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This page last viewed: 2017-08-17 and has been viewed 1958 times
Rating: NC-17 for sexual content and language
Pairing: Murdock and Face
Summary: Murdock talks about . . . well, water like the title says.
Disclaimers: I own nothing, nothing, nothing. It would be less then useless to sue poor lil’ ol’ me.
Authors notes: Not bete’d. Just something I thought of while it’s raining here and I felt like crap. Weird of me I know. Feedback is greatly welcomed.
Guess everybody starts out the same. You live in your mother’s stomach in a fluid for the first nine months. Water surrounds you, holds you suspended in a small space, your whole lil’ world as far you’re concerned. It warms you, gives you substance. You move in the water, every flex and stretch is caressed by mother’s water. It’s all you know.
And then one day, the water is gone. Vanished. Then you’re pushed through a tight long space and thrust into a bright light, screaming and wailing. You’re born and the rest of your existence is spent with one form of liquid or another. Mother’s milk, cow’s milk, tea, coffee, booze. It’s all got the same ingredient. Water. It’s one of the things you need to survive this whole cruel world. Without it, it’s all you can think about. All you crave. All you dream about. Without you can die.
I think that my first memory is about water. Mama giving me a bath. I was about two or three years old, I think. The water was warm and sudsy. The bubbles tasted funny and Mama laughed when I tasted it. I think it was my first funny face. I liked to listen to Mama’s laugh. It was music for my soul. There was also tiny boats that floated and a little yellow rubber ducky. It squeaked when I squeezed it.
My next fond memory was when I was about six or so. Mama was long gone by then, but I had Grandma and Grandpa then. They were great, but we lived a hard life working a farm. All I had was school and chores. Not much time for friends or fun. But, chores could be fun sometimes. Working besides Grandma in the kitchen garden, pulling weeds in the hot sun and listening to her talk about the old days and about Mama. I learned my whole lineage during long, hot summer days; all the way back to the cave man days I can imagine. I learned about people who lived long ago, about relatives I’ll never meet, about the land I now lived on, and how much better we have it now then in the olden days. We might not have an indoor air conditioner, but at least we have indoor plumbing.
Which brings me back to my next memory. I was thirsty and no one was about. The old ladder-back chair made a hard grating sound when I dragged it across the linoleum to the kitchen sink. I climbed up but I was still too short. I managed to hook my stomach over the sink counter and reached for the faucet. Turning on the tab, I put my mouth right under the spigot. The counter dug into my tummy and I was hanging in midair, gripping the faucet with one hand, the other hand gripping the hard counter. The water was cold and sweet; well water, the best there is. At least is seems that way when you’re six. I let the flowing water dance around my lapping tongue. I drank until my small tummy was about to burst and then drank some more. It wouldn’t be the last time I drank straight out of the tap.
I remember telling you how often I did that. Man, your face was priceless when I told you that it was the greatest tasting water in the world. You couldn’t believe that I did something like that. Growing up in an orphanage must not’ve given you much of a chance to act like a kid.
I remember the dipper in an old metal wash tub. Grandpa filled up that old tub and carried it out to a shade in the garden. It would sit there all afternoon while we tended to the plants. The sun shone hot on our heads as all three of us pulled weeds or gathered the crops. That water sure did feel good going down our parched throats. I remembered the faint metallic taste of that old, battered dipper. It was older then old, beat up and scratched, pitted with age. But Grandma wouldn’t hear about having it replaced. It’d been her family’s dipper when she was a little girl. Just because something was old, didn’t mean it was ready for the scrap heap. As long as it held water, it was still useful. Leastwise, that’s what she always said. Far as I know, that dipper’s in someone else’s family, serving as a cold lifesaver on hot summer days.
