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"Song to the Siren"
Title: Song to the Siren
Warnings: Language and sexuality
Disclaimer: I have tried to be somewhat true to the facts regarding most of Mike Nesmith's
life, but Ellen is obviously not a real person. No offense meant to the memory of Mike's REAL
life wife. This was just the only way I could do the crossover story I wanted to do.
Summary: This part takes place some time in 1968 a few months after the whole Nurit Wilde thing. Mike's wife has come back home but things are still not so rosey in the Nesmith household.
Note: A continuation from the previous part but quite a way down the line.
He stood in the bedroom doorway, watching her. The near-constant lightning illuminated her sleeping form almost as well as daylight, showing clearly the lovely face and the impossibly long red hair against the bright, white satin pillow. She was so beautiful, and it had been so long - still he hesitated at the threshold. He hadn't dared set foot in this room for months. He hadn't WANTED to after she'd left, and now that she had returned...well, she had made it pretty obvious that he still wasn't welcome. She had come back, but she hadn't forgiven him. Maybe she never would.
Suddenly, thunder shook the windows, and he heard an unmistakable whimper from the bed. It reminded him why he was here in the first place. Ellen hated and feared thunderstorms. It was almost like a phobia. Surely she wouldn't want to be alone on a night like this. The least he could do was offer her the comfort of his presence (or anything else she might ask for). "Face it," he told himself, "you've got something you want to give her, but it sure as hell isn't comfort."
He knew he should be ashamed of himself for using her fear to get close to her, but by now, he was desperate. He would do almost ANYTHING just to touch her, hold her. It had been a long day though, and he was much too tired for yet another fight. Maybe it was best if he saved the battle for later, MUCH later, like maybe next week.
He was just about to give up and head for what seemed like his gazillionth cold shower and the lumpy bed in the guest room when he heard her call his name. Still, he hesitated - had he imagined it? No, there it was a second time.
He crossed the large, elegant room which had been lovingly furnished with his wife's impeccable taste toward the king-sized four poster which until recently had been their bed. He looked down at her and found to his amazement that she was still asleep. It was by no means, peaceful though. She was restless, appeared frightened, the effects of the storm apparently spilling over into whatever dream she was having. He heard his name come from those sweet lips once more, and it decided him. She needed him (too bad she couldn't admit to that when she was awake). He would just lay with her, hold her, get her through the storm, and that would be enough; he wouldn't expect anything more.
He raised the covers, slid his lanky frame underneath, curled up behind her, and wrapped his sinewy arms around her middle. She seemed to calm instantly. Her breathing slowed, and she stopped moving, settling into what seemed to be a deeper, more natural sleep.
"Well that makes ONE of us," he thought. This was much more difficult than he'd imagined it would be. Her skin rivaled the satin sheets they were laying on, and she smelled wonderful. He was pleased to notice that she still wore that rose-scented cologne he loved so much. He wanted to bury his face against her long, white neck until he was enveloped in it. It drove him crazy.
All at once, making matters infinitely worse, she shifted in his arms, settled further back against him in her sleep. The effect was instantaneous, an electric shock straight to his groin. "I can't...fuck, I HAVE to." He'd just touch her, that's all. She was asleep anyway; she'd never know. He leaned his head forward, nuzzled her neck gently, filling his senses with the sweet aroma of roses. She sighed softly, and taking that as encouragement, he grew bolder, slid a hand tentatively to her right breast. She was wearing one of his favorite silk nightgowns, and the sheer, gossamer fabric offered little interference to his seeking fingers. He could easily feel the luscious nipple, already hardening beneath his attentions. Did he dare go further? Was there really any doubt?
He abandoned her breast, inched his fingers slowly, ever so slowly over one, long, toned leg and back up to her ass, hovering on her hip in one last bout with his conscience before gliding to her inner thigh. He stroked it briefly in tiny circles, earning one, quick, gratifying moan from her. It was now or never. Why the hell not? Wasn't it easier to ask forgiveness than permission anyway? His hand fluttered downward; he was just about to reach for the prize, but then all at once, without warning, he felt her stiffen in his arms.
