Something's changed, shifted altered itself while I was caught up in a postorgasmic haze of damn-that-was-good. The last thing I registered was the tautly erotic, unresolved arousal of Brian's body as it touched mine. In the blink of an eye, that feeling shifted to this other-thing that I can't quite place. He's still tense, sharp and even harder than he was a moment ago, but everything is different. Before, he was ironwood, resistant and unbreaking. Now he's brittle, holding onto me as if any movement would shatter him into dust.

I listen, straining to hear what is being said, whispers underneath the constant patter of water and scratchy breaths wrought on fogged glass. It's there, what he's saying, if only I could train my ears to hear it. He can't say anything simply; smirking when a smile would be easier to translate, wisecracking when a 'no' would suffice. This is no different, and it's always up to me to see what I should hear. Hearing in colors, reds masking the sonorous hiss of wanting you to know what I say. Damn him, why can't this be simple?

Would I feel the same keening desire if it wasn't maddeningly complicated? I doubt it. Even as I complain to myself about his serpentine, tacit communication, I revel in how I can eventually discern the meaning. Every clue I need is there, obvious in the way he's changing how we kneel together. Where he was once holding on to me as though my skin was gluing him together, now he's open. Offering in a way that normally only I can manage. And there, buried between the spaces his fingers have left, is the first word. Please. A plea, the beginnings of supplication.

Brian never kneels in supplication. Even when he wants something so bad he's willing to beg--not a frequent occurrence--he is never the supplicant. His inherent skill in being dictates that those he wants, those he needs, do the begging. I envy that ability to make everyone else abuse their knees, even when it is us who receive his requests. I want, and you will want to satisfy my desires. I'm not sure I want to learn how he does it, not really. It's a gift so very Brian that I'd feel alien trying to mimic it. My abilities are those of a translator, a breathing Rosetta Stone. Brian is linear B, forever a mystery to everyone. When and if I find the key to reading him, I'll never share. Let him have his opacity; I'll do nothing but reinforce it.

More now, please I'm asking nicely rolling off his thighs and coating my feet. I don't have enough to be sure, but the pieces I have say that I should do something. Anything, if the way he's trembling can be believed. He needs something, but he can't ask for it outright. He wants, and I'm too much of a humanitarian to let him go without. Giving to him rarely leaves me lacking, and when it does it's by my own design. His wants usually involve me getting a lot more than either of us bargained for.

His continued complacency as I turn off the shower and towel us dry is another clue, shouted at the top of his breathless voice. He's letting me attend him, passive and pliable. I'm a little uncomfortable with this acquiescence, but what can I do? Our earlier diversions didn't lesson my own need, but rather sharpened it and I can feel myself rousing, hardening as I stroke his perfectly sinful skin. He's licking me, like a cat who grooms the one petting it. I try hard to resist the urge to stroke his hair and murmur nonsensical syllables. Good boy, be still and we shall be moved to act. Perhaps this is what he needed--simple affection borne of familiarity. Another something to separate us from him and his tricks.

The trek out of the shower and to the foot of the bed confuses me; he's leading us but I can't help but feel like I'm in control. He has to be in charge; he always is. He dictates our wakefulness, our slumber and everything in between. In this we are no different; he pushes and I stumble forward. So why, now of all times, do I seem to be the leader? I'm a pup, a babe blind to everything but my selfish desires. I cannot lead, not when I have no idea where we're going. I need direction, a channel to focus me wherever it is he thinks I should go. Or perhaps he's playing with me, tying one of those Gordian knots he's so fond of, tangling my senses so that he can bind my wrists and torture me with the obviousness of his games. His face is all clarity and need, eyes glassy and transparent. He needs, or so he says. Needful, needing. I need you.

Then again, one of the things that keeps me by his side is his way of making me wonder. Of forcing me to guess, knowing that the wrong choice will lead my astray. He challenges me to take chances, even as I push him to try caution on for size. However, I'm not used to him being the chance, to having the game reside within him. He sets himself apart from the fray, above and beside it, evaluating my performance. Not tonight, when the toy he's placed in my hands is his own person. Every other time we've been like this, I've been in charge only so long as he approves of my decisions. Right now, I get the feeling he'd accept anything I wish to do. I'm scared out of my mind, flailing here without my safety net. The ground has never seemed so far away.

Pushing him down on the bed seems like a good idea; cool velvet on his heated skin has to feel good, especially after I drape myself on top of him. He's shivering, though I doubt it's from cold. It's been far cooler than this and he's weathered it with nary a whimper, so why is he so shaken? Why is he waiting, laying in wait, waiting is? I listen for more words, for hints and clues, for demands and please. What are you saying, behind your lips, beneath your skin? Guide me, take my hand and let me lead you across this chasm.

His eyes are open, clear and endlessly tense. The need I see there is achingly familiar; I've seen it in myself so many times I scarcely notice it anymore. He wants, needs, craves what I can give him. What he takes from me as though he owns the rights to it. I need to be sure, so I look again, glancing into his mind. He lets me fuck him on occasion, but this is different. Fucking is one thing, but being taken is another entirely. Does he really want me to take over, to find his pleasure by reaping my own? Surely he's felt that before, the mindbending climax of handing himself to another for their use, confident in the knowledge that his lover would rather watch him climax than to come himself?

