"What are you doing, young lady?" It's not an everyday thing, you know. I promise that it isn't; it would really be comic if it were. Something totally innocent, you understand. Nothing criminal; nothing that warrants this. And still, still, magically, there's just... That. It's like opening the fridge and finding Gandhi there. What do you do when there's some Indian dude in a diaper cradling a cabbage ornamented with Louis Armstrong's face, its thickly furrowed leaves strumming a Spanish guitar, serenading you with a narcocorrido? Exactly. There really is no answer.
And still, here we are. Not with Gandhi in the fridge, but there's a syrupy steeping stillness, and it's enameled itself on every inch, and the summer's sodden swelter invades, or maybe it's only spring, but the city's not only hot, no, no, no, hot is Antarctica beside this, and there are curling toes and the spine strains and arches and your head is thrown back and you're curtained in hair like thick melting chocolate that's smeared itself through the sweat painted on every inch.
And it's so so so so close. Oh, more than close. You understand, that instant when you're there; fundamentally, essentially, elementally there, and it's only the last few formalities, and the lips are drawn taut in a brutal little snarl and the teeth are bared like a wolf's fangs and your eyes can't even tear themselves open because the lids' weight is just too great. When the door's half-open and you're already poised to invade, and you're already reflecting on where you'll set the plates and the table and you're meditating on furnishings, mmm, mmm, that wallpaper is just not that fantastic, and...
And it's broken.
Suddenly.
A voice.
How. The. Hell. How can there be a voice here? Eyes springing open and the universe is a tangle of hair and breath that should be painted across the eyes like some manga flourish and there're fingers groping and they're still there. Steepled at that communion of thighs and hips and they're more than wet. Drenched. Oh, oh, oh, yes, they are. More than drenched.
Toes trembling.
There are fleeting images; strange phantasmagorical bits of sight and sound and they're more than fantasies. Can it be a fantasy if it's waking, lived, if it flowers through you fucking possesses you? That's what I thought.
It's a divinity.
Beautiful word. Immanence. That's what it is. An immanence; a god animating the flesh, and it's only captured a familiar guise. A beautiful one. He's there; his hands are still there. The kisses' long lingering warmth; the awareness of something only a micron beyond the eyes, eclipsing your sight, the palms cradling your shoulders, lips buried into hair and grazing the nape's faint dimple with electrifying frenzy.
Venus' cleft cradled, adored, adulated with the palms.
Shuddering.
Convulsive.
And it's just gone; vanished banished expunged effaced from this universe and she is there. It isn't to complain about the geometry. Obviously. The round hips and the long long legs and the, well, the hair's lush lavish hugeness. The eyes are absolutely diabolic. That's the word. And they're leering. At. Me.
"W-what the hell do you want?" It's almost archetypal. It's one of the Prophets, you know. Any faith. Unperturbed, tending your fields or meditating in a cavern or tripping your ass off on some exotic constellation of chemistries, and then a Voice thunders from the heavens.
You! Mortal! Listen to me!
And the Mortal is obligingly numbed with terror and incredulity and it's the simple intrusion in this, really, isn't it?
"You're- who the hell are you, anyway?" A labored half-sit up posture. The thick sheets draped with an affectation of modesty over your tits; half-curtaining your legs.
Peer at the cherry-lacquered nails ornamenting toes trembling with it. Breath heaves; once, twice, again and again and again. Why the hell is this woman here? The face is more than diabolic; there's a wicked sneering self-satisfaction in the smile that's a leopard's peering down at you from a limb about a half-inch from your throat, and there's that epiphany.
I have you.
Yes. That's the message.
The eyes are liquid anthracite; the lips are burgundy. The complexion's not only pale but a very artful cadaverousness that's simply colorless. Pallid like bleached cream smeared with freshly-drawn milk and is it obvious yet?
This shouldn't be.
Oh, yeah, and the kimono, of course. The hair like obsidian plunging down to ankle height. The willowy grace in her proportions; the heavy breasts rearing up through the neckline that's more a glimpse of the Grand Canyon.
Wow.
Plump; nipples intuited as faint waxing inklings of peach.
"Why, I'm a goddess, of course."
"Of course you are. And I'm clearly just sleeping off something. Whoa. You know, when Haibara brought over that new, ah, elixir," of the gods, of the divine, oh, yeah, "She said I'd see god, but I reaaaallly expected it when I was still tripping.
"Not now-"
"I'm not that kind of goddess, you loopy stoner schoolgirl." Ah. Aren't we forthright? "Don't you see, my dear?" There's an achingly elegant grace in all of this. A languorous pirouette that's simply musical, chiming with an Anita Ward symphony with her toes' entrancing whisper over the tatami.
It's not a lengthy jaunt; it's a three tsubo apartment. And there's still a sense of eternity in it. Transfixed.
A dog's fervor; riveted to the modest tawny arcs that peer with enchantment above the kimono's lavish silk collar.
"Well, lay it on me, then, goddess-chan-"
"Call me that, and I will bring down Heaven's Wrath on you, darling. Now, now, won't you accord my eyes a glance, dear one?"
"Nah. I'm cool-"
"I'm going to count to three." It's ominous, ain't it? The chirruping insouciance that promises hellfire and electricity coruscating from the fury-stained clouds in their thick drifts.
"And then?"
"One."
"What? I'm serious-"
"Two-"
"Alllll right. In all fairness, if you intrude on some chick petting the kitty and brandishing those tits, you can realistically expect some interest."
"Duly noted, Ayumi-chan."
"Hey, hey, hey, Goddess-chan. Why are you bein' so informal with me?"
"Who's the goddess here, Ayumi-chan? Who's the one who can invite the Wrath of Heaven in roof-splitting violence? Convulsions of thunder? Care for an illustration?"
"Please. Please. Now you have my attention." Well... "'kay, in all fairness, you could've just read the name-plate on my apartment door and just clambered- hey, waitaminute! You look exactly like that sexy older lady that moved in next door-"
"Pay no mind to that. I'm here to deliver a beneficent message of the divine to you, darling." Knelt now with a flair that surpasses human ambition in its elemental somatic artfulness.
"'kay. I'm still really fuckin' high-"
"I noticed. Your pupils don't just look blown; they look like ground-zero at Hiroshima-"
"Still too soon."
"Fine, fine, fine." There is a dazzlingly grandiose poise in her posture, in the hair stirred with long lovely fingers. "But, ah, I come bearing divine tidings."
"Sure. Of what?"
"You should not be doing that."
"Doing what? Petting the kitty? Polishing the pearl? The hell not? It's not as if anyone's doing it for- hey, hey, hey!" Epiphany. "Is this like that porno manga I was reading-"
"Stop reading porno manga! Toss out that crap."
"Why?"
"Because you're a nubile and lovely young woman. Look at those long legs. Those breasts. Those hips. That ass, honey-"
"Well, tell everyone else that. This is a eunuch culture. They'd rather fuck two-dee than even bother with some three-dee."
"What about Haibara?"
"Do I know you?" Squinting now at her.
"I know you. I can peer into your soul." Fingers, fine, long, long, lovely, achingly delicate, lacing through my hair now. "You reek of sex. It's divine. But it's like having a meal alone. What's the beauty in that, even if it's the finest gourmet elegance?"
"Flavor-"
"Uh-uh-uh." It's condescending, that admonition. It's only a micron from one lovely lissome finger being waggled before your nose like a puppy's snout.
So why not lavish it with a kiss?
Quick; a sharp sudden warmth.
And there is awe. Electricity coiling, coruscating through her; a celestial aura conjured, coaxed into being in a breath.
"Mortal! What temerity-"
"What? I couldn't resist it. Mmm... You taste like pussy-"
"That's beside the point. And how would you know? You're not a virgin?"
"Moi?" Enchante? "Clearly not."
"That is what I thought. Oh! But if all are transfixed with their two-dee girls-"
"Haibara-chan, you know. A few others. I never claimed there's nothing, you know-"
"You're just feasting on some solipsistic better-living-through-chemistry one-person lust for want of anything else to do?"
"Don't judge me, lady-"
"That would be kami-sama."
"Whatever." Hands flung up. "You know, I was only about- about one stroke away-"
"That's why I came. With an offer. Well, more an admonition. Well, more an order, really. A divine ordinance." It's preening, peremptory. Damn, ostentatious in that. In the fine long finger clasped on the pert plump lips.
