Left Out

A/N: Yes! I'm back! And so early too! You're shocked, right? You thought you'd have to wait a month to get some more Loz/Yaz incesty sinfulness. ;) Well, because I know how frustrating it is I'm trying to update quicker so you don't have to wait so damn long to get the next part. And here it is.

Thanks to: Kerianya, Kayaz, juri and Ravenlyn for their comments. Most of which were scolding me for leaving the chapter at such a crucial point! Sorry. That WAS rather evil of me. I do hope the following makes up somewhat for it. (I apologise in advance for the excess refrences to Yazoo's hair) ^__^


***

“Mmm, Loz,” he murmurs with his eyes closed blissfully. “You’re huge.”

I can’t reply to that. I’m still trying to cope with the fact that my brother is sitting on my dick.


***


Part 6.


Instead of waiting for me to unscramble my still-stunned brains and move, Yazoo takes the initiative and does it first, starting to lift himself up and down upon me. He starts off shallowly but soon is completely confident in his actions, raising himself higher each time and sinking back again with enthusiasm. Kadaj said he’s never ridden a stick-shift as large as mine but looking at Yazoo, there’s no way to tell. It’s like he’s done this a million times before and it staggers me that he’s not more cautious or careful.

You see, I’ve always had dilemmas in regards to doin’ it with girls. It’s not that I can’t get it up; I just can’t get it in. Not the whole of it anyway, not without hurting them. Even some professional prostitutes have difficulty taking me in one go when I try to enter them, and thanks to Kadaj’s mirror-vision I now realise why, yet Yazoo took my oversized width into him with effortless ease. However, I know it’s only because someone was here before me. That someone was Kadaj. Yazoo has already been loosened and made slippery by him and that’s how he’s able to accept my larger-than-usual girth so readily.

He has already been screwed.

And now it seems Yazoo is going to screw me. Or himself. I’m not sure of the technicalities but don’t really care. I’m quite okay with him topping me and using my stiffened instrument for his own gratification because I’m too overwhelmed right now to do anything more useful apart from lay there and maintain it. Keeping my manhood hard is not a problem as him being speared upon it is the most erotically-charged event of my life. Though I was embarrassed about blowing my control earlier I’m glad that happened when it did otherwise I’d be losing it again right now due to the scalding internal grip and maddening wetness within him. He feels friggin’ phenomenal and I’m dangerously tempted to ram into that tight, deep heat and keep ramming until I drown Kadaj’s come with my own but I ain’t keen on messing this up or disappointing Yazoo in any way. I have to stay controlled for him so he can ride me like he wanted because that’s what I want too. I want to make my brother happy more than anything.

Seems like I’m winning with that. He leans forward and pushes down on my male root, joyfully letting his hips spiral in small circular motions. Seeing him brimming with contentment makes my heart happy as well. Among other, lower, parts of me. While he pleasures the two of us with his practised pelvic movements, there is a dreamy air of delight about him and his eyes are half-shut and unfocused, almost like he’s drugged or very, very drunk. I’ve never seen him this way but it must be how he looks during sex, when he’s immersed in physical ecstasy and nothing else matters except the endorphins flooding through his bloodstream, elevating him to an almost altered state of being. It’s as though there’s white light emanating from within him. He radiates. He shimmers. He glows, just like the pale angel he is.

Seeing exactly what I’m seeing, Kadaj breathes, “Gods, Yazoo. You are so gorgeous like this.” Cupping Yazoo’s cheek with one hand, he turns our second sibling towards him. Yazoo lets his eyes drift shut while Kadaj kisses him on the temple, the gently-given gesture filled with worshipful adoration and respect, as though Yazoo is something extremely precious and irreplaceable, and then our teenage brother courteously sits back once more to watch us together. I’m also watching us together...well, more watching Yazoo, anyway; cradling his hips with both my hands and gazing reverentially at this enchanting, elf-like creature swaying above me, flowing platinum tresses surrounding his serene face like a halo.

