A story for everyone

[Hawthorne]

Late at Night in the City

OOC: This thread is open to anyone who'd like to join in. There are no limitations. Personally I'm looking for a very gothic style dj to fool around with.

IC:

Katie: Red hair, green eyes, twenty years old.

My head still hurts from last night's hangover. My eyes still blur a little when I try to focus. But I feel inevitably drawn to moving tonight, taxis, and dark streets, and damp pavements, and gaudily lit clubs, and cafes, and salsa bands, and djs brought over from the UK. My shoes are scuffed, my legs a little bruised, but I still feel that I need to put on a clean jacket and brush my hair and coat my lips with lipstick and find a place, some ultra modern bar hidden above an old building full of couches and fabric and keep drinking, keep drinking, keep drinking.
I stand with my back to the window and a glass of champagne in my hand, composed, sedate, quiet, unimposing, and yet I feel compelled to sway a little to the music the dj spins. Over and over, tune after tune, in some dark gothic splendour I watch him as he runs his fingers over vinyl. soothing away last night, welcoming this one.
He drops his head forward and touches tongue tip to lip, carefully orchestrating the right movement that brings two tracks seamlessly together. Long dark hair spills over his shoulders onto his velvet jacket, and I watch, my fingers itch, beneath the dark black satin of my dress I feel a fresh prickle of sweat tease at the possibility of erasing all time before now.

 

[MBS1969]

The DJ

OOC - Joshua Jonah (Stage Name), Black hair , Pale skin, Brown eyes, Purple lipstick

IC - Tonight I'm a DJ in a popular city club, for one night only, specially flown in from the UK. I'm in my full goth persona tonight, the black clothes, my long hair flowing freely and make up to make my complexion look even more ghostly in the dim lights of the club. It's still early but my set is going well, people seem to be enjoying themselves as I cast a glance around the room.

My tattooed hands toy with the records, caressing the vinyl carefully and skillfully, hopefully proving my reputation as one of the top DJ's in the land. I scan the crowd, the usual sheep, laughing and dancing away whilst drinking socially acceptable drinks. I have a healthy dislike for my adoring public, it helps in a world of groupies and wannabee's.

I noticed her earlier, a good looking redhead, standing alone against the window, moving slowly to the music, obviously in touch with the beat of the music I'm playing. She was not what you would call classically beautiful but had an inner glow which made her stand out from the rest of the crowds. I concentrate hard, mixing two tunes with apparant ease but needed to keep my mind firmly on the mix before once again glancing up.

Her eyes are on me, fixed to mine as we make silent contact across the room. She does not avert her gaze when she see's me watching her, obviously full of self confidence. I raise my head and beckon her over, wondering if reality is as exciting as the image I have of her in my mind, wondering if she will truly be my sort of person, or just a girl trying to achieve a look not made for her. Time will tell as I see her begin to cross the club heading for my booth.

 

[Hawthorne]

Behind him the rain is constantly shattering, the sky black behind the glass seems ripped by a thousand gun shots, shattering into frgaments. Is it so, then, that the image he stands in front of suggests a danger in approaching him?
If that's the case am i secretly glad?, secretly hoping that this might be just the balm for my frustration with a menial, pointless, boring existence. Just once could I find a true escape from the day to day mundanity, the responsibilities, the conventions, the reasons, the elusive goal, the inevitability of a slow decline into senility.
I lean forward on the dj desk, the music hot and loud around me. There is a scrap of napkin by an empty glass of melting ice. I turn it to face me and take a pen from my bag, bend over, momentarily passing him from my sight and scrawl in black skeletal writing, crosses that represent kisses and circles that represent hugs and letters of different sizes.
"I wAnt to danCe in The RaIn wItH yOu xoxoxox"

 

[MBS1969]

Joshua

She approaches my booth and pauses wordless before me, words would be useless anyhow, disappearing beneath the volume of the music. Her cleavage shows as she leans over the top of my booth to claw the napkin from beside my decks. Her eyes avert only long enough for her to write on the napkin and thrust it back towards me.