"Oh, come on. You're serious? An authentic goddess-"
"How else would I know your name? I'm a very precious goddess; a fertility goddess. Haven't you noticed? Of course you have. You were complaining. Your fantasies are going unfulfilled. It's not only yours, you know, Ayumi-chan.
"Even poor, poor Haibara."
"What about her?"
"Well, it's a culture of self-abnegation now. Very very very few seem to appreciate the visceral bliss in sex. Consensual lust. Not love; not explicitly. Just hunger. It's an anorexic culture. Everyone's content with the effigy; everyone is satisfied with the image, the likeness. It's a perverse two-dimensional culture."
"Can't argue with you-"
"You're a religions scholar."
"Amongst other talents."
"I've come to anoint you my prophet."
"Ah. Of course. I am still stoned off my ass-"
"You are not stoned off your ass! You dare question the Divine?" And there it is. The deep bellow like tolling thunder, the voice's great dimensions its vast hypertrophic shoulders displacing walls and crumpling reality's boundaries.
"Whoa-"
"You're damn right, whoa! I am a celestial tyrant! I am a figure of terror! I conjure horror amongst mere mortals! And you dare to intimate that you're just stoned, addled with your chemical artifices?" Damn, she's upset.
The cheeks flaring burgundy.
The eyes carnation.
Shit.
"A-ah, well, I- I guess you've persuaded me."
"Good." Prim and graceful; not unruffled, because reality's simply been, oh, laundered. As surely as any corporation's accounting books. There is no longer even any inkling that it ever could have been otherwise. "I anoint you with my wisdom.
"Dareth thee-"
"Wha?"
"It's about decorum, Ayumi-chan."
"'kay-"
"Not 'kay."
"All right. Yes, verily I... Taketh unto myself thine, uh-"
"Great and Glorious Wisdom of Shirobotan-kami."
"Ah, yes, I taketh-"
"Can the haughty affectations. We are speaking Japanese, y'know? Modern Japanese." And berated again.
"Fine, fine. I take unto myself the Great and Glorious Wisdom of Shirobotan-kami. Whoa. You're The Shirobotan-"
"None other, darling."
"That, ah, I'm either indulging the planet's lengthiest and most dazzling hallucination, or this is an incredible morning. So, ah... Am I, what, suffused with your supernatural aura-"
"Well, obviously not, y'loopy beauty."
"What, then?"
"I bestow it." And the smile is now not only serene haughty tyranny but hunger; something that you could call wolfish if the wolf's horrifying hypertrophic pleistocene antecedent were still lurking in forests, the eyes sharp shimmering platters that could probably accommodate fifteen-course meals. There is a ravenous esurient madness in it.
The essence of flesh.
Lust personified.
"Ah, how-"
"You know how. You already have the perfect wardrobe for it, Ayumi-chan."
"I- I don't mind just Ayumi-"
"Even better. Now, now, don't even whisper this superstition about me not existing. It's just not polite." Fingers; fingers. A universe of fingers. Of the hair whispering over her cheeks; the faint furtive sibilance in breath that flares the chest and inflames the flesh and there is now only awe in the eyes. Beholding a divinity in sensual candor; in the fingers laced through the kimono's collar. She is sublimity in flesh.
"Wow." Convulsive with it now. "Wow-"
"It's obvious why you're doing so well in your writing courses-"
"Quiet, you, Miss Goddess. I'm just awed with all of this. You're incredible." It is sexual geometry in its sainted exoticisms. In the confluence of the angular, the vulpine jaw and the brutal sharp eyes and the teeth like fangs, and the sumptuously sinuous. Uninterrupted and unbroken vistas of curvaceous flesh; the shapely long long endlessly long legs, damn, damn, damn, there're enough legs for probably three women.
The elegant slim toes and the quirking fingers and the nails trimmed to lililicious perfection and the breasts are a roundness that pours down down down to the firm belly that's still kissed like the hips with fat's tiniest most indispensable elegance.
The navel's delicate divot.
"Come, come, Ayumi."
"Of course." Dragged closer, and closer, and closer. Not with hands and not with fingers and not even with her voice. It is something visceral, fundamental. Animal. Insectile, maybe, a bee teased ineluctably into the fine petals sticky with syrupy aromas and it is hot and sweet and luscious.
"Oh, oh, this is what I wanted, you know, Ayumi. You're so beautiful; that long black hair. You dye it, don't you?"
"Yeah-"
"Why is that?" It's oh so knowing.
"Who cares?" It's a puppyish zeal; a cheek brushed with a languid nuzzle against a thigh. Soft; softer than the word soft can accommodate in its endless plush universe. "Ah! Ah! Oh, Shirobotan-kami-"
"Shiro. Please."
"Shit, you're so luscious. God, it feels like I'm touching oiled silk. This skin is divine." Well, duh.
"Well, duh. Ah. Ah. Ah." In recline; in the lover's archetypal repose. There is something quintessential in this. Yes. Yes. Yes. Humors never in balance. Why should they be? I am inflamed with madness; it is something more delirious already than the most joyful joy bang. It is a tongue flitting along the knees; tasting and adoring the ankles. Up and down and down and up and why should there be anything like orderliness?
Order dies here.
A quiet and undignified demise while her fingers shudder with a madness that animates every cell steeping in the most sumptuous junk. It's junk, isn't it? Heroin's perfection; morphine's feathery cradling caresses. And still animated with a crazed urgency like shabu. It bubbles and strains and pulsates through every vein.
It flares through every artery.
I am enchanted.
I am devoured in this.
"Ah, ah, ah!" To be serenaded with a divine voice, and there's no longer anything but the supremest certainty now. "Ah. Oh, oh, Ayumi. Oh, me-"
"Wha?" Peering up into her eyes; lips only microns now from those. It's an unreality. Always, always, to know that strange twisted mirror image of yourself.
The elemental essence in that symmetry; in woman and woman. That luscious vertical smile; the plump soft lips clasped together and they still slip open with a candid hunger, a breath in perfume that no chemistry could ever fabricate.
It is awe. Always.
"Well, I can't say goddess, can I? It'd be a bit ridiculous-"
"I think saying me is even sillier-"
"Quiet, you. Why don't you have some breakfast?"
"Oh, I couldn't-"
"I insist." Well, if you insist.
"I give thanks for..." Whatever. Hungry, hungry. More than hungry. I have trudged through desert with only fantasies of nourishment to sustain me, and now there are the words all-you-can-eat. I will gorge. Gorge and gorge and gorge but first, first, there must be the hors d'oeuvres.
A kiss.
A gasp.
Breath hitching in the chest and pluming up and it is something explosive now. Flavor invades; the lips are more than delectable. A syrupy honeyed delirium and it is an instant-onset contact high like mating with a heroin needle.
"Oh, goddess." Why not be polite with her? "You taste like Amaterasu's own Ramune." There is laughter; there is a sudden strangled whisper a mewl a deep heavy guttural moan when a tongue goddess goddess goddess my tongue, this strange sense of the impossible in everything, when it's suddenly slowly draggggggggggggged through the luscious skin.
Dipping into that fount that boils with desire.
With her.
And suddenly, suddenly, there can be no language at all. Thought dies while sensuality flourishes; while everything at once is only lust's geographies tasted. Her palms and fingers and they're twisting through hair sodden and matted with sweat and it's to know your breasts' own heavy fall and the muscle lean and wiry and the poise predatory.
"Yeah. Yeah. Ayumiiii-"
"Yes, Goddess?" How can you refuse this? How can you reject this? The fingers' play along her thigh's sumptuous skin; a thick curtain brushed away from the eyes. There is hunger lust craving madness fanaticism.
This is a drug that cannot find purchase in the vein.
It is to abandon anything like sanity; it is to renounce this world and to dwell in it at once. To invite a divinity into your body; for this communion this immanence to lurk in a place of curling toes and sheets blackening with sweat and her body and yours his body and yours our bodies at once.
A world of yes.
Slathering; kissing; straining.
"I- I want it. I want it. I want it-"
"But you're getting it, Goddess-"
"You're teasing me like you own the joint."
"I'm at least renting it."
"I want you to push your tongue in my divine pussy."
"It is divine." And how can you refuse this delectation? You are being ordered to eat your bodyweight in lust at a buffet. How can you not savor this? And you are silenced now, because this is meal time, and her flavor doesn't only gather but wreathes. Swallows me down down down and we are an Ouroboros divinity, because she is eating me while she is being eaten. A snake can only swallow its own tail, however.
