Mizrah's Ladder Ch. 01

It was trouble from the moment you made eye contact with...Him.

Another date with a guy who turned out to be...nobody really, nothing to distinguish him from the other insurance pigeons, finance snakes and other vermin that wore chintsy button-ups and soulless ties by day. By night they skittered out in different colored, yet equally chintsy button-ups, relying on booze and the mutual discomfort of a loud nightclub to ease their way into your panties. Like this fuckin' guy taking you out, the hell was his name anyway? Jeff? Jeremy?

His conversation...his face, anything that might distinguish him from all the others is rendered faint in the strobing black-and-blue, bruise-colored lights. Low, grungy bass, dirty guitar and lyrics sung by rail-mixer voices make Jeb's (or was it Joe?) attempts to charm you all the more like thin gruel, drizzling from an awkward, wooden spoon.

Your deep, dark eyes can't help themselves when they slide from his placid, round face to the dance floor. The bodies grow indistinct from one another, hard to tell where the hand groping a barely covered breast begins; difficult to trace where the arm ringing up and around a neck ends. You can smell the heady, complex aroma of sweaty, perfumed bodies; the ascerbic, sweet stink of alcohol spilled on the concrete floor; the acrid reek of drugs.

...there, you feel heat. Twin pinpricks, barely perceptible, upon your neck and face. This time you trace its path back to the gaze of another and feel the heat in your eyes, like opening your door to a summer day. His lignite leer, almost Vanta black and ringed by a thin circle of warm orange, makes no secret of checking you out. That sunspot-stare takes a path from your pale, pretty throat, dragging down the bare flesh of your arm...you know this because you can track the way it glows against you, over your gently curved chest covered in white and floral, down to your smooth, willowy thighs.

He's also with someone tonight...a few someones actually. The fire-eyed man, with his short black hair, tawny skin, and sharp jaw left unshaven long enough for it to be stubbled with black scrag, is reclining casually at the end of a booth. His arm - and it's a pleasantly muscular arm inked with seven red tally marks - is slung easily over the back of the booth, a pretty young slip of a blonde groupie with cherry-red lips and generous cleavage reclining against him. She's chatting animatedly with three others...bit characters next to the aphotic intensity of his presence. He's wearing black...somehow that seems like the only color he'll voluntarily wear, the definition of his torso apparent beneath his shirt. His lips part slightly, his attention entirely upon you and all but ignoring the girl he'd come with. He exudes a star's charm and self-assurance, and maybe a bit of exoticism with those upturned eyes and hawkish nose. Steel rings glint in his left ear, catching blacklights.

Jake(?) catches your attention by asking if you want to dance; it sounds like a proposal for a corporate merger but you spot rockerboy already gliding toward the floor with his group and that curvy girl in her little plaid skirt, who looks entirely confident that he has him hooked...oblivious to where his gaze settles. He's still watching you, a slight tilt of his head and a flash of his very white teeth somewhere between invitation and challenge...one that you take, rising with an all-but-thrilled Jarvis(?) who pulls you along with him into the sea of scantily clad flesh.The music is easy enough to move along to, and there's even a sort of flaccid heat rising from where your date with his J-name dances against your back but amidst all these motile bodies bumping and rubbing, sliding against you it's easy to lose track of someone like him.

In the liminal, momentary quiet between the last song and the next one you feel the rasp of fingernails pass teasingly down the length of your arm, over the back of your hand leaving a tingling trail as rockerboy walks past you. When his touch meets your hand he looks over his shoulder at you, hooking your fingertips with his and pulling you close as the next low, grinding piece belts out from stacked speakers; your palm lands softly on his chest, feeling the calamity of his heart's rhythm. His hips grind up alluringly against yours, a hand resting on your waist. You're inches from his handsome face, you can feel the heat of his breath against your lips and catch the glint of a stud piercing through his tongue; he runs it clicking, teasingly along his teeth, bottom lip gently brushing against yours. There's a small bubble of space around you, people parting ever so slightly around his presence - are they afraid? There is something fearsome about him, though it's hard to place.

He wants you, this dark, potent man; the boy you'd come with puts a pasty hand on his powerful shoulder, an attempt to twist him about face thwarted by a difference in a few inches of height and about twenty vital pounds of muscle. He shouts something and you sense the edge of a fight coming, but it is defused when rockerboy turns his head to look down at John(?). Whatever he says - if he says anything at all - is overtaken by the club's ambient din, and you watch as J-'s eyes become like white discs, and he tenses up like a frightened rabbit; there's a scintillating glint in the center of his eyes that reminds you of a panicked horse, and with a resentful glare your way he recedes into the crowd and from your life.

