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Complications Of The Flesh	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1262 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Rammstein. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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itle: Complications Of The Flesh 2/10
Author: Robby a.k.a. Mr. Naked
Rating: NC 17
Pairing: Till/Christoph, mentions of Till/Flake
Disclaimer: Never happened.
Beta: hannelore_k
Author’s note: Based on lisa_thecat’s wonderful “Dirty Story”.

II

*I am the sex that you provide, and I control you…*

I was picturing the human kind, our city, like one of those termite colonies, where everyone is busy with something, going everywhere – everything was this chaotic movement, too fast, hallucinating even, difficult to keep pace with. The Holidays, that’s what it was about.

I had my own restlessness, but it wasn’t about decorating trees, thinking about menus and invitations to dinner, or other such things that we like to waste our time with. My restlessness was pushing me into a search. When I was cruising through the dirty and dark streets of that ill-famed part of the city, I was looking for someone. Something to put me at ease.

Only he could do that, though. His silhouette profiled on the background of that streetlight was haunting me; the image of those straight, long legs was making my palms ticklish – it was him I was searching for since that evening when I almost ran him over with my car.

It was as if he contaminated me with this strange disease that would make me so hyper, preventing me to sleep or even to eat until I had a portion of my drug – him. My brain was overworking, re-playing every tidbit, each detail from that encounter; I was scribbling endless phrases, words, like a mad man – but words had always been my thing, words always had that gift of soothing my pain and put order into my mind, between my troubled thoughts. I wasn’t writing anything concrete, I didn’t have any specific topic, it was as if I was possessed, overwhelmed by all these thoughts flooding me, and one of the ways I could find some release was to write.

I was waiting restlessly for the afternoons and the evenings. Then, I was getting in the car and cruising the streets, looking at each and every face, attentively. My heart would skip a beat the second I would see a silhouette with straight, long legs, unruly longish hair, walking. But then, it proved that I was mistaken – it wasn’t him. I was scanning everyone – men, women, transvestites – everyone, hoping that today I would find him.

I knew I was risking a lot – being mugged, being beaten and mugged, being arrested for soliciting… The fact that I wasn’t finding him was making me more ambitious, more willing to persevere, more reckless. The thoughts swirling through my head weren’t even taking a break for me to imagine Christian’s face and allure, as if saying I’d lost it completely if he’d known what I had been doing in the latest days. Thinking of that would have amused me – I always liked to outrage people, especially those that try to make out that nothing can impress them. But this time I was focusing wholly upon something else.

Someone else.

That man walking slowly on the street in the dark, cold winter afternoon, as if taking his Sunday walk in a garden, on a sunny summer day.

I knew it was him the second I spotted his silhouette – this time he was wearing a denim jacket and jeans. Not exactly wintery, but a whole lot better than the last time.

I kept looking at his face with delicate features, and at his blue eyes. He accepted me and got into my car. Then, I told him I didn’t want to do it in the car, I wanted more.

He paused for only a second, and then he named a price. It had to cost me more, and we were to go to a place I would pay for. I agreed with it all, I didn’t even negotiate the sum he said I was to pay. I couldn’t; my glance, my thoughts, everything in me was absorbed by the blueness of his eyes, by the contours of his face, the smell of fresh, cold air emanated by his body.

It was on the tip of my tongue to call him by his name, but something in the back of my mind was telling me that he most likely didn’t even remember me. I was only one from too many. My whole body felt like a too-tensed spring, ready to explode, to grab him and kiss his lips. But something like that isn’t done!

I also could sense that I was making him somewhat nervous. Maybe it was those small pauses he was making while talking, the way he would turn his face to avoid my glance, but he always was turning his head back, as if hypnotized. I could read the word “freak”, in my mind, as if typed with huge, black ink letters. But he went along. He must have needed the money. My money. He must have encountered even more freakish men than me.

He asked for an advance, which I gave him.

I started driving along the streets toward this place I knew, where no one would ask anyone about anything. A miserable hotel.

While driving, I kept looking at his face, partly turned away from me, as he was staring out the side window of the car. I knew he wasn’t staring at something in particular, he was lost in his thoughts, and, damn, I was so curious about what was going through his mind at the moment.

What he had to do? Or maybe whether I would prove to be some violent weirdo? Did he hope I wouldn’t keep him too long, so he could have someone else for the evening too?

I liked the fact that he wasn’t talking, though. I was never a good conversationalist, I was never one of those people that can talk on and on about nothing just to make themselves pleasant in the eyes of the others. If I had something I considered worthy to say, I would say it, otherwise – I was happier in the company of my own thoughts.

And these last days – these last days I avoided completely having to talk to someone, anyone. It became very hard for me even to ask for a pack of ciggies at the small store on the corner of my street. It wasn’t about pronouncing the words; it was about the human contact. I was ill. I couldn’t name my illness yet, but I was acknowledging it was there, in me.

*You are my angel, came from way above…*

“Take off your clothes.”

He started to undress, slowly, with gracious movements. A few minutes later I was staring at his white skin, his smooth chest, his flat abdomen, his shaved pubis, his member. The legs with white skin, those straight, long legs.

“Play with your cock.”

His hand covered his member and he started working on it. With slow, lazy movements, for my eyes to see as his cock was becoming hard bit-by-bit, swelling, getting erect. There always has been something about how a man’s hand looks when he’s stroking his cock – those veins profiling through the skin, the movement of the muscles and tendons, the otherwise not too delicate fingers with very short nails – all that always made me hard, so hard.

I stood up from the small chair, the only furniture for sitting besides the bed, in that room. I walked toward him.

“Sit,” I whispered, and he obeyed.

I stopped in front of him, my crotch at the level of his face. His hand left his member for a bit, as he started unfastening my belt and unzipping my pants. His fingers touched briefly my hardened member, then he started licking its skin. From time to time he was suckling on the tip, making me inhale sharply, with each trace of pleasure crossing my body. I put my hand on his head, burying my fingers through his black curly locks.

“Wait.”

His mouth left my cock. I started undressing myself and he helped me. When I was completely naked, I rolled on the condom.

“Turn around.”

Was he prepared? Of course he was. He poured some lube from the small receptacle and then handed the bottle to me. He spread the lube over his hole while I prepared myself. He knelt on the bed waiting patiently for me.

I entered him slowly; I felt that grunt shaking his body rather than heard it. I started thrusting in him, and he was moaning with each of my thrusts. I thought that he sounded too affected to be for real, and it even crossed my mind to ask him to put aside the show. I hated gratuitous flattery, but the sound of him was too enticing for my ears. At least it was covering the sounds of slapping skin.

It was making me close my eyes and focus upon the sensations; it was swirling with me, throwing me into the depths of my pleasure, getting me on that verge where I couldn’t hold it anymore. Then I was cumming in him.

I pulled out gently, and he lay on the bed. I saw his still erect cock and I thought that at least I should do him – if he would allow me to, of course – so I wrapped my fingers around his stiffened member. He did allow me, I was his paying customer, after all.

I wished I could kiss him, to catch his rushed breath between my lips, along with his moans of pleasure, but I figured he wouldn’t let me. Instead, he kept his body close to mine, rubbing himself against me, clinging onto me and breathing into my skin. When he came, he splashed over my chest and abdomen. Then he licked my skin clean.

I wished I could hold him there, for a few more minutes, just to be there, to enjoy his presence. Instead, I asked if I could see him again, while I was paying him the rest of the money.

Of course I could. Next day? Next day. Same street? Same street. What hour? He named an hour.

The next day, of course, he was nowhere to be found.
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Complications Of The Flesh