A snake cannot traditionally curl its toes and send its tongue lolling out and fasten fingers through hair and pull.
A strangled little squeal.
"Touch me. Yeah. Yeah. Put- put your fingers in me, too. I want to feel those incredible lililicious fingers." I am being eaten.
Swallowed down; every thought is fodder for her. And so she is obeyed because you must obey; because this is the most grandiose slavery. Touching and knowing the plump sleekness the slickness the communion in spittle and those laudanum juices and her fragrance wafting up not only to invade but to occupy to settle with indelible monuments to desire in your senses.
There are no words.
Syrup?
No.
Honey?
Nah.
It's opium.
It's her.
Tongue's quick squelching wet thrash and stroke and now, now, it can be felt, rising up in the color that boils into her cheeks like melting garnets and there is a shudder and a shiver and there are eyes craning up staring into hers lashes inky quills imprisoning my eyes and her own and there is this. Our being together.
"Hah-hah-hah-haaaah!" Not laughter and not sobbing but only rejoicing in melodious grades of sound and a presence in lust so thick you could carve it like sashimi with a chainsaw. "Oh, yeah!"
"Yes. Yes. Yes." Tongue liberated with just the tiniest slackening in her hand. "Yes, Goddess-"
"It- it feels so good. Your tongue's like velvet; like a puppy's tongue." Do. Not. Ask. "I want some, too-"
"Oooh. Should I get the plum jam?"
"You're a twisted little girl, aren't you, Ayumi-chan?"
"Happy to be." We are all ironical here, aren't we? And it isn't just to lie back and become the Princess to be served; we must be mutual. We must be firm in our convictions. And it isn't for her to surrender and not for me but two chanbara warriors to converge.
Collide.
Mouths and fingers and thighs. Yes, yes, yes.
"Oh, yes, Ayumi-"
"Goddess, I need more. I've been a very good girl, yes?" Are we not so beautifully inverted? I will kiss those lips between her thighs, and now I will kiss another pair. They are not so perpendicular; much much less ungainly.
So sweet.
Oh so sweet.
Plump and pillowy like those grandiose huge heavy breasts that command the word tits. They are beautiful; my hands are there, and hers finally finally finally electrify on mine. I am being electrified. I am being tormented with the huge scrawling lightning strokes that race through every nerve that flay them raw and then tease them with serrated blades daubed in carnal poisons.
Ha ha ha ha.
This is the voice now.
Lips slipping together with a sticky elegance. Tongue stroked on her tongue; slowly, slowly, oh so slowly, because there is no urgency. There is only a desperate crashing crunching pummeling need a craving roaring between my ears.
Behind my eyes.
Paintings like Caravaggio in chiaroscuro madness; there is a sexual tenebrism, you understand. Racing from absolute dark to absolute light. It is largely dark, because the real depth flourishes in the dark. Falling against her; hands melt into those incredible tits. Her mouth and my mouth and it is a quick darting collision and convergence and falling away from her now.
"I want it. I want you; I waaant you, Goddess." Craving her. Beseeching her.
"Climb on, then, honey." Yes. Yes.
We are all honey.
I am become honey. Dripping that sticky lubricious need over her lips and her cheeks are now nestled between my thighs and there is an awareness of a perfection in this geometry. It would be terrible terrible cliché to suggest we fit together like puzzle pieces. It is nothing so crude; we are flesh and flesh and flesh and flesh and there is electricity. Suddenly, dazzling, almost disorienting, her tongue's first flit defies credulity.
"Wah!" A sob clawing up up up from my breast. "Oh, goddess-"
"That's right." The voice intrudes; not through the ears but only every inch of my skin. Only every sinew. Toes straining and it's an unreal perfection to admire hers.
To adore their curl and strain and for my chest to find purchase on a flat soft belly to know the simple supreme sleekness in a woman's body. Fingers steepled on the communion of thigh and hip; to dip down down down and there's a sudden violent rupture in thought and in deed and in the simple confluence of thought and flesh.
A kiss.
Mischievous and quick and her hair is silk nimbus against my skin.
"A-ah, ah, ah-"
"Exactly, Ayumi." Mourn the interruption; adore the hot husky quiver rearing up from unknowable places that still lie there on your body.
Shivering.
Kiss her.
Fall down down down and there's nothing like patience now. It's a delicious number, isn't it? In shuddering thighs and her very toe-tips planted on the bare tatami, bits of fabric bound under us, wriggling and writhing and rolling, a wave wrought from two at once, breakers melting on a ragged shoreline and tumbling back out and returning again.
And again.
Her voice and mine.
Fingers plunge lunge deeper and deeper and deeper and her ankles entrance; her pussy, also, that sleek overripe pinkness like a freshly-plucked guava, and the fragrance that cannot be placed anywhere in nature but exactly where it is in sensual tautology. Her toes twisting over the tatami; her skin eaten, eaten, eaten.
I am a glutton.
A gourmand.
How can I not be?
Plunge down and pitch up and it is to be borne aloft on her tongue; dance on it while mine is simply leaden, spearing splitting the flesh eating and eating and eating and eating. More. This is my world. This simple fundamental word.
More.
Beside yes, there is nothing lovelier.
A long straining vulpine jerk when her fingers melt into her tongue; when there's a perfection in a touch brushed with an achingly dainty deliberation across that spongy soft skin. I must indulge her.
"Wah- aha, ah, ah, Ayumi-chan, that's... So good. So good. I- I want... Ah..." Because there is only the quickening. More and more and more and it is her fingers and her fingers are, of course, divine. How could they not be? I am an acolyte.
A supplicant on my knees wrapped around her cheeks.
"I'm gonna come, Goddess-"
"You already have. Fifty times-"
"StopcountingandIdon'tjustmeanlikethat!" I am very proud of my elocution, also.
"W-wha-"
"Just like that. Don't don't don't don't don't stop. Please, please, please, Goddess!" Bear down and if she will not ease herself any closer the meal will be brought to her, the silly Goddess. "Hyah!"
Explosion.
It is something like what the mind supplies for a nuclear blast.
It must be suddenly impossibly still.
The birds, theirs is a transcendental wisdom. Their chirruping will be quieted. The squirrels will abandon their chattering. The children will be suddenly painfully still.
There is a hush.
An awe.
And it arrives.
With thunder so great it does not deafen but transcend sound, it arrives.
Bearing down.
Trees flattened. Wood becomes ash and stone becomes dust.
This is its essence. Wailing, squalling, voice suddenly so high that it melts off to ranges that'll probably have dogs wailing for at least a thousand kilometers.
"Ah! Hah! Hyah!" Almost to bewail it like ululations, like lamentations. Screeching into nothing and it's rearing up and it's almost the sense of incontinence, and not at all. Spraying out; rearing and rising and pouring up and it's greasy and thick and delirious and delicious and there's laughter welling from between my thighs.
"Oh, oh, wow-"
"Goddess, that's so fucking amazing-"
"You're gonna make- make me, too, Ayumi. Your fingers; use your fingers; lick my pearl-"
"Of course." Dive down down down and it's the tongue's flit and flicker and thrash. Eating her; eating her. Swallowing her down and fingers dagger quickly quickly now stirring and coaxing and coiling up and brushing with deft firm prods along that soft luscious skin and everything is madness.
A dewy delirium smeared on the lips.
A hot and almost acrid fragrance that anyone would wear like perfume.
Silencing her.
Silenced with her.
Her legs twist.
Pivot.
Laced in their extravagant length over my shoulders and it's something a bit nearer to judo than you'd expect and who could even care? Pulled down down down and melting into her and we're now only one and I am very happy about this.
Bleary and crumpling into the soft wet skin.
Licking.
Laving.
'til even her patience is...
Well, not exhausted.
"T-that's enough now, Ayumi-chan. Even mine gets a little raw after that long." But I am esurient. I am inexhaustible.
Insatiable.
"I'm still so hungry, Goddess." Kiss her, and kiss her. Animal and predatory.
"Then goeth and seek new prey. Or whatever. I'm going to take my leave now, Ayumi-chan. But I've given you a very precious gift."
"Squirting in my mouth?"
"Aside from that. I've given you a power you'll feel very soon. Now, take a shower and wear your nicest and sluttiest clothes."
"'kay." Woe and regret.
"Close your eyes, Ayumi. Close your eyes and nap and you will taste it." While Shiro's simple being melts away with a fugitive mischievous grace into a gloom huddled in heavy post-coital shadow around the eyes.
