Countdown

by Xanpet

We seem to have been here for bloody hours, just standing, frozen, watching a clock but he wanted to come, it's his parade. The crowd is packed so tightly around me that it crushes me from all sides. I can taste the sweat on the air, smell the blood and hear a thousand pulses race, his fastest of all, nearest. It is the very elixir of life and I feel hungry. This is a perfect hunting ground, all that blood, to make me feel something other than dead. My 'Nummy' 'ere, seems to sense my longing. He presses into me, wrapping me up in his strong arms against the cold. He whispers to me, am I all right? I feel his hot breath against my ear.

Of course, I'm all right. I've been in more mosh pits than he's had vampires to brush out of his hair. So, I reach behind me, take hold of that hair, run my fingers through its soft thickness and sigh. I pull a little, just enough to make it interesting. We stay like that for some time, with his arms encircling me, cradling me against the pack. We stay like that and watch the clock, tick tock, metering out his life.

He presses further into me, pushing his groin against me arse and pulling me in tighter. He licks at my ear and I can see his breath on the wind, his living breath. It's sensual, it's erotic, it's illicit, here in the mass of bodies, in a public space. He whispers sweet nothings, fucking nonsense to make my ear hot, and now I'm hot and I let him know with a growl.

So, he snakes his hands down, over me waist and round my hips to my fly, and I say chuck you farley, but he shushes me and tells me to relax. Then he's releasing me from me jeans, reaching in to find my cock, firm and hard, and exposing it to the crisp night air. No one can see. All eyes are fixed on the clock. Tick tock their lives away. He begins to stroke with full and confident caresses, that only a seasoned lover can produce. This man, this mortal, knows just where to touch, just how to rub, just when to increase the pace and pressure so that I moan his name.

I pull forward into the crowd as if to escape the exquisite pleasure-pain of his insistent fondling, but the press of bodies is too tight and there's nowhere to go. He passes his thumb over the head, using the pre-come as a little lubricant and sending chills of ecstasy through my being.

The countdown has begun, the crowd begin to murmur the numbers from ten on down and my lover increases the pace. I rock hypnotically with the count, thrusting my straining cock into his fist with every passing number. Nine, eight, seven, I lean back into him and stop resisting and let him stroke me
to completion with his warm, broad hand.

The volume increases, the speed increases, the pressure increases in my balls and suddenly there is no one. My lover and I are alone in Time Square with him pleasuring me. Five, four, three, I pound into his hand desperate for release. Two, one, the crowd reappear and reach crescendo, and I reach climax. They scream, they cheer, the ticker tape flies and I celebrate my coming with one, long, drawn out curse.

I tuck myself away. No point in being caught with your tackle out, in the centre of New York, at midnight. I should know, but that's another story.

His hand is sticky with my come, dead seed from a dead man. And aren't I just the cheerful Charlie tonight? He raises it to his mouth and licks his palm, then invites me to share in the feast. We suck his fingers dry together. Another year gone, another year less for us. Why must bleeding humans celebrate the passing of time, when all I want to do is hold onto forever? Still, he's happy so I don't piss on his parade. "Happy New Year, Xander." I say.

He places a chaste kiss on my cheek, "Happy New year, William."

 

~Fin~