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He's been sneezing all day.  It's easy to tell. . . just look at him!  That straight little nose of his is the most lovely shade of pink around the edges, his olive-black eyes are red-rimmed and bleary while every sniffle is an effort.  All of that coarse looking,  jet black hair is a tousled mess since he can't seem to stop running his fingers through it every five seconds.  He does that when he's not feeling well.  It's one of those things I've come to notice about him.

As usual, he's not paying attention to much of his surroundings before the show, so he doesn't notice me standing there, watching him with the utmost of keen interest.  Far be it for him to notice much of anything, save that pad he keeps drumming on.  Rudiment after rudiment, warming up those hands and wrists for those eager fans of his.  He really does care what they think of him. . . their support keeps him going when nothing else, not even me, seems to. 

For now, he's got a T-shirt on with those black, below the knee shorts he always wears, but as soon as the lights go down, the shirt comes off.  He says it hinders his playing.  I say he just wants to show off his sweet little tattoo covered body.  We both know he's not as shy as all that.

Those sticks are still going.  He plays with such finesse, if it weren't for his appearance, one would never label him as a "rock drummer".  Taste is his middle name.  Whatever he does, no matter the style, he's capable of adopting it for his own as it were always his native musical tongue.  That's one of the things I love about him.  He's diverse in the universal language of music. . . among other things.  Being around him, there is only one word that comes to mind, one word that even comes close to what I feel, what I think. . . yes. 

Twenty minutes before show time.  Those fundamentals he's working on are increasing in difficulty, a sure sign that he's in the zone.  His eyes are closed now, lips slightly parted while he drums away on that beloved pad of his, oblivious to everything save his warm-up.  He's making a line out of it now, the rhythms connecting into a something that makes musical sense.  I wonder what's inspiring him.

Suddenly, the sticks stop beating a mad rhythm on the pad.  His eyes pop open as if he is awakening from a trance but immediately glaze over again as he turns his gaze to the florescent lights above.  He squints a little at the dull almost throbbing light.  I know what he's fixing to do now and I can't take my eyes off of him.  The beginnings of a heaving buildup shiver through him, his breathing staggered and labored while a prone, almost helpless expression slackens his angular features. 

"Hitchooo!  Huh-chooo!"  he sneezes at last, not bothering to cover up but rather leaning to the side, sticks still in hand.  All of that lovely, black hair has fallen to form a thick curtain that partially hides his face from view, but not enough to obscure the wonderful, sneezy look that still plagues him.

I'm holding my breath in anticipation now.  He's not finished.  There's another pair just like that coming.  Sure enough, he doesn't disappoint me.  The tickle must be torturous for him.  One side of his lip is curled ever so slightly while the sneeze taunts him, making his cute nose twitch like mad.  Letting it happen isn't an option for him, so he's fighting it valiantly.  At last,  he gives up with a dramatic, quivering inhalation, allowing it to seize him fully.

"Huhaesshooo!  Heeatchooo!"  he sneezes quite forcefully.  These sound harder than the previous two. . . wetter and more desperate.  A visible spray follows each one and the sharp sound of them reverberates throughout the backstage area, although their volume is by no means, loud. 

Several people bless him as if astonished that such a harsh sound could come from such a normally quiet person.  Embarrassed a bit by their notice of his involuntary action, he ducks his head so that they cannot see the faint blush that has crept over his cheeks, but he thanks them none the less.  At this point, I want to do more to him than bless him.

He's sniffling almost constantly now, delicately rubbing his nose with one finger so as not to accidentally tweak the ring in his right nostril and illicit another fit.  Looking up, he finally sees me standing there, watching him.  A slow, lopsided smile curves his lips and reaches the depths of his darks eyes as I make my way towards him.  He knows my little fetish well.

"Bad boy,"  I say to him as I reach his side.

His gaze is warm, inviting. . . even playful as he grabs my wrist and pulls me closer to where he is sitting.

"You don't know how bad,"  he says, eyeing me with another sly smile.