The universe is sodden sexual delirium.
White knights talking backwards.
Red Queen's off with her head.
Remeeeeeeembaaaah. Yes. Yes. What did the dormouse say, and who can really aspire to care? Ah, ah, ah, not I. Oh, no, no, no.
"Whoa!" Surfacing from a fever-dream thrall; fingers knotted on... On flesh; only my flesh. Absolutely nothing more than that. It's not even to blink it away, because how can you blink away an ocean in sweat that's settled in your eyes?
A rap at the door. Yes, yes, yes. Staggering upright and clearly some mischievous gnome has assiduously stitched gelatin into every bone, because there is only a weary quaver throbbing through every limb. It is a struggle; it is an ordeal in every step, slapping wet with perspiration on the tatami. I am become sweat; the half-open window admits the daylight that isn't now, is it?
Dusk; sodden and heavy and layered over every inch. Squint through the peephole and it's Haibara.
She is very clothed.
Too bad.
So sad.
It is lovely, isn't it? The graceful lissome allure; the fine pert chest and the auburn hair wafting down along the shoulders with a careless toss and the fingers are long and slim and the nails are eternally trimmed not in deference to lililicious lusts but they're such an asset for that, also.
"Hey, Ayumi-chan! I know you're in there." That voice; that husky heavy chain-smoking-whiskey-marinated voice. Shuddering between the thighs.
"I'm here, Haibara-chan. I had the most aaaaamazing fucking dream. Was it the stuff you gave me-"
"It was a school day, y'know. Everyone was wondering where you were in lecture."
"Ah? You're serious?" There's epiphany.
Right.
That staining sepia haze ain't the morning twilight.
It's the evening; it's casting your eyes out from the balcony behind you and the city's bathed in a mist darkening to tangerine, reddening to garnet, an ugly lurid purpling bruise unfurling its great corona around the bits of rearing architectural priapism.
Damn.
A structural measuring contest. Always and forever and effulgent with the lights in their convoluted multitudes and explosive with neon.
"Mmm. I guess so-"
"Mind if I come in?"
"Uh-uh. I'd love to tell you. Quickly, quickly." Ah, ah, such nonchalance at a glimpse of skin. Skin in its elegant acreages.
"You're totally naked."
"Yup." A glance down.
And up.
Her fine kitten-heeled sandals eased off and lovely soft bare feet, remarkably fine and, well, dainty, yield a quiet rasp on the tatami.
"God, I hate your apartment, Ayumi-chan-"
"Oh, fine. It's a student efficiency. We don't aaaallll have the luxury of cohabiting with horny old men." Arms wound around my chest. "But at least I actually grew tits when I, ah, grew up." Squinting at her; at the huge thick leather satchel slung over a shoulder.
"Oh, that was mature." There is an unselfconscious maturity in the mien, the manner. Always, always; just apposite for the face now. The high sharp bones and the stern lips and the angular western eyes like faceted sapphires sedulously rinsed of anything like unease in a sainted celestial stream.
An adult blouse in cream; skirt layered around the shapely thighs in tan.
"Well, sorry. I feel a little weird. That stuff you gave me yesterday was fucking incredible. I saw god. Well, a goddess, anyway."
"You're serious? Well, ah, I mean... I came 'cause I wanted to tell you that it had no effect on me at all. Doc got a little handsy-"
"He's always handsy."
"'xactly. I like it like that. But it didn't exactly do anything for me. Anyway, ah... Did it turn ya on? I'm kind of worried I might've sorta-kinda extemporized a new aphrodisiac."
"Oh, you know me, Ai-chan-"
"Don't call me that. You know I hate it when you call me that; it creeps me out."
"Oh, in that soft little-girl voice?" Soaring up up up in pitch; a fragile trilling coo. "Maybe I should call you Sheeeee-"
"Say it and die, Shirley Temple."
"Yeesh. Isn't someone a little irritable? Want a joint?"
"Sure." The hips' languid cock; you can feel it. A sense of yourself from without. Empathy through her eyes; an awareness of the stare settling on your nape when fingers grope at the heap tucked into the pathetic kitchenette that's less an ette and more a nano-kitchen. The most perfunctory clutch of what you'd identify with the word kitchen.
If kitchens were devised for the Lollipop Guild, anyway.
"Tea, Haibara?"
"Sure. Real tea, or that tea?"
"Both." The cigarettes're perfect, wrenched out of a cupboard with groping fingers; her lighter's already coaxed into a palm in an instant. It's a brilliant lovely thing; a silvered martial thing in stainless steel, ornamented with greasy fingerprints that whirl like a van Gogh in the deepening dusk. Fire rears up with a thumb's quick rasp along the flint, once, twice, thrice, coughing and coughing like a smoker in an asthma ward and...
There we are.
There is a greasy creamy plume from the joint.
"Oh, that is looovely, Ayumi-chan. Seriously. Where the hell do you get this, anyway?"
"Wouldn't you love to know? I have my sources."
"It's Sonoko, right?" Damn.
"Yeah; that's right. The Suzuki keiretsu? Such an asset for smuggling." Drink down the luscious grass smoke; taste it staining the lungs in treacly painterly grades.
"Why the hell do you still live in this little craphole, anyway?"
"'cause I'm a university student. University students live in shitholes unless they have, I dunno, a lovely lil' sugar-daddy to leech off of. An insecure over-the-hill researcher, for instance, who still miraculously can flag it up-"
"He's a nice guy. What can I say? Not too demanding; a nice tongue; good skin-"
"You're describing a goldendoodle."
"Goldendoodles don't have a schlong like that. I'm amazed. It's incredible. 'sides, the guy feels like a teddy bear. All nice and soft and warm. 'sides, he's gotten better. I'm always kicking him into doing more exercise.
"He has great stamina, at least."
"Someone's in love."
"What about you and Conan-kun-"
"Quiet, you." Huddled around the joint; it is my universe's center. Its axis.
"So, what's with this incredible dream? You saw god-"
"I saw a goddess. I had an epiphany, you know."
"An epiphany, y'say?" Now, now, there is the ethnopharmacologist's native inquisition. It is an antechamber to philosophy; something nearer to the subjective than the fanciful figments of absolutes in the sciences.
To adore these entheogens.
These communions with the divine.
Those psychic portals to the glorious.
"That's right. An epiphany."
"What kind of epiphany?"
"Call it a vision."
"Shit. Not every day a girl has a vision. Is this an authentic come-to-Jesus thing?"
"Aren't we being American again?" There is a sharp glint in the smile; in the fangs brandished.
"Oh, please. You know I'm an American girl at heart-"
"Even if not in body."
"Those big tits of yours."
"And this ass." A twist; a palm's wet crack on what you could really only liken to a hugely overripe pert plump peach. "These hips-"
"So you've got an AV model's physique. Good. For. You." The joint gutters in outstretched fingers; her eyes narrow to slits like a dyspeptic kitten. "Aaanyway-"
"I saw a goddess of... Something. She gave me an epiphany; a vision. I suddenly felt it." Hands splayed out on the counter. "I saw it. I knew it."
"Knew what?"
"What I was supposed to do with my life. I hate all this privation, you know. All this frustration. At least you have your huge-cock teddy bear, which is still one of the weirdest images you could dredge up. You're the lean slim lissome beauty-"
"I like big guys. What? You like that jerk, ah, Conan-"
"Quiet. It's an adolescent crush." A soft little murmur around the joint. "I miss him."
"Ah-"
"Oh, if only he hadn't died in that tragic Zamboni accident-"
"He did not." Haibara's laughter's still lovely, isn't it, the tinkle of seraphim like rarefied smoke on the ears.
"Fine, fine, fine. It's just that obsession with Ran, y'know-"
"Yeah. Y'know, that girl... I'm kind of amazed she hasn't put the dagger in his gut yet."
"She will. Eventually. He'd be the last to know it, too. I love his blindness; total opacity. Just like Sherlock Holmes. I'm a Lupin girl, honestly. But I saw it. D'ya know what it told me to do? This vision?"
"Seek a career in opaque gibberish?"
"Nah. I'm already studying religions." Closer now.
The joint stubbed out; it's a sticky thick delirium draped over every nerve.
It's fingers clasped on her cheeks.
"Ah-"
"She showed me something precious, Haibara. I'm serious. She showed me the world-"
"Dude." How can we not? How can we not gorge ourselves on this, and laugh and laugh and laugh our fill?
