(no subject)
Another little smidgeon of Butterfly. This is dedicated to the beautiful, bouncy, broadway babe blondebitz who made me the most marvelous banner for my story and a brand new icon to go along with it!!! Thank you, honey bunny. I'm so excited!
Part the Third
This fantastic manip is a gift from the darling, wonderful blondebitz Love you, sweetie!!
They camped shortly after nightfall under a monkey pod tree, it’s wide, heavily-leafed branches affording them some little shelter from the water torture that had beaten relentlessly on their heads all afternoon. Exhausted, Spike rolled himself up in his slicker, pillowing his cheek on a folded elbow, and tried to catch a quick kip. Even a few hours would be enough to get him on his feet again, what with his iron constitution. He might be small, but he was wiry as all hell, and tough. Any less tough. and he would never have survived to the present.
Hadn’t been easy being abandoned in a strange country, not speaking the language. He was barely sixteen and too proud to go home to Mum and Da after his stab at rebellion. He’d come over with his mates, crushing on a boy named Wesley, who tolerated him for the sake of a fuck when he wanted it or a blow job, more enthusiastic than knowledgeable. Spike was grateful for the opportunity. He had yet to learn the difference between friendship and blatant exploitation.
He was still shy as a church mouse in those days, wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He had guilelessly adored Wesley, was his puppy for the price of an occasional pat on the head and a kind word. It ended badly. Spike woke one morning in a gloomy hotel room, the smell rank as the grave, and found himself alone.
There were a lot of frightened looks from the management at his condition. Spike’s hangover masked the details of the fight from his confused brain, yet he knew, looking in the dirty bathroom mirror, the bigger boy had beaten him badly for some imagined slight, before abandoning him to the fates. When the manager saw he had no one to turn to, no one to make a rumpus in his defense, and that his pockets were empty, he was booted out without a moment’s compassion for his dire predicament.
Cursing himself for allowing old memories to drift into his exhausted brain, Spike rolled over, trying to get comfortable. He hoped Angel would appreciate what he was doing for him, sleeping rough, gettin’ himself bug bit and maybe worse all for the sake of a...mild attachment. That’s all it was, Spike assured himself. He’d learned his lesson long ago about giving his heart away.
He tried to rest, but his skin kept twitching at the thought of snakes and other creepy crawlies slinking their way towards him in the dark. Something tickled his cheek. He jumped, waving his arms in a frantic windmill, snatching back the girly scream that threatened to erupt. A mosquito hummed past his ear, then haloed his head for another approach He suddenly felt hopelessly out of his depth, flouncing around in the jungle like some bloody urban Tarzan. It was a sodding joke. Angel didn’t want him. He’d left him behind just as Wesley had done, only without the beating this time.
From where Spike lay, he could just make out the guide, leaning sleepy-eyed against the monkey pod’s rough trunk. The glowing orange ash at the end of his cigarette was a pinpoint of safety in the heavy darkness. Spike’s eyes clung to the fixed star until they fluttered shut, and he drifted away into a restless sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The pain was exquisite. Angel rolled onto his knees cursing, one palm flat on the ground, his other hand clutching the reawakened agony of his shoulder wound. He had been making good progress, despite the lousy weather, closing in on the Laotian border, when he’d come to an obstacle. Dusk was falling fast. He should have known better than to take such a chance. But with Pulkin ahead of him, and his henchmen on the trail behind, Angel felt he couldn’t afford to wait for daylight.
The mudslide cut across the trail, blocking it completely. On one side was the mountainous upthrust of boulders and cascading muck, on the other, a steep fall of about forty feet to the jungle floor below. Angel had to make a choice. The ledge looked to be the easiest way around. Up about ten feet from the outward explosion of soggy earth, it promised a shortcut over the blocked road.
Angel climbed the rocky wall tenaciously, foothold by precarious foothold, the tips of his fingers scraped raw with the effort to keep himself from falling. It wasn’t until he reached the inches-wide shelf that was his goal that he learned his mistake. Even as he began to slide himself along the narrow outcropping, the fragile schist beneath his boots started to crumble.
He hit the mudslide on his back, the force of the drop stealing his breath, pitching him outward and over the cliff’s edge to land on his bandaged shoulder and his left hip in a tangle of flattened jungle greenery. Fireworks went off in his head. He tipped face forward and blacked out.
Coming around was a painful business. A groggy assessment, after finding his knees, told Angel there was nothing broken. But when he tried to stand, the combined agony of shoulder and hip sent him back to the muddy earth, heaving his agony out in weak spasms. When there was nothing left in his belly to vomit onto the rain-soaked ground, he managed to push himself away from the mess with worm-like thrusts of heels and back. Curling onto the opposite side, away from his injuries, he tried to steel his resolve enough to make a second attempt at getting on his feet.