His voice is miserably congested, lending it a rough, husky quality that I find utterly appealing.  The heat of his fingers on the bare skin of my wrist is like white hot pleasure, as if his very essence is burning into the flesh there, branding me for his own.  Aware that he has the upper hand, he gives my wrist a good jerk, causing me to lose my balance enough to end up in his lap.  Clever, clever man.

  My arms snake around his neck as I curl up against him, laying my head on his shoulder, breathing in the heady scent of him.  Drakkar Noir mixed with his own intoxicating smell. . . enough to daze me into staying there for a moment while he strokes my hair with one surprisingly gentle hand.  Unlike most drummers, his hands remain uncalloused and smooth no matter how long he plays.  He feels that way all over, actually, silken and soft to the touch.  The gnarled fingers of time have not grasped him.  His skin is unmarred by the signs of aging, his complexion youthful and bright. 

"Sneezy boy,"  I purr into his ear, my tongue flicking out to tickle his earlobe.

"All day,"  he replies, pressing his cheek against mine.

Rough hints of five o'clock shadow graze my skin as he nuzzles my chin, the motion reminiscent of a cat who has befriended its own kind.  My hands slide down to his stomach where I slip one of them under the loose cotton fabric of his T-shirt and run my fingers over his stomach, taut and lean from playing the most physical of all instruments.  Beneath me, I can feel a different hardness pressing against my backside.  His hands have a firm grasp on my hips to prevent my escape while he discreetly moves against me, perpetuating his arousal.  Even through my jeans, I can feel the thick ring he has piercing that impressive equipment of his.  Dirty little boy.

Erratic patterns now temper his breath as he holds me against him, sharp, taunting inhalations shaking him.  His breath shivers with each one, a delicious, quivering tease of air near my ear, rising to the brink of a sneeze, and then backing away.  At last, he sighs with tired relief and sniffles instead, a quiet "oooh,"  escaping him in place of the sneeze.  Before I can relax enough to inform him of what a little tease he is, he stiffens with an almost painfully sharp breath.

"Hitchooo!  Hitchiiooo!"  the sneezes explode out of him, powerful enough to shake us both and give the back of my neck a good shower.  I start to bless him, but he's battling another set already, "oooh. . . aaah. . . heh, heh. . . heashoooo!  Heeatchooo!"  These are even harsher and twice as wet as before. 

Turning to look at him, I see that his black hair is once again covering his expression while he sniffles wetly, congestedly, probably in dire need of kleenex.  Of course, I am always prepared for such emergencies.  From my pocket, I snag a tissue from the packet there and offer it to him.

"Bless you,"  I say softly.

He blows his nose thoroughly although quietly before answering, "thanks, love."

Warmth blooms through me at the sound of this endearment.  How I adore such terms, cliche though they may be!  The feeling. . . it's that bizarre balance.  Yes.  My hands thread through that ebon hair with a gentle fondness reserved only for him and he reciprocates by pulling me close, laying his head on my shoulder with what can only be described as an overly pathetic sniffle.  A muffled snicker escapes him.

"You little skank,"  I chastise him affectionately.  He is well aware of what he's doing to me and is certainly reveling in it.

He raises his head, fixing me with those intense, fathomless eyes as a languidly suggestive smile stretches his beautifully curved lips.  A dramatic sniffle follows this impish grin, as if for emphasis.  As usual, his shy nature has seemingly evaporated and has been replaced by this wonderfully sexual creature, capturing my full attention.  Licking my lips unconsciously, I can almost taste him there.  He copies my subconscious gesture, running his tongue over his lips with deliberate, controlled intent, burning into me with that smoldering gaze.  He leans closer until his lips are near my ear again.

"Fuck me,"  he whispers, his voice a lazy, husky purr, blunt as always, his breath hot and tickling to my sensitive ear.

Ignoring that command is much harder than I care to admit, but I refuse to indulge him with a response.  Unperturbed, he resorts to wearing me down with a dirty tactic, his over-tickly sinuses.  Making sure that he has my full attention, he gives the lights overhead a good stare, hoping to induce my fate.  Those dark eyes narrow, even water a bit, yet nothing comes of his venture.  Unsuccessful, he turns back to me, the same suggestive smile lingering there but with a hint of something more. 