Coal-eyes smiles at you in a way that makes your belly quiver slightly. "You're mine," he breathes against your lips in a baritone that thrums in your lower belly, and the Lunacy rises in your heart before his animal magnetism -

- you're leaving the club and your original plan behind, his fingers intertwined with yours -

- your lips are passionately locked in an orderless kiss. You taste his tongue against yours, feel that bead -click- against your teeth; his hand slides up your outer thigh, under your white skirt, hooking against the green lace of your lingerie. Your hips are sandwiched between the grill of an SUV and his heat; even under his black, fitted jeans you can feel his excitement against your leg like a bar of red-hot iron -

- you're stripping his shirt off over his head, throwing it into a corner of the room as he carries you, legs locked around his hips, to a surprisingly comfortable green couch. You're already unclothed down to your underwear, shiny and emerald and silken against your flesh. He pushes lightly against your chin with his thumb to reveal your throat, his burning kiss leaving surprisingly sharp teeth marks down to your shoulder as his hands grip your rear; he whispers against the base of your neck: "I want to show you something..." -

- he slides between the diaphanous warmth of your labia, and it's so hard to be quiet as he draws forth your lust at the base of your round little pearl, reclining on your back. The bead clasping the steel ring piercing his glans grinds lightly beneath, and you can't recall any sensation from any lover even coming close. The piercings on either side of the swell of his urethra slick with a lewd sound after, warm against the way to your intimate core; your fingernails drag downward through the hair on his chest, following his treasure trail over the ridges of his ab muscles and falling to the pillar of his masculinity. He's gifted, a word you've used before, and your eyes are drawn to the way it fills your hand - noteworthy on its own, but the way your clear juices still stick to his Prince Albert as it crests against your clit is wholly other. You've never had sex with a man like this before - you haven't even truly had intercourse with him yet but your body is sensitive and primed like never before; the full moon thrums and pulses in his gaze to the tune of your heart, and you swear his top and bottom canines are sharpening against your hard nipple as he nips and sucks at it -

- your nectars drip upon the bedsheets with each thrust, up into your tight, quivering sex; your knees are splayed wide, nails clawing marks into the headboard every time he enters you. The sensation of those beads plucking you like a harp every time he pulls free is only matched by the way he stretches and fills you, how that pleasurable ladder grinds wetly against the spongy prominence of your G-spot and then the lightning-volt pleasure when he grinds up against your core. He ensconces himself as deep as he can go, almost too much to handle, and you can feel him pressed against your fundament. "I want to show you something..." he whispers again, only his voice is deeper, more bestial as he slowly withdraws all those inches, metal -thnking- softly over those hot places most men, most toys can never reach -

- your fingers dig into his hips, pulling at him, your body thirsty and greedy for more as he studs you. "Tell me you want it," his voice shudders to you and the words tumble from your lips on either side of a long, involuntary groan. He bites his lower lip, closes his eyes and his lips part - you see / hallucinate them, top and bottom canines no human outside your dark, strange fantasies should possess. This nameless, dark man with his hypnotic voice, the fire in his eyes and his pierced lance, dragging climax and orgasm messily from you leans in close, a stentorian sound of manful effort as you feel the gush of his cum. This deep inside of you, it splashes directly against the gate of your womb - good lord his sheer volume is stunning! - and soon, filling your sex, creates a thick heat that drips past the tight seal of his cock fucking your pussy.

The best part, however...is when he bites down on the meat of your shoulder -

- The Full Moon hangs in your vision, calling for you, singing your name from over half a million kilometers away. It is surrounded by a helix of silvery, blurry lights that resolve before your CHANGING vision into millions of individual twisted, argent angels; each sings a different Curse, all call for you to HUNT -

- The soft, loamy earth passes faster beneath your bare feet than you can recall; you leap a picket fence as if it were little more than a tree stump, alighting effortlessly across concrete as you chase the terrified, bleeding, screaming PREY through his neighbors' front yards. He bleats their names, but by your Curse they shun him in the face of your HUNT -

- You watch as the pale softness of your hands grows dark and rough; your fingers crack and pop as the bones break and extend forward, sealing and healing loudly. Blood drips down them as your nailbeds harden and keratin changes from clear and easily broken to black and steel-hard. Your eyes roll in your head as a frenzy of sensation fills you; the gentle, slender femininity of your body becomes a deadly, bladed thing of night and claw and fang and HOWL; your face pushes forward, teeth the size of a man's finger pushing with a grinding sound from your gums, and the world awakens in a flurry of new senses that roar for you to HUNT -

- you stare upward at the white ceiling, your breath loud in your ears as it rushes in and out of your lungs. He's lying next to you, reclined on his side like a punk-take on a classic statue of some Greek deity. A white sheet provides a scrap of modesty for the eyes, but you can feel the suffusing warmth of his cum inside of you, the caress of his palm on your lower belly. He leans in close, taking in your scent, and whispers in your ear: "Ready for round two?"