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Sunshine	By : signorinaravelli Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 749 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Pink Floyd. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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He collapses heavily on top of the bed and I wander across the room to double check the lock. Satisfied, I look back to see him raising himself up on his elbows, twisting his body round and off the bed. He lands with a thud on his knees and proceeds to grip the comforter to hoist himself up. This is pointless as he simply pulls all the bedcovers off so that they pile over his legs. I hear him groan in frustration as he tries to maneuver onto his hands and knees. I put an end to this quickly enough when I come back and struggle to lift him onto the bed again amid more slurred protests. I’m getting nervous: I thought he’d be more incapacitated then this and begin to wonder if I can subdue him enough to go through with it. But it seems his strength and awareness only comes in short waves, ones that are gradually growing shallower and shallower.

After I manage to position him on his back, I quickly straddle his hips to hold him down with my own weight. His hands come up to grapple blindly at me but I pin them down over his head, certain that within a few minutes he’ll be passive enough to finally get on with it. He lets out a long, keening cry and slowly twists his head to the side. His eyes are screwed tightly shut, as if the blackness behind his lids is going to release him from this nightmare.

“No, no, no, no, noooo…” he quietly whines. I look for my empathy, the empathy that’s always been there for other people, for Roger even, but I can’t find it. All I can feel inside me is a cold and calculated numbness that tells me I’ve started this and I’ve got to go through with it. It’s easy enough to pull his shirt up over his head this time. He still struggles, attempts to struggle but his movements are sluggish and pathetic and somewhere in the back of my mind, I still want to feel pity for this creature.

When his movements slow to a complete stop, I feel comfortable enough to climb off him and pull him further onto the bed so that his long legs aren’t hanging over the edge. I get up to shut the radio off, confident that he’s quite finished with yelling at this point. He’s not out yet, but his lids are heavy and his lips are shifting ever so subtly. When I pause in undressing him and his voice isn’t obscured by the rustle of cloth, I can just barely hear a sustained chorus of “Oh, God…oh, God…” He won’t face me. I slap his cheek lightly to no avail. Then I slap again much harder so that he emits a choked cry.

“Look at me, Roger.” I grab his hair again and force his head into position. “I want you to look at my mouth when I’m talking to you.”

I don’t recognize the antiseptic sting of my own voice. He looks out at me from behind heavy lids, resigned but still unbelieving that this could be possibly happening.

“I’m going to fuck you, Rog. And I’m quite sure you’re going to enjoy it.” I keep his hair clenched between my fist and begin to shake his head with each syllable. “Are you going to enjoy it?”

“Fuck you,” he quietly sobs. I yank, which produces the desired response. Nose and cheeks red, yet he’s crying oh-so silently and struggling to hang onto consciousness. When I’d first thought of going through with this, I’d pictured him completely out, which seemed easier, safer. But as I’m drawn further and further in, and I feel more and more rage bubbling up being face-to face, I find that I’d much rather he were aware of everything going on. To that end I decide not to dally and get on with it before he’s out completely.

I grab a couple of the pillows and prop his arse up on them, then fumble around in the bedside drawer until I happen upon a familiar plastic tube. He’s going under fast and no amount of slaps across the face or threats are going to keep him awake. I wriggle between his legs and sling them up over my shoulders where they seem to rest heavily and securely. I quickly squeeze some lube into my palm, too much perhaps, and stroke my shaft with it. No time to stretch him now and even if there were, he wouldn’t fucking deserve it anyway. He’s still gazing up at me in sleepy horror and I feel myself twitch with sadistic glee at the fear in his eyes. I wipe my greasy fingers over his cheek and lips mockingly, leaving thick shiny streaks against his skin. I can almost feel him shudder.

With a distinct lack up ceremony, I push up against his entrance and he squeezes his eyes shut again. As I start to push, he squeezes them together even more, tears leaking from the corners.

“Open your eyes.” I hiss. I grunt as I gradually push myself up to the hilt. He whimpers and balls his fists. “Open your fucking eyes!”

Oh God, he’s so incredibly tight. Tight and hot and tense. Each time I pull back then thrust back inside again, I can feel him spasm deliciously around my cock. One hand pinions his hip, the other holds his left leg over my shoulder still. This seems to have brought him around somewhat as he’s writhing more actively now, staring up at the stark white ceiling with that horrified look still etched on his exaggerated features. His breath comes out in quick, sharp, panicked gasps, fingers grasping desperately at the sheets beneath him. I’m panting too, deep heavy breaths, gaining speed as penetration is becoming easier and easier.

Out of impulse, I lean down to kiss him again and his cries vibrate delightfully against my mouth. Oh, yes, a kiss just adds the finishing touch to our mock love-making, doesn’t it?

“Rog…” I murmur sweet love-words against his lips, which only serves to make him cry more. Another sharp thrust. “Jesus Christ…”

I can feel it mounting already. I’d hoped I’d last longer than this but I’m not surprised really. Faster and faster, pounding him into the mattress exactly like I’d imagined, just as amazing as I’d imagined. His strands of hair stick to his sweaty face, head violently lolling from side to side.

Faster, faster.

“Oh, fuck…”

Faster, faster.

His fingers tangled in the sheets.

Faster, faster!

Tears in his hair, the glossy sheen still staining his face.

FASTER, FASTER!

I feel it…oh Christ, how I feel it! Being pushed to the edge by those tears and grasping fingers and agonized moans.

FASTER, FASTER, FASTER!

“Fuck!”

With a groan, I arch and spend myself inside that lovely tightness, still gripping him so tightly I feel I might break him, vulnerable as the pitiful creature is now. Fresh sobs. But he’s exhausted: I can see that he’s going under once more. A couple more gentle thrusts before I ease out and collapse heavily on top of him, face buried in his neck as I pant hotly against his flesh. His chest rises up and down beneath me ever more gradually as time passes, until his breaths are nearly silent. I raise my head to observe and see that he’s staring right back at me, confused as ever, no longer horrified but wounded.

“Why?” he asks softly. I don’t miss a beat.

“Because you deserve it, you miserable cunt.”

As soon as my answer reaches his ears, he shuts down like an overheated machine and I nuzzle his throat again.
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