The Waif and the Stray

Determined to stop thinking so much, I drop down, finding his mouth with mine. Loving that he opens up to me straight away, that he makes a short, satisfied sort of sound, his hips rising a fraction. Goosebumps rise up the length of my spine, that tiny lift somehow a sign he really does want this with me. I break away to catch my breath.

"Ok?" he murmurs, stroking his hand more firmly now.

When I tip my head, he's already looking at me. I sit up, kneeling in-between his legs; run a palm along the warm inside of his thigh, mussing the hairs I can feel but barely see. The moon is waning now, though still quite full, its cool light throwing dark shadows over us through the windows. Running both hands along his thighs forces a flinch and a hiss of breath from him as he widens his legs a fraction. It makes me smile, his ease in showing me what he likes. I think about all the things I don't know about him, running my thumbs higher, pushing at his shorts, savouring the tensing of his muscles.

"How old are you, Jude?"

He grunts out a short laugh. "Fuck, Lou. Now you're asking? Over the age of consent, that's for sure."

I laugh too. That's the cocky Jude answer I'd get if I'd asked him on the street, except for the tremor through his voice. That's my doing, here, in bed with him, my hands on him.

"Well?" my fingertips almost there, where he's straining for my touch.

"Twenty-seven. I'm twenty-seven, ok?" He drops his head back onto my pillows, letting out more shaky breaths, before asking me. "How old are you, Louisa?"

"Twenty-one. Nearly twenty-two, if you're asking."

"Hm. Wonder what you'd want for your birthday?"

More giggles slip from me. I can't stop them. He's always been able to get a rise out of me, making stuff funny when it has no right to be. I'm leaning towards him when he sits up, nearly colliding heads. More laughing. Comfortable with each other, like we've done this before. Almost. If it wasn't for the bird inside, fluttering and vibrating with excitement, I could almost kid myself we've been here before, me and Jude. But the little bird knows different, still doing its best to alert me.

"Take this off," Jude says, flicking at my t-shirt, his voice brooking no argument.

I reach for the hem, wanting more than anything to comply. He's in the way, kissing my neck. I touch his cheek, but he flicks me a hot look, flashing eyes and curled mouth. Another kiss, almost a bite, before he moves back.

It's not elegant, but we eventually succeed in freeing ourselves from the rest of our clothes. There's some hopping, a near-tumble, and more laughing, both of us needing to get off the bed to complete the task. As I'm standing upright, naked, a wash of self-consciousness coming over me, Jude curses under his breath, bends down and pulls at the pile of discarded clothes until he finds my skirt. Retrieving the condoms, he stands, gives me a victorious grin and pulls at my hand, weaving our fingers together. Back to the bed.

Where I continue to explore his body. Slowly, because I've never done this before. Not like this, anyway. The boys I've been with in the past didn't give me this kind of time. In fact, I'm starting to think that the sex was a bit bloodless. Definitely nothing compared to how it is with Jude. The way he twitches and tenses under my fingertips tells me it's not as easy as he's making it seem for him to let me explore like this. To let me take it this slow. Each sigh, each flinch and grunt showing me what he needs. Sometimes stopping me, slowing us down, ghosting his palms down my back, small, light kisses and licks.

He's slim; his muscles long, from manual work not gym weights, bunching and releasing more rapidly as I work my way from his shoulders to his belly. At his feet, I examine the left one more closely than the right.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice light with curiosity.

"You don't seem to have a scar from when that lady stood on your foot."

He laughs. "Can't believe you even remember that story."

"How come there's no scar?"

"Dunno. Knowing this bloody town, it was probably a drag artist in six inch dagger heels. A surgical incision," he wriggles his toes, pleased with the explanation.

I circle my fingers around the place that should be scarred. And work my way up his calves. Slowly. Tormenting him, I'll admit. His breathing heavier, gathering pace. Smoothing his skin, I bend to kiss him where the trail of soft hairs begins, his abdominal muscles rippling madly beneath my lips. Sitting back up I sneak a look at his face. His eyes are closed, his mouth a little open. Relaxed. Trusting. It's a fierce rush. The little bird rises, expands, opens out, wings wide to greet the endorphin flood.

Closing my hand around him, he feels hot. Hot and already really wet, a delicate string of it reaching down to his belly. Collecting it with my fingers, running it down him, he jerks, a louder noise, guttural and unbidden, eyes wide open now. I smile. He's close. Closer than I thought. His hand grabs at mine, stopping it.

