’Sup? Here I am with a standalone I wrote for the one and only Shanny (PaperWulf)! She actually asked me to write it, like, two months ago, and I actually have had it ready for nearly a month…but I had connection problems (ARGH!!) and here I am, so long after she wanted it T.T Forgive me, Shan! I hope you’ll like it, I made it as hot as I could *winks*

I don’t own the lyrics of Britney Spears’s song ‘Gimme more’, nor Chester, nor the title, which comes from a song I heard once (you’d ask, “why choosing the title from another song since it’s a songfic based on another one?” – well, because I liked it, and it fitted U.U)

Enjoy!

Keep up with me as we lose control

Here it is, that body you have come to adore so much. It squirms and arches beneath you, between your legs and your contracting arms. Skin and bones, little [but excellent] flesh for what you can experience, thrashing madly at the contact with your own hot tissue. Savage screams, animalistic moves, struggles for a breathing pace that would possibly keep you alive.

That body. You could spend your whole life worshipping it, as it moans from the deepest of its depths, throwing its head back as it enjoys your savageness.

You move in time to the beat.

***

It’s not like you were prepared for him; your plans for the night were set on having fun with friends and sharing some alcohol. Nothing special. Somewhere along the way, though, the cheerful face of your mates got lost in the middle of the sea of people, and you didn’t get to see them anymore.

You didn’t have so much time to feel alone: the violet sofa you were resting on seemed to be quite the main target of the night, for you got assaulted by people of any kind and genre.

The first slut in a pink glossy dress jumped on your lap, straddling you, and caused the glass you held in your right hand to crash onto the polished black floor in a storm of shiny glass slivers and some cherry-red unknown liquid.

Sequentially, as you ordered the second glass [which was going to be your actual first one], someone you didn’t have the time to identify snatched the drink from your grip and gulped it down in a single swig, hurrying for the restroom immediately after. You didn’t have the time to call for another glass, as a new chick threw herself at you with her whole body, slumping her arms all over your front.

It took little effort from you to fling her off of yourself and onto the floor, since she was as drunk as one could get, and offered no resistance to whatever people did to her. Poor her.

Your legs didn’t have to widen their normal pace in order to step over her apparently passed-out body – she was as thin as a grass blade; no wonder she got wasted so bad. Once you succeeded not to break her further than she already was, you headed to the open door of the men’s toilet, knowing exactly what you wanted: there was no way you were staying sober. It just went against the rules of clubbing.

You knew right away where the strip was, when you saw a modest crowd of guys waiting around one of the three sinks against the wall. You hoped the place would be [without wanting to be too fussy] at least hygienic…you didn’t want to get AIDS for the only purpose of sticking to a clubbing rule, after all.

Some red-haired fellow seemed to be the sign you needed, as he advised you that, that night, there was “some high-quality shit” over there, and that you were a lucky dude. When your turn came, you couldn’t really muse further, and you swiftly bent your spine, hoping that no one behind you would have the dazzling idea to desecrate the folds of your precious bottom.

It was either you being a dud at snoring, or haze. As you pinched your right nostril closed, you dipped your head a bit too promptly and inhaled a bit too sharply. Outcome: the tip of your nose hurt where it had collided against the ceramic of the basin, and your left nostril had managed to gather the smallest amount of powder a breath could ever get, only enough for you to feel it burn, but not enough for the good effects to envelop your system.

As soon as you got out from the little white sanctuary and reached your sofa, blurriness clouding your vision, you made out a narrow shadow sitting just where you had been some time before, changing its color according to the switching lights. Your nose bothered you, and you were forced to keep rubbing it with the back of your hand for a good thirty seconds before you could deal with anything else.

Once the irritating nostril had decided that it was good to leave you in peace, you could focus on the person that had stolen your sofa. He was likely to be a guy, for he had short hair and no breasts, and was dressed in something that could manage to cover his whole body. Nothing more than that could be discerned, as the lights kept transforming and annoyed you more than they had had before.

A guy who took your sofa without your permission was a bad guy.

He actually could handle his seat better than you did: no one hassled him and/or jumped on him, as had formerly happened to you. He was peaceful and quiet, all sprawled over the violet futon with his arms on each side of the seat’s back and his legs wide, chasing after the dancing people with his eyes.

A guy who took your sofa without your permission and dared to control it better than you could was a very, very bad guy.