It pleases me that she has written in black ink, matching my demeanour and usual mood. Tonight though I feel only grey, a vast improvement on normal and a good point for her to approach me. I do not read the words she has written, scanning her face to watch for any frustration she may feel at my lack of immediate interest.

There is none, I feel thankful that she is not needy, not another groupie as I clasp the note in my fist. I read it and smirking slightly, I hold up my palms to her indicating that my set will be complete in ten minutes. I will be free then to join her, to elaborate on our brief encounter.

As the next DJ arrives behind the booth and I complete my final mix I barely acknowledge the applause of the minions before climbing down to the club floor. She waits for me below and our eyes meet in a silent greeting. The fire escape is nearby and I grab her waist, propelling us through the doors into the pouring rain and the violence of the storm.

 

[Hawthorne]

Beneath my feet the wet cement is still thumping with the sound of the next set. The repeated beat is almost as incessant as the rain, fierce and violent on my bare neck and chest. Somewhere along the way of three steps backward towards the crumbling edge of the old building my dress has been unzipped and pulled aside, brutally wetted and taken into hands warmer than I would have expected. And at the periphery of all sensations I can make out smaller, delicate ministrations, fingertips toying with my spine, in direct contrast to the splinters of water on my breasts.
The rain is heavier than I have expcted, and it is almost impossible to dance. Instead we make clumsy drugged movements against the wall, my hands getting caught in his long dark hair, my legs trapped by the fabric of my dress and the ferocity of his grip.
It is only in a brief respite, a shudder of semi silence, that he finally lifts his face from his assault on my throat and we meet eye to eye. Both of us, I am sure, are aware of the guard in each others eyes, both of us are resilient and hardened by the experiences of an unfair city. We have no love, we have no compassion, we have no hope, and come to each other without expectations of romance. Does this knowledge make the slow soft slip of his painted lips between mine any less potent? Not at all. Not even close.

 

[MBS1969]

We are soaked almost at the moment we depart the shelter of the building and a clap of thunder surrounds us as we stagger backwards into the alley. This is my domain, the power of the storm, the darkness, the rain, all inspirations for my work, my life, my being.

Her dress had come away into my hands and has now been deposited in heap on the puddled floor. My hands explore her back whilst my lips fasten on her neck, kissing and gnawing on her pale skin as the rain runs in droplets down my hair. I nudge her up against the wall, pinning her there as her hands reach up into my hair and run throught its thickness.

I raise my head to watch for any emotion on her face, watching for any fear or resentment but see none. Her eyes appear blank, devoid of emotion, like looking into a mirror, something I had stopped doing years ago for fear of my own destruction. I kiss her slowly, taking time to taste her before my kiss becomes more urgent.

My shirt has become ripped in our tussle, my bare chest pressing against her breasts. My hands drop to her thighs and onto her ass, pulling her to me, rocking gently in our embrace. I feel her hands wrapped around my neck as her legs wrap around my waist and then suddenly her weight is shared by the wall and I as she resonds desparately to my kisses.

The rain pounds us, the storm is worsening as lightening pierces the sky. Each bolt lights our faces, entwined in passion, for all to see and admire. But there is no-one here but us, alone in the alley, careering down the slippy slope to oblivion, to the point of no return, lust beginning to take over as our hands and kissed become more frantic.

The small shred of sanity in my brain wonders about her past but is quickly pushed aside with a strengthening need to have her now. Russian roulette it is, it can only be months before this lack of self control kills me. But to die through passion is a real way to die, perish the thought I should die in bed in old age. Live is for living and consequences be damned, I wonder if she has the same thoughts.