"Lou, no," his expression wry, squeezing our hands around him more tightly than must be comfortable.

I wait, watching him regain his control. It's probably the most intimate thing a bloke's ever let me see. I crawl over him to kiss him, his eyes following me. He kisses me back, little noises from deep in his throat, filling my mouth, strong and demanding. Pushing at me, turning me, until he's hovering over me.

"Let me do some of the work now, Lou," he whispers, his words shooting through me like fire.

I imagine a more beautiful body than mine under his hands. One that's curvier. Bigger breasts. Not so many blemishes. A healthier colour. Not so pale and wan. After a while, his touch coaxing pleasure from the slightest contact, his low whispers filling my mind with his version of what he sees, I forget myself. He explores me, turning me over, then back again, mapping me with his hands, fingers, mouth, closing in on me until we're pressed together on our sides, face to face. I tilt my hips to feel him hard against my belly.

He rolls away, arm out, searching for the scatter of condoms that must be somewhere on the bed, sitting up, cursing, until he finds one. Again, I delight in being able to watch. Others, well, they always did this bit furtively, back turned. Jude does it matter-of-factly. Sees me watching and gives himself a long stroke, his grin turning dangerous.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you like watching this, Lou," leaning in to press a kiss to my mouth, still stroking himself. "But, fuck, it'll have to wait til next time," muttering this last, as if to himself.

He returns to me, tugs at my thigh until I lift it, opening myself to him, the flash of nerves obliterated by his first touch. He groans, another throaty sound I want to hear over and over again. Then doubtful if the source was him or me.

"That's it, Lou," he encourages me, his fingertips rough and smooth.

I fall back, letting him in, letting him see me and touch me as I am. All my shortcomings and blemishes. His mouth is wet and delicious on my breasts, a spiral of pleasure wrapping itself around me, around the outstretched wings of the bird inside, a gentle, inescapable trap. He winds me tighter with his mouth and with his hand between my legs. Sure touches seducing me, closing in on that contradictory sensation of opening out and tightening up.

I've no idea what his hand is doing, but I do know it's creating feelings I don't usually get from being with a boy. When it's been good, it's been a concentration of pleasure in one place. Elusive, and almost painful when found. With Jude, the feeling is bigger than that, spreading wide and deep, as if the bird's wings are vast, reaching every part of me, down to my toes. If I was a talker, I'd be desperately searching for the words to describe it to him. Instead I let my body follow his every touch, rising to his fingers.

"Yeah," he whispers, mouth closing over my breast, eyes on my face. "Now?"

I nod, open my legs wider to accommodate him as he moves over me, holding himself in his fist. Both of us jump a bit at our first touch together, nervy again before steeling ourselves. Deep breaths.

I try not to remember how this is usually the least interesting part for me. Sometimes boring, even. I want to make it good for Jude, so he'll want me again. Will touch me like before, get me off with his magical fingers. So I'm surprised at how good it feels as he finds me and begins to press in, the pressure heavy with promise. No fumbling. He adjusts his hips before pressing forwards again.

And, oh. Well, fuck. His low, broken noises filter into my ears, face tucked into my neck as he inches into me, muscles bunching with the effort. Relaxing only when he's fitted all the way inside, a final release of sound and air. I bite at my mouth, absorbing the size and weight of him, battling the unfamiliar, delectable agitation of him inside my body. An unbearably beautiful itch needing us to move together to stoke it.

He expels a huge breath, lifting his face. "Fuck, I told you we'd be good together, Lou," choking it out before drawing his hips back, lifting them, a hitch that hits just the right place for me.

"Here?" he asks.

When I nod, he repeats it, rolling his hips more fully. My hips rise up of their own accord, betraying my desperation.

"You're close? Aw, thank fuck for that," he mutters, before setting up a brutal pace with the hitch and twist each time, until I'm almost crying out for him.

Me, Jude, the bird -- we're all one. No boundaries. Intent on reaching the same place, wings spread, beating, almost taking flight. Almost. God, so close.

He kisses me hungrily, in-between gasping for air, rattling in his chest. And I kiss him back just as greedily. Suspending my disbelief in favour of the here and now. His body working so hard. Then, he falters, slows, face tight.

"What'll it take, Lou?" an edge in his voice.