The rain splashed on his cheek, spattering into his eyes with torturous persistence. Christ. If he didn’t get moving, some villager, in the months to come, would find his rotted copse, stinking in the humid Thai sun. Mildly concussed, Angel rested an arm across his eyes and lay drowsing in a damp cocoon of pain.
It was a late afternoon. A steamy soup of air sluggishly pushed Angel and Jao, his Taiwanese contact, into the weakly air-conditioned interior of Ju-An’s, a local dance and sex club, in search of a cold drink to break the heat’s monotony. Angel had never been there before. Shirt stuck damply to his back, perspiration oozing down his cheeks, he leant on the bar curiously, gaze probing the smoky interior. Watching the dancers gyrate to the blare of rock and roll, colored swaths of lights making them into jerky marionettes, Angel’s eyes snagged on a white-gold head bopping lazily to the music’s beat.
He watched for awhile, sipping the cool beer the bartender had plonked down at his elbow. It took him a few minutes of contemplation to realize the seductive beauty in the thin swish of cotton wasn’t a woman at all, but a man. The most beautiful man Angel had ever seen. His body, moved languidly amongst the pandemonium around him. It seemed to have found another beat that only existed for the erotic, androgynous figure: the slow, blatant potency of sexual intercourse, open, ready. Hips snaked to the pulsing music, the curved flex of a hard backside mimed the thrusts of fucking. There was lipstick on the laxly parted lips, eyes half-lidded with a drugged, sensual bliss.
Angel pushed away from the bar. The sight of the dancer sent a swarm of heat to his groin that pulled him cock first toward that magnetic North. He’d had a preference for boys since he was a burgeoning sixteen year old. Coming to Thailand on Company business had allowed him to indulge himself. His many liaisons had only been one night stands, but they were fevered and dirty, just the way he liked them. No entanglements. He wasn’t looking for a soul mate, just a good, hard fuck.
He’d never craved the girly boys before, and he wasn’t sure that this was what he was wanted now, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the figure who had drawn him into the tangled mass of bodies. There was a beguiling mix of strong male muscle and graceful feminine wiles in the curve of that bared, slender throat. The thin, compact body continued to undulate, a pagan deity luring Angel forward. His hand closed around the bones of a strong wrist as he pulled the boy/girl around to face him and found himself lost in a pair of smoky blue eyes.
“Hello, pet.” The voice was a husky, graveled tease, confidence heavy in each word. “What’s got you all hot and bothered then? Couldn’t be me, could it?”
Their eyes held, saying everything without a spoken word. Dragging in a deep breath, Angel spun around and began to push his way through the unruly crowd, pulling his captive behind him..
“Which way?” he shouted, over the noise of the surrounding crowd.
The dirty chuckle that met his question only served to make Angel more certain of what he was doing. At his ear, the prostitute breathed warm, beer-scented directions, making Angel’s spine twitch with excitement. He wanted this one badly, his cock already straightening in his linen pants.
Angel was pushed from behind into a darkened room, the door slamming shut with the kick of a heel. The pale, bare foot it was attached to made explosive contact with Angel’s libido. In the airless chamber he shoved the boy across the space onto the narrow cot that stood under the room’s only window. The figure fell with a laugh, dress settling high on his smooth, bare thighs. Angel caught one ankle and pulled the naked foot against his cheek.
“Oh, fuck. You’re so damn pretty.”
Before he knew it, Angel was on his knees, his face pressed to the exposed crotch, tongue licking over black silk and taut, swelling flesh. The smell of musk and sex and sweet, clean skin enveloped him. He bit at the mound unfurling eagerly under his attentions, careful not to do any serious damage. The boy wiggled excitedly, his roused gasps causing Angel to pant and burrow more urgently into the silk-encased genitals, a wiry cloud of pubic curls rubbing over his nose and chin.
“Whoa. Whoa! Gonna bloody set me off if you keep up like that, pet. Not made of stone here. Don’t you wanna play a little, gorgeous, ‘fore you we get to the main event?”
Spike lifted his head from the cot. Of course, it was Spike. Even in the dream, the memory was sharp-edged, and painfully clear. He watched Angel with cat-eyed intensity through the spread V of his thighs. A smirk played over his plush red lips. Angel remembered how his balls had pulled tight against his body, an incredible ache seeping through his veins. He slithered quickly up the prone figure and claimed the greasy mouth, liking the taste of lipstick, and the rough tongue that lapped its sweet honey over his teeth as it thrust in and out.
