Familiar in the Night

You were officially moved in. It had been a week or so, or two, and not every spare hour had been devoted to unpacking, but all the boxes were flat now, stacked beside your very own recycles trash can. At first you were offended at having to buy your cans, but now you feel a dim satisfaction in ownership. They were yours. Everything is yours, it's your house. Everything is as you like it. Most of the procrastination was due to figuring out how best to spread your aesthetic over the place. It's perfect now. The only thing missing now is... No. You don't need anyone else. You did all of this by yourself, didn't you? But wouldn't it be nice?

It's been so long, hasn't it? You've not touched anything but boxes and doorknobs and walls for the past couple weeks; before that, how long was it since you felt another heartbeat or another's hand? You should really forget about all that, though. Isn't that what got you here in the first place? Isn't this place a good one, though? A young woman, her own house, all by her own hand? Why not find a hand to hold it for a little while?

Your mental back and forth is interrupted by a knock on the door. Four knocks, actually. You look at the clock, wondering if it really is as late as the arrows say. You don't feel scared, as your other half supposes would be appropriate, but curious. You go to the door and look through the peephole.

It's a man. That delivers a reasonable dose of apprehension both sides of you are receptive to. He doesn't look all that menacing, though. In fact, he's the one that looks timid, swaying in place like a sapling under your porch light. More than anything else, he looks familiar. That hair, those little, sad eyes, and those arms... Why did you already know what it felt like to be held by them? You shake yourself and take a deep breath. And then you open the door.

He's spooked by you; maybe you did open the door rather suddenly and all at once, but it is your house and he is on your porch. "Hi, can I help you?" you say.

He looks you up and down, as much as you show yourself from behind a door, and gulps. Strange. He smiles awkwardly, and nods, and then says, "Oh, hello. Yeah, I-I live next door, right there," he points, "I know you're new, so I, uh, wanted to say hi."

You blink at him and look at his house again. It looks like it could be his house. He looks to be your age, so either he lives with his family, or he's as driven you are. What a weird man, if he is, and still seems so out of place. You realize that he's the first person you've met in the neighborhood. There's something special about that, but still you point out, "This late at night?"

It sounds a bit meaner than you intended, but really, it isn't unreasonable; it is late.

His jaw works a moment, but nothing's said, He looks around and then gives up. "I... I don't know. I just had to. If I didn't do it now, I never would, I guess."

You nod. "That's true. What's that?" you ask, pointing at his hand.

He picks up his hand and looks at it like someone had taped the little book to it without his knowledge. "That, oh. Do you like Sci-fi?"

You like Star Wars. "Yes, I do. What book is it? Is it for me?"

He hands it over to you before he's said that it is. "I don't know; you're not supposed to meet people empty-handed, right? And I couldn't ask you for sugar or something, this late. And you just moved in so you probably don't have any sugar yet."

You blink at him again, your smile and your hand frozen in mid-reach for the yet-to-be described book that you now recognize as Gateway.

"Anyway, sorry. It's about prospecting for alien treasure in space. It's really funny and heavy and real! It might be too much to give a stranger," he thinks out loud, starting to retract the book.

"What! Are you kidding? We're not strangers, we're neighbors; of course I want to read it!" You take the book from him and he is relieved.

He nods and tries to downplay the shock that your brief contact with his hand was to him. What a strange man. Why doesn't he say anything else? Why does he stare at your feet. Your feet! You're barefoot, as always; your feet are dirty, as always. Does he like that? Does he not like that? He makes no face at all. You know he moves to take a step backward and say goodbye, so you reach out for him, and your free hand catches his wrist. Your eyes lock, and something opens. Your heart skips a beat. Didn't you chain it up, all that time ago? Oh, but why has the key appeared on your doorstep?

"Please," you nearly beg, "come inside. I should give you the tour."

He gulps and nods dumbly. "I'd love to."

You back the door open and allow him in. He takes his shoes off without taking his eyes off of your decor. A good trait in a boy: observant. His jaw's a little slack. He doesn't say anything but you know he's impressed. "Isn't it perfect? Don't you love it?" you ask him anyway.

"I... it's beautiful," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your wall decorations and your living room arrangement. His eyes soon return to yours, however.

You remember you are the host, and lead him through the kitchen and then your crafts-room and so on, until you arrive at your bedroom, upstairs. He hadn't said anything, really, but you saw his eyes; you know he took in everything you pointed out to him, and then some. When you were ahead of him, you knew he was taking occasional glances downward. He wasn't really looking at your heels, but higher, and then higher, and then higher. You felt his eyes on you. They didn't burn but float, or hover, curiously, hungrily. You hadn't offered him anything to eat! It's not like it was any time near a meal but hospitality must still be observed. Especially for your first guest.

