N: This chapter contains graphic sexual content, more graphic than anything that I have previously written. If smut offends thee, or if RPF smut makes you uncomfortable, then now is the time to use your BACK button.
Part I Part IIa Part IIb Part III Part IVa Part IVb Part V Part VIa Part VIb Part VIIa Part VIIb Part VIII Part IX Part Xa Part Xb Part XIa
It had been a dance conducted in private, a waltz performed in two-two time and far removed from the leering, lidless eyes of cellphone cameras hidden discreetly on the nightstand or behind the sunken, empty barrow of his stage pants. That she would take from him had been beyond dispute; at its heart, sex was nothing but a biologically-mandated act of mutual cession, but he had also understood as he'd swayed in her meandering, intoxicating embrace and moved eagerly against her roaming hands that she would take nothing more than what he offered. She would not leave his bed clutching her panties like a souvenir and tell everyone about their liaison with his seed drying on her thighs and in the corners of her mouth. What happened here would remain here, held in secret by two entwined bodies.
He'd guided her backwards until her calves had bumped the edge of the bed, and then he'd eased her onto it, a graceful dip at the end of a waltz. He'd mouthed and nibbled at her exposed neck as she'd sunk onto the mattress, and she'd arched for him, eyes closed and breasts upthrust. He'd bent his head and suckled one of her nipples through the cumbersome, blunting fabric of her bra. Her eyes had widened, and then she'd exposed her ivory neck and writhed, hips open and thighs parted for a lover who had not yet staked his claim. She'd been debauched and wild and fierce, with hair tousled and chest heaving and eyes blazing with inarticulate want, a fire nymph in the throes of surrender, and his throat had been dry and constricted as he'd stretched out beside her, the urgent heat of his cock brushing her hip and outer thigh.
Sensitive nipples, he'd mused as he'd bent to tease the other.
She had been a foreign and exquisite instrument, and he'd learned to play her by painstaking degrees. He'd learned, for instance, that she shivered and tittered if he flicked his tongue against the shell of her ear, and that she was enamored of his tongue. No matter where he flickered, lapped, or laved, he'd been rewarded with unmistakable signs of approbation--panting and writhing and clawing her hands in the bedspread--and when he'd slipped the wet blade of his tongue into the shallow cup of her navel, he'd thought she was going to come on the spot.
He'd also discovered that she possessed a wicked mouth of her own, one that felt no shame in slurping his rough-padded fingers between plump lips and bobbing up and down with dreamy, hollow-cheeked languor or in teasing his nipple with her sharp white teeth and soothing the prickling scrape they left with the wide, wet blade of her tongue. She had nibbled and sucked and tasted with abandon, hands on his hips or shoulders or curled around the shaft of his cock, and when she'd risen over him on her knees and taken his swollen cock into her wicked, mischievous, schoolmarm's mouth, one hand curled around his shaft and the other braced on the mattress, the pleasure had been so quick and sharp that he'd thought he was drowning.
Her mouth had been like sun-warmed velvet, hot and wet and greedy as she'd moved her lips along his shaft and swirled her tongue over his glans and along his frenulum, and he'd wanted to close his eyes and lose himself in the glorious sensations radiating from between his obscenely splayed legs, but he'd also wanted to drink in the mesmerizing sight of his witch of the wood with his cock in her mouth. Her back had been bowed, a minx in luxuriant stretch, and her ass had jutted proudly into the air. Her hips had matched the rhythm of her mouth, had rocked in long, protracted strokes as she moved from head to base and in short, jerky thrusts as she'd bobbed furiously, cheeks hollowed and lips slick with saliva and the salty musk of his steadily-rising need for release. They had even moved in a wide, hypnotic circle whenever her tongue had circled his glans or her cool, dry palm had closed around his straining prick and begun to rise and fall and twist in a ceaseless ouroboros of motion.
It had been erotic and sublime, a vision from the halls of Asmodeus, and he'd felt drunk and delirious as he'd watched her move over him. Her hair had shimmered in the flat, rose light of the setting sun, and one bra strap had dangled at her side like a severed tendon. One firm breast had been exposed, the nipple flushed and puckered and needy and glistening with saliva.
There had been little sound save for the wet suction of Calliope's mouth and her soft pants and grunts of exertion and pleasure, soft gasps and moans and hums that had washed over his slick, sensitive flesh and made his hips rise of their own volition to urge her on. The creak of the bedsprings as she'd shifted, the rustle of bedclothes. The distant, drowsy hum of the television set in the living room.