She was awake now. He froze immediately. He didn't handle rejection well. Normally, by this point, he would have already taken his wounded pride and fled the room like a dog with its tail between its legs, but a raging erection has a way of clouding even the smartest, toughest man's judgement. All pride had left the building, and any shame with it. He found himself begging her like a child asking for a treat. "Baby please."
No dice. She was like a statue in his embrace. That was when the Nesmith temper flared with amazing suddeness. He'd turned himself into a whining toddler, competely humiliated himself for nothing. "For fuck's sake Ellie, how long are you going to do this? How long are you going to keep punishing me?"
"That has nothing to do with it."
"Oh I think it has EVERYTHING to do with it. What other reason could there be? It's been MONTHS!"
She retreated to the very edge of the bed away from him. "Michael, I refuse to fight about this again tonight. Just go and leave me alone."
When she was really angry, she had a way of exaggerating her already refined British accent until she sounded like a schoolmaster lecturing a Liverpudlian scouser. It was patronizing, and he hated it.
"Damn it, this is my room too, and last time I checked you were still my wife, I'll leave when I'm fucking good and ready!"
"Michael, the children!"
Christian and Jonathan - she was right. He wouldn't want to wake them. Besides, this macho bullshit was only pushing her further away.
He reached for her hands, held them tightly until she surrendered. "Look, what I did was inexcusable; it was horrible, one of the worst things you can possibly do, I know that, but even YOU have to admit that I'm trying. I've done everything I can to show you how sorry I am."
"I don't want to talk about this."
"I NEED to talk about it, ok?" He sought her eyes, pleaded, "Baby ya gotta believe me - I love you, and I would NEVER hurt you like that again!"
"That's all well and good, but what I really want to know is why you did it in the first place. Can you tell me that, Michael? I moved three thousand miles to another CONTINENT, left EVERYTHING for you, my home, my family, my friends, my job...wasn't that enough? What more could you want from me?"
"Nothing, Babe. You're all I ever dreamed of." He grew silent for a moment, considering. "Maybe that's the problem."
"I don't understand."
"I've never had much luck with women; you know that. Hell, there was this dance at high school once, and I had to ask 12 different girls before I got one to go with me. Marrying YOU was like the geek gettin' the prom queen or Cyrano scoring with Roxanne."
"You're not in high school anymore. You're not a geek either - you're a LOT better looking than Cyrano. You're also brilliant, funny, and talented. And that doesn't even take into account the fact that you also happen to be pretty damn terrific in bed."
He blushed momentarily at the compliments. "I hear what you're saying, I really do, but there's a part of me who still doesn't believe it, who still feels like the loser who can't get a date. It doesn't help matters any that practically every guy who sees you tries to hit on you. Some have done it right in front of me, KNOWING that you're my wife. Do you have any idea how that can screw with your head? They wouldn't fucking do that if you were married to somebody like Davy. It's like I'm Quasimodo."
"So what you're saying is that you needed a little extra assurance, someone to stroke that fragile male ego, make you feel like a man." Her voice dripped with the snarky sarcasm she had undoubtedly learned in part from Lennon.
He couldn't deny the truth of her words though, "cheeky" as they might be. He thought about it. "Yeah, I guess that's just about it in a nutshell. Thanks, now I REALLY feel like a dumb ass. Hell, I'm a walking cliche!"
His self-deprecation was one of his best features, and one of the things he knew she liked best about him. Score one for the home team - she actually laughed. It was the first time he'd heard her do that in ages. He lifted a hand to her face, stroked her cheek gently. "I love you so much, Ellie. Can't we start over? Can't you give me another chance?"
"I don't know. I want to, I really do, but I'm not sure I can."
Mike thought back to the beginning of their relationship. HE'D been the other then. Ellen had been involved with John for two years before they met. Still, he had pushed her to give him up for good almost immediately, had unceremoniously removed her from his life when she didn't do it fast enough for him. He'd practically made her crawl before taking her back, making her his wife at last. "Karma's a bitch," he thought. He was getting what he'd done to HER back in spades. At least she hadn't DUMPED him, not yet anyway. Maybe it was only a matter of time. He had to know.
