Outlaw Star Fan Fiction ❯ Flashing Lights ❯ Chapter 1

Some might have called it poor planning. It all made sense to me.

 

"Master, are you all right?!" called the guard stationed in the garage as I stumbled over a crack in the pavement that I didn't see.

 

"Of course I am," I told him.

 

He walked over and looked me in the eye, I think. "Master...you're not wearing your contacts."

 

"Well, I'm afraid I'm going to be doing a lot of dancing at this club tonight, and I'd rather not jostle one out and drop it," I explained. "I'd never find it again, and what a waste! The company's gone out of business, you know."

 

"But...but Master - "

 

"But nothing. It's not like I'm really going to need to see anything in there." I crossed to one of my favorite cars, the electric blue convertible, and shooed him into the driver's seat. "It'll be dark and smoky and I'll be dancing with anonymous strangers." To take my mind off Gene. "I can call you to come and pick me up, and it'll be unnecessary."

 

He turned the key in the ignition, but he still seemed reluctant. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

 

"Three, Ralph," I answered confidently, though it may actually have been four. "I'm not blind. It's just a bit blurry, is all. Now drive, please, and stop fretting."

 

The drive to the club was short and pleasant and my flashy car got three or four honks of appreciation. I merely smiled, letting the wind whip over the open roof and through my hair while Ralph drove.

 

Yes, the venture to the club might have been foolish, but did I really care? Hardly. For all I knew we owned the place. And it wasn't like I'd be recognized; I wasn't out in my typical clothing, but rather the sort of thing you'd see in a club like this. It had been hard to find a red fishnet shirt that exactly matched my headband, but with the right amount of money you could accomplish anything, and the thin white tanktop over it provided a barrier in the color scheme anyway. The pants...well, I'd admit it. The pants were a pair of Gene's, which I'd stol--er, borrowed, the last time I'd been aboard the Outlaw Star. We were of a similar build, so they fit all right at the hips, and though they were a little too short they tucked right into my white leather boots and no one was the wiser.

 

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay here while you're inside, sir?" he insisted as I climbed out of the back seat.

 

"For the thousandth time, yes," I told him. "Go home and have dinner with your wife for a change. She misses you, you know."

 

I was very proud of myself for walking through the door of the club on my own without stumbling.

 

Inside, strobe lights were flashing and nearly every flailing hand had a glowing rod between its fingers or bracelet around its wrist. Bodies were tightly packed together and the whole place smelled of smoke, sweat and sex. It was all rather intoxicating and I quickly became lost in the beat, activating my own bright red glowsticks and twirling them through the air with, if not skill, at least enough grace not to look like an idiot.

 

The DJ switched to a song I enjoyed more and I slipped further into the beat, my eyes falling closed as I gyrated. I'll admit I was a bit of a show-off, but the whole idea was to draw someone in, right?

 

The whole idea was to think about someone other than Gene, right?

 

Okay, so I was pathetic. I thought we'd established that. But amidst the blur of everyone's flourescent accessories and the strobe and the thick bass sound, I lost just a little of the edge that embraced me constantly. I could focus on the music. I could focus on the lights.

 

Well, I couldn't really focus on anything without my contacts, but you get the idea.

 

The DJ broke the set to get a beverage and I stumbled through the dark, pressing between bodies clad in mesh and leather, to reach the bar and do the same.

 

"Something cold, please, preferably Heiphong-brewed."

 

"ID?" asked the gum-smacking woman behind the bar.

 

"Here's three-hundred eighty-eight wong," I said, "for every day until I turn twenty-one."

 

"Works for me," she said with a smile, and returned with a golden-pink bottle full of exactly what I needed. I downed it fairly quickly and sighed, relaxing at the bar. The dancing had worn me out, however, and I craved more.

 

"Another - "

 

"On me," called a voice far to my left. In the bustling of the huge crowd he nearly had to shout to be heard, and his words more than the tone of his voice reached the ears of both myself and the bartender. She plopped one down in front of him (I think) and then another in front of me. I raised the bottle to my lips, drinking more slowly this time, thankful for the refreshment the beverage offered. When I set the bottle down, I peered down the bar at the man who'd been so kind only to notice that he had red hair. I'll admit I blushed; I'm a sucker for a redhead. The point was supposed to be to <i>ignore</i> those thoughts of Gene, damnit! Regardless, I tried to flash him a smile.

 

The music switched back on and I turned to the booth, but from the distance I couldn't tell if it was the same DJ or a new one. Either way, I jumped back up to dance, hoping the beat would speed up just a little so we could all get down to some real grinding. "Thank you!" I called to the anonymous drink-buyer, but I didn't get a reply before the bar swam from my vision and was replacing by blurred, swirling neon.

 

The strobes were almost completely gone now, leaving the room in the dark save for the omnipresent glow sticks. I buried myself in the crowd, dark silhouettes consuming my entire field of vision, and with a couple beers under my belt I began to grow bolder in my dancing. The fingers of my left hand, nails painted an alternating red and black, swept slowly down my side, stopping to grip my own hip and roll with the beat. My right hand traced swirling patterns in the air above me with my red lightstick. This was the most fun I'd had in ages! So easy just to dance to the beat, and I was doing it all without Ralph, without Gene...

 

A sudden presence loomed over my shoulder and I stiffened, turning in an effort to see who my bold dance partner was. At the sight of his red hair I moaned; it was the same kind man who'd bought me my second beer. At the new proximity I could make out a skin-tight black tank top and baggy shredded jeans just barely held in place by a glittering silver-black belt. But of course, my sense of sight was the least reliable; I was much more inclined to smell the strong, masculine scent that came from his sweat-covered form, or feel his hot breath at my ear, his hot something else nudging against my ass...