 

[Hawthorne]

There is such complex music in the movement of two bodies together, even in the rage, as part of the violence, a whole orchestra of emotion and resonation between every contact and its response. My mouth as he kisses it, the pulse in my throat as his fingers linger on my belly, the heat in my cheeks as he grows thick and hard in my hands, unsconsciously urging, thrusting without yet finding the way inside me.
The rapid increase in one's heartbeat is an echo and perhaps the inspiration for all music, and our ages frenzied need for greater sexual pleasure is justly reflected in the thicker beats, the harder sound. Enough chords of electronic medleys reach the alley to incite us, to encourage my legs to part and guide him, my back to stretch against his open palms, and dictate the subtle thrust of my hips into his body. Veritable lines of our skins texture are for music to be written on, the rough scratch of the bricks and the sudden tightness of my sex as his courts the outside of it. Even the way he pauses and his eyes seem to light with a deeper fire reaching far back into the history of man, the base need obliterating the social context of a base act. Like music, small details, the furrow of his brow over the pain of pleasure, the vein in his neck as he bends down to meet me, the dirt in his nails from the mud on the walls, and the damp odour of his shirt like a new born babys skin, more body than perfumes and soaps and cosmetics can contain, are in tune with the greater actions, the clawing fingers and the lash of his tongue in my mouth. Each has its place and depends on the harmony of the other.

 

[MBS1969]

Her hand finds my throbbing cock, long and hard and now released from it's captivity by her slender fingers. They wrap around my length like icicles, cold in the night air yet with appearing to melt as they run up and down my shaft, bringing sensations of pain and pleasure equally. I groan into her mouth as she begins to work me and I can feel the rain splash onto the tip. My hands scrape from the wall, now dirty and no use for the music, they trail down her body and find her naked groin.

With no fabric barriers to stop me I trace a line across her pussy, retrieving a moan from her lips at my first touch. Her body responds to my every touch as I run my cock along her sopping wet slit, her back arches still further against the brick wall, scratching her shoulders as she does. My mouth leaves hers and I bury my teeth into her neck as my cock enters her sex.

The storms still rages around us but we no longer hear it, our moans area all consuming as I begin to slide steadily in and out. My teeth nibble at her neck and my hands now cup her ass, pulling her to me as I fuck this stranger in an act of pure lust. No love here, a purely brutal act, two people taking all they want from each other without thought of consequences or tomorrow. She grunts as I pump into her with more urgency.

Her hair lashes my face as she throws her head from side to side, momentarily avoid my nibbling teeth before succombing once again. My head droops further and I manage to clamp my mouth around her firm hard nipple, sucking hard at her as if trying to suck the life from her. The music seems to be making the wall vibrate as our coupling becomes more urgent, her legs bobbing in the air around my waist. I raise my head and stare into her eyes and she gazes back at me, baring her teeth in a grimace like smile or growl, I can't tell which, and at this stage do not care as I am closing in on my goal.

 

[Hawthorne]

OOC: Please excuse how long it's taken me to reply!

IC:
Somehow the scratch of the wall enhances the sensation of wetness between us. Every time the brick touches my back and my buttocks I moan and in response arch back, pry my legs a little further apart to take his cock deep inside. There is at the back of my mind some terrible cliche about a rock and a hard place, so I smile, and when I smile he kisses me, and when he kisses me I kiss him back, sliding my tongue between his lips and tasting wetness and warmth, some kind of pure spirit and cigarette smoke - possibly his, possibly everyone elses.
It is just enough. Just the perfect amount to obliterate me. Everytime he inclines forward and part of his pelvis touches my clitoris I lose a little more of my self in the grimace of pleasure, the sharp stab that starts there then contracts in my vagina, around his cock, to my womb, then below my breasts, like a dagger in my sternum.
I look up, look past him, look at the dirty brown brick and the door of the club adjacent coming slightly ajar revealing a thick hand around a tumscent cock, stroking, watching, and thrusting into his own clammy grip. The hotter and damper the air becomes the more sordid the scene - dirt in the djs fingernails becomes dirt on my sex and on my wet belly, and other people's desires, sexual perversions, become possible, welcome even. The more this unknown voyeur strokes his cock in the dark doorway, the more I feel the djs thick cock inside me, pushing in and holding, before withdrawing, and then on the next thrust more contact with his body, a sudden sensory overload of the delicate pain when my breasts press on bare parts of his flesh and the pull from the way the flesh of my thighs contorts in his strong hands.
He moves harder, seeking out the rigid repetition that will bring us both to climax, and this hidden man begins to mimic the tempo. It gives me inexplicable pleasure to be both the ravaged and the cause for one ravaging himself.