Guilt bubbled in Angel’s throat. He moaned deeply in his sleep. Leaving Spike behind was the hardest thing he’s ever done. In the dream, he began to cry.
TBC
Part the Third
This fantastic manip is a gift from the darling, wonderful blondebitz Love you, sweetie!!
They camped shortly after nightfall under a monkey pod tree, it’s wide, heavily-leafed branches affording them some little shelter from the water torture that had beaten relentlessly on their heads all afternoon. Exhausted, Spike rolled himself up in his slicker, pillowing his cheek on a folded elbow, and tried to catch a quick kip. Even a few hours would be enough to get him on his feet again, what with his iron constitution. He might be small, but he was wiry as all hell, and tough. Any less tough. and he would never have survived to the present.
Hadn’t been easy being abandoned in a strange country, not speaking the language. He was barely sixteen and too proud to go home to Mum and Da after his stab at rebellion. He’d come over with his mates, crushing on a boy named Wesley, who tolerated him for the sake of a fuck when he wanted it or a blow job, more enthusiastic than knowledgeable. Spike was grateful for the opportunity. He had yet to learn the difference between friendship and blatant exploitation.
He was still shy as a church mouse in those days, wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He had guilelessly adored Wesley, was his puppy for the price of an occasional pat on the head and a kind word. It ended badly. Spike woke one morning in a gloomy hotel room, the smell rank as the grave, and found himself alone.
There were a lot of frightened looks from the management at his condition. Spike’s hangover masked the details of the fight from his confused brain, yet he knew, looking in the dirty bathroom mirror, the bigger boy had beaten him badly for some imagined slight, before abandoning him to the fates. When the manager saw he had no one to turn to, no one to make a rumpus in his defense, and that his pockets were empty, he was booted out without a moment’s compassion for his dire predicament.
Cursing himself for allowing old memories to drift into his exhausted brain, Spike rolled over, trying to get comfortable. He hoped Angel would appreciate what he was doing for him, sleeping rough, gettin’ himself bug bit and maybe worse all for the sake of a...mild attachment. That’s all it was, Spike assured himself. He’d learned his lesson long ago about giving his heart away.
He tried to rest, but his skin kept twitching at the thought of snakes and other creepy crawlies slinking their way towards him in the dark. Something tickled his cheek. He jumped, waving his arms in a frantic windmill, snatching back the girly scream that threatened to erupt. A mosquito hummed past his ear, then haloed his head for another approach He suddenly felt hopelessly out of his depth, flouncing around in the jungle like some bloody urban Tarzan. It was a sodding joke. Angel didn’t want him. He’d left him behind just as Wesley had done, only without the beating this time.
From where Spike lay, he could just make out the guide, leaning sleepy-eyed against the monkey pod’s rough trunk. The glowing orange ash at the end of his cigarette was a pinpoint of safety in the heavy darkness. Spike’s eyes clung to the fixed star until they fluttered shut, and he drifted away into a restless sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The pain was exquisite. Angel rolled onto his knees cursing, one palm flat on the ground, his other hand clutching the reawakened agony of his shoulder wound. He had been making good progress, despite the lousy weather, closing in on the Laotian border, when he’d come to an obstacle. Dusk was falling fast. He should have known better than to take such a chance. But with Pulkin ahead of him, and his henchmen on the trail behind, Angel felt he couldn’t afford to wait for daylight.
The mudslide cut across the trail, blocking it completely. On one side was the mountainous upthrust of boulders and cascading muck, on the other, a steep fall of about forty feet to the jungle floor below. Angel had to make a choice. The ledge looked to be the easiest way around. Up about ten feet from the outward explosion of soggy earth, it promised a shortcut over the blocked road.
Angel climbed the rocky wall tenaciously, foothold by precarious foothold, the tips of his fingers scraped raw with the effort to keep himself from falling. It wasn’t until he reached the inches-wide shelf that was his goal that he learned his mistake. Even as he began to slide himself along the narrow outcropping, the fragile schist beneath his boots started to crumble.
He hit the mudslide on his back, the force of the drop stealing his breath, pitching him outward and over the cliff’s edge to land on his bandaged shoulder and his left hip in a tangle of flattened jungle greenery. Fireworks went off in his head. He tipped face forward and blacked out.
Coming around was a painful business. A groggy assessment, after finding his knees, told Angel there was nothing broken. But when he tried to stand, the combined agony of shoulder and hip sent him back to the muddy earth, heaving his agony out in weak spasms. When there was nothing left in his belly to vomit onto the rain-soaked ground, he managed to push himself away from the mess with worm-like thrusts of heels and back. Curling onto the opposite side, away from his injuries, he tried to steel his resolve enough to make a second attempt at getting on his feet.
