Message-ID: <19744eli$9902070428@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: "Adhara Law" Subject: <*> {Adhara} "The Lives of Atoms" {MF, D/S} Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <19990206195320.13140.qmail@hotmail.com> Hope you enjoy, and please send comments. While this story involves sex, if you are looking for a stroke story, this might not be your cup of tea. -- Adhara Law THE LIVES OF ATOMS by Adhara Law Copyright 1999 Adhara Law (adhara_law@hotmail.com). All rights reserved. May not be reproduced or distributed, with the exception of USENET archving, without express written permission by the author. There is a principle that governs the universe through the movements of the nearly smallest of particles, one that dictates the lives of atoms and the lives of galaxies. It is uncertainty. The more one knows about one parameter, the more uncertain others become. * * * She lay in the mountainous folds of cotton and wool, her only movement being that of her fingertips, blushed light pink with polish, as she traced the shadow of his bicep. A multitude of sounds invaded the small apartment as cars and people passed by below. The living, breathing sounds of humanity. "What do you do?" He asked. Her eyes rose from his body to his face. "What do you mean?" "When you're not with me. What do you do?" A tiny laugh escaped from her, cut off before its full birth. "Is it important?" He nodded. Instead of answering him, she rose to her knees and circled his wrists in her thin, strong fingers and pushed them above his head toward the brass headboard. Black leather cuffs hung off the yellowish bars with worn, tan cracks that marbled them from obvious use. She latched his left wrist into one, and then his right. Moving to straddle his thighs, she paused, looked down to his chest, and then in a flash of movement dove down and bit his right nipple, hard. His back arched sharply, his mouth open and crying with pain, but at the same time thin currents of excitement roiled through his cock as it involuntarily grew hard. She glanced upward at his hidden face and slowly licked the lightly bruised skin almost as if in apology, as if her tongue could ease the sting of gnashing teeth. She kissed the raw and hardened tip of his nipple. Her thighs slid over the moist skin of his hips, her toes swiftly kicking the folds of the bedsheets out of the way as she maneuvered herself over him. As the pace of his breathing quickened with the anticipation of what was coming, she slowed her movements to a teasing and torturous pace. Only her hair tickled the edge of his navel now as she slid down his belly, his hard and waiting cock brushing almost imperceptibly against the soft skin of her neck. Skin that was too dark to be called white and too light to be called olive. Skin that matched perfectly her long, wavy, dark brown, voluminous hair. Skin that framed a set of disturbingly dark, inordinately large eyes. She bit cruelly into the skin just below his navel. Even as his head thrashed from left to right, his hips jutted upwards toward her in silent entreaty. She flicked the tip of her tongue at the skin around his groin. "Beg for it." A low moan crept out of his throat and crawled along the yellow walls of the room. His hips flailed and ground against the bed like an animal caught in a trap. Her lips lay inches above him, still. "I said, _beg for it._" His lips parted slightly. "Please," he whispered. "Please fuck me." As the last word forced itself from his throat, she slipped the full length of his erection past her lips and sucked the air from her hot, moist mouth. His voice painted the walls of the small room with moans, cries, and whispers, layering over the sounds that seeped in through the window from the city beneath them. But she didn't want to play that game. Popping him from her mouth and moving herself over him, she straddled his bucking hips and pushed his cock indelicately into her pussy. She moved with a rhythm that was beat out by cars and trains, by the throbbing hum of the discordant humanity below. The thrashing of his hips became manic, his wrists pulling the leather cuffs taut against the metal, straining them to their fullest. She knew the timing of the moment, feeling it as a conductor feels the rising crescendo of the music. As he came beneath her, his cock spilling his essence into her, she leaned down and bit into his neck generously, snow-white teeth sinking into moist pink flesh, capping off the finishing touches of his climax and bringing her closer to hers. Her pelvis rocked against his for moments after he'd come, her closed eyes and parted lips a glimpse into her private nirvana as she came with as much force as he had. Later, when the shadows in the small room had grown almost unnoticeably longer, she pulled her clothes on and brushed her hair. "It's not important." She dropped the words carelessly onto the bed next to him and his reddened wrists, and left him nursing wounds he'd begged her to give. * * * Uncertainty manifests itself in the bizarre habits of the electron. Elusive and ambiguous, this mysterious particle slips through the cracks of understanding and into its own universe, one where knowledge is gained at the expense of further knowledge. As if in a cruel scientific striptease, the electron entices the spectator in, allowing him to find out where the electron is at a given moment but not how fast it took to get there. And if the electron is in a different mood, the spectator learns the velocity with which the electron is moving, but cannot know with any certainty where the particle is. The electron is a fickle and uncertain beast. * * * This time she bound his hands behind his back, his torso resting against the headboard and his legs splayed out over the cream-colored sheets that lay in chaotic folds around them. His breathing was already heavy, labored with expectation. The rise and fall of his chest slowly increased in time with her tongue, which started at his ear and worked its way downward. She took the tough cartilage of the top of his ear into her mouth, listening to his breath escape from him with a sigh. Her bites were gentle at first, gradually increasing their ferocity as she worked his skin from ear to neck, from neck to collarbone. Behind her was left the red and raw evidence of his fetish, the story told in brightening trails of abrased skin. His collarbone. She attacked it as a lioness attacks her kill, gnawing at the jutting bone with carnal fury. Sharp cries. Head arched back. Hips pushing upward toward her in desperation. He begged. "Please…" The unspoken words morphed into low moans as her teeth nipped