"Why don't you wait here, while I go grab us something to eat, uh... What's your name?"

"Leargo," he says. He's been aware neither of you had known each other's names. He wouldn't have asked you for yours.

"Leargo! What an interesting name," you remark.

He shrugs, and then looks surprised. "You think so?"

"I do. I can't say I've ever heard it before. My name's Avelaka, so I know what it's like."

"Avelaka. I've not heard that either."

"Right? So interesting, that we both have that going." You linger a moment, just to look at him before you head downstairs to make something real quick.

When you return, he is standing in front of the window, gazing at his house. You set down the food on your never-used chess table and say, "Homesick?"

He laughs for the first time; he smiles the first you've seen from him. "No," he insists, shaking his head vigorously. "Not at all. That's just my room, right there." He points at the side of the house facing your room, the window that mirrors your own dark. The idea that he's been so close, yet so distant amuses you.

You take an obvious look but don't say anything. You sit down to eat and he follows you. The chess pieces divide your ends of the table. He examines every piece until he's finished. "Do you want to play?" you ask, on a whim. It was a day of firsts after all, wasn't it?

He moves his trash aside, and then hands it to you when you offer. He starts setting up his side while you throw it away; he knows how to play. You follow his example and tell him, "I only got it because the pieces are so pretty, ok? I don't really know how to play."

He starts, as white. He doesn't teach you how to play, but answers your essential questions. It's a pretty vanilla game for a while, but by the time you get to trading pieces in the center of the board, you don't care about who wins or loses anymore. Neither of you are even looking at your pieces as you move them anymore, but each other's eyes. You aren't even sure yours are within squares. He is, but he hasn't broken from your eyes once. You both seem to be leaning more and more in. You knock a piece over and reach down to pick it up. You know he's looking down your shirt. He doesn't look ashamed, when you come back up, but his eyes do return to yours.

It's too much.

You push your king through the crowd of pieces until your knuckles meet his. You press the piece into his hand. He squeezes it between your fists, rolling it with his fingertips. You both let it go and he takes your hand in his. You can feel his throbbing, steady heartbeat in his sweaty hand. Can he feel the panicking race of your heart in yours? You're breathing hard, and your mouth hangs open. He's staring at your mouth. He's sitting up. You feel yourself rising in your chair. The pressure in his clenched hand is starting to ease--

--and then you're out of the chair and the pieces have gone flying and you're sitting on the table. He's on your neck and his hands are everywhere. Oh, fuck. He's sucking on your neck and scraping with his teeth while his hands flow down your sides and over your breasts. You're moaning already. You're soaked already. Where the fuck did this come from? Where the fuck has he been, is really the question. You break him from your neck and take his lips in yours. You both inhale and exhale forcefully through your noses while you bruise each others' lips. He's sucking on your lower lip and pulling it back. Fuck. His tongue is washing over every tooth. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

You push him off of you and force him to sit on the edge of the table. You dash to your knees and work on undoing his pants. He watches, far away, drugged, yet his mouth gapes in response to what you're doing. Your hands have freed him, he bobs in the air only a moment, one glorious moment of your own witness of his cock before you've taken it down your throat. You wet every inch with your tongue and suck hard on the tip.

"Fuck," he whimpers. His eyes are closed; he's fighting to keep them open so he can watch you drain him. His hands grip the edge of the table with a white-knuckled grip. You wish he'd grab your head, force you over that last inch that you just can't reach.

You give it another shot, and shake him down your throat, but you gag. You rise to free yourself but you feel a hand on the back of your head. You're starting to choke, but he only moans and curses even louder. Your hands are gripping his thighs and he lets you go. You gasp off of his cock, but you dare not let go. You pump him and fondle his balls all the while you stare up into his face with a tear breaking from the corner of your eye.

He laughs again and shakes his head. He gets up and helps you to your feet, before pushing you over the table. Your head lay over the other side, your body pressed onto the wood by his hand, while the other lifts your dress and pulls down your panties. You step out of them and fucking shiver. It sounds like he growls, and lays a hand over your quivering cheek. He separates it from the other and leans over you, pressing you flat onto the table. His weight puts a pressure on you that withholds air from your lungs but fans the flames down in your belly. He brushes the hair behind an ear and whispers in a hoarse, hardly maintained voice, "You whore, you siren. I've watched you through that window every night since you've moved in and you haven't even looked up." His fingers trace down your ass and find your wetness. "But I show up one night and you give me this." He wipes up your folds and your lower body thrashes under him. He thrusts his fingers in your mouth and you suck every fucking drop of your excitement off of him. You feel light headed. It's already too much but you want more.

"More," you beg him in a whisper.

