TW: Sex and language, awkward dubcon.
VII
Boast — Whiskey Rose — History — Strip — Digits — Oral — Reconciliation — Movies — The Lovers
Back at the Lucky 38 that night all of them were hanging out and talking and drinking in the rec room. Raúl and Arcade were playing pool, which Arcade was good at. Others were standing around the pool table watching or sitting at the big round wood table in the room, which Cara had moved close to the pool table alone in a display of masculinity enjoyed by many. Rex chewed on a bone and occasionally chased a tennis ball and brought it back to Cara. Cara and Olivia drank, relatively little. Cass drank a lot even for her. Raúl and Arcade drank. Cara let Rex drink a little beer (Rex liked it), Lily said she shouldn't drink, and ED-E couldn't.
Everyone talked at once.
Someone had the jukebox playing a little too loud on random, though you could queue certain songs. Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now" was about a minute in. Cara suspected Abba's "Dancing Queen" would soon follow. Or maybe the Smiths or the Scissor Sisters, Arcade had been into them lately. Cass liked mostly country and honky tonk; they could expect some country radio pop. Cara liked everything. Lately he'd been into Daft Punk, of course, and blur and the Smashing Pumpkins, especially their song about whores. Raúl mostly liked telenovela score soundtracks.
At some point, flushed nice and red, Cass started talking loudly about how back when it was just her and Cara they had sex together, which embarrassed Cara and made him uncomfortable. Cass didn't care. She also spoke very highly of his prowess as a lover and his dick and his body, which helped him feel better about it.
Olivia didn't like it one bit; people slept around in the wasteland, but she didn't have to approve of it—she certainly didn't at the moment—even if she did it too.
Olivia had been sitting on Cara's lap draped about him, and they had their arms around each other, but when Cass got to sex, after a few seconds of it Olivia sat up—Cara thought she'd leave, shun him, that suddenly she hated him—and then reaffirmed her arm around his back possessively, like "my man." In that short time, he'd become sure she'd disown him because he'd had sex with someone in the past, inconveniently someone he still had contact with, although the two of them, Cass and Cara, had never officially been a couple or anything like that. The sex had been more hookup and occasional convenient booty call than romance, erotic more than loving, physical more than emotional, though they'd always cared about each other. They'd considered themselves friends, in an open relationship.
Cass said some things that were true, some things that weren't and some things he hadn't known, like her angle on things, and how much more pleased she'd been by him than he'd ever known, which was nice, but Cass enjoyed exaggeration, and indulged in it then. When she started boasting, he couldn't let her get away with it anymore. He later felt pretty bad about speaking up, but then it'd seemed like he had to defend himself.
"And he came every time! Usually more than once!" Cass said. He wondered why she'd even say that.
"Not every time," Cara said, kind of angry. "More like 60 percent of the time."
"What!?" Cass said loudly. It hurt Cara and Olivia and Arcade's ears. Cass seemed genuinely surprised, but she also exaggerated the surprise.
Cara shouldn't have said the figure out loud. It was accurate; he'd rounded up.
He shrugged, incredibly self-conscious and sweating suddenly as he remembered Olivia was on top of him. She was tall, and she'd been putting on muscle and losing fat lately. She used to be lighter.
"I know we haven't done it in a while," he said to Cass, "but I liked having sex with you, Cass. I—" To say more on the subject he sat up straight and leaned closer to Cass, feeling embarrassed all the while—but, just about shockingly to him, Olivia didn't reject him then either, or even move away from him. As he spoke to Cass he put an arm around Olivia's ridiculous thin curvy waist to protect her from what he was saying, remembered suddenly how tiny she felt and how he kind of liked that though she was about 5′8″, and then paused and looked at Olivia, into her eyes; he interrupted himself talking to Cass to say to Olivia, feeling awful, "I'm sorry for talking about this."
"It's okay," she said quietly, looking back into his eyes. He could tell from her eyes that she was feeling insecure, or threatened, but he couldn't imagine why. "It's . . . Things happen," Olivia said. "I've been with other people too. We have to deal with it. For us."
Cara nodded to her smiling, touched and affirmed more than he could express.
As Olivia spoke only for him, Cass loudly piped in, "What are you talking about, Cara?" not hearing Olivia.
"You're not super-awesome at sex, Cass," Cara said. He didn't mean what he said as an insult. Cass was lying to herself. Maybe someone needed to tell her; reality check. Don't say she's bad, he told himself. "You're not bad. But you're not super-awesome. I'm sorry. You were almost always really drunk, and that can help lower inhibitions, but with you, you just get sloppy and disconnected, like you either don't know how I'm feeling, or just don't care. Maybe that's what you're really like. Most of the time you didn't seem to notice or care if I was even enjoying myself."
Cass snatched her current bottle of whiskey off the table and stormed out of the room without saying anything, except for a telling angry glare at Cara.
Nope, that was the wrong thing to say too, Cara thought. Shit. He took a second, looking to ask Olivia to climb off of him—and she was already looking at him, concerned, and she said, "You should go talk to her," as he turned to her.
