Ashe Dream's Stories
Flesh by Ashe Dream
Flesh
And then there's Chris. A black angel. A god of hellish light. A prince of darkness.
I love him so much. I feel things for him that I've never felt with anyone else. He is so accepting. Accepting of me, and of everything. When he takes me in his arms, be it in our bed, on a dance floor, or on some city sidewalk, I feel completely enveloped in happiness. In perfection.
God, I love the way he looks. So evil. So beautiful. So sexy. I like him onstage the best. When he sings, it's like the words flow through his body and drip from his lips and his loins like honey pooling and dropping off the end of a spoon. That's what he is. Honey. Silk. Cream.
And when I taste that honey, when he feeds me that cream, he makes me want to cry. When he fills me with his slick tongue and his beautiful cock, I scream with the most absolute pleasure. If I ever die fucking him, there will be nowhere for me to go. I have found pure heaven here on earth.
His hair. Nearly always black, but sometimes a raspberry red, or dark purple. It hangs in pieces around his eyes, across his chin and cheekbones, and plays about his neck and ears. It smells of his favorite cologne, and his own body's sweet, musky perfume. I love it when I feel his hair pressed against my neck and chin, while he kisses my throat or licks my nipples. I ache when he drags his tongue across my belly down to my groin, and his hair trails along my skin after it. I feel it brush along the insides of my thighs, or the small curve of my back. His hair drives me wild.
His eyes. Such a deep, warm mahogany brown. They seem so limitless and yet he sees everything. When I catch his eyes across a crowded room, or see him staring at me from the air chair when we watch television, it's like being looked at by a thousand pairs of eyes. He tears me apart with his eyes, and sees straight into my core. Sometimes dark shadows cover his eyes, and staring into them is like staring into the eyes of the devil himself. He knows my secrets. He hears my darkest thoughts, and senses my innermost desires. I can hide nothing from him, but most especially when he is looking deep into my eyes. But whatever it is I don't want him to know has not yet crossed my mind. In his eyes, I am beauty. I am sex. I am love. I am everything in his world, as he is all of mine.
His lips. Lips that have tasted my every crevice, every curve, every drop of tears and sweat and blood. Lips that have kissed my soul. Lips that have wrenched forth from me every emotion I have strength left to feel. The skin stretched out across them is as smooth and pink as sweet wine, with a taste just as warm and intoxicating. From those lips come words that pierce my heart, and make my blood boil and rush. And from those lips protrudes his tongue, which licks and drinks my juices down like mother's milk. I live to feel his lips tasting me, from the salt on my brow and the saliva from my mouth to the blood from my fingertips and the cum from my loins. He drinks me down, and swallows me whole. He has tasted me inside, and his taste is as sweet and cool as ice water.
His hands. Large and strong. Full of talent, and exquisite wisdom. Those hands have always known exactly where to touch me, to make me come alive and set me on fire. Those fingers, tipped with black fingernail polish or sometimes nothing at all, have probed my hidden places and found all the spots that make me shiver and scream. Those hands have wrapped around my back on many dance floors, holding me close as we swayed to the dark, distant music. Those hands have been locked in mine, as we wandered through the rain-covered streets of countless cities in endless countries. Those hands have written out the poetry of sex and darkness and longing, and I hang on every word. Those same two hands grip the microphone or his guitars, and release all his passion and rage. The sounds those two hands create reach me and so many thousands of others, and rock our bodies and our minds with endless lust and agony. And those same two hands have slowly unbuttoned my blouses, untied the laces of bikinis, fiddled with my bra straps, unzipped my jeans, pulled shirts off over my head and ripped panties from my waist. Those hands dig through all the anger, all the noise, all the masks and all the shit that I hide behind to unearth everything that is me. His are the hands that touch me, feel me, and sear right through my pale skin.
His body. My favorite thing to wear. My favorite surface to feel pressing against my breasts or bare back. Covered in clothes or naked and natural, he is so beautiful.. Carved form the smoothest, palest stone and chiseled down to only what perfection needed to remain. His creamy paleness is interrupted only by the occasional black tattoo, wrapped around his arm or hovering on his shoulders, or by his small, taut nipples, pink and round as a rabbit's eyes. The intricate scrolls I draw across his throat with my wet tongue sometimes have to work their way around the beaded necklace that so often dangles around his smooth neck. Being in his tight, muscular arms is like being crushed to death with joy, a pain I never want to end. When I kiss his smooth, hard stomach, I inhale as much as I can of his clean, manly scent. He is so incredible to look at, I sometimes can't believe he's real. His waist is small but substantial, and he can make it sway like a flag flying in the wind. And his beautiful hips are a delicious invitation to travel down to what lies between them. His strong, unyielding legs hold him up and make him seem to reach the sky, or they bend at the knee and bring him down to me. And then, waiting between his legs like a present just for me, there is his cock. The source of all his sweet, sticky love. Inside me it feels like a knife of pleasure, stabbing and twisting and ripping through everything that holds me back. Between my lips it feels tight and warm, and it throbs with desire from every slick stroke of my restless tongue. And when it empties his essence into my pussy, sometimes so much that it drizzles out and leaves pearly snakes crawling down my thighs, he becomes a part of me. Inside me he is everything that I have ever wanted. And he fills me with everything that I will ever truly need. Again and again and again.
He makes me see God bathed in dark light.
His voice rips through my ears and fills my head with all the colors of raw emotion and ecstasy. It all becomes red, blue, orange, purple and white. White with heat and fire.
And when I pull down the gold zipper of his black vinyl pants with my teeth and gently kiss him through his underwear, I watch his mouth quiver with pleasure. I hear his deep moans of desire, of unbridled need. I feel his hands running so gently through my long, dark hair, pushing me even closer to him.
It is then that we are completely inside of each other, no longer distinguishable as two. I know that he is mine. In his words, we are flesh. We are one.
*For Christopher Hall of Stabbing Westward*
Please send all comments to Ashe Dream at Spiderlily3@juno.com!
And that's the whole story. Hope you enjoyed it!
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