She'd taken him deep and emitted a queer, keening cry that had caused his hips to buck and the flesh of his nape to ripple into hard knots of gooseflesh. Calliope's hair had fallen into her face, obscuring it. He'd reached out and brushed it aside with gentle fingers. Her mouth had been working furiously, and her eyes had been open and fixed on the coarse thatch of his pubic hair. Another choked keen, and he thought he'd detected a shadow of something darker behind her expression of wild abandon.
He'd thought to stop her, to ask her what was wrong, but her mouth had wrought such magnificent magic on him that he'd simply propped himself on his elbows and lost himself to the moment, eyes half-lidded and fingers fisted in the bedspread and on one bare thigh and hips surging against the insistent, suckling of her mouth.
She had been beautiful, Venus in full splendor, flushed cheeks and pale skin and coyly-undulating buttocks. And her crown of fire, of course, that lovely hair that had caught the sun and transformed it into silken fire, a prayer shawl that had obscured her face and cascaded over her slender shoulders.
Not a prayer shawl, he'd thought stupidly, drugged with the pleasure that had coursed through his veins like absinthe and laudanum and coiled in his cock and belly like an impending cramp. It's a cowl. A red one. He'd smiled drunkenly at that. She'd been his woodcut witch made flesh, and he'd reached out to cup the back of her skull and guide her. Not to force her; that was for the disposable women whose names and faces he would not recall in the morning, the ones whose mouths were made for nothing but that and were full of nothing but tongue and teeth and useless bleating.
She'd made to descend lower still, to take his balls into her mouth like a sacramental offering, but he'd caught her chin and coaxed her upward instead. If she'd brought her formidable skills to bear on his balls, then the road to mutual satisfaction would have been decidedly short and dismally one-sided. Much as it pained him to admit it, twenty-one had been a long time ago, and if he'd spent himself then in the avaricious warmth of her mouth, there had been no guarantee that he would would be able to rouse himself again, at least not before she grew impatient and bored and returned to the surer satisfaction of her book.
She'd curled beside him, one hand in the center of his chest and her hair tickling his nose. He'd tilted her chin upward and kissed her, groaned at the taste of himself on her mouth, mingled with the taste of her.
"Lie back," he'd murmured, and she'd complied at once, unfurling with loose-limbed grace.
He'd hummed in approval and slipped a hand beneath her to fumble with the clasp of her bra. She'd laughed and raised up for him. The clasp had released with the subtle spring of loosening fabric, and he'd pulled off the bra and tossed it aside. She'd laughed again and pulled him down for an unhurried kiss, her hands cupping his cheeks and running her finger through his hair. She'd tugged on the meticulously-gelled strands and the shorter strands just above his nape and sucked his bottom lip between her teeth and nipped. The bright spark of pain had startled him, and he'd recoiled.
"Sorry," she'd murmured. "Sorry, sweet." She'd brushed her soft lips against the memory of her sharp teeth in an act of wordless penance.
It had been word that had moved him, the unexpected endearment. He had been called many things in bed by women whose vocabularies had dwindled to that of basest need. "Baby" and its permutations were the most common, the preferred nomenclature of mouths rimed with liquor and the copper and iron aftertaste of their boyfriends' cock. He'd also been called "fucker", "you gorgeous bastard," and "hot son of a bitch." His Japanese consorts had often called him "Richard-san". Caron had called him "honey." She had in the beginning, any road. By the end, when the fucking was infrequent and little more than a matter of course and grudging need, she hadn't called him much of anything. She'd closed her eyes and pretended he was someone else or ridden him with her hands braced on the headboard and her gaze locked on one of her portraits that hung above the bed. Margeaux had never called him anything but Richard and grunted and lowed and commanded him to fuck her harder. No one had called him "sweet." He'd thought that perhaps his mother had called him "schatze" when he was small, but that could have been wishful thinking or an accidental endearment intended for his sister.
Sweet. The unexpected syllable had washed over him like benediction and anointing oil, and he'd been so surprised that he'd momentarily forgotten his lust and stared at her.
She'd gazed uncertainly back at him, convinced perhaps that she'd ruined the mood with her ill-timed nip. She'd worried her lip with her teeth and tugged on the bedspread. "Are you-?" she'd begun, and then he'd closed his mouth over hers and breathed against her until she'd relaxed into him. The roar of black water had been loud in his ears, but he'd told himself that it was nothing but the rush of blood and the sussurating, throaty echo of the ocean just beyond the terrace. The black waters had proven too dangerous and too painful to swim in them again.