"I was gonna ask you to get up so I could go do that," Cara said.
She nodded. "That's good."
Cara nodded back. "I shouldn't have said any of that."
"If it's true maybe she should know," Olivia said, not hating him, and clambered off of him, only briefly grinding a heel someplace uncomfortable. "There's a lot of delusion in the Mojave." He got up.
Cara felt worse now than when Cass was only talking about having sex with him in some detail in front of Olivia, whom he was in love with, and everyone.
Cara said to all of them, "I'm gonna go talk to her."
When it was just Cass and him they were close, and used to have sex a lot. Then they didn't do it anymore. She never told him why; he had guesses, but hadn't been able to verify any. Cass could probably tell that Olivia and Cara liked each other a lot. More than liked. Cara was pretty sure Olivia had talked about that and him and more with Cass; he knew that sometimes Olivia talked to Cass about things rather than talking to him. Lately the balance had shifted more to Cara than Cass. He loved being closer to Olivia, but didn't want to take anything from Cass, and he also hated competing for someone's attention, or depending on their approval; a fool's game.
After Cara said he was going to go talk to Cass, he got a few looks. "Seriously, just talk," he said. "No, I actually meant that."
The jukebox was playing music on random; as Cara walked into the guest room, the early 21st century Lana del Rey song "Off to the Races" started.
On the opposite side of the presidential suite from the rec room, Cass was sitting up in the bed she normally used in the guest room, the first one closer to the entryway, and she was, strangely, crying, alternately sobbing and swigging whiskey and sometimes both at the same time. Cara saw that in the few seconds of long strides it took him to reach her. She was clearly not only crying about what had just happened. He'd seen Cass cry a few times, but it hadn't been like this.
"I'm sorry for what I said," Cara told her, meaning it; and stopping short, not sitting next to her yet. Not until she wanted him to.
There was plenty of space for both of them on the bed. It was a double, or maybe queen-size. Cara could never keep pre-war bed sizes straight.
He accidentally recalled the past; some of the times back when they'd been breaking in the suite and its furniture, beds and couches and chairs and tables and other surfaces. He didn't consider doing it now, it just went by his mind's eye. He shut it out.
As Cass looked up at Cara, for less than a second he saw a dangerous look in her eyes he recognized, from her in the past and from hundreds of other people as well, like she was thinking about exactly the same thing he'd just been.
Then her expression changed; she was sad, whatever impulses she might've had.
"Why didn't you tell me? Thought I was always awesome and hot!" Cass said, voice heavy, sounding desperate and crying again, tears streaming down her tanned face, eyes reddened and glimmering in the room's opulent but dim lighting.
He wasn't sure how to answer her. As he thought about it she patted the spot next to her on the bed. Inconveniently, what she'd said registered as funny to him right then. He hugged her before sitting down, and couldn't wipe the grin off his face, at what she'd said, quick enough. She watched him closely: she saw the grin, but she guessed what caused it. Yeah, she'd sounded absurd. He didn't find it was funny that she was distraught.
He crawled over her body rather than walking around the bed, and her belly did this flip, from the proximity and weight and him brushing up against her and his warmth, and just his smell, familiar yet new, maybe a new cologne, and from other things she couldn't identify.
She didn't quite notice herself burping, then, but Cara did and ignored that and the alcohol on her breath, then sat and put his arm around her comfortingly and held her. He was a good friend. She wasn't sure if he was a better friend or lover, or which one she wanted right now. He always had his shoulders held high, something she found incredibly attractive, and which she didn't notice many guys doing. Most people seemed so downtrodden.
When he put his arm around her she leaned into him without hesitation, trusting him, comfortable with him, whatever else was going on. He felt tears seep through his shirt.
He ran a hand through her hair, only noticing afterward that she had her hair down, which was rare, out of its eternal bun, loose and curly and orange-red. Her face was flushed: Whiskey Rose. He drew his fingers through her hair some more, taking his time, careful not to tug at any snags, not trying to make her talk.
She'd taken her gloves off, too. She didn't do that much. He wondered why. He wondered if she knew he'd come in here to comfort her, or if she'd only suspected and hoped he would.
Her brown suede jacket was on the floor against the wall, flung away.
Only the pink and white plaid button-up long-sleeved shirt she always wore and seldom washed covered the top half of her body now, and it was unbuttoned even further than normal—normal was halfway down, three of six buttons done. So it mostly wasn't together and was covering little of her chest and belly. Her bra was exposed.
Cara didn't think the thing with the buttons was an accident, but by the time he noticed that consciously it seemed like she'd already forgot about doing it. She wasn't bending her chest toward him or anything, just crying, though he accidentally looked down her shirt once and saw a lot of skin and hated himself for doing it, even unwittingly, at a moment like this. She was vulnerable.
She'd tugged off her cowboy boots—Ariat, if he remembered right—also rare for her, even when she was in bed. She didn't wear socks. Her feet smelled unpleasant from a distance.