You couldn’t let that insult go unpunished; so you stumbled across him and managed to grab him by the collar of his shirt, not really succeeding in pulling him up from his seat, given that you were still coping with the results of your previous adventure with white powder. Since hands were currently useless, you opted to words.

“You son of a good mother,” you sweetly began, trying to stand up without having to spin on your feet, “get off of my seat.”

You couldn’t hear his answer: the music was too loud. Terribly loud, even, making your chest jump with each beat. It was pleasurably strange for the condition you were in, as if you had the bass right in your ribcage, between your lungs and heart, or even inside of them.

At this point, the presence of the intruder was even less accepted, thinking as you should have enjoyed that sensation while you were resting on your violet sofa, in his place.

“I said,” you raised your voice enough for him to know, above the pumping music, that you were just slightly pissed off, “get the fuck off of my seat.”

“I said,” the guy stood up, raising his voice as well, “I can’t see any fucking name printed on it, so it’s yours as well as mine.”

He was less than an inch away from you: you could now see every little bit of his features. He was a guy, yeah. A nice piece of meat, for what you could see. Curly dark hair, pale skin, delicate appearance, charming dark eyes, a silver ring in the middle of his lower lip and that angry gaze that always drives humans crazy.

Motherfuckers are always good-looking. And that was enough for him to draw out an angry hiss from your mouth, and all the strength you seemed to have lost from your guts.

You grabbed him by the collar again, only this time you used your muscles, and it actually worked. He was much thinner than you: skinny, almost. His upper half shook along with your hand as it fisted his black top. He obviously wasn’t enjoying it, as you could see his face twisting up in an angry grimace; you would have been disappointed if he didn’t, really.

Distress left his stare almost immediately, however, leaving its place to curiosity. He leaned in some more, taking great interest in your eyes. His face was furrowed in attention and you could have sworn you had, in front of yourself, a freaking physician inspecting your pupils. He was muttering something, but the music was too loud for you to hear him, and you found yourself cursing the annoying bass you had oh-so badly enjoyed mere seconds before.

Okay, that was strange. You gripped his collar tighter in hope that his gape would finally stop, but it only half-worked. He did leave your pupils in peace, but only to smile and bend even more against you, so that his mouth was across your ear. Oh no, you wouldn’t let that pretty face seduce you. He stole your sofa, he had to pay.

“Dude, you’re wasted!” His voice shouted right in your ear, startling you to no end, since you had expected a whole other kind of tone to come out from that odious mouth of his. “Your pupils are fucking huge. No wonder you can’t even stand upright!”

And that was when you decided that you’d had enough. You maybe couldn’t stand upright, but you had enough strength to take half of his neck in your right hand and lift him up the slightest bit, just for the delight of making him dirty his pants – his [you caught a glimpse] tight, really tight black pants. And you did it. You sure as hell did it. And you made him hiss in pain. Not that you heard him hiss, but you could see his lips parting in that hiss-like manner as the music covered the noise.

Everytime they turn the lights down

Just wanna go that extra mile for you

You got my display of affection

Feels like no one else in the room

Just as you forgot about him for a moment, paying attention to the song that was currently playing [the state of mind you were in forced you to wrap your focus on a single thing at time], he decided he was strong enough to attack back, and he tried to punch at your right arm. His almost scrawny shape made the bones of his knuckles dig into your muscles just the right way to cause a stinging pain to spread throughout your whole bicep.

“Motherfucker”, you growled, grasping his shoulders in order to push him against the wall that was just two feet away from you, slapping his back against the tough surface with a rough shove. He gasped loudly, opening his mouth along with his eyes. Oops, you really had hurt him.

But that was quite the point, wasn’t it?

His eyes hardened in a look you had never seen before, making you feel like a scared man. He stared at you through lowered eyelids, his teeth grinding together as his features momentarily took the appearance of a wild beast. You still held him by his lean shoulders, but with not so much conviction anymore.

Moments passed. You were slightly worried about the way it whole had ended, and your head spun madly, making you see more colors than there actually were. He was breathing deeply, that savage look never wanting to leave his face, but no sensible reactions to make the whole situation end.

Suddenly, as a flash of lightning, it came.

The slap.

Hard and swift and sharp and burning, just in the middle of your dear cheek. And you were tempted to spit and caress the twinge on your visage and cry [you were high, everything was allowed] and scream and rip the life away from his flesh with your own nails. But nothing came. You stood there, motionless, holding onto his shoulders as your huge pupils looked at his beastly, nice-piece-of-meat-like features; you heard, but not really heard, the crowd that had gathered around the two of you howling “Woe! They fight!” or “They’re so sexy!” or “Will they actually beat the shit out of each other?” or “I bet the one with the lipring will win!” or similar ones.