She had proven as tactile as he, and his hands had roamed her body with gluttonous impunity, fingers dancing over the spars of her hips and along the pale, smooth flesh of her thigh, and his palms had cradled her shoulder blades and her buttocks and cupped her breasts, and her shallow, rapid breaths had made the latter flutter beneath his hand like a trapped butterfly. He'd kneaded and mouthed and coaxed, and she had rewarded him with exquisite noises that had sung along his nerve endings like the note from an Aeolian harp. Whimpers and moans and mewls and stuttering, ragged chirps that had stoked the fire in his blood and made his swollen prick strain against the limits of its fashioning.
He'd saved her cunt for last. It was his favorite part of the ritual, the unveiling of his lover's sex. It wasn't the cunt itself, though he never hesitated to indulge thereof, but the moment of absolute exposure, when that which was hidden and slyly intimated was laid bare and made plain beyond all doubt. It was the point of no return, when promises made would either become promises kept or promises broken. He loved that moment, that tipping point decided by swollen flesh and slick, glistening folds.
He hadn't uncovered her right away, but had teased her through her panties with the thick, rough pads of his fingers and watched her twist and buck against his hand and chew on her knuckles to stifle the moans that had threatened to spill from her working mouth.
"Do you want me to stop?" he'd whispered as he'd tormented her clit with lingering circles of his thumb
She'd shaken her head. "No, God, no." Muffled by the bony stoppers of her knuckles.
An incremental increase in pressure, and she'd pistoned beneath his hand. "Then why are you biting your knuckles?"
Another torturous circle, another muffled cry. "They might hear," she'd panted, and ground frantically against his hand.
He'd licked his lips and leaned down to press a moist kiss to the unyielding ridge of her collarbone. "So what if they do?" He'd increased the pressure but maintained the same excruciating slowness." She'd cried out, more sharply than before, and rocked against his hand. Another warm kiss on her collarbone, and then he'd risen with a sinuous arch of spine to whisper in her ear. "Do you really care, Calliope? Hmm?" Another kiss on the shell of her ear. "Only in America do men expect their women to have the chastity of saints and the skill of sinners," he'd purred, and let his thumb work. "But I am not an American, and I don't care how loud you are when you come."
She'd laughed at that, a loose, staccato cackle like the rattling of chimes, but she'd kept her knuckles pressed to her mouth.
He'd reached up and gently pulled her hand away, and then he'd kissed the center of her palm. "Do you remember when I told you not to apologize for your passion because there was too little of it in the world?"
A grunt that might have been assent or an incoherent bleat of pleasure. She'd been so wet, even through the fabric of the panties, and he could feel her urgent, simmering heat. He'd wondered how she would taste, how she would smell, like woman and blind, stupid need, warm stones and sea salt.
"Now I'm telling you that there is too much shame in the world. Don't add to it, Calliope. You're too smart to fall into such stupid, useless traps, and too beautiful to hide yourself."
Stupid, useless boy, his father had scoffed. Spouting such ridiculous, lovestruck poetry like a teenage boy. The voice had been remote and insignificant, however, smothered by the immediacy of Calliope beneath his stroking hand and expertly-probing, curling finger. Besides, his father had been wrong. He hadn't been in love with Calliope. He had cared for her, yes, cherished her companionship and valued her friendship, but that had been all. It had certainly not been love that had motivated him to lie her down and lay her bare and make her sing with the strength and knowledge in his hands. Just lust, he'd told himself as he'd watched her mouth gape in ecstasy and a bead of sweat bead on her breastbone like a nascent diamond. Just lust, safer and purer in its intent. Love had been a weakness he would not court.
"Bitte, bitte, Calliope," he'd crooned, and tapped the swollen nub of her clit with a quick press of his thumb.
Her hand had fallen to her belly, and she had sung shamelessly then, a high, clear cry of unbridled delight. "God. Please, Richard. Please."
"Please what?" he'd asked, though he'd known damn well what she'd wanted. It had been writ large on her face and her endlessly-rolling hips, the lascivious spread of her legs to allow him greater access. He'd wanted to hear her say it, to surrender the last of her inhibitions.