Though he’s resting all the weight of his six-foot tall figure on my body, Yazoo is delicately light on top of me, as if he’s no heavier than a leaf, and it is this fine-boned weightlessness which makes it easy for me to lift him with one arm and throw him up high when he’s aerially attacking someone. He’s magnificent to witness in battle. As he strikes, blocks and ducks he’s extraordinarily quick and agile, like a hummingbird, moving that fast you almost can’t see him do it. And like Kadaj mentioned, he has ultra-flexibility. When he does a round-house kick he bends at the waist so much that his hair sweeps the ground. He’s a fantastic fighter and a formidable opponent but because he’s so femininely-featured and girlish-looking, people greatly underestimate him. They’re astounded to feel the power of his blows when he’s hitting them. Sure, there’s a womanly slenderness to his shape but Yazoo is way stronger than he appears. I know that all too well since I’ve been bruised by some of those blows when we spar with each other in our training room. He’s given me a couple of black eyes and bloody noses; even split my lip open once. All those hours of target practice holding a heavy gun steady has had quite an effect on his arms which are much bigger and more muscled than a chick’s and probably the manliest thing about him.

But he’s not beating me up today. Rather the opposite. He’s making slow, drowsy love to me and all my six senses are in heaven. As he’s rocking lazily back and forth he’s got his hands splayed on my chest, balancing himself, and I slip my fingers around the side of his forearms, sliding them upward over his elbows and exploring the tautness of his triceps. They’re impressively hard. He’s got visible veins along the inner surfaces of his arms, lying just under the skin, and I track one of them down to where it disappears into the creased line between his wrist and the heel of his palm. I hold my fingers there against that blue branch, just to feel his pulse, thrilled with how swift and irregular it is. Yazoo might look like he’s half asleep but his life-force is rushing vigorously through him, confirming that he is as sexually switched-on as me; he just has a different way of showing it.

Recalling what Kadaj said about Yazoo liking his nipples touched, I bring my hands up the side of his ribs, rubbing the tiny pink peaks and lightly cinching them with my nails, just enough to make them contract and him hum responsively in his throat. In my mind, I’ve often imagined removing his calf-length dress coat, easing it off his shoulders to feast my eyes on the unblemished skin underneath. He’s so modestly proper with the way he clothes himself, covering everything except his face, not even showing a hint of neck, and I’ve often imagined taking hold of the zipper tab under his chin and ripping it down, all the way to his belly button, just to see how he’d react. No doubt if I’d done that it would have resulted in me rolling on the floor holding my injured balls but I don’t have to imagine undressing Yazoo anymore, by force or not. He’s right here in front of me in all his creamy-skinned naturalness and he doesn’t care that I’m staring at him, drinking in every detail of his superbly formed body as if he’s a marble sculpture in an art gallery. Not that I’ve ever gone to an art gallery or even had the inclination to. Why would I when I have all this glorious beauty around me every single day?

Except now I get to touch as well as look.

I slide my left palm down along his flat chest and compactly-muscled stomach, past his navel to the gunmetal-grey fur low on his abdomen. I run my finger-pads along the proud length of his arousal, around the tip and underside and then returning to the tip again, glossing it in his clear secretions. As I’m doing that, his head tips back and then languidly rolls from side to side, the shining sheet of his hair swinging luxuriously, the fine front sections trailing over his collarbones and past his nipples while the mass of it drapes straight down his back, the very ends reaching below his shoulder blades. I raise my right hand to the long pearly threads, combing reverently through them. They’re as soft as the satin bedcovers I’m lying on. To state the bleedin’ obvious; I like Yazoo’s hair. A whole bunch. It’s one of my most favourite things about him and if he ever trimmed it short I’d be devastated and burst into tears upon first sight.

“Don’t ever cut this off, Yaz,” I mutter, stroking the silkiness of it again. “Ever. Or I’ll kick your ass. You got that?”

