Riding the Storm

July 1998

The Nevada sky grew hazy with the heat and the dust and in the distance the first signs of the lightning storm to come grumbled and roared. I sat curled up in a chair in the living room listening to the thunder and I could feel my heart beating and my body growing tense. A lighting storm outside was the harbinger of a different type of storm inside and I wondered briefly if tonight would be the last night, if tonight he would hurt me so badly I would finally break the spell he had cast over me and walk away. The slamming door caught my attention as he stormed into the house and when I looked at him I couldn't breathe, and just for a moment I stared. Jack Little Horse Delgado, my recent drug of choice, and the most beautiful man I had, or have, ever seen. He glowed to me, he was half Piute, half Lakota Sioux and I have never seen another creature as intense as this man.

We had met a few weeks earlier at a bar in Caliente Nevada, I had only intended to stop for a few days on my way back to Idaho, but I took one look at Little Horse and I was hooked. I met him at one of the bars, and when he walked in, all six foot three of him, I remember seeing images of great feral cats in my mind. His waist length pitch black hair was held back in a single braid and his face held me captive for a moment. His face was all harsh angles and planes, with deep set dark brown eyes, the classic Sioux nose, which could double as a beak and a cold hard smile. His body was like his face, hard, and I don't mean that made in a gym hard, Little Horse had gained his muscle tone from long grueling hours of work I remember smiling at him and instantly recognizing how dangerous he was and not caring.

I went home with him a few hours later, and the next morning I watched him work out on his roof. Little Horse's love was martial arts as well as Native American hand to hand combat styles. He used to laugh and say he was born a hundred years too late and how the art of battle had been lost with the Indian Nations. "Counting coup," he used to say, "must have a man feel like a God." Little Horse was angry in a way most people simply didn't understand, he embodied 200yrs of rage, a rage that had been passed down to him with his brown eyes and black hair, a rage that held him as close as his honey brown skin and beat with his wild Lakota heart, it was the rage of his ancestors and he kept his rage under a tight rain, until the lighting flashed across the sky and then he needed to ride the lighting.

A short bust of thunder brought me back to the here and now, and I looked up at Little Horse and shuddered at the wild look in his eyes.

"I'll be on the roof," he snarled.

I watched him walk up to the roof as the first streak of lighting streaked through the sky and fear crept up my spine. I hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of Jose Cuervo and a couple of shot glasses and followed him. I stood for a moment watching him, in nothing but his jeans as he worked his blade skills and my eyes never left the knife in hands. Blades of all kinds fascinate me and we are old friends. Taking a quick shot of Tequila I stripped out of my clothes and pulled my hair out of my barrette, and naked I walked through the door and into the storm.

After tossing back a shot of tequila I stepped into the battle circle he had created for himself, and at first he didn't realize it's me, and for a moment the blade hovered gently at my throat. Little Horse looked up at me and grinned at my naked body ant the shot of tequila in my hand.

"You should leave," he said softly.

"Really, I thought you would rather have me here."

"I do want you here, but you know what I want," he replied.

"Let's ride the lightning, baby."

Tossing back his drink he grins, picked up his blade and said, "Let's ride."

Pulling him close to me I kissed him, my tongue reveling in the taste of tequila on his lips, and the led him back into the house, grabbing the bottle and then heading for the bedroom Little Horse is my other half, his fire to my ice, and while I do not love him I do worship him. I kneel at his feet and worship the pain he gives me with a flick of his wrist and revel in the way it feels, I glory in the heat of the bloodlust and sometimes it seems like the only time I'm warm is when I bleed and I crave the heat and Little Horse blazes like a fire.

Pain, for some, is merely pain, unpleasant and to be avoided but to some of us pain is something more, something different and I crave the pain. I'm a junkie, and the razor blade is my crack pipe and the knife blade my bottle. I've been cutting for years, and like any junkie I do it to fill the void. Pain, when it's the only thing a person can feel because everything else is empty and hollow, can replace pleasure and like cocaine once you grasp the high, once you get to nirvana everything is clearer.

In the bed room he shoves me down to my knees and unbuttons his jeans, fondling his cock and grinning at me we begin to play the game. I take him into my mouth and begin the ritual. Little Horse plays restlessly with the blade in his hand, and when I begin to suck his cock, he lightly traces the blade over the skin on my neck and shoulders; this is a game of control. It's always about control, about controlling the pain before it controls you. It's about cutting just deep enough to obtain the high but not deep enough to permanently mark the skin. The game we play tonight is dangerous because it's all about causing the other to lose control. The object here is to arouse him as I trace the wide head of his cock with my tongue but not to bring him to climax, as I tease him with my lips, my tongue, and my teeth he will match my intensity with the blade. With a low moan I look up at him and begin to go faster. Up and down the length of his cock, I stroke him with my lips, my tongue and lightly graze him with my teeth. I gasp in shock as that first fiery stroke marks my skin, and then my shoulder burns as he cuts me just a little deeper.

The heat of the thin cut that he's traced into my skin makes me gasp, there is strange twisted part of me that needs this and want more and I can feel the first low throb of arousal deep inside me. The blade slides smoothly over my shoulders leaving a faint red trail in its wake and each stroke makes me writhe in bizarre combination of pleasure and pain and I begin to lose control so I reach up to stroke his balls and chuckle lightly as he gasps. I moan because he digs the knife just a little deeper and then I slide my mouth over the entire length of him, taking his cock into my throat. Little Horse responds by drawing the blade over my breast and I scream, as it grazes my nipple. I'm in dangerous territory and the pain is intense, it's like fire across my skin, heat racing along the bloody lines. I take him deeper and even as I scream around his cock he digs the blade just a little harder.

I know I should stop but I can't because I'm close, so incredibly close. Little Horse senses my reckless mood and reaches down to grasp my hair and hold my face close to his groin and the he begins to thrust hard, hard enough so that I can taste the blood in the back of my throat and then it hits me, the deep red of orgasm as he pounds into the back of my throat. Pushing me away from him, Little Horse grins down at me. He knows he won this round but the night is young and the storm just started.