 

"Care to dance?" he shouted hoarsely over the music, and damn if I was going to refuse.

 

My right hand with the glowstick reached back to slip gently around his neck, while my left found his left and slipped it around to grip my hip, holding it in place, tracing over his bright blue glowing armband. We began rocking in time, fitting together well because of our similar heights and similar senses of rhythm. When the DJ kicked it over into a harder, faster song - one of my absolute favorites, actually - our movements followed suit, becoming wickedly sexual as his hips rocked into mine from behind, a pantomime of something I was starting to suspect I wouldn't mind doing. Especially after a couple of beers.

 

Especially because he looked like Gene.

 

Mentally I smacked myself, trying hard to hold fast to my resolution. This is your night, I told myself, and you will NOT think about that damned outlaw at ALL. Still, with the redheaded man's hard-muscled chest pressing into my back and shoulders so delightfully, the way I'd only fantasized that Gene's ever would, it seemed a little too good to be true. So what if I wanted to fool myself? My vision was blurred with alcohol, lust, and hereditary farsightedness. It was an easy mistake.

 

As the song reached a critical point, I was afraid the two of us would soon be hitting a climax of our own, with the prominent swell in his pants pressed so blatantly against the crack of my ass. "Let's get out of here," he growled in my ear, "hell, even to the bathroom, I've just got to - "

 

"Quite," I agreed breathlessly, and allowed him to guide me to the men's room through the maze of frenzied dancers.

 

With the door shut behind us he kissed me, swallowing my lips with a very greedy, very hot mouth. I could taste him well enough to know that the beer he'd drunk with mine hadn't been his first, either.

 

The scent of his passion wafted toward me, masking the aroma of the alcohol we'd consumed or the pungent twang of what I thought was actually vomit that emanated from the far stall of the men's room. It produced that odd sensation where you're smelling one thing but tasting another, except it didn't really at all, because it was all so very him.

 

His fevered breath panted against my ear when we broke off, though he still didn't speak, not allowing me to experience his voice in the slightly quieted air of the bathroom. Rather, he ground his cock against mine and moaned, low and gutteral, almost inhuman. It felt incredible and I answered with a moan of my own.

 

I was feeling, hearing, smelling, tasting. It almost didn't matter at all that I still couldn't really see him.

 

His strong, calloused hand snaked its way into the front of my pants and grabbed roughly at my dick. The sensation was absolutely amazing - he was clearly very talented, or how else would he have known exactly how I liked it? I moaned again, reaching up to his lips with mine to demand another kiss. He was quite willing to acquiesce.

 

After a couple of minutes, however, I realized he intended to make me come just like this. Even with my lust- and alcohol-clouded brain, I knew that that wouldn't do. Quickly, I pushed away from him, only to hook my thumbs into my stolen pants and peel them down, just enough to expose my cock, standing hard and erect in the slightly cool air of the restroom. I reached over to his waist and did the same, exposing the rounded curves of his ass. Under my touch the hard muscles twitched, and I felt a small swath of scar arc over his right hip.

 

"I top, usually," I whispered in his ear before wetting two nail-polished fingers with my own mouth and then slipping them inside of him.

 

He screamed then, and I vaguely registered that the voice almost, almost sounded familiar. It wasn't enough to keep me from stretching him; my cock was twitching with every pass I made, informing me quite adamantly of exactly what it wanted to be doing. I pressed the redhead hard into the bathroom wall, feeling him rock under me, first backward onto my fingers, then forward to rut himself against the wall tiles. He stretched slowly but nicely, as though he had done this a lot before but not too recently. I smirked, bit down into the hard, tanned flesh of his shoulder, and replaced my fingers with my greedy, anxious cock.

 

The music kicked up hard and we fucked like we were dancing. His ass...God, there were no words to describe it, none that would do it justice. It was like every fantasy I'd had of Gene, only this man was real, this was actually a really good fuck I was having, even if it was only ten minutes off the dance floor with a man - albeit an extraordinarily hot man - whom I had never met before.

 

I lost myself in the rhythm, fighting to keep control as our frenzied thrusts grew hotter and harder and faster and yes. Realizing it was a losing battle, I maneuvered my hand around to his - oh fuck, his huge cock, determined to bring him off with me.

 

It was no good; I still came first.

 

And that was when it got embarrassing.

 

I didn't mean to; clearly it was the biggest slip-up I ever could have made. But as my orgasm gripped me just as tightly as the redhead's ass did, my mouth only seemed to want to scream, "Gene!"

 

I regretted it as soon as it had happened, even through the glorious haze of my climax. I bit down on his shoulder again in embarrassment and waited for his confused - or even angry, oh shit - beration, even as I continued to jerk him off. I thought that was at least being fair.

 

To my surprise, however, my mystery lover merely responded with an awfully similar cry of "Fred, holy shit!" as his own orgasm overtook him, hot semen spilling through my fingers and onto the bathroom tile.

 

When I found my voice again, I had to ask, even though I was elated to realize that I probably already knew the answer. "Do I...know you?"

 

He slid from me, turned around, and pressed his face into my neck, allowing me to feel the scars on his cheek and the broad grin spread across his face. "Well who the fuck did you think I was?"

 

My mind boggled a little, trying to recover from the shock, even as my heart leapt from my chest and danced around the room in unrestrained glee.

 

"You're a great dancer - real sexy," he added. "But as good as they look on you, I would kinda like my pants back."