and bit at the skin over his ribs. She could see the pink flesh of his arms taut over strained muscles, a thin sheen of sweat rippling over the veins of his biceps as his arms pulled hard against the leather cuffs latched to the bed behind him. With a single, sweeping movement she gave him the relief he begged for, sliding his cock past her lips and gently gripping it with her teeth, a wordless gesture reminding him that she needn't give in so quickly, but only if it pleased her. Her tongue danced over his skin in the momentary vacuum of her mouth, and her long, painted nails dug sharply into the insides of his thighs. The dance was too fast for him; he came with his head thrown back against the brass bars and his arms straining still against the worn leather cuffs. She reached around and unbuckled them. After she'd freed him, he gripped her arms tightly and kissed her. "Please let me…" He whispered. Her hands ran through his short dark hair as she maneuvered herself into place on the bed, into almost the same position he'd been in moments before. With a sigh, she watched him slip down the length of her body, leaving kisses behind him. She closed her eyes. What he couldn't see as he sucked the tiny pearl of her clit between his lips were the images behind those closed eyes. He couldn't hear the snap of metal buckles that filled her ears while his tongue slipped inside her to elicit from her high-pitched cries. He couldn't see her fingers fondle delicately the leather cuffs behind her head, her hands slipping around the metal buckles and the worn cracks the same way that her hands slid around his body. He couldn't see her grip them tightly as her hips bucked beneath him, his tongue working her to orgasm while she keened loudly into the room. He couldn't hear her silent plea to feel the sensual grip of bondage around her own wrists. * * * There is a fuzziness about the electron, a diffuse existence that teases the observer like an expert lover. Never giving away too much information, the electron exists in a multitude of states, a combination of existences. This is the concept of superposition. * * * She never met him anywhere but at his apartment. He had always simply accepted the condition, the attraction to their sex being too overpowering to question the arrangement. But he entertained fantasies of other places, exotic locales -- coffee at the corner shop, a leisurely browse through the bookstore. Later she would bring him back to her house and make love to him in her bed, the unfamiliar smell of her sheets blanketing them as she latched the cuffs tight to the headboard, his wrists gripped deliciously in leather. Perhaps she would tie him to a ladderback chair in her dining room, the white knuckles of her fingers screaming out against the dark wood of the long, expensive mahogany table as she fucked him in the silence of the big house. Was it a big house? Did she have a mahogany table? He wondered these things after she'd left the apartment, the yellow of the walls looking less like sunlight and more like aged, brittle bone. She had pushed him back, savagely and menacingly, into the hallway when he'd answered the door. It hadn't been the first time. Each time she'd done it before, the hard slap of her palm against his chest as she strode through the door and into his world reverberated through him, setting the adrenaline on a dead course for his cock. She always stripped him brutally then, throwing his clothes to the floor like rags into a bucket and then pushing him roughly onto the bed. And like every other time, she yanked the leather hard until it bit into his skin like organic razorblades, bruising his wrists with every thrust and grind of her hips into his. And her eyes always bore into him harder than the leather ever did. He had to know. He already knew that she wasn't listed in the phone book -- that much he'd checked a long time ago and she never allowed him to call her -- and so his only recourse was to physically follow her home. He left the apartment moments after she did and watched her step seductively into a yellow cab, her finger stretched delicately in demonstration to the driver. He watched her mouth move silently as she told the cab driver where to go. Quickly now. A cab swerved deftly to the curb moments after hers had left, and he hopped into it, telling the driver to follow the yellow cab with the blue and yellow advertisement on its roof. Fear coursed through his mind and body, afraid that she somehow knew he was following her, trying to pry apart the doors to her secret life. He breathed. In. Out. Her own apartment was about a fifteen minute cab ride through the city from his. Five car lengths ahead of him, he saw her cab pull up to the curb. He hurriedly told the driver to pull over as he thrust crumpled bills into the older man's outstretched hand. He only received a grunt in reply before the cab driver sped off again. Dusk was seeping down into the streets between the multistory buildings that surrounded him. It afforded him a small measure of security. He spotted her entering a building that clearly was occupied by well-to-do tenants, judging by the doorman's attire and the general appearance of the façade. Nothing like his. But as he watched her disappear behind the door, a quick smile thrown to the doorman, he hesitated. Feet rooted to the pavement, he stared helplessly while strangers more familiar to him than she strode past him, their arms and bags and coats and hands brushing against him roughly. He turned to go home. * * * We like to think we know almost everything. We like to make rules, theories, principles, hypotheses, all in an effort to categorize our world, break it down into ever smaller parts. We like know where all the pieces are and how we can expect them to behave. But nothing is ever as it seems. * * * The lock turned almost soundlessly as she twisted the cool metal of the key to her apartment. Their apartment. She swung the door open to see him standing in the foyer. "You're late." His voice was cool but not angry. "You know how I don't like to be kept waiting." She froze, the door partially open behind her, forgotten. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again." She felt the cool tickle of his hand as it slid down her cheek. "Still," he cooed, "I can't let you go unpunished, can I?" His lips were inches from hers, but clearly he was not going to kiss her. She swallowed. Hard. "Of course not," she replied. "Master." ----------------------------------------- Adhara Law adhara_law@hotmail.com Please let me know what you thought of this story! -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----