"Totally." Because it's her lips so so so near.
The familiar.
The achingly luscious.
Yes.
The fingers and hands and cheeks and the mouths. The awareness of a flush rearing up through her skin; that American pallor that's color absolutely denied. It is a creamy softness that could only be painted in gradations of cream on whitewash; it is a lie and a figment and still reality while lips converge.
Slowly, slowly. There is an ineffable quality in women, you understand. Men can be very lovely. When they emulate women. But it's native and elemental for girls. It is the tiger, and not the lion; it is something padding delicate deliberate. The rustle of hot fur through thick jungle roiling and riotous with steam low-slung cradling perfumed rivers.
It is warmth and warmth; it is fingers lacing through her hair in its spare and satiny allure and hers twisting into mine and there is still a symmetry. Nakedness and fabric-draped skin; we are all nude, anyway, aren't we?
Unashamed and unpretentious. Imagery prised from others' fertile imaginations. Not Izanagi and Izanami but Adam and Eve or maybe it's 'Adam and Hawa or maybe it's just Eve and Lilith. Whichever. I'm not the sort to deny myself the bliss in mounting a lover with frenzy and heaving animal hunger.
But this is so gentle. A kiss. The lips' first achingly delicate confluence. Warm wet absolutely delectable. The tongues' quick flit together.
"God, you kiss like I can't believe." And this is our consensus when there is a pause; a fleeting moment not to recapture your breath but just to linger on it. "Ayumi, when did you learn to kiss like that?"
"Maybe where-"
"You're such a total lez."
"I'm happy to be a lily, you know, Haibara. I'm very happy to be totally lavishly lililicious. Look at this body. This is not a body that rides a motorcycle-"
"You own a motorcycle."
"Details, details." Kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and it's movement now. Violent and crashing and her bare feet backpedaling over the bare tatami and there's a faint little rattle when a portrait's disturbed in its purchase on the wall. Fingers laced with hers; slapped up along the wall that's grotty not with grease or neglect but just age.
Accumulated life.
A mustiness that's time in this place.
Lust.
Sex.
"Jesus, you smell just like pussy, Ayumi-chan-"
"Oh, I think we can twist off that chan an' toss it away, Ai. You have the loveliest name, you know. Ai. Ai. Ai. Ai-tan-"
"Drive me crazy with kiddy crap like that." A murmur that you could not only taste but smear on bread. It's something incredible; an intensity that defies anything like boundary. It creeps up through you falls down through the floor cradles you in its hands and tosses you away with electricity ripping up through every inch. "You're such a total Lizzie, Ayumi-"
"Oooh, I like that. Is that from America?" Devour the eyes.
Inhale the breath.
The arching spine when fingers prick at her taut belly.
"Hasn't someone been exercising lately, Haibara?"
"What about you? Ran must be jealous. She's letting herself go a little-"
"She's just softer. I like that in girls."
"Just not you?"
"Hypocrisy's every scholar's right, honey." Lap and lave at the throat; know the simple shuddering delirium in the long slow syrupy moan creeping through her lips.
"A-ah, ah, ah, oh, god, Ayumi-"
"You know, I can still do the voice-"
"Don't you dare."
"Ai-chaaaan." And there it is. The shudder.
"Y-you sound like a fuckin' eight-year-old-"
"Exactly. You pedo. You're such a lolicon, aren't'cha, Ai-taaaan. You were getting wet over me when I was eight and you looked-"
"Shut- shut up, all right?" And there's still only a treacly tendril unfurling from fingers slipped deeper deeper deeper, plunging between her thighs.
Tasting the satiny skin; knowing that dark honeyed place.
Admire it; feel the faintly tacky quality when it's brushed between fingertips.
"Mmm. I hope someone is on the pill-"
"Well, duh." Murmuring, whispering. There is a collision of fronts tolling with thunder and roiling with lightning. "C-c'mon, Ayumi-"
"I can't believe you're still fucking the doc. That's just..."
"Like, ohmygawd-"
"I didn't mean it like that. Don't tease me; my IQ's probably higher than yours, Ai-tan." Tongue dragged from her lips with a quick stab.
"H-hah, hah, oh, oh, you're gonna make me-"
"I'm gonna make you what?"
"I didn't come here for you ta bring me off. I came here so I could get a report on m-m-my-"
"My what?" Another stroke; slowly, now, stirring that delirious juicy place.
"You're really derailing my train of thought-"
"Too bad. Think of all those poor orphans now. Do you know how many innocent men and women you've killed? It was rush hour; they're just bodies now. Just meat. Why, I think that's an arm, and that one's a head.
"Oh, no! That one's a kitten-"
"S-shut up." Head simply flung back; a heedless crazed thing and it's only a point of miracle that it's not a concussion on the wall. "S-shut shut shut up-"
"Oh, that one's two kittens; why, they're just-"
"S-shut... Ah... Hyah!" Yes, yes, a hyah. Something crazed and lupine and it's absolutely delirious, savoring those heavy thick cloying strands dribbling out onto your palm.
"Wow, he really filled ya up. When there's this much, shouldn't you wear a tampon or something-"
"I didn't think a certain someone'd be jamming their fingers up my pussy." Well, well, well. Isn't a certain someone else just profane?
"Oh, Ai-tan." And it's irresistible, tongue outstretched to flit and flicker and thrash at that creamy bliss. "Y'know, the doc actually tastes pretty delicious. It's probably you, though. There's so much of your juice, Ai.
"I'm seriously jealous. How much you cream-"
"It's how much you made me." Cooing and giggling and there's only a dewy mushy quality between your ears. Oozing and sloshing and spattering at your skull. "God, you just dragged that out of me-"
"Want some?" Pour more and more and more; the panties just slipped away. There's an awareness, a deeper sense, a second sight, fine, fine, an act of empathy without chemistry and without telepathy. A knowledge of the hunger gushing from her.
Radiates in huge sharp cross-hatched strokes; a manic celestial artist's design.
"Mmm... I want something else. You've kinda flipped my switch-"
"Naughty, naughty Ai-tan. Won't the doc be jealous?"
"You know we have, ah, an understanding. I don't mind when he sees his women-"
"How can that dude have women?"
"He's kind of irresistible. I don't know what it is. Maybe he's sorta a silver fox, y'know, Ayumi? Have you ever tried it-"
"Yuck. No." It's a mutual cringe. Not what you'd call tactful.
"Yuck?"
"Sorry, sorry. Sort of visceral. I didn't mean that. I just don't really like older men. Well, unless it's Kogorou. I can take that one. He does have that Rhett Butler mustache."
"Creepy; seriously creepy-"
"He'll do anything in a skirt."
"I hope you wear with him."
"Most of the time." Kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Madness suffuses every inch. Every fiber twangs with sexual insanity.
"Oh, yuck-"
"I'm just teasing you, Ai-chan. I, ah... I wonder if you wouldn't mind if I had some dessert. That was a lovely meal with the Goddess-"
"Did I make an entheogen?"
"I was thinking about that." There's no patience at all. Don't bother hiking up the skirt; just unfasten the blouse, slip it from her shoulders. Admire the tits in their fine pert grace flowering up from the bra's cradling shelf. A whisper and a coo and a shiver from her lips when thumbs and forefingers settle around them.
A tug at the peachy nipples; a twist and a ripple and now, now, there's something infernal in the eyes.
"You're so fuckin' evil, Ayumi. Flicking all my switches like that-"
"Not all of them yet."
"N-no?"
"No." Clearly not.
The jaws' snap at the chin.
Her shoulders' shiver.
"Hah-"
"And there's this." Falling down, down, down, the bra just slipped away to puddle with her skirt unfastened now at her feet with the blouse and there's almost regret. Clothed women are sublime, aren't they?
Not that there's anything amiss with this.
With the lean calves and the graceful arching ankles and the shapely thighs; the supremely womanly quality in all of it. Defies the age that isn't age at all; it's a thirtysomething in a twentysomething's body and who can really be troubled at all with it?
"Ayumiii-"
"You sound just like a little girl, you know." When you will dip; when it isn't to be knelt quite yet but just craning, twisting, fingers brushing away the heavy black cables framing your cheeks. Everything is sweat and hunger.
A tongue dipped into her navel; rear up and it's teeth fastened around a nipple's thick plumpness.