She'd gulped and panted and cupped one bare breast in a rhythmically-kneading hand, and soon, her squeezes had matched the assured stroking of his thumb. The sight had weakened his resolve, and he'd nearly abandoned the game and mounted her, pulled her modest panties aside and ridden her until they'd both been spent and boneless atop the coverlet.
"What, Calliope?" he'd rasped unsteadily, eyes fixed on her ivory fingers as she'd rolled a swollen, pink nipple between her thumb and forefinger. He'd idly wondered if she did the same while masturbating, legs spread wide in her stifling bachelorette's bed or in her bathtub, eyes glazed and fixed on a liaison unfolding somewhere beyond the flaccid curve of the spigot and a cloudbank of scented bubbles hiding the feverish ministrations of her hands as she fucked herself with page-stained fingers. "All you have to do is ask, Hexe. Just open that pretty mouth and let the truth come out."
Hands opening and closing spasmodically on the coverlet. Hips flexing as she'd risen to meet him. "Please. Please. Fffff-" Little more than wind in the leaves.
Not enough, and yet his hunger had been great, and he could not deny her--or himself--entirely. So he had pulled down her panties to the calves, and then he'd let his avid gaze rake over her slick, exposed flesh and the neatly-trimmed thatch of copper curls above her vulva. He'd run his fingers through them and been rewarded with a sigh he'd felt rather than heard, a subliminal thrum that had reverberated through her muscles like an ague.
"Jesus Christ, Kruspe, you make leering hot," she'd muttered drunkenly, and he'd thrown back his head and laughed because it had been so odd, and so very Calliope.
How could he deny such a lofty compliment its just desserts? So he'd begun his work in earnest, had stroked and tapped and fondled and slipped one, two fingers inside her, and with each new flourish of his educated hand, his witch had come undone. She'd cried out in the indecipherable glossolalia of Eros that every body understood, be they dumb and blind and simple as a backwater peasant in the far reaches of Silesia. Occasional fragments of recognizable language would tumble forth, spit like a pebble into the humid air between them, gabbled exhortations of want and mindless approval. "Fuck," and "Oh, God," and "There," and "Yes," a sibilant hiss through clenched teeth or a guttural grunt wrenched from the back of her throat. And once, when he'd flicked the engorged nub of her clit with his finger, he'd thought he'd heard, "Sweet," again, a plosive rush of air from the center of her heaving solar plexus.
He'd delighted in watching her unravel, in watching her lose her sophisticated polish and devolve into a creature of instinct and desire, unfettered by prim clothes and careful thought and the constructs of acceptable behavior. Sex was the truest barometer of the soul beneath the skin, and he'd known that Calliope was a firebrand behind her cool facade, a libidinous nymph who reveled in the pleasures of the flesh. She'd writhed and thrust against his rhythmically-plunging fingers, eyes and hips rolling, mouth open in a slack, noiseless gape, and she'd strained against the binding tangle of her panties around her calves. He'd chuckled at her flustered pique and obligingly yanked them off. He had not, however, tossed them aside to join the jumble of clothes strewn around the bed. Instead, he'd wrapped them around his hand and used them to stroke his aching, twitching cock, and the white-hot surge of pleasure had made his hips surge and his eyelids flutter. Calliope, who had been watching him despite her own ecstatic delirium, had groaned and given a convulsive shudder.
In truth, he'd been surprised by her utterly visceral reaction to his ministrations, her rapacious ardor, and he'd wondered how long it had been since she'd invited someone into her bed. She hadn't been a virgin, surely; she'd mentioned previous sorties into the sexual arena with flower-wielding lotharios, and in any case, her oral prowess spoke to a long and cherished acquaintance with the mechanics of seduction. Besides, there had been no elastic resistance to his probing fingers, no hesitation in her thrusts. Still, her fervor had hinted at a woman at the end of a long drought, a woman who had nearly forgotten the taste and texture of pleasure taken from another.
Not everyone is an indiscriminate whore, Richard, Caron had noted drily, and flicked the ashes of her stolen cigarette. Maybe she actually has standards and doesn't put out for anything with the proper equipment just so she won't have to be alone. A pause as she'd taken another drag from the cigarette that never seemed to shrink no matter how much it burned or how many ashes she flicked out of sight. Then again, she's letting you between her legs, so her standards can't be that high.