"I didn't do it right, obviously, but I tried to tell you," Cara said. "Mostly I didn't think you could take the ego blow so I stopped trying. You act like you don't care but you do."
Sometimes it irritated Cass that Cara could see through her.
"Fuckin' A," Cass slurred, sounding tired.
"Also your nipples are weird," Cara said. "You usually always deliberately got so drunk first that I didn't think you cared, either; like whether you were any good, or if I ever came or not. Like you wanted not to care. I didn't know what I should do. I could never get you to talk about sex with me, or even consent."
Cass didn't understand the concept of consent, and certainly not a better subset he liked to call enthusiastic consent, though he'd explained and explained consent to her, and even had some of his friends at the Gomorrah talk to her about it. It hadn't helped.
"You say something about my nipples?" Cass said. She leaned and fell into him somewhat as she spoke, draping herself over his chest; to him, it was uncomfortably similar to something Olivia had been doing moments ago. Maybe that's what gave Cass the idea.
"No," Cara said.
Cass looked up at him, seeming not to hear what he just said or what she just asked, then her head crashed back down against him and she cried more for a minute or so, letting herself go and sobbing and getting it out. At some point she farted, but she'd been aiming away from him and it wasn't bad. It was probably good she was so comfortable.
She paused and moved and took a big swig of whiskey. She'd definitely noticed herself farting. Her bottle was mostly empty. Cara kept his arms around her.
"Cass, alcohol is a depressant," he said.
"Fuck's that mean?" she said, sniffling.
"It means like makes your body sad," he said.
"You saying . . . don't keep drinking more?" Cass said. "Don't drown my sorrows in booze? Is that's what's you're saying? It's not gonna make me forget all my troubles . . . " she trailed off.
"You know it won't," Cara said.
She cried hard for a few minutes and he held her, snugly. He could tell she was feeling better already, on the way up. That was good. She took another swig of alcohol and he let her, then she cried more, then she started to take another swig and stopped herself and wiped tears off her face and set the whiskey bottle on the nightstand by the bed. Cara had to let her go for her to reach it, and he accidentally watched her round little ass shift and mold when she was leaning on her side. Then she came back and he held her and she cried some more.
She pulled her head up and looked in Cara's eyes for a few seconds, and between the two of them, searching. Playing too loudly on the jukebox at that moment was the Roxy Music song "More Than This."
And, not only because of the portentous, supposedly random song choice, he saw it coming but somehow couldn't stop her; he wasn't sure why; he didn't need it emotionally, but she did: She kissed him forcefully, grabbing him a little hard by the back of his head with one snaking arm, and grasping her fingers in his hair, too hard, and pulling him into her, and pushing her tongue into his mouth and waggling her tongue inside of it.
Cara didn't like it. They hadn't talked about it. She didn't ask him if he wanted to. He let her go at him for a couple seconds, hopefully ridding herself of the urge, then pushed her off gently.
Not to be refused, Cass said, "Wanted to thank you," wriggling her hips and the wedge of her pelvis into him and leaning closer and pushing her tits into him and pulling her shirt open. Her eyes went from her own body, and the broadening range of skin of her chest on display, and the room's shadows playing on her, then back up to his eyes, need and hunger in hers.
Cass genuinely didn't like to talk about consent "or any'a that shit," as she put it, before sex; she liked to just do it, get right to it, and she normally didn't like much foreplay before the proper rutting, either. The scant technically-foreplay they'd already engaged in would've been about enough. (It was foreplay to her even if it wasn't to him.) Time taken getting clothes off counted as foreplay too, unless they initiated penetrative sex before getting all of it off—which they used to do sometimes, especially with quickies.
Cara knew Cass's opinions on sex and values and preferences and how she liked her clit touched and stuff from long experience; he'd known Cass for months before he met Olivia, before Olivia came to the area. He wasn't sure how long it had been exactly, maybe six to eight months. Maybe less. He and Cass had packed a lot of sex together into that time, some of it good, some of it really good, some of it not good. It had been a relatively healthy sexual relationship between two consenting, occasionally drunk adults like any other.
Except after a month or two Cara noticed a problem: they'd have sex, but he'd often not even get off once. Also she talked funny. Early on, during some instances of sex he'd reached orgasm two or three times, or more.
He naturally assumed it was all his fault when suddenly that stopped happening. He'd had an awful lot of sex in a lot of different ways with an awful lot of different partners, sometimes multiple partners at once, throughout his life. He'd been a prostitute for more than a year, against his will for at least the first month; he'd been good with guns since he was young—not long after his dad gave him his first BB gun he'd converted it to fully-automatic—and he was a good fighter now, but he hadn't been then, unarmed or with mêlée weapons. Now he had a lot of staying power, or endurance, or stamina, whatever you called it to take a while to come. He had sex very frequently now, too, usually not going more than a few days without, often less than one day or a few hours. He just figured he had too much staying power or whatever built up.
