Process Control

Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz and its characters are the property of Koyasu Takehito & Project Weiß. I do not claim ownership, or even rental, but if I did, boy-howdy, would my house be clean and dishes washed, not to mention the nasty sink clog in the bathroom permanently taken care of... :o)

Bring your hips higher, I say to you, and you obey without hesitation, canting your buttocks higher in the air and leaning your head deeper into the circle of your crossed arms. Seeing you like this, wanton yet submissive, it sends my pulse racing. Seeing you give up all thought, all of your self for a brief reprieve from the role you play, it actually brings a lump to my throat, but I don't let you in on my feelings. You need this, my friend.  You've asked for this, sent the necessary signals, that tonight you will be my bottom, and I will be your top. It is a task I am sometimes uncertain of my own abilities to perform, but for you - anything.

I gaze on the bared, white expanse of your back, the rounded curves and soft skin of your ass. When I lightly run my fingertips across one fair cheek, your breathing hitches and the muscles underneath twitch. Bringing my face closer, I take in the scent of you, raw and masculine, and allow my lips to touch the dark sacks hanging between your legs.

You want to cry out, but you know that I won't accept it. Instead, I hear the rustle of the sheets as your hands grip them tighter. Control, my dear.

I nudge my nose upwards, stopping momentarily at the puckered entrance to your body. I skirt my tongue around it, noting the slight movement you make backwards, urging me to enter, but I won't. Not yet.

You are so amazing. I wonder what our comrades would think of you, lying prone, ass in the air like a bitch in heat, begging to be fucked senseless. Would it shock them, like it did me, the first time you came to me with your unusual request? Would they have the strength to carry it out, to dominate one of their own, to bring relief in the form of a moment's pure submission? Could they take control, sit in the driver's seat, send you screaming along like a well-oiled racing machine?

I lift my head and bend over to my right to grab the lubricant. A word rasps out of your desire-clenched throat. No.

That earns you a hard slap on the ass. Hard enough to make my hand sting. But I know what you want.

Dry, then? I ask, and you nod you head, hair slithering down over your ears and forehead to fall over your arms.

Funny how with all the pain we've inflicted and received in the past, that this type of pain we find ourselves more than willing to endure, and indeed, enjoy.

But, no, I am the top, and you know your place. No, I say, not this time.

So, I coat the fingers of my left hand with the jelly, and setting the tube aside, reach to touch the cleft of your buttocks. Your breathing has just increased. You are anticipating, my own, aren't you? Maybe I should make you wait.

Maybe I should sit here and use this well-slicked hand to bring myself to climax, spurting my semen on your dangling balls, your arched back, your agonized face...

Sometimes I think I enjoy my job just a little too much.

Instead, I plunge two fingers inside you, without an iota of warning, and revel in the pained gasp you utter. You are, after all this time, after so many similar sessions, still so incredibly tight. You close around me, drawing me in deeper with the muscles that have so very often brought me to mind-blowing orgasm.

In these last few months, we have indulged in a vast variety of sexual interludes. On occasion I would take on the role of Master to your Slave, chaining you to an anonymous bed in a sleazy motel on the wrong side of town. There we would play at punishment scenarios, and the toys of my craft would leave you bruised and bloody, but ultimately refreshed. Once, we hit an S&M club, where you were on the receiving end of a 5-man gangbang, hidden behind a face-concealing muzzle, but I didn't care for it.

I suppose I consider you my project, and my project alone.

You groan mutedly as I twist my fingers savagely, remembering the lust in the eyes of those others as they each pounded into you while I thrust my cock into your willing mouth. It was most definitely a bad decision on my part; I had, at that time, been so new to all of this, and the time we spent in that club was a lesson I never again wanted to endure.

Now, you are thrusting back against me, encouraging me, small mewling noises coming from deep in your throat.

I add another finger.

My other hand moves to my penis, hard and ready. I stroke it in time with the undulation of my fingers in your anus. My tongue flicks out to lick my lips and a shiver runs through me. It is nearly time.

Bending over, I bite your ass cheek, inciting a cry. You jerk your head up and throw a look over your shoulder, your beautiful eyes flashing with pain and anger, and your hair flying in an arc around your face. So shiny and lovely, that hair of yours. A shade I so often thought unnatural, until I first viewed the curling thatch that surrounded your cock. How delightful to find that you didn't have to dye your crowning glory.

But that reaction was a lapse in your role. You know better.

Another sharp slap to your backside and your resume your previous position, duly chastised.

Finally, I decide that you are ready for me. I withdraw my fingers from you and spread your legs just a fraction wider. Sometimes I prefer you on your back, so I can see your face contort as you come, but this time my senses tell me that you need for me to be as impersonal as possible - that you need to just be used, and used hard. I am no longer the inhibited person I once was. I now have the strength it takes to be the aggressor, the certainty of the rightness of what I am doing to give you what your body and soul most craves, most needs, to continue our mission.

