Authors' Note: We thought that instead of our usual smut, we should write some lovely, thoughtful, sensitive reflections on the Loveliness Which Is Vin from the pov of everyone's favorite OFC, "Mary Sue." And then we came to our senses and said "Naaaaaahh...." and wrote these, instead.
He could play with it for hours, but he knew it would be erect for only a few all to brief moments. He never knew what it was that caused it to stir feelings deep inside his loins. But whenever he thought of Chris, it rose up and touched his stomach.It was thick, and lengthened when fully erect. It was soft now, but semi-erect even in the afterglow of ejaculation. It was heavily veined, but never scraped or bruised or caused any pain to it's lover. It never transmitted any diseases, yet spilled volumes when climaxing. It never forced itself on it's lover, but lassoed him in and gently responded to being held in a melodic stroking embrace.
His dick. It spread it's seed on the sheets, on the pillow and in his lover.
She could detect it 20 feet away, and she knew she if she moved closer it would only be worse. She didn't want to know what caused it; that filthy leather coat he never took off, the sweat that collected under that coat when he wore it when it was 105 degrees outside, or maybe the fact that a simple word like "bath" could strike terror in his noble, if odiferous, heart. Whatever it was, it made her eyes water.A hint of leather, not unlike the being downwind from a slaughterhouse. Musky, yet pungent, it rose cloudlike above the cloying, yet manly scents of Ezra's cologne, Chris's alcoholic breath, JD's grease-soaked hair and Buck's flatulence, making his presence known even though her eyes could not detect him through the aura of cigarette smoke from Chris's cheroot that engulfed him. Did they have to sit that close to each other?
His smell. It permeated the room and seeped into her every pore. Pinching her nostrils together, she allowed her heart to direct her thoughts for the untamed, unfettered, unwashed magnificence that exuded from him along with the aromatic miasma of horse manure . . .
Chris Larabee could have him.
She could looked at it for hours, its hair's swaying in the gentle breeze of his inhalations. She never knew what it was that caused this fascination but it stirred something deep; deep in her soul. Whenever she heard the honk of the nose being blown, it touched her; deep, deep in her soul.It was low, yet throaty in timbre. It was phlegmish, yet carried above the loudest hack. It was snotty, yet never dripped or caused any splatter. It carried disease, spreading flu germs on air of a sneeze. It never compelled her to touch or lick it, yet she could help be propelled to pick it.
His nose. Its honking melody echoed in her ears and in her heart and deep; deep in her soul.
His armpit. She could look at it for hours, but she knew she would see it for only a few brief minutes, as he lifted his arm to bid her adieu.The scent of it clung to her, that unique smell of unwashed bodies, too long in the sun.
She resisted the urge to sniff it, content instead to let the stench surround her, smiling through the tears that the odor brought to her eyes.
His armpit. It stank. Kind of like the rest of her poems.
That toe, that big toe. She could see how it wore down the leather of his boot, wanting to break free of its tight, yet supple confines. It would lead the way in his life. The first part of him to go anywhere, following his destiny. Not letting anyone step on his brothers.It tested the waters he entered, assuring his safety. It would not let him be chilled by life’s cold truths, or its too cool rivers. She watched as his big toe sent those waters rippling, touching all things at once. There was nothing that that big toe did not sense or affect.
It provided balance in his life. Without it he would trip and fall. It allowed him to run and be free, participate in all life’s activities with full confidence.
She longed to suck that big toe, for she knew that its nail and cuticle were neat and trimmed. She saw no toe-jam that would spoil its flavor. And the size of it… she knew how big that toe was, what it meant. She was no stranger to men’s feet. If only….
If only that big toe wasn’t already playing footsie with another.
She could watch his digits for hours, but she feared she would never feel the tender caresses of their calloused pads. She knew what it was that caused them to stir something deep in her loins; it happened every time she watched them adjust his package beneath the soft, worn buckskin of his trousers.His fingers were long, yet tapered. They were usually grimy and smelled of horse and things worse she couldn't even imagine. Often she wondered just what that dark stuff was beneath their ragged nails and shuddered to think of where they had been. They were dexterous and quick, grasping and unloading his gun in a split moment of time. They were scratched and bruised and often in pain. Best of all, there were ten of them and no missing tips.