Back in the present at that moment, on the Lucky 38 presidential suite's jukebox the Rolling Stones song "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" came on.
Unsure what else to do back then, Cara had tested hypotheses and reviewed observations and collated data as best he could, and learned there were at least a few issues at play: specific ones too, but the main problems were that he was just in much better shape than her, and she was skinny but in awful shape, that their relationship wasn't new anymore, that he had too much staying power, that Cass drank way too much, and mostly that she just didn't care if he enjoyed himself, regardless of orgasm numbers.
Cara came to the conclusion that he was kind of on his own regarding his pleasure. He'd have to take it for himself to get it, because Cass wasn't going to give it to him, and to be fair frequently wasn't able to.
She'd never told him he wanted to go for too long, or confronted him about taking too long to get off, but she must've thought about it; couples, straight gay or other, didn't commonly have sex for longer than an hour, he knew; much less than that, actually, closer to a half hour, or less. He had so much sex his staying power was on the far high end. Apparently once proper sex began most guys didn't last more than five to seven minutes, according to research—only a very small portion of which he'd physically been there for—He couldn't take seven minutes or less now if he tried.
He'd considered his and Cass's sexual history as impartially as he could and realized that Cass's completion rate with him—times they had sex when he had at least one orgasm—was low; surprisingly low to him, once he started keeping track. Of course, he'd probably biased that sample: by thinking about getting off, surely sometimes he kind of made himself not get off for better statistical significance. In the same time, Cass had always come more than once; three times, on average. Cara usually didn't even worry about orgasms, specifically, his or his partner's/partners', or whether he got off at all. It hadn't been a problem for him, that he could ever remember.
He coped with this new problem in a number of ways.
He also became a little obsessed with orgasms.
First, he naturally talked with Cass about it openly several times, while they were sober as well as drunk; that hadn't helped.
Then he tried a couple of initiatives simultaneously. He hung out with Cass less, for one. For another, he slept with a lot of other people more; people he knew and people he didn't know, and people he had histories of hooking up with; for example Melissa, a Great Khan, a bit of a cumslut and kind of his girlfriend—his cumslut—though he and Melissa had a very open non-monogamous relationship; it'd begun as casual sex between two enthusiastically consenting adult partners, but became more. As it happened, he and Melissa still had exactly the same relationship, though now she was also pregnant with his child, and the Khans as a group intended to leave the Mojave soon. He'd also hooked up with Red Lucy, the dark beautiful primal master of the Thorn underground on the west side of Las Vegas into bloodplay, and the agoraphobic but very sexually adventurous Sarah Weintraub, of Vault 21 on the Strip, and some of his many friends who worked in the sex industry, mostly at the Gomorrah, and were eager to please him anyway because they just loved sex and him.
The Gomorrah was the Strip's hotel/casino/den of vice/brothel, which had entire rooms and an open courtyard for group stuff, infrequently orgies, and relatively normal cheaper voyeur stuff, like mirrored walls and ceilings in some rooms, and equipment to indulge in and embrace lots of different fetishes common, for normal people who couldn't get it elsewhere, and uncommon, like for catering to big spenders and high rollers at the casino to keep them spending and coming. Cara had cleaned up the Gomorrah and installed new leadership there months before, on his own initiative; a madame he'd known in Georgia ran the place now, along with some smart but not crazy or even especially greedy lieutenants who were members of the place's ruling group, the Omertas, a tribe of common raiders called the Slither Kin before Mr. House organized and remade them and the Strip, who pretended they were family. The former Gomorrah and Omerta heads, Nero and Big Sal, and their crooked lieutenant Cachino, were all dead. The place had a pre-war mudflap silhouette logo of two hot- tight-bodied big-breasted quite thin curvy-figured naked women with big asses, and these road signs that sometimes turned him on just looking at them, "Holster your weapon . . . at Gomorrah" (implicit: in doggy style), oh my god, he'd think, looking at a skinny yet curvy woman's bottom half, then have to act it out with Cass or somebody.
He'd also worked some shifts, as a prostitute again, in Gomorrah—most johns tipped him well, but his friends there wouldn't let him refuse a salary, like the other workers got now because of him.
All the socializing and sexing with different people, from the prostitution of his body especially, helped a lot.
Another countermeasure he tried was to remember not to make himself last during sex, which he did so much by then he was just used to doing, holding out by default, like the way he used to suck in his belly. That tactic helped too.
Cara had become obsessed with orgasms at that time as a result of the deficiency; he still thought about them too much, though because he'd been with a lot of other people, rather than exclusive with Cass, he'd got much better about it, about just enjoying sex and doing it well and making the other person or people feel good and pleasing them.
Which was why as he thought of some of his and Cass's sexual experiences together he thought of orgasms, and vividly recalled some moments of semen flying from his body on or into Cass's, like shooting it on her tits or across her face, long ropes of cum covering from her lips to over and past one of her eyes, which she'd fortunately closed before it hit, before some of the hot thick stuff ran back down and past her lips into her open mouth. She'd tasted it then swallowed it. Occasionally he really wanted to do naughty things to Cass, like that, come on her and play with it afterward, or come in her, carefully pushing himself not-too-deeply inside so it could come back out and they could play with it afterward, making it a creampie.
