Ian 40

Ian,

 

Brad's narrow hips sway, the bones of them what holds Clyde's jeans in place on his starved frame, his hair low in greasy strings to cover the blue of his eyes.

 

His torso is the impossible length I saw all boys' spines grow to, covering the thin rail of the white cotton shirt to it's ever living end, chasing the knap of it's fabric to the low sling of Clyde's jeans.  They're stained dark with oil and dirt, near the left-hand pocket, where I know without him saying that Clyde was cleaning his .38 and stuck it in that pocket, to make Brad laugh. 

 

The cigarette in his hand is artfully balanced around the handle of his knife, a stark and obstinate switchblade, the handle once black now bleaching, ever-slightly, from the burn of his sweat.  It meets his lips, his sweating pinkened cheeks, and his head low, he drops his arm, holding the cigarette in his teeth, and the knife at his side. 

 

The air is close, and dark, and the stuffy sense of a closet in the Great American South.  He's spotlight from the side by the heavy flashlight, huge in scope, that's on the metal table beside me.  I can hear him pant, and see the flush of his cheeks glisten with the effort of his work. 

 

"C'mere, baby.  Dance with me," he says without looking at me, and I slip off the table, my bare thighs sticking to it from the heat.

 

The white of Brad's shirt is smeared minutely with blood, not enough to spread or seep.  He keeps his knife in his hand, while he wraps his long arms around me, this facet of himself bounding between the well-educated Texan from Denton to the Justif Hyde dragon to some rawboned teenage boy that married Bonnie in an act of fuck you.  The desert has moistened and the storm pelts the outside of his workshop.  The insides of his arms bleed with where I've watched him carve a snaking line around the flesh of his tricep. 

 

"I made this for you," he pushes his words into my hair, his hands sneaking under my skirt and, feeling that I didn't wear panties, gripping tight my ass with the span of his musical fingers.  We dance, slow, to silence.

 

"What is it?" I ask him, my voice light and high.  I'm Brad's shyest most silent counterpart, the open-mouthed and amused sister he gets hard for, over a gossamer laugh in his ear. 

 

"A snake," he mutters back. 

 

I breathe out a laugh, and he squeezes me against his cock, in the dark.

 

"Like Cleopatra," I infer. 

 

He slips his hands, the cool knife blade grazing me, along the line of my back, and presses his knee between mine.  His tongue finds my collar bone and he whispers into it. 

 

"I... will praise any man, that will praise me," he offers, pulling us into a slow turn with shuffling feet, he in his boots and me in my prim ballet shoes. 

 

"Are you going to praise me?" I ask him, settling my face against the wet stick of his shirt, drops of the heat running down the hollow place of my back where my shirt has refused to cling to me.  It's Nick's shirt, black and marked with the face of a kitten. 

 

"One half of me is yours," he agrees, and I slip sticky hands into the gap of denim across his hips and touch the hot skin of his cock, hard, and me now with 2 hours the knowledge of how he'd gotten hard the first time when he was a child. 

 

"I want it in me," I tell him, avoiding his eyes, and the world becomes the sound of the jangling of his undone belt, sighing to a drop on the cement floor the material that once kept us apart. 

 

He runs his thumb over the edge of his knife, splitting it careful, and presses it to my mouth, while he turns me around, to grip the edges of the table.

 

I press his blood between my lips like lipstick, licking it slowly off while he fucks me, little by little, until he cums groaning inside me.

 

Love,

Annik