"G-god, god, goddamn, you're gonna-"
"Gonna what?" Well, something like that. Muttering around that pert plump flesh tucked between lips that scald, teeth that spear.
"Gonna- I'm gonna come again!" Shiver; strain.
Toes twist and nails rattle at the wall.
"Holy fuck!" A sublime serenade for the neighbors. Tissue paper would be generous for the walls.
"Well, well, Ai-tan-"
"You know how much I love that."
"How much of a masochist you are, ya mean?" And it is a simple truth.
"God-"
"How much you crave this?" Nails like very modest Lizzie talons dragged up up up in furrowing scarlet seams along her belly. "How much you love this?" When nipples aren't just strummed with some achingly fragile Sapphic delicacy, but pulled.
Twisted.
This is not to recite Sappho's poetry. This is setting it to a death metal symphony and there is a howl now; a tremor and a quaver and a quiver and a quake and there are knees rattling together and there's only insanity in her face. In rubbery lips and eyes melting down into Aryan sexual psychosis.
"Ayumi, c-c'mon-"
"C'mon what?"
"I'm- I'm going crazy. When you do that. You're the only one who does it for me like that-"
"Oh, all this delicious algolagnia." It's the planet's most sumptuous word, isn't it? Is there anything so delectably arcane, so senselessly grandiosely anachronistic as that?
Anything so perfect?
"You love it. You love it, don't you, Ai-tan-"
"Don't hit me too hard, all right? He- he gets worried if there're bruises-"
"You mean, he doesn't like bruises." It's insanity. This simple compulsion to indulge, to sate, to satisfy. A palm whispers over her cheek; an arm drawn back like a catapult twanging with a violent and irresistible tension and there's a crash.
A squeal from her lips.
"Oh, god-"
"No bruises? Really? And to think that I was really going to go fuckin' crazy-"
"I need to be home by eight tonight."
"It's six-thirty, right? Plenty of time." Drag her closer; fingers slip around the fine swanlike neck and there's only surrender. Only the wilting spine and the knees becoming overwatered gelatin grazed with a crème brûlée torch and there's frenzy. "Come on, come on-"
"Just- just a little, okay?"
"'s fine. But you need to do something for me, all right, honey?" Kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Because this is not a transaction but just a favor.
Woman and woman.
Dragged over my lap, because this is as it must be.
The strangeness in height; in not only being taller but rearing over her. To know that there is a disparity in our ages; in our souls. And still, still, she's little more than five-six; and this is to know reality from what's more altitude than anything else.
While her toes rip at the tatami; while her nails tear into the musty fabric.
"Hah! Hah!" While fingers slither and slip up and down up and down; comb through the hair with a lassitude that's perfect control.
Pert nipples thick and angry and swollen and planted into my skin; a hand simply slammed down now without warning and without anything like delicacy. It would be heresy, you know. It would be the deepest cruelty to deprive Ai of her precious algolagnia.
The tension that laces itself up up up through every nerve and the body's every sinew.
The silent tortured screaming violence in the total quietude. When there's a will to drink down every fugitive bit of anguish pouring up from her mouth.
Whimpering.
Wheezing.
Gasping.
A crunching strain hammering down every muscle and there's a tightness that sends her out straight like a wooden plank and slackens her again and her pussy's sweet delirious waters just pour out now. Slosh and spatter and it's an insanity, flowering from between her thighs.
A long deliberate slap.
Once.
And again.
And again.
Cracking at her ass; peer down at the lovely lavish geometries, and they're sublime. The tight thick ripe-peach grace; the heavy cleft that implodes down to that pucker forever enchanting in its freshly-bathed perfection. The eyes cannot be seen, because they'd rather not be.
There is a perfected honed self-abnegation in all of this hedonism.
She must pretend.
There must be punishment.
"Come on, Ai. Not even one word?"
"It doesn't hurt at all!" There's defiance, of course. Because she needs it; slip fingers through her hair and yank and there's a lip-trembling madness.
The eyes are an ambition to petulance.
A plea for discipline.
"Oh, Ai-tan, I'm not very convinced. It doesn't hurt? When your tight creamy ass is already like an overripe cherry-"
"It doesn't hurt at all. You know about my pain tolerance-"
"I know you like to call your masochism pain tolerance." Another slap. Urgent and heavy and hard and the scream can't be swallowed back now.
It's a ragged tortured yowl.
"Ayumi-"
"Oh, it doesn't hurt, right? Right?" While tears have begun to bubble up into the eyes; while the sharp faceted sapphires simply melt down into muddled blue madness. "Right?"
"Ayumi-"
"Does it hurt?"
"No fucking way!" So she must be punished. This is the system, of course. This is the pattern. This is righteousness. "No fucking wa-hay-"
"Oh, no? No?" Slap and spank and there's a sadomasochism in it, of course. In the pain that numbs your palm. Staining her with the hand's print in a garnet negative, and there's no restraint. There can be none.
Punish her and reward her with punishment.
Her thighs wet and squelching in their wriggle together. Once and again and again and they're twisting and thrashing and writhing and there's a universe of breathless wet soft spatters and it's a palm snapped at her cheek, because she's being such a truculent little bitch.
"No? No? C'mon, Ai-"
"No! It doesn't hurt!" Sobbing every defiant morsel.
"Tell sis the truth-"
"F-fuck, fuck, fuck-"
"Tell sis the truth. Does it hurt?!" Our games, you understand. The simple fundamental weirdnesses that are absolutely sound and sensible and what you could call normal if it weren't leaden with this prosaic meaning that has no purchase in our world.
"No way! No way!" It's so delicious. This trial. Straining ourselves; torturing ourselves. There are many tribes, many peoples, many cultures, for whom pain is ultimately not bliss or reward or desperate despair but a passage to something else.
An act of transcendence. We must surpass these simple boundaries. We must not deny the pain but internalize it in an act of alchemy like Taoist magic and it must become pleasure for us. We will be men! We will be women!
"I'm- I'm..." It isn't such a rite for Ai.
It's an alchemy that refines lead into gold.
Anguish into orgasm.
She is a machine to twist pain into bliss.
"Hah. Hah. Hah. I'm- I'm gonna-"
"Bad, bad Ai. Big sis can't even punish you." There's a deeper madness in all of it. Adorning yourself as Jesus to play with a Christian fundamentalist. There's horror in the eyes and a wet hot delirium, also.
"B-big sis, big sis-"
"You're so fucking petulant, y'know, Ai-tan?"
"S-sorry, big sis. Big sis, I'm sorry-"
"No, you're not. Tell big sis the truth." A palm crunching on her jaw. There's a groan and a gasp and it's more than just wet now. Gushing out of her; spilling down down down and smeared on a thigh and hers are probably wetter than standing in a stream.
"I'm so sorry, big sis-"
"Don't believe you for a second. Tell me the truth-"
"I'm not sorry! I'm not sorry! I love it so much!"
"Hurt you more, then?"
"Hurt me more. Hurt me more. Make me come; make me come even harder."
"Then start counting, little sis." A palm clapping down on her ass. Again and again and again and there's a rhythmic regular quality in it, perfect syncopation whose deepest worth is in being broken at the cruelest instant. The sadism is hot and sodden and thick in your belly.
It's an incredible reeling transcendental thing.
It's a spiritual experience, the pain rising up up up trilling from her lips until it becomes perfect supersaturated silence. A madness in quietude; in her fingers rasping now at the tatami while toes tremble and legs thrash and there's the body's simple plea.
An aversive thing. Let's be scholarly and pretentious.
It's every nerve simply convulsing with that basal atavistic knowledge that the body's crude flesh is screaming for you to bug the fuck out and leave all of this. But there's a deeper interpretation, as muddled and senseless and subjective as literary criticism.
This means what I say it means.
For her, its meaning is lust.
Is perfection.
Is her pussy not only juicy but overripe and insane and delectable threads slopping down down down over the tatami, staining it with her.
Smearing herself through my sweat.
A wail.
Ears are tattooed with this.
Flesh is adorned with her.
It is to know another in a dimension that they call biblical; it is all ridiculous, of course. Jamming yourself between another's thighs isn't knowledge. This is wisdom. When the façades simply disintegrate like fine stained glass introduced to heavy artillery and the howls rear up candidly and there's a faint diffident little rap at the wall, and no one can aspire to care.
Um, would you please, ah, maybe keep it down in there?
Duly noted.
Please. I'm trying to study!
Oh, well.
Another sharp brutal crack.