Probably because he could hook up with just about anybody anytime, Cara hardly ever masturbated. It never occurred to him to just jerk off; nor masturbate mutually with Cass, who at that point in their relationship, though, probably would've wanted to just fuck him after a few minutes of it.
Sometimes Cass would be tired, get to one last orgasm and collapse and fall asleep, like normal, and once he could tell she was done he'd just immediately start jerking off. It was that simple almost every time, simple relief, but sometimes Cass would notice what he was doing, and empathize or feel charitable, then help him out somehow: sucking the head of his cock while she was half-asleep and while he worked the rest of his shaft and his balls, and then he'd come in her mouth and she'd swallow his load before conking out, and he'd kiss her without hesitating and go to sleep with them both feeling satisfied; or a few times she'd lie on her back on their bed, or whatever surface, and lick and suck his balls, and he'd stand above her, above or over her head or to the side, and jerk off and spray his load over her chest and neck—giving her a shimmering white pearl necklace—and tits and belly too, if it was big or shot far, which it was and did often.
A few times she'd done nothing for him, recovering from multiple orgasms and tired and drunk like normal, but then when he reached orgasm he'd used her as a good old-fashioned cum dumpster, like by shooting it into her mouth and telling her to swallow it all, which she gladly always had and would've done on her own anyway. Sometimes saying it out loud made doing it more exciting. Sometimes she even helped drain out the last drops. Sometimes she played with his cum a little before swallowing, like letting it spill out onto her tits or pushing it up with her tongue for him to see. She often did such things that at times when he wasn't really feeling it, somehow, but he always liked when she was proud of what she'd helped produce, and didn't reject his cum, or that she thought he liked her to play with it, anyway. Sometimes she gagged. Oddly, he couldn't remember her ever complaining about the taste of his cum, which he got very self-conscious about sometimes, though to be fair sometimes he didn't care if it tasted bad or good, he was just gonna put it where he wanted to, like by dumping it in her.
He went down on her almost every time they had sex; it would have been every time, but sometimes she hadn't let him. "Just fuck me" was her normal line, as she pulled him up and grabbed his fat cock and lined it up with her pussy. This seemed fair somehow, he hoped, his coming in her mouth or whatever. She certainly didn't have a problem with it.
Once or twice she'd anticipated him needing to finish himself off and had posed for him and told him to come on her, and played with her little tits and jammed them together, among other things, loving just watching him get himself off, watching him watch her while she didn't even have to exert herself, just using her body passively. It was surprisingly intimate sometimes. She found it rather more satisfying than he liked, but at least he got off then. He didn't complain about her not bothering to try to get him off during the proper act of sex between them—not necessarily vaginal penetrative sex, just the main act.
The afterplay crap, of Cara getting himself off afterward, only so he wouldn't go completely unsatisfied, eventually became, on most occasions, a whole other part of the main act of intercourse, the new normal. He didn't look at it that way, but he could tell she did. Cara hated that it became a regular part of sex for them, but tried to shrug off as sort of a "you take what you're given." At least he got off. Sometimes they'd start having sex again after it—go for round two—and while that was rare, it helped make up for the many times they didn't start up again.
Cara's next method of coping came about because of the previous one. By doing that, fucking her good but not reaching completion himself, and then forcing himself to come at the end by hook or by crook, he eventually got bored, and without even meaning to he invented a new technique of basically jerking himself off using Cass's body. Sometimes it got a little messy, but they both liked it.
They used the him jerking himself off in/with Cass method with variations. Sometimes she'd officially finish, but then she'd get into, for her, some easy position, sometimes of his choosing, and then she'd just lay there, or hold herself up on her hands and knees or whatever—she most enjoyed the doggy style variation—and she'd try not to fall asleep, and he'd keep fucking her until he was satisfied enough to quit too. Or usually just until he achieved orgasm. She still fell asleep sometimes.
The alternate-position variations, where he basically fucked her instead of jerking himself off using her body, sometimes gave him pretty good orgasms, which were always a surprise. On a few occasions she even found the energy to start up again and fucked him properly, some more, making his orgasm much better, but more importantly often actually satisfying him, which was all any of the shit was about—something she didn't seem to understand, or maybe willfully ignored.