He'd wondered, as his fingers had slid and curled and flexed within her, how many had see her like this, naked and raw and divested of her civilized clothes, hair wild and pupils blown and nerve endings on fire with a need only they could fill. He'd wondered who had been the first to see her so. Had she been a young girl of sixteen, fresh and wild and unsullied by disappointment and bitter experience, or had she been older, a college coed with a head full of dreams and a clear vision of how the world ought to be? He wondered where it had happened, that first meeting with Asmodeus. Had it been on a grassy knoll beneath an old oak tree, surrounded by the leavings of a picnic and paper cups of bottom-shelf wine, or had it been in the musty, unromantic confines of a backseat, caressed by torn vinyl and enveloped in the smell of teenage boy and motor oil? Mostly, he'd wondered if she remembered the face of the man who'd taken her virginity in a blur of blood and sweat and desperate movement, or if she saw him only in shadow, as he saw the girl who'd introduced him to manhood on the floor of a youth hostel when he'd been seventeen and friendless in Prague.
It had been a hypocritical selfish train of thought. He had seen hundreds of women in such states of abandon, perhaps thousands. He'd debauched secretaries and debased lonely housewives looking to avenge themselves on their boring, inattentive husbands. He'd seduced naive hayseeds from Bavarian dairy farms and romped with exotic and well-versed Tokyo escorts who'd sucked his dick with jaded, carefully-schooled lasciviousness and charged a handsome sum for the privilege. He could recall the faces of very few and the names of even fewer, and he hadn't given a moment's thought to what become of them once they'd left his bed or his hotel room.
So he'd had no right to wonder, to wish he'd been the first and only to see such splendor, but he had, selfishly, jealously. He had also been smart enough to keep his mouth shut and focus on the rhythm of his pumping fingers and the cool sheath of her panties around his cock
"Dammit, Richard, please," she'd pleaded, her gaze burning and fixed on the steady rise and fall of his hand between his legs.
"Please what?" he'd croaked, determined that she should break. If she hadn't, he soon would have, would have either arched and spilled into the flimsy simulacrum of her panties or mounted her in a flurry of tangling limbs and ridden her until he was insensate, explicit invitation be damned.
He'd smiled at the flash of indignation in her eyes at that. She growled, and the sound had traveled straight to his balls. You know what, her vivid green eyes had replied, but her kiss-swollen mouth had answered, "Please fuck me."
He'd laughed, a deep-throated rumble in the center of his chest, and cupped her cheek. She had immediately turned to mouth his palm. "Ah, my schoene Hexe, but nothing would give me greater pleasure." He'd tossed aside the rumpled wadding of her panties, but he hadn't removed his fingers from her greedily-clutching sex. Instead, he'd slipped a third inside her and rubbed slow, purposeful circles around her clit with the callused ball of his thumb.
"Ah. Ah hat." A bark of surprised, and she'd fixed him with a vaguely accusatory glare, as if to say, This is not at all what I had in mind, but her rolling, surging hips had never slowed or faltered. Indeed, they had increased their tempo, and her gasps had become more ragged and urgent. She'd bitten her lip and clenched around his fingers.
"I know it's not precisely what you had in mind, Hexe," he'd purred, and nibbled on her ear, "but I might not be so attentive when...the times comes, and we should both enjoy ourselves, should we not?" He'd gently bitten her dainty earlobe and relished her whimper of approval. He'd wanted to see her come, see her consumed by her abandon and twisting in the fiery, unrepentant grip of St Vitus.
It hadn't taken long. A dozen circles and she'd risen off the mattress, mouth slack and eyes rolling and hips grinding and hands scrabbling for purchase on the bedclothes. She'd spasmed and fluttered around his fingers, and she'd cried out, a single, sustained note that had risen in pitch until it was little more than a screamy breath. It hadn't been the garish, theatrical howl of a porn star, all sound and fury and blank, dead eyes signifying nothing, but the clear tremolo of an opera diva flourishing her scales. It had been pleasure and completion and joyous epiphany, hosanna on the mountaintop, and she'd smiled as she'd sagged limply into the mattress in a tangle of red hair and sweat and heaving breasts and trembling thighs.
"Jesus Christ," she'd panted, and run shaking fingers through her hair.
"My megalomania hasn't reached those proportions just yet," he'd tutted mildly. "Though I'd like to try my hand in a stage production of Jesus Christ Superstar someday."
"As Jesus, I take it," she'd drawled, and gasped as he'd withdrawn his fingers from her.
"Or Judas," he'd admitted, casually. Then, before her precocious, magpie's mind could pursue that thread of conversation, "But...I am not here to discuss my theatrical aspirations."