I tilt my hips up and he wedges a hand under them, tipping me, sitting back a little, altering his approach. We experiment with it until I reach over my head to press my hands against the headboard, straightening my elbows. Giving me more resistance to his momentum. Better. For him too, his broken sounds getting louder, until he's there. Feeling his release, fierce and hot, it rushes through me too, taking flight, finally. I think I shout. A single, surprised clap of sound; my own name urgent in my ears from Jude's mouth. Wings beating, heart hammering, it bursts my every cell, devouring me, utterly.

Our breathing sounds freakishly loud in the silence that follows, both fighting to recover. He doesn't roll off me, not like the other boys. He stays, sharing the moment, until both of us are calmer. Nearly back to normal, although I'm thinking 'normal' might just have been re-defined.

I wince when he withdraws.

"Sorry," he mutters, giving me a kiss on the cheek, "but better safe than sorry," taking care of the condom.

"Granny-reared," I whisper, which makes he acknowledges with a soft laugh.

And then, nothing. Just the calm rhythm of our breathing, the dimmed sounds of my housemates still dancing in the garden, the shouts of people returning from their nights out echoing down the streets, still partying to the end of another hot night.

+++

When I open my eyes, it's quieter still. Later, but unsure how late. The sky's still dark. My ears strain to pick up any noise. A tiny snick, the sound of a door being closed with enormous care. In the altered acoustics of night-time, I'm not sure where it comes from. I turn. Breathe. It's not Jude sneaking out. He's lying next to me. Out for the count, by the looks of his slack body, face down on the mattress, feet tangled in the duvet bunched up at the end of the bed. The moon's still high enough to cast its pale light over him, over the lines and valleys of his body. Resisting the urge to touch him for fear of breaking the spell, instead, I inch off the bed, needing to pee.

Once in the bathroom, no sign of housemates on the way, I wash myself, not keen on the smell and feel of whatever coated the condom. I'm a bit tender. To be expected, since it's been a while. Well over a year. I brush my hair out too, easing through the tangles. All the while wondering if Jude's woken up. If he'll be pulling his clothes on when I get back to the room, a look of embarrassed apology on his face. 'Gotta go, Lou. See you around,' on his lips. Or already dressed, waiting for me, the same strained message to deliver. 'See ya, Lou.' Or, this would be the worst, we collide on the stairs, him making his escape without seeing me at all. These, and other equally hateful scenarios, play out all the way back to my room.

Jude's sitting up, rubbing his face, looking disorientated, but still in bed.

"Where d'ya go?" he asks. "Sorry if I passed out on you."

"Just for a pee and a wash," I shrug, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Good idea," he agrees, swinging his legs out and onto the floor, still rubbing at his head. "Did I fall asleep on ya?"

I shake my head. "Naw, you're alright. I fell asleep too."

"Mmm. I'll be right back," he promises, giving me a quick brush of the lips, "but take this off," tugging at the baggy shirt I'd slipped over my head before venturing out of the room.

For his part, he yanks his shorts on before opening my door. I lie back, recollections of Jude over me and inside me so visceral they make me sweat. The plumbing cranks and moans. Jude must be washing too. Maybe one day we could do without condoms. When we're steady enough. I'd need to register with a doctor. I shut my eyes, afraid to get ahead of myself. Afraid of the hope.

"Hey, you falling asleep?"

He's already on the bed, kneeling over me. Naked again, but smelling of soap. I shake my head, although I must've been drifting off. I see him pause.

"Is it ok for me to stay, Lou?" serious, now.

"Yes. I want you to."

He rewards me with that big grin. "Good. Now, get this off, will ya?" nipping at the shirt with his mouth, watching as I try to wriggle away from him. "C'mon, not joking," he pretends to complain, pushing it up over my breasts, then sinking down to kiss them instead.

It's delicious and my hips practically bounce at the feel of his warm, wet mouth on me. His eyes flick to mine, his face almost perfectly centred in the square of moonlight from the window over us. He continues to look as he sucks hard on my nipple. So hard it forces a weird, low cry out of me.

"Mm, ticklish," he says, not relinquishing his hold, sucking hard again, a smile tightening his lips over the nipple.

The little bird skips right to the stretching out of his full wingspan inside me, picking up almost where we left off. It's my heart that has to beat hard and fast to catch up. Jude keeps looking, even as he switches to my other breast. Playing with me. That's when it finally sinks in. Sex can be like this. Fun. Playful. Part of getting to really know someone. This time, I know who's making the noises. Definitely me.