A few times Cara really enjoyed whatever particular variation of that, jerking himself off somehow in Cass while she was too worn out to do anything, so much that he'd come then keep going until he came again. The follow-up orgasm's load of cum wouldn't be as impressive or voluminous as the first one that he took forever to get to, but usually neither of them was in the mood or awake enough for much cumplay by then, so it usually didn't matter. Cara was almost always self-conscious about the size of his load, not just the taste, and sometimes even the consistency or other aspects. Most women hardly noticed or didn't notice, though some did. Guys were often more aware, having to deal with it themselves, but that wasn't necessarily helpful or good. Rarely, people actually liked to play with his cum, or taste it; or whatever exactly, do something with it. Cara wasn't always in the mood for participating in that but sometimes he wanted to, or enjoyed it or watching it, and if someone enjoyed what came from him it just made him all happy inside. Cass never cared . . . though sometimes, she had to admit, on occasions when she'd indulge in cumplay with him and get into it, a big cum load could be a really nice—and hot and thick and sweet and bitter, with a touch of salt—reward at the end of sex.
Cass wasn't a size queen, but Cara had a really big dick, as long and thick as she'd ever had, and sometimes she just loved to have a guy with a big dick fuck the hell out of her.
They'd never become a couple. They'd advanced enough to try out roleplaying and fantasies, they were comfortable with each other; and in a regular sex session after they got a little used to each other, and built up Cass's stamina, they'd typically use several different sex positions; and on a good night they might both have more than one orgasm, Cass usually several times as many as him, not only because she never had a refractory period, though she wanted to take breaks sometimes.
In their first few months of having sex they occasionally tried out new things just for variety, and fun, though that stopped before long. For example, sometimes they'd put arbitrary restrictions on themselves, challenged themselves: like, for the whole encounter they could use any position they wanted but Cara's cock could never go into Cass any further than the head, or no face-to-face positions (Cass's idea), or no man-dominating woman-supplicating subservient positions (Cara's idea), or only standing positions, or Cara couldn't touch his cock no matter what else they did, or Cass couldn't touch her clit, or they could only use their hands on each other.
For whatever reason, two good memories of fingering Cass seemed to coalesce in Cara's mind as Cass came onto him then, one in his crappy motel room in Novac and one in the Ultra-Luxe's restaurant the Gourmand.
"You don't hafta fuck me to thank me," Cara said, back in the present. Cass hadn't changed since the last time they had sex. The look in her eyes now was exciting, but somehow the rest of her was putting him off. He added, "Not that I wouldn't enjoy a 60 percent chance of orgasm."
Writhing into him, climbing up him and kind of mounting him, Cass said "Shut up" and punched his arm, joking. She knew he was joking too. Then, not quite getting it, she undulated on him and said, "I wanna fuck."
Cara said, "I don't. It doesn't feel right."
Cass said, "But I'm horny."
Cara said, "I'm not."
Cass clutched at his soft dick through his pants.
"No, Cass," Cara said. "I want to be with Olivia."
Cass said, "Well she hasn't staked her claim on you yet, has she?"
"No, she hasn't," Cara said, but he felt like lying.
"Then fuck me," Cass said. She loved saying "fuck." Grinding on him a little hard, she said, "You can think about her, I don't care. You'll know it's me. You know I got a tight pussy."
"It's not that tight," Cara said.
"What?" Cass said.
"Nothin,'" Cara said. You're loose, Cass, he thought; he nearly said some of it: For me, relatively. I know I have a big dick. I don't care that you're loose. Just don't get full of yourself. I don't know why but I hate that. "Loose" even before I've fucked you senseless and busted a nut in you. It's like you've had a couple kids.
Cass adjusted on top of him. She stopped grinding and rest her weight on him. She put her head in his neck where it met his shoulder. She kissed his cheek then his lips. Then she started writhing on him and started grabbing his cock, and said after it hadn't hardened or started to, "What's wrong? Can't get it up for mama? I'll get it hard."
Cara politely pushed her hand away, and instead of saying Don't say mama, he said, "It would be up if I wanted it to be." He hoped she'd get the message.
He'd barely known his mother, and had trouble remembering her now. Thinking of her normally made him sad. He remembered what she looked like. He'd heard of Electra and Oedipus and even experienced it in transference onto him or among friends, especially at the whorehouse, but he'd never wanted to fuck his mother. He tolerated it if that was somebody else's kink or fetish or whatever, he didn't judge anyone for it; just like with things he didn't happen to be into, such as what he liked to call "bathroom stuff," but it, mother or father stuff, didn't do anything for him and sometimes it kinda put him off, as now.
Cass's memory of their sex life was fuzzy, he knew. His wasn't. He'd never had trouble getting it up with Cass, or anyone, even at his very most drunk or high, even back when he hadn't known what any of it meant at all very early in his life in one of the many occasions of people sexually abusing him, when his body had betrayed him. He wasn't sure why he'd never had that problem, erectile dysfunction; apparently it was common—and he'd seen other guys experience it, whether they were his johns or others'. If they were his he usually proceeded to work their prostate, which he was a professional with. Something Freudian, he figured; genital fixation stage? He wasn't a fan of Freud because of what Freud thought of women, but some things just stuck.
Cara kissed Cass on her face on the outside cheek and hugged her and held her. She brightened back up. It might've been a feint, the acting sad thing, and if it was he'd fallen for it. "I'll probably always really like you, Cass," he said. "And I care about you. But I don't wanna do this. I'm not really in the mood, either, as you can tell." She'd gone back to rubbing his cock with one of her hands, he'd noticed; it wasn't hardening.