She'd laughed, bells and smoke, and eyed his tumescent prick, which had been long and heavy against his belly and slick with saliva and pre-come. "Oh, I should hope not." She'd licked her lips and curled her fingers around him, and he'd closed his eyes and arched into the contact. It had felt so good, not the dirty rut of an after-show fuck, with sweat from the stage pooled in the crack of his ass and his skin still clammy with the residue of flash powder and damp denim and stage makeup still caked to his skin, but clean and sweet and unhurried.
He'd draped himself over her with persnickety care, propped on his elbows so that his weight didn't drive the air from her in an unglamorous woof. Calliope had smiled up at him, and her hand had slipped between their bodies to clumsily stroke the swollen head of his cock.
"Perhaps this is an inopportune time to broach the subject, but is there anything I should know before I succumb to my baser nature? I'm on the pill, and it's been...quite some time since my last romp," she'd said diffidently, though her hand had been lascivious as ever, a serpent coiling restlessly around a totem pole and constricting with peristaltic regularity. "I guess I'm asking if there's any chance I'll be tweezing crabs out of my pubes or pissing fire when the rush wears off." Another well-timed squeeze and she'd drawn her velvet thumb over his foreskin and frenulum with wicked intent.
He'd been so startled by her unexpected use of the word "pubes" and distracted by the merciless industry of her hand that he'd forgotten to be indignant at the implication of carelessness in his sexual habits. In fact, he'd found it hard to concentrate on anything but the warm friction of her hand and the soft rise and fall of her belly grazing the base of his cock. "Mmm? I'm-I'm quite clean," he'd assured her, and dipped his head to one ample breast, which he'd nibbled and laved with logy relish. "I got tested just before I left New York. I get tested three times a year as a matter of course." He'd sucked her firm, peaked nipple between his teeth and worried it with his tongue, and her free hand had entangled itself in his hair.
"However, if you would be more comfortable, I have protection."
She'd gazed up at him, her mouth curved in a knowing smirk, and only the relentless work of her hand had forestalled his urge to squirm. He'd opened his mouth to explain, but she'd pressed her fingers to his lips and shaken her head. "No. You've made me no promises, and you owe me no explanations." Still, he'd thought he'd detected a flicker of sadness in her eyes, there and gone before he could grasp it. Her stroking hand had risen and fallen over him like a heartbeat, and her thumb had stirred around his frenulum, firm and slick with his fluids. He'd groaned helplessly and nearly missed it when she'd asked, "This protection, would you have to get up to get it?"
He'd forced his lust-clouded mind to focus on the words from her mouth rather than the overpowering messages being sent from between his legs. "Yes."
"Mmm. Well, I'm afraid I can't have that," she'd purred. "On the main, I find sex with a condom like a gynecological exam." Richard had wholeheartedly agreed, and besides, he hadn't been sure his legs would support him if he tried to stand. He'd cried out as she'd given him a firm tug and ground her hips beneath him in wordless promise. She'd coaxed his ear to her wet, plump mouth. "I swear, Kruspe, if you give me the clap, I'll curse you in words your grandchildren haven't invented yet."
He'd sputtered helpless laughter and cupped her face in his hands and plied her with open-mouthed, tongueless kisses. Oh, my Calliope, he'd thought fiercely. But it hadn't been love. Love was painful and dangerous, shards of glass that slipped beneath the skin and cut everything they touched. It had been only need and mutual kindness.
Calliope had shifted and slithered beneath him, opening her hips and parting her thighs and drawing up her knees to clamp them around his sides, and then he had been there poised on the cusp of joining, the head of his cock nudging her folds. She'd sighed and opened for him, but he had hesitated, had braced himself on his elbows and bent to sniff her neck, vanilla and almonds and sex. It had been heady, and he'd drawn in deep when he'd pushed into her and held it in his lungs when she'd cried out and risen to meet him.
She'd been relaxed from her first orgasm, and he'd met little resistance to his intrusion, though she'd been snug around him as he'd rocked his hips in search of a mutually-satisfying rhythm. She'd been warm and wet and glorious, and the friction of her cunt against his foreskin with every thrust had ignited a slow, simmering heat in his belly and coiled a velvet fist around his spine. He'd made his strokes as long and teasing as possible in the beginning, had nearly withdrawn from her only to press forward again at the last moment, and she had made the most intoxicating noises in response, soft, hiccoughing moans and breathless sighs, and her eyes had been wide and glazed, as though she'd been in the throes of heroin dreams without end or beginning. The noises had mesmerized him, and he'd done his utmost to encourage them for as long as he could, until she'd laughed and locked her ankles around his ass to prevent further escape.