"Lou? Louisa?"

I pull his face to mine, hands in his hair, holding him where I want him, kissing the life out of him, emotion surging through me. Stronger than the bird. Stronger than me alone. His surprise shows in the time it takes for him to adjust, to respond in kind. It's more urgent this time, both of us suddenly primed. His whispered words are more of a flood. I listen more carefully, following where he leads until we're kneeling up, facing each other. I wince at his touch, tender.

"Sore?" he asks.

I nod. "But it's ok," I reassure him, flushing.

"Here, lie down again," patting at the bed, shoving my abandoned shirt out of the way.

Reaching for a pillow, which he shoves under my hips. I let him, mystified but willing. He kneels over me, kissing my neck, the top of my ear, my mouth, until we're both panting and restless. He retreats, his shoulders flexing as he moves, until he stops. Drops down and shocks the hell out of me as he licks into me, soft yet firm. My body lurches. He does it again. My body practically dances.

"Jude."

"Mm, nice, Louisa," and he drops his face again, his tongue an exquisite salve.

I squeeze my eyes shut, thankful I washed myself, then pop them open again. Because Jude's right, I want to watch. His black head of hair lowered over me looks so -- good. God. The lightness of his tongue is better than good. His touch changes, moving differently and I realise he's lifted his head a little to look at me. I groan. It's too much, too good, too soon, my thighs already quivering. I lie back, helpless, surrendering. Wings spread wide and strong, ready to soar.

He shifts, his shoulders bumping me, pushing me wider. When I look, his rhythmic movement gives him away. I move my leg, wanting to see how he's touching himself, but it's too dark and he's too far away. A frustrated noise drops out of my mouth before I can stop it.

"What?" he asks, his voice soft, his arm slowing down.

"Let me see," I finally squeak, biting down hard on my bottom lip even though there's no retracting the words.

His face opens up, a smile lifting his mouth, as he sits back on his heels.

"Like this?"

My eyes follow his hand as he moves it over his cock. Slow, then faster, making slick sounds. I swallow, my throat dry at the thought of taking him into my mouth. But he interrupts that thought, leaning down to kiss me, sharing my taste with me.

"You even taste pretty," he murmurs, licking my lips, top and bottom, the gleam in his eyes bright.

I protest when he sits up again, until the heel of his hand begins to grind into me, bringing me right back to the edge, ready to fly.

"Jude," more forcefully this time.

"Aw, my girl," watching me lose it, flying apart fast, his hand the only thing holding me to earth.

This time is more familiar, more like when I do this by myself, except for his eyes on me. That adds a whole new, intense feeling that's all psychological, making it feel deep and soft, a dark velvet takeover of every function. He eases his hand off as soon as I pull away. Done. Exhausted. A deeper, residual ache I suspect only he can fill from now on. The press of his mouth there is another shock, a curling flick of his tongue, before he's hovering over my face again, that dangerous look on his face as he licks his lips. Savouring me. I groan, lungs still straining.

He kisses me, another quick touch, before dipping his head, arm re-establishing a rhythm to meet his needs now.

"Oh," the word slipping out on my breath, unable to take my eyes off him.

I reach up to stroke the side of his head, the softness of his hair. Surprised when he turns his head to kiss my palm, suddenly wishing I could turn on the light to dispel the shadows, to see him in bright detail. My grip tightens in his hair as he grunts, then again. A pause. And then he's coming onto my stomach, spurts of it landing on my skin. I delight in being able to hear his sounds, distinct from mine, wanting to commit them to memory.

He slumps face down, half on, half off me, reaching an arm over my waist.

"Fuck," heartfelt, punched into the pillow.

I wait for him to recover, stroking his side, his ribcage lifting and contracting under my hand. After a few minutes, he turns his head to me, a smile on his face.

"Christ on the fucking cross indeed, Lou," he huffs. "Beyond good, huh."

"Shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain like that."

"That's one of your favourite curses, Lou," he points out.

"Mmm," I swirl a finger over a freckle on his shoulder.

He turns, sliding closer, a hand landing on my stomach, smoothing and spreading his spunk over me.

"What are these?" his voice light, even as he touches the blemishes I'd vainly hoped he hadn't noticed.