Cass said, "I'll let you come on my face."
Thinking Where did that even come from?, Cara said, "Cass, if I wanted to I'd do that anyway."
She knew it was true—she liked for some small things to be coerced or forced a little—and that when he'd done that to/on her in the past he'd usually always told her clearly he was going to do it, not just went and done it, so she could say no, and when he did she'd always liked it, even once when it felt a little demeaning and made her feel a little dirty in a bad way, which she hadn't told him about but which he'd picked up on anyway somehow and then apologized for doing. He'd proceeded to gently wipe it all off of her, and make her just like new. He didn't stick her with the cleanup like some people did, either. She loved that. And sometimes she'd loved taking a shot to the face, and he'd always graciously done whatever else she wanted to do with his cum afterward, cleaning her with a shirt of his or a towel, however big the load; or even licking it off of her a few times when she told him to, though he wasn't into it, and he'd never deliberately shot any cum in her eyes (accidentally, once).
She tried to make a scandalized face at him now anyway for saying that. They both knew she was only being dramatic; it didn't fool him for a second. She couldn't do nothing, though. He'd just taken another illusion from her, the great conjurer; one of control.
Cara was confused by the way she was acting, and noticed she was getting desperate but he couldn't tell why.
Cass kissed him on the mouth again, sloppily, too wetly; an invasion of her tongue in places he didn't want it.
"Cass . . . no," Cara said. Now he felt like crying.
He picked her up bodily, lifting her easily, then got up off the bed, carried her along then set her back down on the bed, with her body prone, lying back, not sitting up.
When he first lifted her she was already breathing harder. She thought he had something very different in mind. Cara wasn't that drunk, and though he felt the temptation, even then his body wasn't responding to her, despite all the signals she and her body were sending him, consciously and unconsciously.
Cass said, "Fuck me, Cara."
He unbuttoned the rest of her shirt, one button. He wished it wasn't almost open already for some reason. He leaned over her. Normally by this point he would've taken off his PIP-Boy. Her belly expanded and sucked in rapidly with her breathing before his hands even got to her. He felt the heat of her body and the tension in her through her shirt. Every other second her tits surged back up. Which was just a coincidence, but for his libido both a perfectly and a poorly-timed one.
She writhed, and started touching her pussy, hurriedly reaching around him, with a few fingers of one of her hands, unable to wait for him, over her pants. She also started caressing his chest with her other hand, and using one of her legs to drag along his side and ass and stroke him and urge him on to more. Sometimes she did all three things at once, sometimes only one or two, all for less than a minute. Her breathing quickened some more. She felt hot, especially as he got closer to where her legs met.
One of his hands slipped and went out against her belly. She moaned, sort of a loud drawn-out breath. She said, "Come on. Put your dick in me." She smiled up at him, gazing into his eyes, sure he'd cave in and give it to her at any second and enjoying that too, the risk, the danger of him taking control and having his way with her.
He felt like everyone was watching him suddenly, not only her, and not because he hadn't bothered to close the room's door. He felt watched and judged in a bad way, a not-at-all-exciting, shameful one. He said "god dammit" gruffly.
Cass didn't seem to notice what he said. In a weird way, this would sometimes happen with them: she was so into it that by that point she was only dimly aware there was another person in the room; she kind of just wanted to lie back and feel good for a half hour, or two hours or the whole night, and not particularly think about or try to please him. She could almost be alone. "What?" she said, distant.
He'd finished unbuttoning her shirt in all of two seconds. She never tucked it in. He undid her big silver belt buckle and ripped her belt out of its loops on her pants successfully in one strong pull, which surprised them both. Cara spoke as he removed her belt: "Shut up, Cass." He was kind of joking, because sometimes she liked stuff like that, and was mostly using his voice to get her hotter. It worked.
Her eyes went wide and she gasped, at what he said and his getting the belt all the way out in one pull. She breathed harder, panting a little, excited, the soft old plaid shirt she always wore falling away to the sides, her bra completely exposed, her belly and chest and tits rising and falling rapidly, her ribs showing.
Smiling, Cass said, "I like it when you get forceful."
Cara half-grinned. He straightened up and said, "Take all your clothes off. I'll be back in 30 seconds."
Cass didn't hear or chose to ignore the second part of what he said. Pleased by the first part, though, she said, "Do you wanna watch?," as in "watch me take my clothes off."
"I'm gonna go tell everybody what I'm about to do," he said, but didn't say no.
"What?" Cass said, not hearing him, closing and re-opening her shirt and revealing her tits for him a few times, her lips and her eyes smiling up at him brightly.
She slid her legs apart.