Maybe not, and that thought is what spurs me on. If he's never felt that, then he's been deprived--and a deprived Brian is a sorry thing indeed. He should know what I feel every time he touches me, every time he turns me inside out and dusts off my ill-used control. My mouth moves of its own accord, searing into him as I take into myself the flavor of his skin. Branding him, as he marks me with every moment we stay like this. If this is what he wants, I will freely offer it to him. If it isn't...I'll deal with that later.

When I look into his eyes again, the last of my doubts are erased. This is what he wants, as surely as he is what I need. Spread before me, a banquet for mine own self. I can't help the tide of arousal that sweeps through me, buffeting me against a rocky shore of razor-thin sensation. He's scared, his fear hidden behind a propped-up front of need. I won't let him stay that way, frozen by anxiety and uncertainty. He's given me what he wields so lightly and I'm bound to make good on his trust. I have followed closely his lessons, and I know what it takes to ease his suffering. When I'm through, he will feel nothing but the glory in having been taken to me and then placed back on earth gently as gossamer. Close your eyes and open yourself, so that I may step inside and rearrange this becoming to suit your soul.

I hope he's enjoying being on display, open in ways I only dream of him being. My mouth is watering, fingers drumming along his thighs as I wait, dragging out my own satisfaction. He has to be nervous still, finding himself in a position he only makes assume. He looks good this way, better than I would have thought. In another universe, it would be the only one he could willingly accept. Here, though, I may never see it again, so I take the time to appreciate. To savor. Mine, more than yours, but ours mostly.

And god the taste of him, the way he catches my senses and refuses to relinquish them. This this is what I get to have so rarely that each time is like finding it for the first time. He's more than scared now and so I seek to reassure him even as I breach him, winding my way deeper inside. I'm there, somewhere, hidden and I want to find myself where he is. I can't help but take more, forcing him to give over to me. This is mine by rights, though I enforce that ownership only rarely. Mine, and tonight he will know it. Know who possesses you, for I will not let you forget so easily as you think.

Having had a taste of him here, I must now search for what is there. His cock is a frequent treat of mine, but now I find myself learning all over again the way he loves being in my mouth. He isn't thrusting expertly into me now, no. This time his hips are eager but untrained, clumsy in their attempts to find another way to get me to swallow him. Tonight he is the virgin boy and I am the sacred whore, kneeling at the banks of this forgotten river. Now I have to remind him that he exists within me and his struggles are ones he's already conquered, if only he'd remember the fight.

His cries fill my mouth as thickly and completely as I fill him, pushing inside as soon as I've prepared my cock. Still he is uncontrolled, accepting my leadership and my body as though both were all he ever wanted. I pause, wishing to record the way he's clasping me, squeezing me tight. Why doesn't every time feel like this, as though we've done this a thousand times before but forget each time, at least until we're halfway there again? Spiraling down and hitting bottom just as we've reached the top.

Oh, and now now, finally now he moves, holding onto me just like I hold onto him every time he buries himself inside me. This must be what it feels like to take, to have me welcome him inside with a greedy, grasping heart. I know he's a step behind me but he's pushing me on, so I find his hand and drag him along. He isn't going to let me leave him there, walking when he could be running at my side. Now that I've found the path, leading him is no chore, no fear-darkened risk I could or could not be taking. I cannot shy away from what you've offered me, not when I've scraped away the gilt and found you underneath.

Oh yeah, this is right and at this point it's like every time we come together. Taking, taken, giving-given, finding and losing in what we've found. I pace him, wake him from the watery depths he's drowning in. I revel in the way he has no control, his body arching into my every thrust, eyes weeping with the sheer orgasmic pleasure of having nothing to do but feel. I know those tears aren't from suffering but rather from rejoicing. His body is free and his mind has followed along and now he's flying, wings unfettered by the bindings he's only just now cast off. I'll catch him when he's ready to return to earth, but for now I'll simply push him higher, let him see what I always see when he takes me here.

I always want him to look this way, to be this free and goddamned content. If I could freeze this moment and always have him squirming closer to himself I would. It's with great regret that I admit that neither of us could stand that--he needs his familiar rocky outcropping to stand on and I need something to scramble over. When this is over he won't be as high up, and I won't be as far down and someday before we forget how to find this place, the here we find ourselves at will resemble where we are now--wide open fields of air with no ground to hit when we fall.

But our bodies are forcefully reminding me they are bound by biology in ways our minds aren't. His throat grinds with the need to find release, body shaking with that same desire. I'm groaning with him, nipping and pushing in a way far less gentle than I'd set out to be. We're getting there, drawing closer to the point where all we'll know is what our minds let our bodies feel in an attempt to keep us from relinquishing both and facing oblivion.

It only takes a single touch of my hand on his cock and he's there, body pulsing once and then solidifying into liquid marble. My own cock cries out at the incredible pressure and my fingers slide absently through the silk of his release but it's my eyes that have received the bulk of his climax. His face is...the words to describe it are marching their way down my nerves. He looks like I feel, awed and real and found in the moment. He's still even as I keep thrusting madly into him, clawing my way to reach where he's already found himself.

When I get there I fall apart, tumbling down upon him. He holds me to him, unwilling to let me locate where we aren't joined. I don't have the energy tell him his fears are unfounded, that I couldn't move even if either of us wanted me to. There isn't anywhere I could go that would be other than where I am now, mired in the wreckage that is what we always are. We're nothing less than a tattered heap of arms and legs, of words and actions, of having become, we unmake ourselves so we can become what we are once again.

But for the moment, we are whole in our undoing.