He sighs his agreement and nuzzles his cheek against my hand, responding much like a kitten being petted. I reckon there is some jungle cat DNA in him, I really do. Not just because of the green slit-eyes but how he moves, running and jumping with such a light, sure-footed felineness, as well as the peculiar way he looks at things, his head tilting sideways in curiosity, the long stares and slow blinks. Cats do that. I’ve seen them. Thinking of my twenty-one year old sibling as part white tiger or snow leopard is strange but oddly fitting somehow and I pat him a bit more, sliding my hand behind the warm weight of his hair and softly massaging the sensitive back of his neck, hoping to make him purr. All I get is another sighing murmur but that’s close enough and I smile, loving my sleek silver kitty. My pretty pet. I wonder if he’ll wear a collar for me if I give him one. I curve my hand around the front of his throat, imagining it on him –- black leather, of course, with metal spikes -- and the thought of him wearing it and nothing else is so damn hot I have to lift off the bed and grind my hips against him, feeling his quiet moan resonating under my palm. This is how he had his fingers on my neck earlier, after I hit him, except I’m not squeezing tight enough to crush his windpipe. I could, though. He might be as dangerous and deadly as a pit full of vipers but guess what?

So am I.

Sometimes he forgets that. Not now though. I tighten my grasp a bit more and feel him swallow, but he doesn’t push my arm aside. Holding my second youngest brother in such a vulnerable position and not having him struggle in the slightest turns me on, my dominant side surfacing in the face of his utter submissiveness. I keep my fingers firmly in place, feeling the artery throbbing in his throat. I think he likes it, being reminded of my power, of the dark and dreadful savagery that lies coiled inside me, like an easily-triggered spring. He’s witnessed that savagery being unleashed upon the world so he knows how destructive it can be but he sits there so trustingly, letting me seize him around the neck, even though I could kill him just by clenching my fist. He trusts me with his life and that gives me a rush. That does it for me more than the idea of him in an animal collar and I thrust up into him a little harder, his resultant moaning vibrating right down my arm. I shift my other hand from his leaking erectness to his half-open mouth and rub roughly across those lush lips, receiving quick licks and eager nibbles upon my fingertips as he unflinchingly tastes his own slickness. I delve past those lips and into his warmly welcoming mouth, his tongue greeting me with wet, wanton strokes, swirling around my index and middle fingers and probing between them with a blatant suggestiveness that gets my engine revving.

Besides his hair, my next favourite thing about Yazoo is his Godsdamn beautiful mouth. It looks appealingly kissable whether he’s smiling or sad, pouting or pissed off, not that the last one occurs very often. With it wrapped around my fingers it looks even more appealing and I’m so gonna make him suck me next time we get naked together. He was willing to earlier this morning but I messed it up by not having more command over myself and my body’s responses. Won’t happen again. Next time, I’m gonna let him orally please me for as long as he desires and then I’m gonna spill in his mouth when I’m good and ready.

But that’s next time. Today, I’m going with the flow and letting my brothers decide what happens. They’re more experienced than me anyway. They know what’s best so I take my hands out of Yazoo’s mouth and away from his neck, lying back on the bed. I’m quite content to gaze at him sitting on top of me, undulating his hips in slow-motion, eyes closed in pleasurable tranquillity while he absent-mindedly chews his moist, slightly-swollen lower lip. I know he’s using me for my body like I’m a life-size sex toy, an inflatable man-doll, but I don’t feel degraded in the least. Hell, he can use me all day if he likes. I’ll just lie here happily and watch him.


***

A/N: Yeah, yeah. I know. I ended it. Send hate mail to rina762003@hotmail.com :P Sorry folks, but a chapter DOES have to end somewhere! That's kind of the point of a chapter - that it leads onto the next one.

...which you'll be pleased to know I'm currently working on and will post as soon as is humanly possible. It won't be a month. I swear on Mother's head, it won't!