‘Nother good memory was fishing in the creek a few miles from the farm. Me and Grandpa headed down there most days in the summer, right after finishing the chores. I carried the sack lunch Grandma made and he carried the store bought soda pops in the glass bottles. He’d put them in a bucket and tie it the bow of the boat as soon as we were in the middle of the creek. There they’d sit in the icy cold water to keep chilled as we fished. It was so quiet, so peaceful in the middle of all that water. We’d sit there, fish, eat and drink cold drinks as long as the sun shone. We often watched the sun set out over the water, listening to the songs of the crickets and frogs. It was good times, just him and me. God, I miss those old folks.
I remember the rain down on the farm. We didn’t have any irrigation system back then. Just good ol’ Mother Nature. Or carrying endless buckets of water down those dusty rows if She didn’t feel up to co-operating. Afternoon showers were swift and brief, sometimes petering out before you could run for the cover of the porch. The earthy smell of the country air always smelled sharper, clearer, after a good soaking. Sometimes I even danced in the downpour, making my grandparents laugh at my foolishness. Grandma always pretended to be mad, scolding me and declaring that I’d catch my death with a cold if I didn’t cut it out. But you know, I never so much as caught a sniffle for all of my rain dancing. Sometimes, I’d see a longing glimpse of their eyes. I thought that perhaps they wanted to join me, but considered themselves too old. I would’ve enjoyed the rain even more if they had.
Rain down on the farm is nothing like the rain in
And the humidity, man, that was another thing that had a life of it’s own. It was thick, making you feel like you were wading in quick sand if you just took a quick trip from your tent to the mess hall. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t sleep in that hot, heavy, depressing air.
The water here ain’t no good. You have to boil before you can drink it. Or drop one of those pills in the canteen to kill off all the germs and shit. It always tastes funny. Flat and foul. What I wouldn’t give to have good ol’ American water here in the bush.
I remember the first time we shared a bath, Face. You couldn’t believe that I could spend hours soaking in a tub. To you, a bath was just for washing dirt off in. You didn’t understand how someone could practically live in a tub. You grew up in a place that only had communal showers. I guess orphanages didn’t have the resources to afford bathtubs, mores the pity on that. The dorms in your collage only had showers, too. Then the Army. Still no fun.
You listened in baffled wonder when I described how good it felt to just lie in a steamy hot tub. Water so hot that it had you sweating just from sitting in it for a few minutes. Water so hot that you could feel the rhythm of your heartbeat as the blood pounded through your body. By the time you climbed out, your whole body was limp and boneless, all tension gone. You wanted that for yourself, Face.
So, I gave you your first bath in a hotel room. You’d managed to get us a suite with a big old fashioned claw-footed tub. I think we lived the whole R&R in that magical tub. I scrubbed you, you scrubbed me. Slick hands rubbing in pleasurable places, strong fingers wrapped around each other’s cocks. We made love in that tub, over and over. And over. It must’ve been the cleanest sex we ever had.
I remember the feel of your iron hard cock sweetly stroking inside me. I gripped the sides of the tub, hanging on with pure pleasure as water and cock entered me, giving me life and love. My head was thrown back as you kissed and nibbled my long neck, one of your arms on my hips, guiding the pounding rhythm and the other hand busy with my hard erection. The sounds of our cries drowned out the sounds of the spilling water sloshing over the side of the tub. And we didn’t even have to go far to clean ourselves of our spent passions. Just rinsed off and climbed straight into bed, still wet, clinging to each other as we drifted off to sleep.
And now, in this fucking awful cage, water is all I want, all I desire. I’d give my soul for a sip of cold water. Cold, refreshing water. Lifesaving water.
It’s too hot here, too suffocating.
“What’s the fool mutterin’ ‘bout now, Ray?”
“He needs water. And Face. He’s bad off, B.A. Don’t know how long they kept water from him.”
“Well, give ‘em some now. Ain’t got much, but he needs it more’n we do.”
“I’m tryin’, B.A. But he won’t open up enough to get any down him. We need Face. He’ll get ‘em to drink.”
“Face got three days in the hole for giving lip to that guard. He won’t be back til tomorrow. Think the fool’ll last that long?”
“I hope so, B.A. I hope so.”
P.S. I feel much better now.
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