We can get down like there's no one around

We keep on rockin’, we keep on rockin’

Cameras are flashin’ while we’re dirty dancin’

They keep watchin’, keep watchin’

Feels like the crowd was sayin’

The song carried on, and your mind went on and off to the listening of its rhymes. It was a pretty hot song, and maybe it was only its fault you began to feel hot too.

Maybe, it was only the song’s fault, maybe it was only anger.

Maybe, it was only that same anger that made you push your whole self against him, your forearm holding his neck in place as your brow banged against his own, your lips parting by the side of your mouth in order to spit the umpteenth, furious “motherfucker”.

Maybe, yes, it was only anger’s fault, that your hips bent ahead that minor bit they needed to touch his own middle section. Maybe, it was anger’s fault, or the song’s one, that you felt something you wouldn’t have expected to feel, right across your hipbone.

You both closed your eyes as an unexpected contact was established. The crowd around you began to shout and incite you to go on, to give them more fighting, more action, just more.

Gimme gimme more

Gimme more

Gimme gimme more

Alright, that was hot. Hotter than a sexy man with an obviously turned-on body slapping you while you held him against a wall would have ever seemed if you had imagined it. That was hot, you felt hot, the air around you was hot and the music that pumped along your veins was hot too. Too hot to be borne.

You maintained your eyes closed as you pushed your form a little harder into his smaller one, seeking something you yourself weren’t sure what it was. You found an odd response coming from your lower half, and a moan coming from his mouth. And, considering the volume of the music, that moan had to be damn loud, if you had been able to hear it.

You shouldn’t have enjoyed that sound that much. After all, he had stolen your sofa.

He had to be punished. He had to be punished. He had to be…

Oh damn. How could everything around [and inside] you be so hot?!?

Center of attention, even when we're up against the wall

You got me in a crazy position

If you're on a mission

You got my permission

You opened your eyes to find his black pupils dilated almost as much as yours. Only the drug that had made them dilate was different: it had the name of your body.

He was breathing like an animal against your cheeks, forcing you to inspire the air that he was expiring. His chest heaved greatly, touching your own, and you thought you could feel his hard nipples poking your flesh, your fronts jammed together like you were the same person.

People kept on watching you, only half-understanding that something had changed. They raised their voices even more, obliging the two of you to hear them for the very first time. Again, they required more.

He chuckled somewhat as he stole a glance at them, turning back to you with a look which made you understand that he wanted to make them happy. In a matter of fractions of seconds your wet lips found one another, both of your mouths already parted and awaiting of a deeper contact than a simple chaste kiss. His thick tongue swept across the roof of your mouth in a fierce motion, consecutively snapping out of your lip-lock with a wet smack, leaving your lips separated as quickly as they had previously joined.

We can get down like there's no one around

We keep on rockin’, we keep on rockin’

Cameras are flashin’ while we’re dirty dancin

They keep watchin’, keep watchin’

Feels like the crowd was sayin’

You were too overwhelmed and too high to prevent him from snaking out of your wilting grasp; you registered his missing presence only when your eyes saw him smiling his way into the crowd that had been barking at you and was now melting into their previous dancing and drinking activities. You knew you were going to spend an interesting night the moment you laid your eyes on his face: he was smirking knowingly, almost mockingly, like he knew he was about to play with you, and the thought amused him deeply. He nodded towards your sofa, showing you that you had it now free for your likings; obviously enough, you didn’t want to sit on your sofa anymore.

He closed his mesmerizing eyes and turned into a dead body, drooping backwards as he let himself be swallowed by the budging human sea which was thumping along with the rhythm.

Gimme Gimme more

Gimme more

Gimme gimme more

Your eyes widened as you forced yourself to shut your parted mouth, that you had forgotten to close ever since your lips’ encounter. The beat was rough, making your brain throb in conjunction with your heart and lungs; the white powder you had inhaled some time before twirled playfully with your blood inside your veins, mischievously adding stars and extra shadows and lightning to your sight.

Your cerebellum felt too heavy as you dared to move your feet from the position you were in, making your head incredibly giddy and your guts twist up with retching.