"I'll give you more, you slut, my slut. I'll give you more." He buries his face in your hair and his fingers in your vagina. One long finger reaches the back of your pussy and you lose your sight. Your head hangs limp while he curls and uncurls his finger inside you. He smells you hard, and exhales long and lustfully right into your ear. Your consciousness returns and you scream in a way only possible in your own home. His finger scratches your walls in a way that makes you want to die. You can feel his cock smearing along the side of your thigh. You want it all the while he is fucking you with his fingers. A second joins and then a third, and you scream and scream and scream. Something's been tripped and now you're cumming and burning and quaking and you can't stop. He's lying on you, so heavy, and his other hand is fisted around your hair. You feel like you can't breathe and that there's nothing but air anywhere.

You fall limp. Your hands hang on either side of your head but you're only dimly aware of them. Your heartbeat is near still, while his finally hammers into your back. He gets off of you and you feel even lighter. You roll over and stare at him through too-heavy lids. Why does he look scared now? Where was the man calling you a whore? Could he come back? No, maybe it's better he's gone. At least he left his cock with his friend. It looks ready to burst, stiff and quivering. You push the drowsiness away and fall onto your feet. He backs away, right into your bed. You pull your dress over your head and push him onto the bed.

He falls back, and lies there, open to you like a subdued animal. His eyes are wider than the moon and his breathing is so shallow and rapid. It's almost too much for you. Almost. Your instincts drive you to take just as they drove you to submit just a moment ago. You yank his pants down his legs and he hurries to take his shirt off before you can do it for him. Good. He's still participating. You straddle his torso and play your hands down his chest. You caress his broad shoulders and push yourself down over his cock. Your wetness spreads a trail down his chest you take quiet pride in leaving. His own drowning cock is drenched by your overflowing lubrication. You are soaking his shaft with each pass up and down his length. The head and ridge of the underside of his penis titillates and snags your folds. The burning is rising in your womb again. You so much want to plunge down his length and grind the man into dust under you. But he deserves more than that. He deserves to burn as you burnt.

You sink into him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you continue to wipe yourself over him. He's whimpering; his hips are twisting; his hands are clenching the headboard, and you wonder why. "Why don't you touch your whore?" you whisper in his ear. His hands fly from the bed onto your hip and your ass. He hisses, finding your body even more overwhelming than he feared. "That's right, boy. You feel this? You want it?" You move his hand to your mound.

"Yes," he gasps.

"Then you ask me for it. Ask me for it, boy."

"Please-"

"Say my name, boy. You know it now, use it."

"Avelaka, please, can I have some of your pussy?"

You smile down at him evilly and say, as you reach for his cock, "Sounds real pretty coming through your lips." You rub the head around your hole and sink down his length to his balls. "Fuuuuuucckkkkkkkkk meeeeeee," you think you groan. You fall onto his chest. He is similarly out of commission. You can't feel your toes. You feel whole as you haven't in probably your whole life, let alone the last few lonely months. You feel you could sit like that, impaled on his cock in the path of a hurricane and not sway a centimeter. You're fucking melting over him.

"I can't feel my face," Leargo murmurs.

You don't say anything. You have to keep moving. You press your lips to his and kiss him so deeply and ponderously so he knows that you've just been playing the game with him. His tongue's spar with yours tells you that he knows. You rise, so slowly, so slowly, until only the head remains linking your bodies. You let your lower half collapse and he is submerged again.

"Oh, fuck!" you both whine into each other's mouths.

Your hearts are racing and you know you're both on your way to the top. You stop with the slow powerful shit and start shaking your ass over him, up and down his shaft. You hear the satisfying clap of your ass on his balls increase with the speed in which you ride. You grind your hips into his and push him out and then in and then out and then in. His hands are pressed into your flesh. Yours frame his face as you try your best and fail to kiss him. Both of you are in too much need of oxygen. Your moans and curses and groans cloud over into a nothingness that makes you feel blissfully deaf. All you do is feel. All you are is feel. Your vagina, and his cock, but really they're one right now. You forgot where he ended and you begin. You don't know whose hands are on you. You don't know who's cumming. It's both of you. You're both cumming and you're both fucking cumming.

Everything goes white and then you're in his arms. All you feel is his breath on your ear. You look up at him. You don't know this boy, but he can stay. Your eyes lock and he smiles. He smiles like someone else, someone with a lighter soul. You lean for a kiss and he bends down to meet your lips.

You linger in the afterglow awhile. You still feel whole with this man. But of course you'd like to be more whole, so you get back to it. You try a few more positions, albeit much less intensely, more exploratory and for pleasure more than indulgence. At the end of the night, you find yourself hugging Leargo on the threshold of your front door.

"We'll do this again, right?" he asks you, that boy in him again, eager yet unsure, even after all of that.

"Very true." You kiss his hand and you watch your smiling boy walk back to his house. You go inside and look for your damn juul.