The rain splashed on his cheek, spattering into his eyes with torturous persistence. Christ. If he didn’t get moving, some villager, in the months to come, would find his rotted copse, stinking in the humid Thai sun. Mildly concussed, Angel rested an arm across his eyes and lay drowsing in a damp cocoon of pain.
It was a late afternoon. A steamy soup of air sluggishly pushed Angel and Jao, his Taiwanese contact, into the weakly air-conditioned interior of Ju-An’s, a local dance and sex club, in search of a cold drink to break the heat’s monotony. Angel had never been there before. Shirt stuck damply to his back, perspiration oozing down his cheeks, he leant on the bar curiously, gaze probing the smoky interior. Watching the dancers gyrate to the blare of rock and roll, colored swaths of lights making them into jerky marionettes, Angel’s eyes snagged on a white-gold head bopping lazily to the music’s beat.
He watched for awhile, sipping the cool beer the bartender had plonked down at his elbow. It took him a few minutes of contemplation to realize the seductive beauty in the thin swish of cotton wasn’t a woman at all, but a man. The most beautiful man Angel had ever seen. His body, moved languidly amongst the pandemonium around him. It seemed to have found another beat that only existed for the erotic, androgynous figure: the slow, blatant potency of sexual intercourse, open, ready. Hips snaked to the pulsing music, the curved flex of a hard backside mimed the thrusts of fucking. There was lipstick on the laxly parted lips, eyes half-lidded with a drugged, sensual bliss.
Angel pushed away from the bar. The sight of the dancer sent a swarm of heat to his groin that pulled him cock first toward that magnetic North. He’d had a preference for boys since he was a burgeoning sixteen year old. Coming to Thailand on Company business had allowed him to indulge himself. His many liaisons had only been one night stands, but they were fevered and dirty, just the way he liked them. No entanglements. He wasn’t looking for a soul mate, just a good, hard fuck.
He’d never craved the girly boys before, and he wasn’t sure that this was what he was wanted now, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the figure who had drawn him into the tangled mass of bodies. There was a beguiling mix of strong male muscle and graceful feminine wiles in the curve of that bared, slender throat. The thin, compact body continued to undulate, a pagan deity luring Angel forward. His hand closed around the bones of a strong wrist as he pulled the boy/girl around to face him and found himself lost in a pair of smoky blue eyes.
“Hello, pet.” The voice was a husky, graveled tease, confidence heavy in each word. “What’s got you all hot and bothered then? Couldn’t be me, could it?”
Their eyes held, saying everything without a spoken word. Dragging in a deep breath, Angel spun around and began to push his way through the unruly crowd, pulling his captive behind him..
“Which way?” he shouted, over the noise of the surrounding crowd.
The dirty chuckle that met his question only served to make Angel more certain of what he was doing. At his ear, the prostitute breathed warm, beer-scented directions, making Angel’s spine twitch with excitement. He wanted this one badly, his cock already straightening in his linen pants.
Angel was pushed from behind into a darkened room, the door slamming shut with the kick of a heel. The pale, bare foot it was attached to made explosive contact with Angel’s libido. In the airless chamber he shoved the boy across the space onto the narrow cot that stood under the room’s only window. The figure fell with a laugh, dress settling high on his smooth, bare thighs. Angel caught one ankle and pulled the naked foot against his cheek.
“Oh, fuck. You’re so damn pretty.”
Before he knew it, Angel was on his knees, his face pressed to the exposed crotch, tongue licking over black silk and taut, swelling flesh. The smell of musk and sex and sweet, clean skin enveloped him. He bit at the mound unfurling eagerly under his attentions, careful not to do any serious damage. The boy wiggled excitedly, his roused gasps causing Angel to pant and burrow more urgently into the silk-encased genitals, a wiry cloud of pubic curls rubbing over his nose and chin.
“Whoa. Whoa! Gonna bloody set me off if you keep up like that, pet. Not made of stone here. Don’t you wanna play a little, gorgeous, ‘fore you we get to the main event?”
Spike lifted his head from the cot. Of course, it was Spike. Even in the dream, the memory was sharp-edged, and painfully clear. He watched Angel with cat-eyed intensity through the spread V of his thighs. A smirk played over his plush red lips. Angel remembered how his balls had pulled tight against his body, an incredible ache seeping through his veins. He slithered quickly up the prone figure and claimed the greasy mouth, liking the taste of lipstick, and the rough tongue that lapped its sweet honey over his teeth as it thrust in and out.
Guilt bubbled in Angel’s throat. He moaned deeply in his sleep. Leaving Spike behind was the hardest thing he’s ever done. In the dream, he began to cry.
TBC