They never forced themselves on her or lassoed her in their iron grip, despite her flagrant attempts to be caught in their mighty embrace.
His fingers. The pop of their cracked knuckles echoed in her ears and in her heart and in her soul.
She could watch it for hours, but knew she would catch only the briefest glimpses of it as it darted between his wind-chapped lips. She never knew what is was that caused his tongue to stir something deep in her soul. But whenever he flicked some spittle with it, it touched her.It was long, yet not too thin. It was soft, yet could lap up the spiciest of grub. It was raspy, yet never scraped or bruised or caused any pain. It never transmitted many words, yet rolled the few it uttered through a thick Texas twang that suffered from little education and a slight lisp. On the rare occasions it spewed sappy poetry, she felt her soul meld with his own.
It never forced itself into her eager mouth, although she yearned for it to lasso her and gently hold her in its slick, undulating embrace.
His tongue. She wished it would slip into her ears and her mouth and her....
She had her suspicions as to where that tongue was spending its time. She wanted to cut that wet, talented organ from his mouth and hand it to Chris Larabee on a silver platter.
His puckered oval, rubbery, ruby red, and pliable. She imagines it opening with excitement. She could see it in her mind, reacting with desire.He always turns away from her, showing her his back. She thinks it's his way of letting her see the object of her desire. It's not. What would that tight ring feel like? Would he impale himself on her fingers? She wishes for it, but even she knows . . .
Never. She'll never see it, never know it, it's only for the other to see and feel.
That other.
That damn blond man in black.
She long to peer at it but knew it would never be. That damned buckskinned coat was always covering it. She would have to use her limited imagination to figure out what it looked like. Maybe like a button or perhaps book. Yes her imagination was limited but she had everyone convinced it was infinite.She long to run her hand over the surface of his stomach and dip her finger into his perfect navel, but alas it would never be. Only one person was permitted to see it and it wasn't her.
She could stare at his perfect ears for eons. To her they looked like pretty pink shells. She knew if she put her ear next to his she would hear the ocean. She watched as he ran his fingers along his pointed ears.Pointed ears? She looked again and realized they were pointed and that he was no longer dressed in buckskins but a Starfleet uniform. Oh well, she shrugged, whether they were pointed or not they would never be hers. But she could dream.
She longed to be the one to make it quiver, but she knew it would never be.Those damned buckskinned pants were always covering the entrance to its home. She tried to imagine what he looked like as the magic part of his body was hit just right. Maybe his eyes lit up like candles, maybe like the flame of a match. Oh, yes, she imagined, for that was all she could do, her body lassoed by its sex.
How she longed to push something in there, be the one to make him squirm and writhe, but alas it was never to be. Only one person had that appendage; that appendage that fitted just right. Alas it wasn't she that made him tremble; it wasn't she that made him swoon, it was a blond man that made love to her hero, under the light of the full moon.
She could watch them for hours through the peephole she'd drilled in the men's room wall. She never knew what it was about them that caused her to drool when she saw them. Maybe it was knowing whose hands were always all over them.They were round, but they never bounced. They were soft, but they were firm like overripe melons, just a little squishy when he squeezed them. They were perfect machines, but they never parted to expel noxious gasses.
His butt cheeks. The perfect feast for Chris Larabee's mouth.
His blood when it was spilled left a terrible stain on his clothes. Added to all the other stains, dripping down on his toes.She longed to clean his woefully stained shirt but knew it would never be. For these two strong virile he men stained it nightly with all that semen.
But they didn't care, if it meant it would be pleasing. Vin couldn't take much more teasing. But then again, if it was from Chris, he could get his blood steaming. Soon in his pants he'd be creaming. He knew Chris would stop the blood from streaming And fuck him till he thought he was dreaming.
His Blood. All from too much reaming.
Oh, how she longed to be the one to milk him, to drain him of his milky white seed. She imagined her lips sucking, as they bled the juices to quench her desire. But his honey was reserved for another, only he could make that cup runneth over.Only he could lasso that organ and pump the fluid from it's base. Only he could drink the elixir, that would drip from the corners of his face.
His semen . . . only he would drink the nectar of the God.