May 7, 2001
Eh. ^-^ See what studying for AP US does to me? It produces crap like this. Pure smut, I tell you. I guess it's kind of healthy, though.
~Bianca
The virgin is, above all, modest and pure. His cheeks flush at the sight of that hard horn, the tip of it dripping slightly, the skin of it soft, as if to pretend that it is not really a weapon of war, but a part of a human. His lashes flutter and the blue eyes look somewhere off in the distance, wanting to be far, far away.
It is part of the virgin's appeal that they are unwilling at first, perhaps fighting tooth and nail, scratching viciously, lashing out with an enticingly bare foot, the curve of the arch made for gentle licking. Their thighs, the soft insides that melt like a communion wafer on the tongue, stay firmly locked shut, a door whose key knows the way by primal instinct. Perhaps he needs to be slapped, to have color forcefully injected into the pale skin, the blood stinging as it rises to the surface. Perhaps he needs it hard and rough, needs it facedown on a dirty pallet in a secluded cottage, the part that makes him a virgin tearing with first penetration, screaming in pain.
But a virgin is always ripe with possibility, a wrapped present whose contents remain unknown up until the very end. Maybe he begins unwilling, but after a few wet kisses, whispered declarations of love, the forever kind, he lies back and pulls his attacker turned paramour on top of him, feeling the weight of him across his hips in a delightful kind of helplessness.
Perhaps the virgin is the kind that plans, the kind that sets up candles around the bedroom anticipating the arrival of his lover. He has spent months in a loveless bed, his hands creeping between his thighs, open palm brushing lightly over his hardness, his eyes closed, body rocking with phantom thrusts.
The night of the deflowering does not come out of the blue. This virgin is methodical. He fears rejection, fears humiliation, fears everything that is pleasurable because he has been taught everything has a cost. Nothing comes for free, not information, not arms, not stolen parts of a Gundam. This he knows too well.
No, it has been a very long time coming, since that first night after the war when he couldn't stop throwing up, and just sat by the toilet the entire night while the rest of the soldiers danced in the streets and tore rebel newsletters into confetti. And then the lover had sheepishly pushed the door open, touched his face and rubbed his back while he emptied his stomach into the bowl. The virgin had not known at the time, but the lover cared for him in the secretive way of unicorn horns, the intangible veil of love. It had all grown from there, tiny seedling to burning bush.
There is something perfect about a virgin, besides the heat and the tightness like a driving piston forged deep in a lover's gut, something that makes it impossible to stop, impossible to do anything but jackknife their hips, shoving deeper, harder, swallowing the virgin's cries. The tears are perfect as well, the little drops of rain and shame that nourish the lover, the protector.
He blinks as he hears the front door open, tossing the lighter aside, then picking it up and putting it in the bureau on second thought. The night must be perfect, and it begins with an aesthetically pleasing environment. His heart beats faster, his hips grow languid, and his walk to the door contains a slinky aspect that could be the silk pajamas, or the virgin's sudden arousal.
The lover is there, his long hair neatly bound up in a thick rope. The virgin is suddenly reminded of the tale of Rapunzel, who let down her hair, only to be ravished by the foreign prince. He lets his arms drop loosely at his sides, staring at his own bare feet as the lover moves across the room, still in his rainslicker and boots.
The virgin reaches out with nimble fingers, fingers that know what they want and how to get it. His eagerness is excused, just this once, and the lover clenches his teeth as the other boy's hands slide down his chest, undoing the clasps to his jacket. After a minute, the yellow coat falls away and the lover stands in a black tee-shirt, his arousal evident through his pants, a thickness that aches to spear between the virgin's thighs and hard up, and up.
He steps out of his boots, kicking them under the bed, taking time to appreciate the exquisite silk comforter, the low lighting of the room and the scent of vanilla candles. It would be overpowering, except the musk of rain still clings to his body, his long frame, and with every movement, he calls the virgin to him.
The virgin wraps his arms around the other, resting his head on the lover's chest, burying his face in the line between hard pectoral muscles, marveling at how the other has grown. It is a part of the virgin's appeal, the smallness of bone and body, the slender hips with points that press into the bed first, the lean thighs and short stature. The virgin must be overpowered to feel safe.
Touching his face again, as if the lover and virgin were two boys back at the end of the war, huddling together in a bathroom, hiding from the rest of the world, he tilts the virgin's chin up for a kiss, his first kiss. The significance of the first kiss is tremendous, almost as much as that first piercing pain is. It is the beginning of the rending, tearing away the bridal veil, sliding a casual hand up the skirt to find no panties and wetness that draws the groom in.
Their kisses are innocent enough. The lover uses the opportunity to teach the other about the importance of breathing while making love, of surrender to a force that binds all humans together. His tongue eases inside the virgin's, taking territory, forcing the virgin's back into an arch, thrusting smoothly.
The lover shimmies out of his clothing, leaving it in a black pile, and lies on the bed, his legs spread. He holds the virgin's waist gently, and pulls him on top, urging him to explore, to touch what he does not understand. The virgin's hands run briefly over the flat planes of his chest, the dusky nipples, the trail of chestnut hair that forests in the high meeting of the lover's thighs. His hardness stands straight in the air, and the virgin touches it gingerly, afraid of a geyser explosion. His lover moans, pursing his lips and holding his own thighs down.
The virgin continues the pumping motion, his being flooded with a sense of power. When he leans down, shyly, tongue just barely poking out between his lips, and tongues the slit of the lover's dripping cock, he comes in a biscuity salty rush, coating his open mouth and throat. The virgin rests on his side, still clad in his pajamas, watching his love's breath rasp in and out, in and out of his open mouth. Carefully, he leans down and steals a kiss, yelping as he is crushed tight to the lover and rolled to the bottom.
An errant hand reaches between his legs, rubbing him teasingly, and the virgin goes limp as unexpected feelings course through him, heat pooling in his cock as it thickens and lengthens under the cap of the silk. Then, rough hands tear at his top, ripping it down the seams beneath his arms, and a hot mouth teases his neck, suckling the pulse. The virgin is unsure what the do, so he whines a bit, tosses his head, bucks his hips, but to no avail.
The lover teases the virgin into a frenzy, slowly, so slowly, drawing his fingers over his legs, getting him to shed his pants like skin. The lover lowers himself, mouth trembling, bit by bit, until they are touching from chest to knee, perfect skin moving seamlessly. They rock together, learning how it feels to hold a loved one in one's arms, how it feels to be ripped apart as the lover rises to finally coat himself in sesame oil, the delicate scent and lightness of it causing the blood to rush from his head to his groin.
They slide together like pieces of fractured bone, fusing into something whole, for the first time, whole. The virgin lifts his hips off the bed to meet every thrust. Their eyes meet over their dripping bodies and he's gone, spiraling down, eyes squeezing shut, his hands clenching at the lover's glistening shoulders.
"Duo!" he gasps, and the lover answers with his own kind of call.
After, they lie in the sweat-soaked sheets, pleasantly moist and warm, and the lover wraps his arms around his new lover, his virginity as fleeting as the night that slipped by sweetly. And he knows the truth, for the first time, about love and lust, and virginity and the rendering of innocence as a portrait to be worshipped, rather than a gauze veil to be unraveled and torn. He cannot help, even as he drops a kiss onto his lover's face, feeling guilty. Never again so fearful, never again new.
A virgin is sacred because of the tiny seeds of virginity within us all. Perhaps in their glowing presence, we can coax them into some semblance of beauty, make them grow roses where there are only thorns.
end. ^-^
Bianca
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