"I- I can't take it anymore! Big sis, big sis, please, please, please!" And it is purpling now; her flesh. Darkening more and more and more with every stroke.
"Oh-"
"I- I can't take it! I really can't take it!" And there's a glint of empathy. It's understood; it's tasted. When breath transmutes itself into electricity in your lungs, and there's only a serenade in one visceral animal thought.
Stopstopstopstopstop. No more! No more! Can't take it anymore!
"Oh, I don't knoooow-"
"P-p-p-please. Please. 's worse than getting shot!" And it's probably true. It's not one uninterrupted swarm of bullets stitching through one point.
The hand is not merely tingling. Absolutely numb with it.
One. Last. Stroke. There is a sob; there is a terrible plangent convulsive warble and it's the essence of a kitten being fed through a meat-grinder and I can't even fucking care 'cause the intensity soars to its fullest height at this instant. Always, always, always this.
"F-fuck, fuck, fuck." Soaring to a leap's apex; actually surpassing its apogee with a sense of some inscrutable bit of altitude claimed in the soul's currents and then you're imploding and it's this implosion that's perfection.
Tasting gravity in your gut. HALO jumping with only a parasol.
Farewell.
Needing it.
While she's sprawled out now on her belly; while fingers creep and stalk and skulk and there's something almost infantalizing in it, in this being. A wriggle gastropod thing; a beautiful woman is now a slug writhing across the tatami. Fingers clutch at an ankle; the eyes are enormous.
"G-goddammit, Ayumi, that last one-"
"You needed it."
"I hate how much you know me." Lips quivering; the tongue's numbed, slack, falling from her jaws. "God, I hate how much you know me."
"I don't know-"
"I don't, either. 's so weird. I can't take it. You- you- how red is it?"
"Violet. Maybe ultraviolet-"
"Damn. At least it's not bruised." It isn't a groan. And there's woe in this, something urgent and hot and palpable.
"You wanted it-"
"Well, I love it. Too bad doc gets so weird about that." Lassitude; this is the word. But there are still fingers coiling out, a languid tentacle inquisition. Brushed along ankles; creeping seeping up up up. "I want some-"
"Oh, I don't know, Ai-tan. You sure you can cope in your state-"
"Do not deny me. You know how fast I recover from something like that." And it's true. And, well, if there'd been some misfortunate amnesia episode, how exuberantly I'm reminded. A frenzied springing bounce.
A pounce.
Not a flounce at all; palms driven into my shoulders and it's an awareness of the body distended into a coiling violence simply liberated in an instant. There's definitely athleticism there. There's authentic brutality.
Shoulders crumping down on the tatami.
"Hi, there, Ai-tan-"
"It's my turn. I- I can't take it anymore. I'm so fucking drenched. You turned me into a wailing soppy nothing. How do you do that to me? Nobody else can. Not even Ran when she has her whip out-"
"'s 'cause you know I'm special." Peer up into her eyes. "C'mon, Ai-tan-"
"Stop calling me that."
"Make me." We are all children. What demented little doggies we are. "C'mon, Ai-tan-"
"Stop it. Stop it." But there's no woe in it; only a plea that's a command that's a wish and a will for me. Because if it were being translated into candid language, the only words that could be heard are, God, god, don't you ever stop teasing me, or I'm gonna cry, my dahlink.
Or something like it.
Toes trembling.
"I'm going to shut you up, Ayumi-"
"Oooh, I like that idea. C'mon, Ai-tan. Make me quiet; silence me-"
And there is silence. Hips bearing down and it's not the Goddess', in flesh or little more than gauzy velveteen phantasmagorical fantasy, well, what does it even matter? Because this is not the Goddess' skin; it still is.
She is bare.
I am bare.
There's no will to bother with the inconvenience in those taut thick curls surmounting lips as some weird quirking mustache, so we'll just all be little girls, and it's maybe a bit of surrogate lolicon psychosis, or maybe it's just comfort. Whatever.
"Eat it. Eat it. Eat it." Inflamed with a hunger you can't really capture in language, so why bother? I wonder if there's a better sign-language for it. Right. That would be your jaws twisting open and your tongue rising up up up a spearing soft pillar impaling her. Her voice's tremor and it's her tits clutched in palms that can be heard tearing into flesh.
Ah, ah, ah, ah.
We are crazed.
Both of us.
Fingers falling down away from her tits and it's not as if it's invited, because this isn't the point. It's a perfection communion; it's nails plucking and twisting along my belly tasting the firm muscle, falling down down down.
"God, your body's fucking amazing, Ayumi. Where'd this body come from, anyway?"
There's no answer. A little occupied. Every murmur and whisper filters through this lavish celestial gloom in the thighs' union and the lips' faint nebulous geometry with eyes half-closed or maybe it's just half-open. Whichever. Tongue outstretched and flailing and wriggling and palms clapped on her ass and there's a tacit understanding.
Twisting and arching and there's now not only her pussy's sticky fountaining effusion but something novel. A sweetness in this skin; in the taut sweat-dampened pucker, smeared with those succulent syrupy juices.
Tongue flitting and flickering and there can only be encouragement in force. In commands. Tearing plucking pulling it's an absolute polarized selfishness. There's not one touch for anything but the tits that're objects of hunger, unqualified and supreme self-indulgence.
She is.
This is her essence. The narcissistic lover and there can be no complaints because every groan every quiver every heave every sigh every gasp is delectation spilling down down down through the warmth opening up now and racing over the tongue and down down down.
Puddling in my belly and lunging out in huge coiling vacillating tendrils to the toe-tips.
Muttering senseless Arabesque poetry into her.
The vibrations rear up.
"Hah. Hah. I- I need it. I need it. I want to drink you, Ayumi." And so she will. Falling, falling, falling. Falling and tumbling down and it's the planet's most underfed sequoia felled with a chainsaw; it's her palms and her hands now and it's a half-sit up for me and it's the tongue wheeling and flitting and thrashing and suddenly, suddenly, the world doesn't only melt but dissolves and hardens again in strange ragged feathery convolution only to be split with a thunderbolt racing down from the heavens.
It's madness.
Cracking.
Everything; the world's very dimensions. They're fissuring and breaking into nothing; her tongue and mouth and lips and her heat and her fingers. Assailed with a merciless frenzy; three digits gathered together and just daggering pummeling pounding and it's not some dewy manga-perfect bit of sentimentalism from some chick weepy over her we-almost-kissed high school moment but the simple truth.
Shivering; heels grate at the tatami.
She's mauling me.
I am the prey, and she is the tigress, and I am now not only meat and hunger but overripe fruit because I am bloated with desire and clamoring and her mouth is there and it's fucking incredible. It beggars belief, this- this exultation. Rejoicing in the juices. A peach's cannibalism; not a shaken pear-tree being fertilized with whatever but her tongue, her tongue, oh, goddess, her tongue, this sumptuous thing.
Flitting and flickering and fingers peel open lips and the tongue dives and dives and dives tears out huge luscious gouts from that dark place and surfaces and it's an endlessly rejuvenated well bored into an ocean tucked into the earth.
It is hunger.
Striping up and down and up and down again and again and again and it's to know her body and mine in their convergence and it's to be planted on an anvil and the hammer's crashing crunching down down down down down.
"Keep eating me, Ayumi!"
And what can you do but simply obey?
Wrench yourself up up up and the tongue is its own mistress, flickering and jabbing and grinding over what, hell, there's really no perfect artful euphemism for a woman's clitoris. It's a fine and rarefied pearl; that's the only imagery for it.
Love it love it love it.
Bind the tongue's very very peak into that hood and saw back and forth back and forth while your chin's being ground into the lips' cleft and I want want want want want need more more more more more.
"Ayumi, Ayumi!" Even the faintest murmur is an explosion through the body; those screams thrash up and down like an oscilloscope capturing a nuclear blast. Every pitch and convolution in its own unique dip and rise but more than anything it's just a simple height.
Endless full-throated.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
"Ayumi!" I want it; need it. Fingers pour through her. "T-touch my ass. Touch my ass." Naughty, naughty, naughty.
Juicy with her; slathered with sweat, with spittle. And now, now, such ease for your fingers. Tucking deeper and deeper, two at once, splaying her open, and there's no resistance at all.
"Looks like someone's been doin' impure things with the doc-"
"Y-yeah, yeah. Oh, god, yeah. He really wanted it. I'm kind of happy he did. I- I... Ah..." Twisting through her; wriggling and coiling and it's almost supernatural, the ease with which your fingers sink down to the second knuckle.