"Ellen, are you gonna leave me? If you are, I'd rather ya just do it now and get it over with."
He was known for being honest, blunt, almost brutally so, but she hadn't expected THAT. She didn't know what to say. She still loved him almost as much as ever, and she'd missed him terribly, but his betrayal seemed to hang between them like a wall. Every time he tried to so much as TOUCH her, she just froze, hating the thought of it nearly as much as she desired it. She flushed as an immediate, sharp jolt of lust invaded her very center. It seemed her BODY was only too willing to admit how much she still wanted him. She realized suddenly that that was why she'd been so desperate to keep him away from her. Though she fought it, if he pressed the issue, she would probably surrender in the end.
But would that be such a bad thing? He was her husband, and she loved him. Besides, he was right - if they couldn't make it work, it was best to discover it now. And what better way was there to find out? When he made love to her, she'd be sure; she would know. "Michael..."
He'd been sitting patiently, awaiting an answer. He scanned her face with those soulful, chocolate brown eyes, but he didn't move. Ellen reached out a hand to caress his cheek, then ran it gently through his beautiful, thick, raven hair. How long had it been since she'd touched him like this? How long had it been since she'd touched him at ALL? TOO long. Obviously, he agreed. He slid closer to her on the bed, just this slightest bit of affection encouraging him to be bolder, a bit more agressive. He took her in his arms, held her close, whispered her name against her ear, but not Ellen, not Ellie; this time, he uttered her middle name, the one he had adopted as a sort of endearment that he saved just for occasions like this. "Marie, my sweet Marie."
His lips were at her neck, nuzzling, raining down the slightest, most gentle of kisses. She moaned softly. He used it as his cue to continue, taking her head in his hand and tilting it toward his own, finding her mouth, warm, willing.
She gasped as his tongue sought hers, teased it, tasted it. He was so good at this! She kissed him back, relishing his surprised cry of pleasure when she licked his bottom lip, nipped it. His fingers were at the straps of her nightgown now, sliding them down until the silk pooled around her waist and he'd exposed her breasts to his skilled, eager hands. He cupped them, massaged them, just barely grazing the nipples until it drove her crazy, and she was desperate for his touch. He made circles over them with his calloused, guitarist's thumbs, created a delicious friction, a fire within her that reached all the way to her toes. She arched back, cried out, when his mouth replaced his hands, leaving them free to wander to her hips, slide her nightgown the rest of the way down her body. He tossed it aside as he gave each breast individual attention, licking, sucking greedily, nibbling, biting gently with his teeth.
It seemed to go on forever, and yet not nearly long enough. She was slightly disappointed when he abandoned the task, choosing instead to stretch out his long body on top of hers, stroking her hair. He loved to do this, get her all worked up then stop just long enough to raise the anticipation level even further until she was ready to beg. Through it all he would remain as ever, calm, controlled. If the considerable erection she could feel against her hip was any indication, though, he was just as hungry for her as she was for him. She reached for it, (God, if she didn't know better, she'd swear he'd somehow gotten even larger than she remembered!) stroked him over the linen of his pajama bottoms.
He groaned, rushed to reciprocate, using a well-placed knee to part her thighs to make way for one large, strong hand. He caressed her through her panties, teased her, slipping a finger beneath the fabric from time to time, then quickly removing it until she was almost delerious with need.
"God, you can be such a sadistic bastard!"
He slid a hand under the waistband and tweaked her pubic hair, edging a finger, closer, ever closer to her wet, quivering lips.
"Poor Baby, is this what you want?"
She moaned desperately in reply.
"I didn't quite get that...say again?"
She knew how to end this. She snaked a hand beneath his pajamas. They were loose, and he wore no underwear with them, so she had full access. She made ample use of that fact, explored every inch of him, massaged, stroked him until he groaned, then just as abruptly, stopped, waiting.
