Brownout in Malate

Author's note: I remember saying in a "to write" list I made to write a lemon with a particularly moving scene from a movie in mind. This is not that lemon. This is just a shot at trying to make a lemon work on its own in my hands. I won't try to make this a conscious stab at avoiding the PWP storyline, nor will try to crash into that general direction. Don't expect any banging all of a sudden or coming too quickly; that's not my style. I'm just trying to write a story here. But there will definitely be lots of... something. Delicious. Bon Apetit.

They had been locked in a room together by their friends, just the two of them, and they had no idea why.

He had been too shy to say how lovely her breasts and her hair were, and she had to keep quiet about the gurgling in her belly and the sweat in her mouth when she sat next to him. They had both (pensively and timidly) said they provided each other with interesting talk and enough affection to last them into each other's bed sheets, but that was that was that. After all, Mandaluyong was quite a long way off from New Manila, and books outweighed cheap relationships. She preferred to serve tea with two cubes of sugar, while he liked his beef and potatoes. And still. It...This had been going on for quite a long time (everyone had been sick of all the pansiness and wishy-washiness of the two, hence the locking-up), and hostage-takings in the group's parties were not uncommon for their ilk. But not her, and oh, not him. Such an inopportune time and such an inopportune pair. The lights died on the two of them. Power failure in the whole of Malate, owing to some Jackass up the road.

She knew he had a white undershirt beneath his unbuttoned polo just before everything had turned to black. And the scent of him. He thought the translucent pink blouse on her was... She was wearing that... lily scent again, and her black bra peeking through was... delectable. He had nothing on (he was not particular to any fragrance), on her part, and the smell of him was quivering in her sides and was seeping into the small of her back. The lights had gone out on the two of them.

It seemed funny, though, them rooted to their spots instead of sitting themselves down, or trying for small talk to fill the silence. After all, the room was locked, and they didn't have much choice except to wait at the mercy of their friends. Small talk didn't seem to fit, oh no, not when the silence and the scent of each other screamed ... what? Oh no, not something else. But yes. Yes, something else.

Moving closer seemed like the right thing to do for the both of them, and nuzzling assured the other he and she weren't alone. Not with the scent of them acting this way. Her cheeks felt white, soft, and oh god, she smelled of her girlhood. He had a strong brow (her lips told her that), his hair needed washing (his musk had somehow intrigued her), And. His scent. His. Scent. His. Scent.

His.

Scent.

His mouth.

...was an accident. A sweet accident. Oh, god, so was hers, so was the insides of hers. Something near short of shyness, this brushing of the lips. All Rationale (or whatever you called it) died with her hands in his hair and on his face and his on the small of her back and between her shoulders. She wanted to wrap her legs around him (or at least one of his), and oh god, how wonderful she'd feel in his hands, but not that it wouldn't matter soon. Thoughts like this can wait, with them easing in moment after sweet-hungry moment between them. Oh god, theysheheyoumeuswetastedsmelledfeltGood. They were filling each other with themselves, beginning to smell of each other,

Imperceptibly slowly and in an instant

, borrowing lines from plays just to make the situation sound right, but that did not matter, not like anything would matter. Dark, and the taste of someone close enough to breathe in. Red on white and flesh on red, drifting, parting and crashing into each other. Deep. A deeper space for the two of them, lost somewhere in their mouths, a ringing behind the eyes, and a lust growling in the belly. Hands on face and chest and breast and back and ass, groping, seeking, tasting cloth and shape and rise and softness and mount and sinew with palms. Praying the body with palms. Dark and the taste of someone.

His shirt was gone, and his arms were bare, and her neck smelled of soft warm lilies. It tasted of flowers.Ay, the scent of him. Her pink petals peeled quickly from her, and she smelled and tasted of white.Ay, her skin, the small of her back smelled and tasted of white. The crease where formed silk meets cream is undone, came willingly undone, and the music in her nipples resounded in her dragged breath and in his mouth. The silent music of her breasts filled his mouth, and he was singing her. His forehead, his arms were wet, and so was she. The color of his scent, and the scent of him.

Fingers trickled down her, and oh god, she smelled of warm vanilla. Sweet milk on her lips. White on red and flesh on white, drifting, crashing, resounding in sighs and whimpers and hushes and tongues in mouths. Shining white and amethysts in the ridges of his fingers in her, on her. Light in her corners. Violin strings about to snap. Cream of her arms, cream of her thighs. Warm gingerbread and cinnamon apple of his. The aroma of dark on his shoulders. And His. His music tasting of cinnamon apple in her mouth and in her throat. Brown cane sugar of his thighs. Sandalwood of the skin. The brightness of his mouth. Tree sap running, strong amber.

Red on white and white on flesh, crashing, drifting, resounding in a space for the two of them.

Mouth on eye and neck and breath on cheek and tongue in ear and lips on shoulder and teeth on lobe and nails in back, and Him inHer. Pulse. Meter. Palette. Substance. Surface. Chiseled ass and cream of breasts and the scent of the lilies of her pubis. Petal. Legs heavy with pollen. Olive lust and pink wanting. Red on white and white on flesh and bright shadows in between. Breathing. Substance. Warmth. Stillness.

Nuzzling assured them he and she were not alone, and this time, they were not. Dark, and the scent of them. They trembled, and begged, and sighed, and now it was over. She slept in his embrace for the rest of the night, and he cradled her, not caring who saw them naked first thing in the morning. They were breathing warm vanilla and brown cane sugar, and the room was soaked with the linings of their dreams. The white scent of them.

-JAV

03-30-03