Mr. J's Shower

I actually wrote this one a little while ago. Like most of the Joker stories, this one was written for a specific person, the wonderful photographer who does the covers of our books. It didn't quite fit what she was looking for, but my hope is that it will hit what SOMEONE is looking for.

Let me know if you like this sort of thing. Leave comments or send me an email to let me know how you think.

Fresh from the Shower

I see him standing there, preening. His skin is alabaster, his hair a shocking green, hanging wetly across his knotted shoulders. I want to lick the drops of liquid that sparkle over his skin. I wonder, will they taste like water or like sweat?

He has a towel wrapped around his waist, tucked just low enough that I can see the curve of his hips, the stark bones pointing like an arrow to what little is still covered. His body hair stands out against his skin, just enough to be rugged, not enough to look poorly groomed.

He smiles at me, that too big smile that always promises more. More teasing, more torture, more fun. His eyes bore into me with that smile, seeking out my inner depths, feeling me from the inside.

He keeps his eyes on me as he drops the towel, watching where my eyes go, his smile getting even bigger. Alabaster all the way down. He runs his hands over his skin, drawing my attention to the movement as he drags fingernails down his chest, leaving little marks that disappear as if they never were, inviting me to repeat the movements, inviting me to add my own scratches to his perfect skin.

He still hasn't said a word, just watching me as I stand there, my knees feeling weak, my body shivering at the thought of touching him. He turns away and bends down to pick up the towel, letting me see his back and his ass in all their glory. His movements are exaggerated as he picks up the towel and begins to dab it against his skin, the towel licking away the moisture the way he knows I want to.

Always there's the smile, impossibly big to begin with and getting wider every second as he watches me. He doesn't have to ask me if I like what I see. He doesn't have to say a word. He just watches me over his shoulder as he spreads the towel to hide his torso but not his ass, lifting up to his toes and tightening the muscle there so I can see the lines of it in his movement even when he lowers the towel to cover it up. I watch him slide the towel down his leg, then move back up the other leg with agonizing slowness, and I catch him almost lapping at the way I lick my lips.

He stands back up and turns back around, looking at me again with those eyes full of cunning, staring me up and down like I'm prey. He looks at me like I'm the one who is naked, like I'm the one who is vulnerable. He looks me up and down like my clothing isn't even there. He looks at me like he's ready to slam me up against a wall and press into me, to make me scream his name as he slides into me with the same slow, careful, cunning way he seems to do everything.

His eyes linger on mine as he breathes, the pace of his breath getting faster and faster, like he's panting from exertion. I can almost see us in his mind, fucking against a wall, knocking things off shelves, dirtying the apartment, spreading mayhem in our little world the way he likes to in the world out there. I can almost hear us crashing around, not paying attention to anything but each other, those lips on mine, his tongue in my mouth, my hand in his hair. I can almost feel the strands of hair between my fingers as he stands there looking at me, not touching, not doing anything.

But oh, how I want him to. Two steps forward and he could grab me. Two steps and he could twirl me around and push me against the wall, rip down my pants and have his way with me. He could push into me as much as he wants, go as fast as he wants, fucking me like there's no tomorrow.

But he won't. I know he won't. He doesn't do that. He never touches me. Not unless I ask him to. And I have to ask. Those are the rules. I have to ask, even when I want to beg.

If I ask him, he'll take me. If I want him to, he'll use my body for his pleasure. If I tell him he can, he'll make me feel pleasure that I would otherwise only dream of. Those muscles, that tight wire under his skin would be focused on me, on my pleasure and on my sensation. I'd be able to drag my nails over that skin, that perfect, porcelain skin. I'd be able to put my lips on his flesh, to let my teeth drag along his collarbone, nipping as I went.

I'd be able to take him into me, however I wanted to. All I'd have to do is ask.

His eyes get wide, almost begging me to ask him. But he won't. He won't coerce me at all. Not verbally. He doesn't have to. He just stands there, panting at me, smiling at me, and I melt inside. His nostrils flare, his smile stretching and then getting smaller, pulsing the way my body does when I look at him.

He gestures over to the rack of clothes. I can see his shirt, see the buttons that have had to be sewn back on so many times, after they've been ripped off in the heat of passion. I can see the pants with the zipper that needed repair after I needed the pants off so badly. I see the tie I used as a handhold to get him closer, to pull him to me. I can see his vest just waiting to be torn off his shoulders. He stands there and he looks at the clothing, then looks back to me, his breathing normal once again. He raises an eyebrow, still grinning, questioning me and my resolve, seeing how long I can wait before I ask him.

I have to ask him. Those are the rules. And what would we be without rules?

The look in his eyes tells me what we'd be without rules. We'd be animals. He looks at me with an animal hunger, clearly wanting to tear off my clothes until I was as naked as him, until the two of us were wrapped together so tightly that you wouldn't be able to tell who was who without a map. He wants us connected together, wants us to press against the wall, to lift me up so I can wrap my legs around his waist, so I can pull him deep inside me. He wants to snarl into the nape of my neck and graze me with his teeth, to lash at me with his tongue, to press his fingers into the small of my back.

He wants to be an animal, wants me to be an animal. Want to growl and paw at each other, to howl at the moon and scream as we fuck like the monsters people think we are. Pounding against each other in that brutal, bruising sex, that wild rampant fucking that no one would dare call making love. There is love, but there is brutality in that love, fucking like the world owes us money.

And all I have to do is ask.

I just have to ask, before he puts his clothes on.

 Or maybe, just maybe, I'll wait until after.