"You win; just keep doin' what you're doing." He coaxed her lips open and slid a finger into her, then two, three, curling them upward to find that one magical spot. He was squeezing now with his hand, while one long, expert finger assaulted her clit mercilessly. God, it was good! He could make her cum in less than five minutes when he wanted to, when he wasn't getting off on teasing her that is. He wouldn't dare do that now though, not while she was still working him. Hell, judging by the sounds he was making, he was about to cum himself. That would be a first. He could hold out longer than she'd thought was humanly possible, sometimes for HOURS until he'd fucked her in just about every way she COULD be fucked and given her countless orgasms. Just once she would love to make him lose control, tip him over the edge first.
She increased her pace, squeezed him as she stroked until he faltered in his attentions to her just long enough for her to wriggle away from him and slide down his body, taking his pajama bottoms with her, so that she could free that amazing cock, feast upon it thoroughly, not missing a single inch. She started at the base and worked her way up like an ice cream cone until she got to the oh-so sensitive head, taking her time, loving his increasingly louder moans of pleasure. By now he was slick, wet, and throbbing, but he always made sure he got her there first; he would continue to hold on...unless....
She worked her way over him until she was deep throating him. She'd never attempted to do this with him before; his size had intimidated her. Even now she wasn't sure she could take it all in. Somehow she managed, and was rewarded with a very audible groan of appreciation.
"Sweet merciful heavens!"
She would have laughed had she not had her mouth full - that expression was so...Mike. Concentrate. She fondled his balls as she worked him, let the tip of him graze the back of her throat until she could tell that his release was imminent, then to his obvious shock, she let him slip out.
"Ellen, what...? Holy fuck!"
She straddled him quickly, impaled herself, and tightned her muscles upon him like a vice. That was all it took. He erupted within her with a Texas-sized whelp of gratitude and pulled her close to lie against his chest.
"THAT was pretty damn terrifc."
"I finally did it - I finally made you lose it."
He chuckled, pulled her up to him for a kiss. "Don't be gettin' too cocky just yet. It's your turn next." His hands curled in her long, waist-length hair, kneeded her back, her buttocks while his mouth continued to explore hers, long, languid kisses, that soon had her purring like a cat. In what seemed like record time, he was hard again already, positioning her beneath him, filling her.
Why had she denied them both this pleasure for so long? At any rate, he seemed determined to make up for lost time. He had an unerring gift for positioning himself so that the head of his penis found the sweet spot with every thrust, and he made full use of it, bringing her to multiple orgasms within what felt like only minutes. It could have been hours - she had no idea. She lost all track of time or place; she was totally oblivious to everything except the amazing sensations he was evoking from her body. It seemed she could never have enough-each climax only made her more desperate for the next one. Her long legs went around his waist, pulled him even deeper into her as his thrusts became harder, faster. God she was going to be raw when this was over.
"More Michael, MORE!"
"Sweet jesus, darlin'; you're killin' me."
He slipped a hand down between their feverish, sweat-soaked bodies, found her opening, and went for her clit, stroking it in time to his thrusts which had become slower, almost casual. He went further each time, almost pulling himself out of her entirely before ramming himself home again and again. If anything, this was even better than the frenzied coupling of a few minutes before, such delightful torture.
The thumb on her clit became more insistent, his thrusts more hurried as he too got closer to the peak. She could almost feel him strain to hold on so that they could cum together.
"Now, Darlin' now."
She whimpered like a child as one final orgasm tore through her body, heard his cries of ecstasy as he joined her. It seemed to last forever. For several minutes afterward she could only tremble in his arms. He kissed her sweetly, brushed her hair from her face. "I take it I won't be sleepin' in the guest room tonight."
All at once the unmistakable wailing of a child competed with the sounds of thunder.
"Jonathan's ready for his night time feeding."
"I'll get him, Babe."
He cleaned up briefly in the adjoining bathroom, replaced his pajama bottoms and headed down the hall. By the time he returned she had done the same.
"Here he is, Mamma. With the weather and all, I thought he might like to go back to sleep with us."
Soon, their son was nestled between them, deep in dreams once more. "You know, I think I could learn to like thunderstorms."