The pursue for his person made you squeeze your way among hundreds of euphoric, blistering, sweaty and sticky bodies, flowing in every direction like colonies of little ants looking for food, their sweaty skins resending colorful shines as the lights changed and skipped. When you traced him, his allure struck you so hard that you had to squeeze your eyes shut for a moment.

As you opened them, you found yourself dragging your gaze from the tip of his black boots to the peak of the last lock of his curly hair, devouring his whole form with your ogle. He had his shady orbs concealed by his pale eyelids as he swung his body in a fashion that wasn’t a proper dance: just complete abandon to his surroundings. He seemed to be moving thanks to a winding stranger force while his senses were enveloped by downy slumber. And that, if possible, aroused you even more.

You forced yourself to break from the spot you seemed to be glued to in his contemplation, cutting the distance between your bodies as you gripped his waist with your left arm in a possessive, predatory manner. “Your name,” you panted in his ear, the drug blanking your view as a consequence of your hasty motion, “I wanna know your name.”

He opened his eyes as his luscious lips stretched up in a mischievous smile. He leaned over your shoulder again, right across your ear, this time using just the pitch you expected. “You know,” he purred sensually, his voice flowing like fused chocolate in your veins, adding another flavor to the drug-blood mixture your heart was already pumping, “I like that you’re probably the only one in here who doesn’t smell like alcohol.”

Oh, well, you hadn’t had the possibility to. Your attempts on drinking had been destroyed by who knows who, leaving you with a completely dry throat and itchy white dust in your nose.

Nevertheless. You still wanted to know his name, and you drew it to his attention by clutching harder his left hipbone, almost voraciously.

“What about I let you guess it?”

I just can't control myself,

They want more? Well I'll give them more

It’s hard to state whether it’s been the sexy song, the general atmosphere, the drugs, his teasing manners or his plain presence, but you wanted more. More of that little taste he had given you a while before, more of that body you were grasping, more of that voice which made your very ears tremble; just more of him. That ‘more’ you wanted was even his name, but whilst you waited for him to grant it to you, you decided it was good to relish in what you could have at the moment.

Your mouth was already parted as you hovered your face across his, trying the best angulation. He joined you mid-way by shoving his features against yours, promptly, blindly. Your noses collided together as your lips fused, once again flowing straight into a tongue battle. You didn’t even bother to detach yourselves from one another in order to breath, as you had already been used to exploit each other’s oxygen; he fastened his arms behind your neck as his hips stuck with yours, hauling you into moving in time with the rhythm.

People around you stared, gaped, drooled, swore. You were, by then, the attraction of the night, for the second time, as you danced smoothly, all the way engaged in a fiery lip-lock.

When you had had enough, and all you were doing was clinging to one another, you impulsively informed him of the fact that you played the guitar. Woe, really, wise one, pal. That powder must have really been something strong.

You actually elicited a lot of considerations about your muscular arms to flood through his mind, along with some images of you applying your hands’ ability in something that wasn’t strumming the strings of a guitar. But you couldn’t know.

When he took your hand and pulled you away from the pressure of a crowd’s company, your knees turned into milk pastries and your guts bolted into your throat just so you didn’t forget about them. His delectable features multiplied and halved in front of your eyes about eighty times in a minute, making you an unconsciously moving body yanking itself behind his lead.

***

Here you are, right now, right here, with all your papers in order to call yourself a happy man.

Right now, tonight, and right here, in his home, you’re steadily burying yourself in his body [your newfound home] as the white powder hits your brain cells every other second, switching the lights of your consciousness on and off at a crazily wicked speed.

And even as you have all of his sugary [for the taste and the color] flesh to devour, heaving and falling according to the very moves of your predatory grasp, you realize that you still haven’t had everything of him: the high has momentarily left your system in order to smack you upside your head with the oh-so clever, but oh-so late, realization that you should have inspected a little more of his house before you got into his bed, which is undoubtedly comfortable and apt to your pressing needs, but doesn’t have his name printed anywhere.

What do they say…? One’s soul is in his name…and the thought that his soul is so slippery at the moment is slightly [but just slightly] frustrating. And you would like to do something, press him into giving you more of what he is [blackmail him? Oh yeah, and by what? Maybe, by stopping your mad ramming into his awfully appealing heat? That would be an option…but it would kill you before you had a chance to win], but guess what? The drunk feeling your sucker attempts at doing drugs have caused has just greeted you back, squeezing your brain so that you can’t think coherently enough to do anything more than touch him, stroke him and suck all of his foreign flavor into your greedily learning mouth.