He'd begun to fuck her in earnest then, had shortened his thrusts and increased their tempo and captured her hips in his hands and molded her to him. Soon the air had been redolent with the smells of sweat and writhing bodies and filled with the sounds of creaking bedsprings and urgently-smacking flesh and wordless hymns to God. Calliope had been all sound and sinuous motion, gasping and moaning and crying out against his shoulder or into the hollow of his throat, and though her hips had been trapped by his hands, her torso and belly had twisted and arched and tightened, and her hands had been everywhere--in his hair on his face, snaking down his back to cup his ass and teases his perineum with shameless fingers, teasing his aching nipples with a pinch or scrape of nail.
While her hands had been all furious motion and scrabbling desperation, her mouth had been all deliberate purpose. Her kisses had been numberless, soft and cool as dust against his burning skin and sweet as wine against his lips and a soothing counterpoint to the frenzy of his surging hips and her roaming hands and encircling arms. She had lingered over them, had savored the meeting of their lips as a precious sweetmeat. She had teased and nibbled and flicked her tongue against his lips, coaxed them open and explored him with languid sweeps of her tongue. She'd breathed and laughed against his mouth, and he'd laughed in turn and released one of her hips to cup the back or her skull and tangle his fingers in the luxuriant softness of her hair.
She hadn't been a talker, thank God. Nothing annoyed him or ruined his libidinous moods faster than a woman who narrated their interlude like David Attenborough crouching in the tall grasses of the Serengeti with a pith hat and an eight-millimeter camera. Calliope hadn't been a talker, but a hummer and a keener and warbler. When she had spoken, it had been in gabbled, garbled bursts to exhort him to thrust harder or faster or to please touch her there, to express her pleasure in their sweaty-limbed union. But mostly, she had spoken with the warmth of her lips and the eagerness of her hands and the urgency of her hips.
"Oh, oh, Christ," she'd said, her voice thin and strangled and her mouth muffled by the curve of his shoulder. Her hips had slammed against his, and her fingers had contracted into claws. Her short-cropped fingernails had raked down his back and left a baked-pavement heat in their wake, and then she'd cupped her hands beneath his pistoning ass and begun to clutch and knead. "Oh. Oh. Ah, ah, ah. Oh, Jesus. Oh, Richard, sweet, oh, please. Oh, please, please, please," she'd babbled, and then dissolved into guttural incoherence.
Her customary elegance had deserted her, but her intended message had been clear in the mounting tension around his cock and her ragged, staccato breathing. His witch had been hurtling pell mell towards the abyss, and like Jack, he could only go tumbling after. Higher brain functions had deserted him, and he could only cling to her and rut and murmur at her in the only language he remembered, the coarse German consonants as blunt and unrefined as the motion of their entangled bodies. He'd pleaded with her to come, to surrender to him, and she had responded with arched hips and upthrust breasts and the inchoate, immutable, and immortal language of naked desire, a language without syllables or alphabet or phonemes, without form, one that cannot be taught or recorded or passed down, but merely understood, drawn from the mouths and skin and pores, and only then by the people who speak it. A universal language of two.
Mouth on her throat and hands on her breasts and nipples beneath his fingers and tongue, and the scope of the world had narrowed to the join between their thighs and the fluttering velvet fist around his cock. Calliope's heels had dug into his ass with such force that he'd been sure there would be bruises in the morning. He'd molded her to him, buried his face in her hair and inhaled the scent of her shampoo and moaned as instinct had overshadowed reason and he'd driven mindlessly into her.
She had gone perfectly rigid, her body thrumming and vibrating with the force of her impending release, and then she had begun to convulse around him, head thrown back, eyes wide, legs spreading helplessly as she'd succumbed to her release. Her cunt had seized and then begun to flutter around him, wet and swollen and sucking, and she'd laughed as she'd ridden out her climax, a cracked, musical titter that had stirred his blood.
Sag mir, Calliope, he'd thought as he'd held her weakly-spasming cunt against his thrusting prick and listened to her gasp and shudder and pant against him. She'd been so slick, so damn sweet, but he'd needed to hear it one more time, that amazing endearment like a benediction from the gods. Sag mir noch einmal.