"Please."  His voice is utterly submissive, begging and cajoling at once. 

"No,"  I say firmly.

"Please?"  This time even sweeter, imploring. . . beseeching. 

His eyes are radiant, liquid pools of darkness, brimming with incandescent heat. They swallow me in their depths and I drown helplessly, at his mercy, drunk with the heady elixir of desire.  A slow smile etches his lips and he knows that he has won without struggle, without a battle of wills. 

"Bastard,"  I say.

A chuckle escapes him as he shakes his head, amused by my plight and his victory.  Without a word, he moves to rise, sliding me off his lap in the process.  Wordlessly, I follow him.

The dressing room is deserted by this time, as I knew it would be.  Still, he locks the door with a click, turning to face me with a smile that borders on arrogance as he strolls towards me with such casualness, certain of his status in our little game.  His stare rivets me where I stand unable to resist him, his slinky stride growing more purposeful until he reaches me at last. 

"Ten minutes,"  he says.

"Better make it worth it,"  I reply in the most uninterested tone I can muster.

His smile is more of a leering grin.  "I'll make you scream, little girl."

The only foreplay he gives me is a rough shove against the dressing room counter, his hands roaming over my sides with slow, sensual intent, making my skin prickle with his heated caress.  His kiss is demanding and urgent yet supplicating somehow as he makes short work of my jeans and shirt, tossing them into a rumpled pile near the doorway while shedding his own clothing in the process.  My fingers interlace with his as he crushes me against him, pulling me towards the couch where he forces me to collapse on top of him with a less than gentle landing.  The hoop of his Prince Albert grazes my inner thigh with its hot metallic caress as he moves against me, his body arching up to mine in a rhythmic, fluid motion that begs to be taken.  His tongue slides out from between his lips as I stroke him in a brazenly suggestive manner, teasing his cock ring with my finger until he moans with pleasure and can't possibly get any harder.

"Say please,"  I tell him, smiling like the evil seductress that I know I can be.

His expression is one of coy adoration mixed with the sly sentiment of a well seasoned lover who has many hidden tactics for inducing a desired scenario.  Instead of responding, he reaches up and tweaks the slender silver hoop in his right nostril, just once, almost subtly in fact, but I know his intent.  The effect is almost instantaneous and involuntarily explosive as he squeezes his eyes shut, a sudden gasp of air shaking him.

"Hitchooo!  Heeatchooo!"  he sneezes quite freely and rather forcefully, gripping my hips in the process and managing to thrust into me before I have a chance to stop him just as another intake of air shivers through his lean body.  "Huh-choooo!  Hehchooo!"  he sneezes again, holding me there, unable to move while he drives deep inside of me with the release of each sneeze. 

Gripping my sides fiercely, he fixes me with that smoldering stare and utters a word that is more of a somewhat sarcastic victory, his upper lip curving into a bit of a sneer.  "Please."

He curls his body so that his shoulders are no longer touching the couch and proceeds to fuck the living day lights out of me while making damn sure that I am unable to change position.  He's quite strong, that man.  Before I can respond verbally or physically to anything he has done, I feel the mounting and inevitable build of a shattering climax seize me.  White hot burn blooms from between my legs and spreads throughout my entire body, rendering me helpless in his grasp as he thrusts deep inside of me with slow, hard, deliberate intent until I can stand it no more.  My release is coupled with an array of moans and cries that I cannot control as I dig my short nails into his shoulders, the intensity of the orgasm shaking me to the point of silence until he pulls me down on him with such violent force, I feel as if he's wrung me through with that sizable cock of his.  His own zenith of pleasure is a formidable release as well while he is no less vocal about it than I am.  Still shaking with the aftermath of our brief yet intense encounter, I collapse on top of him, my breathing labored.  Gentle fingers thread through my hair with infinite tenderness as he holds me there for just a moment until he must get dressed again.  Unspoken adoration passes between us as he kisses my forehead gently and rises to his feet.

"See you after the show, love,"  he says.

"Yes," I say.