The light coming from his lipring is giving you the effects a red mantle would do to a bull; you don’t see anything else than the slight piece of metal wrapped around his soft flesh, and you wish you were that metal, inside and around him, always attached to his mouth, bathing in the wetness of his tongue and drying up in the breath of his delicious voice.

Your mouth can’t leave his; not this soon. Not after a single night. He has something addictive glued to his tongue…or, perhaps, it’s just that fucking high that still sticks to your organism.

Drugs are addictive, aren’t they?

But then, you should feel yourself drawn to more of the white powder that pinches your nostril, instead of feeling yourself drawn to more of his lips.

Gimme more gimme more

Gimme more gimme more babe

I just want more

It hurts. You know it hurts. The time of a gasp after what felt like half an hour of kissing apnea, and you can see it on his face. He’s smacking it right against your nose how fucking much your thrill hurts, rough and firm inside of him. But you can’t do anything just right now, can you? After all, he somehow wanted the pain you’re making him feel, furrowed eyebrows and hissing mouth and watering eyes and clenching muscles and all; he chose it willingly. And there’s nothing you can do for him: hell, you’re already doing what he asked you to do, and he’s screaming, and he’s in pain. You can tell he’s in so much pain it actually feels good. Or maybe he’s in so much pleasure it actually hurts. Not that you can read into his mind…you don’t even have his soul right now, while he stole it from you with unfair weapons, without even having to know your name.

But, oh god, you are not a man if you haven’t just heard his voice crawl off of his tongue in that whiny husky curvy whimper someone would utter only in those marvelous cases of heavenly bliss; you’re not you if you haven’t just touched that little something deep inside of him that is making his eyebrows relax, his mouth part, his eyes flutter and his muscles flex down.

What the two of you do is shift and move and slide right back in place, playing along to each other’s motion and rushing to meet one another in the necessity of rejoining every other second, crying out delightful nonsenses since neither of you have any names to cling onto.

Is it a sin that you want more? Are you an ungrateful guy? Is it bad that you want to scream ‘just gimme more’ to the divine creature underneath you, when he’s already giving you all of himself?

It’s when his telephone rings that the drug runs away like it’s ashamed of you; you’re not dumb enough to believe that he would get up to answer it. There’s the answering machine, after all.

The answering machine.

‘Hi’, his recorded voice’s saying, and your thrusts stop when your heart knocks some more against your ribcage to remind you that this is the point where he’s supposed to say his name.

But he’s evil, and his own voice is just about to begin on the pronunciation of what will finally give you his soul, when he, the real him, moans loudly and sensually, dragging his orgasmful voice that long he needs to cover the whole extent of his name. The fucker. You knew you were going to hate him since he stole your sofa, and you know it better now.

Look at him: he’s smiling at you, and you are inevitably hauled back into resuming your frantic pace inside of him, silencing his mischievous lips with your own demanding mouth; distracting him with the work of your lower regions. Hoping in whoever is going to leave a message.

A voice. A manly voice unsuspectingly announcing itself to the playing pair of you.

“Hey, it’s Rick. I was wondering if we could switch shifts tomorrow? I have to be at my mom’s tomorrow morning, she needs help with whatever new furniture she bought. I know you don’t like to work on mornings…but, my dear friend Chester, I know you’d never let me down. Call me back as soon as possible!”

He can’t escape anymore. You heard it this time, and now it’s like a seed, a seed you’ve sowed deep inside of yourself; it’s gonna grow up and give hundreds of fruits, Chester Chester Chester Chester Chester, tasty little treasures of strikingly appetizing juice.

And now that you had the ‘more’ you wanted, pleasure is blowing you up where nothing feels real anymore, the best climax of your whole motherfucking life [the most surreal one] emptying into his adorable self [his body, his body, it almost got in second place], relishing in the fruit of his being as it blossoms on your tongue in desperate screams. He joins you with a smile securely stuck to his lips, and you can tell he almost regrets not having granted you that name before: it feels so good when you call him.

You ponder wholeheartedly if you should really waste all of that sap he just poured onto your stomach [yours was dearly cherished inside of him] by wiping it away, as his voice lowers to the minor brother of a whisper:

“And now, it’s your turn. Gimme more.”

You surely aren’t going to waste this occasion by answering him with your voice.

The End.

©this story is under its author's copyright. Everyone who steals commits a crime.

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