Calliope, who had let her head sag against his shoulder, had raised it with an effort and blinked at him in dazed befuddlement. "Not yet, hmmm?" she'd slurred. She'd kissed him and begun to move against him again, though her movements had been feeble, as though all the muscles in her legs had sprung and turned to wax. So wet, so sweet.
"Please, Calliope, please." It had slipped out, unbidden, from a mouth gone dry with exertion and desperation.
Hands on his face and brows furrowed in concern. "Please what, sweet?"
He'd cried out sharply and buried himself within her, and the world had ceased to exist save for the pulsing ecstasy between his legs and the distant comfort of her arms around him and the cup of her palm against his sweat-matted hair. The thunder of blood in his ears and the muffled creak of bedsprings and the damp cling of Calliope's skin beneath him, and the velvet snugness of her sex milking his twitching prick, and then he'd slumped heavily against her, too spent to be chivalrous.
If she had minded, she had given no sign. She'd merely let her still-trembling legs go slack and carded her fingers through his hair.
It hadn't been love that had made him reluctant to part from her, and it hadn't been love that prompted him to drop kisses to her forehead and sweat-cool chest and caress her sweat-dampened hair. Not love, but simple recognition that she wasn't one of the countless common doxies that he'd bedded and discarded, a courtesy to a friend. A friend whose embrace had soothed the constant itch beneath his skin and silenced the incessantly-chattering voice of the performer inside his head. A friend who had provided a place of solace in the loose circle of her arms.
He'd remained atop her in a loose-jointed sprawl until his sated prick had slipped from her of its own accord, and then he'd rolled off her and onto his back, one hand beneath his head and the other scratching idly at his sweat-sticky belly. "Do you mind if I smoke?"
She'd chuckled, and it had made her breasts sway in a most inviting manner. "After that, I might need a cigarette."
He'd laughed, pleased, and rolled to collect his lighter and crumpled pack of cigarettes from the nightstand. "You're welcome to one," he'd offered, and held out the pack.
She'd wrinkled her nose. "No, thanks. Even if I could overlook the fact that I'd be sending lung cancer an engraved invitation, I'd never get the smell out of my hair."
He'd grunted in concession of the point and fished a cigarette from his rapidly-dwindling supply. "You do smell better than a cigarette."
"Your charm astounds," she'd retorted drily. After a few moments of companionable silence, she'd said, "I really should get up and pee; my mother swears that not peeing after sex is the surest way to a bladder infection, and after six kids, I guess she'd know, but I don't want to get up. It's comfortable, and besides, I'll have to face your smirking friends."
"I wouldn't worry yourself," he'd said around the cigarette clamped between his teeth. "They probably had their ears to the door the whole time." When she'd spared the bedroom door a dubious glance, he'd said, "I'm joking. We're men, not children."
"You say that as though there were a difference," she'd teased, and then she'd sighed ruefully. "I guess there's nothing for it. I don't want to spend the holiday doing an anguished potty dance in some Berlin doctor's office and swilling cranberry juice." She'd sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Besides, the sooner I clean up, the smaller the wet spot I'll have to sleep in."
She'd yawned and groped for serviceable clothes with which to cover herself, and then she'd risen from the bed and stepped over the small hillock of fabric. She'd stepped into a pair of sweatpants with that peculiar grace of women and shimmied into them. Another bend, shimmy, and twist, and she'd slipped into her rumpled t-shirt. She'd turned to him in the lengthening gloam of twilight, her face sharp and alien and her eyes piercing in the deepening shadows of the room. "Unless you would prefer I sleep on the cathouse sofa?"
He'd removed the still-unlit cigarette from his mouth. "No, that I would not prefer," he'd said quietly.
A lopsided smile. "Shall I bring you something to clean up with?"
"Bitte." He'd become aware of a cool tackiness on his slumbering prick and balls.
She'd nodded once and padded to the door, and he'd realized that she was wearing his sweatpants. They'd been too long for her, and the hem of the pantlegs had flapped at her heels, a small dog nipping playfully at the heels of its master. The sight had been absurd and yet so right, as though it had always been and ever would.
Not love, he'd told himself resolutely as he'd watched her disappear through the doorway and into the scalding, otherworldly light of the living room. Not love.
He'd lit his cigarette and taken a deep drag and waited for her to come back, the sound of the ocean suddenly loud in his ears.