Slithering into a heat that's oh so faintly greasy with unplaceable sensations, and simply divine. Another hand's fingers greeting them through a sheath slick strange elastic; more a suggestion, an inkling, of flesh than anything truly tangible. A sense that you should simply pour through those boundaries.
Touch her; touch her; touch her.
Pump and plunge and the tongue has now joined in the carnal multitasking and the mind is elsewhere while the body simply gorges itself without restraint without compunction without anything but lust, lust, lust.
Slathering slavering slapping kissing stroking; wet hot squelch in lips fastened around her.
And she is there, also, a delirious sumptuous symmetry.
Heaving with it.
"Ah, ah, ah, p-put your fingers in me, Ai! Ai! A-as many as you can." A plea for her fist; for the hand's fine slim proportions.
The knuckles' soft satin grace.
But only four at once, and so fucking shallowly.
Grinding at her knuckles.
Fingers forced together, more more more. Wail and warble and there's a moment in perfect coordination. I am.
She is.
A mutual madness.
Fingers lapped and thighs twisted together and it is a kiss in duality; in her lips and my lips and mine and hers and there are lips everywhere for a moment.
And there's silence. Sticky and slathered on the ears; a clock's sharp quick rap-rap-rap announces time's passage, because nothing else can while the heart dies.
"Whoa." Strange throttling quietude. Cradling her; limbs tangled with promiscuous grace. Hair heavy and raveled around her. "Whoa. Whoa, Ayumi, that was..."
"Mmm... Fantabulous." Dragging one of her fine fingers between my lips; there is a kiss that becomes something like surrogate fellatio with the soft lavish skin.
"I just thought I'd..." The words melt with her eyes into a wet crazed delirium. "Shit, I just thought I'd ask you about the new chems I made-"
"Oh, they're fantastic."
"Not fantabulous-"
"Who knows? Mmm. Entheogen or aphrodisiac, who cares. I guess doc was veeery excited yesterday."
"Uh-huh. He kept it up for six rounds."
"I'm amazed you can stand-"
"Maybe I'm not as slutty as you, but I'm a pretty good competitor." We will kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Taste and savor the gradations in flavor spilling from mouth to mouth. "He's still so weird about wearing when he fucks my ass."
"So, you do it that often, Haibara?"
"I love my ass. I really do."
"I wish I had a toy. I'm so shy about buying that sort of thing." And we will both gorge ourselves on this bit of play-pretend modesty.
"Yeah, sure. You're just too cheap, right?"
"Nah. Too forgetful. I'm sure I'd just leave it around the apartment. Either that, or carry it with me eeeevery day. I think I'd be very popular. Where's Conan-kun?"
"That was... A weird little non sequitur." Mmm. I'm sure it is.
It's an ordeal to disentangle yourself; to unlace the limbs and fingers and hair and it's a moment that you'd never see in the passionate trite romantic films.
Well, never two beautiful women.
But this, also.
The winces.
Dammit, can't you just- just be careful?! Wah!
Dragging the joints from the counter. Sparking one with a slow lingering relish and it's definitely more gratifying than a beer.
"You got any Sapporo, Ayumi?" While she's not only lounging but draped over the tousled futon with a lassitude that's melted her hair into a lank auburn puddle around her nape.
"Mmm? Yes. I'm sure I do. You wanted a beer?"
"God, I do. I love beer after fucking on a hot day like this. Just like after cleaning the house-"
"Let. Me. Guess. You clean the house with doc; you steep yourselves in sweat; and then you ruin everything again."
"Pretty much. You know, he said you're invited to stay over. Any time you'd like-"
"I am not playing that game with you two. I'd feel a little weird, honestly. I mean, he has known me since I was a little girl. It's not like you; you were at least an adult. In a little girl's body. But, hell, what's the difference?
"The mind is all, right?" Swallowing half the joint in one prolonged dreamy gasp; it's cream smeared on your every nerve. Fingers grope lazily at the fridge; jerk it open with the bottles' sharp chinking rattle together.
One's plucked out, rinsed beneath the tap, snapped open. Serenade yourself with its carbonation's heavy prickling wheeze. The aroma's pungent, acrid, a gasp tossed down before it's tucked into Haibara's hand.
The condensation becomes a luxuriant smear knitted like needlepoint through the perspiration, rolled with her palm's slow lingering stroke over her brow, her breasts.
It's that unselfconscious grace in a woman's poise when there's not a camera; when there's only exhaustion without anything like unease. Legs outstretched and her belly tight but still soft with femininity; tits fall heavy with elegantly upturned tear-drop elegance.
"Ah. That tastes so good." Swallowing a quick spurt of the beer. "Damn, it's amazing. I love Sapporo. Even if Japan didn't have anything else, I think I'd love it for the beer. That clarity. It's nothing like the pisswater Americans brew.
"Or the grimy crap the Germans and English and Irish have."
"I don't mind American beer. It's all carbonated piss and ash-"
"But the Japanese is- is just clearer, I guess. It's the piss of the gods." Chortling into the bottle; there's a susurration, a rumble and thrum with the breath's quick musical flit through the mouth. "Whew. What time is it?"
"Eight-forty-"
"Ah, crap. Doc will be very upset."
"What can he do? Spank you-"
"You should play around with us sometimes. Trust me, it's very worth it. He's in better shape than he's ever been, I think. He's got muscle under all of that roundness, you know. He can bounce me for hours." Ew.
Yuck.
But there's a- a starry-eyed idiocy in it.
Damn.
"Really? That fantastic? Is this looooove?"
"I wouldn't say that. But it's a lot of like."
"Poor Mitsuhiko-kun. He'll be so disappointed." Opening my own beer. Why not? When entertaining in Rome, ah...
"Oh, please. You know that was just a little thing-"
"Yeah, right. That infatuation."
"Wasn't he always snuffling around your skirt, too, Ayumi?" Fair enough. Haibara's right brow quirked; standing now, the beer tossed back.
"And Ran's. And Sonoko's. And Kisaki-san's and-"
"Well, he is a boy." And there is a sigh.
It is a knowing one.
A long-suffering one.
Oh, boys.
"I need to motor, Ayumi. I will see you later."
"Any more of those delicious chemistries?"
"Yeah. I have a few blotters. You're sure-"
"I'd buy a gross. Trust me, Haibara, that's fucking incredible. I've never been higher; I've never been more delirious."
"A gross? You're serious?" There's incredulity.
"Why? It's not like it's that rarefied, right? No ergot or whatever's crashing the acid market-"
"No. No. All of it's pretty much over-the-counter. Well, y'know, the professional lab counter. Nothing really controlled."
"Gotta have it, Ai. It's driving me insane. I'm already a junkie for it, I think." There's a hysteria in this. A fanaticism coalescing in the blood. Madness. Hunger; craving.
"Seriously? I mean, addiction-"
"Nah. I just want it again. I saw a goddess."
"So you said. I've never made an entheogen before. I'm kind of excited."
"Just so exciiiited-"
"Anyway, I need to leave-"
"Geeze. Like that? Not even bathing with your beloved Ayumi?"
"He loves the smell of other girls on me."
"Boys?"
"Not so much. It's not fair, either, 'cause I love women on him." Dressing. Quickly, quickly; not hurried but only with a deft mechanical ease.
The planet's most workmanlike unstriptease. Dresstease? Whatever it is, it's anguish, even if she is very lovely clothed, also.
But I must bathe.
Slowly, slowly, the shower rasping at shoulders, caressing the nape, shampoo lathered in the hair. There's a beautiful lassitude, at least, in bathing alone. No complaints about the temperature; no whining about the time that you're monopolizing anything.
Just sag down into the bath drawn in its sumptuous depth.
This is what redeems the shitty claustrophobic apartment. I will be a realist about this; it is an absolutely awful apartment.
I don't care.
A likeness of silence.
Tranquility.
Top-heavy lonely newly-divorced neighbor.
It's just...
Paradisaical.
Slipping down down down; knowing the sublime half-drowning relief the luxury in the water sloshing up around your ears.
But there's always an interruption, isn't there? Springing up out of the bath with a heave and a gurgle the instant that chime throbs up from the phone. It's quick, lunging, bounding, bouncing, and there's still forever that simple agitation because it could end at any instant.
"Hello? Yoshida." Now, now, now, who could it be?