Without further ado, I enter you and I'm not sure who cries out first. Gripping your slender hips in my palms, I begin a hardy pace, pumping into you as though with a vengeance. You rise to the challenge and begin a steady rocking motion that generates just the right amount of friction to pleasure us both. With each thrust the head of my penis strikes that special node inside of you, and you moan, oh how you moan.

Reaching one hand around your waist, I grasp your erection, giving you the agreed-upon cue that you may now pleasure yourself. I could always leave it up to you to do alone, but I prefer to help you on your way to ecstasy. Our rhythms increase, suffused with the sounds of sweat-damped skin slapping against like skin and our corresponding groans.

I can feel it now, swelling somewhere in the depths of me, just like every time before, unable to contain itself in the chaos of sensation. Filling me like a glass under a faucet, until I can no longer hold it all, and it overflows, pouring out of me in a blinding rush.

No, it is not the physical manifestation of my sated desire, although that presents itself at much the same time. No, this is so much more. In fact, this time I find myself actually putting the emotion to words...

Oh God, Aya! I love you -- God, I love you!

You have already spilled yourself onto the sheets, with a little help from both our hands, but at this declaration you go completely still. The only sounds in the room are those of our panting breaths. I know that I've made a dire mistake. Now you will no longer have a use for me, because you know that I will not be able to be as impartial to my duties as you require I be. My chest tightens, and I feel the sting of tears seeping into my eyes and the trickle of wetness slipping over my cheeks. Why, why did I have to be so stupid?

Your body slumps to the bed, and I slip out of you, wet with my own semen and maybe a little blood. It is all I can do to not roll off the bed and sprint out of the room in shame. I have broken an unspoken pact between us. I have cleaved the bonds that held us to each other, just as assuredly as if I had taken an axe and severed the cables of a suspended bridge. We are wobbling in the crosswinds; the strength of the other ties between us may not be capable of sustaining the weight of our sinful existence and this treasured secret.

Sitting back on my heels, I am suddenly overcome and raise my hands to my face and sob. I do love you, you know. I always have, since day one, since the day you first joined Weiss, and more so since we began this sweet, sweet dance.

Now it has gone awry, and only I am to blame.

Through the sounds of my breaking heart and the blur of tears and hands, I am vaguely aware that you are moving on the bed. I wait for the sounds of your dressing and of the closing door but they never come. Curious despite myself, I remove my hands from my eyes.

Your face is only inches away from mine. Taken aback, I can only stare into your violet eyes, sniffling and trembling with distraught emotion. Will you turn aggressor now, and slap me as hard as I expect you to? I have, after all, sorely disappointed you. This is much the same as if I had failed in one of our assigned missions under Persia or Burma.

Closing my eyes, I wait for the impending blow, for your hand to descend and make me see stars.

So you can imagine my surprise when I find myself, rather than flying backwards and onto the floor, caught by your arms and crushed to your naked chest. My surprise is so overwhelming that I struggle at first, but your embrace and your urgent whispers against my hair quell my rebellion.

Stop. I'm not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you, you murmur.

Why not? I ask.

You chuckle, your deep voice warming me, sustaining me in the face of the cold, stark fear of loss that I've been drowning in. A long-fingered hand smooths over my wild, unruly hair, and over one bare, quivering shoulder. That you would caress me now, after my betrayal, my failure, gives birth to a fledgling hope inside me. I find I fear even that.

You lie back on the bed, and I am drawn down with you. I am cautious, not wanting to read anything into your actions that is not there. So I lay in your embrace, passive, listening intently to the rhythmic thud of your heart under my ear, and breathing in the musky scent of you rising from your skin. A long strand of your scarlet hair teases me, the tip of it lying close to your right nipple, lightly brushing against it with your every breath.

The clock on your bookshelf ticks, counting the seconds and minutes as we rest. A siren sounds in the distance; from the street below I make out the sounds of traffic and people, those daring enough to venture out so late in the night. This is the apartment you've kept a secret from our superiors for years - your getaway, your shelter from the strain and pain of pressure and killing.

Finally, after what seems an eternity, you break the silence that has fallen over us.

I am not angry, you know, you say. I lift my head from your chest and prop myself up on my hands over you. Your eyes move from the ceiling they had been affixed to and attach themselves to mine.

Why not? I cannot stop myself from asking. You shrug. I know you are not brushing me off, but it is merely your way of expressing your inability to answer, your lack of eloquence in describing your reasons.

I accept this. I am forgiven. It is enough. I sigh and make to move, but your arms pull me down again, nestling me deep in their circle, entrenching me in their warmth and protectiveness. It is here that I feel most safe; my darts and crossbow may be my weapons, my righteous indignation my shield, but you are my fortress.

Please stay, Omi, you whisper against my hair, your voice raw with some indiscernible edge. I snuggle closer, more happy and content than I have ever been in all my short years, and after awhile, begin to drift towards the oblivion of slumber. But, as I am nearly at the precipice of dreams, I swear that a voice, not unlike yours, murmurs,

I love you, too.