Intuitively, reflexively and before he could think he palmed her pussy with one of his hands, which even through her pants was deliciously hot, and she undulated against him a little hard to feel it through her jeans. She moaned. She hadn't known he'd react that way. He kept his fingers over her and rubbed his thumb over about where her clit would've been and said, "Just take your clothes off. I'll be back in 30 seconds. . . . And leave the lights on."
She moaned at the thumb on her clit, even if it was only the hood and over clothing, and squirmed, already ready for him, one hand on one of her tits while the other went back down between her legs, trying to catch his hand there and missing it. Then she started touching herself over her pants again, biting her lip and trying to keep her eyes open to watch Cara, her gaze wandering slowly over his body to the parts she liked most and lingering. She watched his eyes rake over her. She felt his look like a wave of heat.
She didn't necessarily like to not get her way, but something about him just telling her what to do and this teasing and so far denial was really doing it for her, getting her hotter.
"We're gonna start when I get back, so try to be ready for me," he said, not touching her, and she moaned again just thinking about it, anticipating, and enjoying what he said, too.
"Cara," Cass said mid-moan, sharing her arousal with him. She also didn't want him to leave the room and realized he was about to.
As he walked out he checked himself over: No clothing missing; dick not hard. All good.
Cass unbuttoned her jeans and licked a few of her fingers and slid her hand under her pants and panties to her skin and reached low, feeling hairs shaved short a couple days ago growing back out, and touched herself, her pussy and her clit, rubbing and pinching and circling and pulling, then using her other hand to work one of her nipples over her bra. "Cara," she said to him again, begging.
He went back to the rec room, leaving the guest room door open. He heard Cass moaning some more, and thought he heard these wonderful quiet wet sounds.
To everyone in the rec room he said, "Cass is acting sorta weird right now. I'm gonna finger her." They were surprised when he came back in. "No, just quick right now."
Olivia gasped, hopefully not so loudly that he heard it, shocked at how he just came out and said it.
Cara heard her gasp but it didn't affect him. He felt bad and guilty and embarrassed already. Cass was his friend, not his lover. He just wanted to take care of her. It wasn't about him. "I'm sorry, guys," he said, particularly to Olivia but meaning it for all of them, even ED-E.
"We could hear her crying," Raúl said.
"We were concerned, but we knew she was fine because she was with you," Arcade said.
"Is she okay?" Olivia said.
"I'm gonna take care of her," Cara said, nodding. "I just don't want her to attack anyone else like she just did me."
"She what?" Olivia said sternly.
"Whoa!" Raúl said.
It took Cara a second to catch up with her; he didn't see why she was so mad. Then he realized he'd chosen his words badly. "Sexually," he said, "not with a weapon."
He sounded sad; not sure what was going on and confused, Olivia's heart still went out to him.
"Did you just say you were gonna fingerbang Cass?" Raúl said.
"I'll close the door," Cara said. "Try to ignore the noise, okay? It won't be long."
He didn't seem excited about it. He had this look about him like he was traumatized, and also like he was a doctor with a patient in urgent care that he needed to sedate.
Cara saw Rex making a face at him. "Don't look at me like that, Rex," he said.
From their perspective: He walked away, a door closed, then there were a lot of feminine breathy noises they heard even over the jukebox, then the noises got louder and louder and became moans and groans and more, and sure enough two minutes later Cass got loud then went quiet, falling off a peak. They thought they heard Cara talking low, but he never got breathy or groaney. A door opened and closed, somebody washed up in the bathroom, and Cara came back into the rec room looking nonplussed in the American sense.
"I didn't wanna do it, I wasn't in the mood, it felt wrong, and just no," he said.
It was different in his perspective, and graphic and sad. But he really cared about Cass and wanted her to feel good. And he was in a position to use one of his talents for good. That didn't happen very much.
He went back into the guest room, and on the way, before he got to work on Cass, took off his PIP-Boy, which didn't take long—not longer than putting one on did—and removed the control glove under it too. If you got into PIP-Boys much, early on you usually figured out how to take off the damn clunky things. Cara had known people much better with PIP-Boys than him, some who'd figured them out despite never coming across so much as an operator's manual, as well as people not nearly as good as him with them, and most of both groups had figured out the removal. Then again, a few people, including ones better than him with PIP-Boys, had also believed it wasn't even possible to take one off, and other such myths. Cara turned the little computer off and put it on a table in the suite's hall.
As Cara went from the rec room back to the guest room, taking off his PIP-Boy, the jukebox started playing "Hypnotize U," a song by No-one Ever Really Dies—N*E*R*D—produced by two of the band, under their older name The Neptunes, as well as by one of Cara's favorite bands, the French duo Daft Punk.
In the guest room Cass was still lying on the same bed, on her back, still writhing, occasionally pushing her pelvis up into the air, pulling her legs in, touching herself, enjoying herself, and had pulled her pants down, but only to her knees, and her panties were still on, though she'd done everything else he asked; a good sign. She didn't want to tease him. She wanted to come.
She was ready and waiting for him and glistening, soaking wet. There was a dark spot beneath her on the sheets. She was moaning quietly—little more than labored loud breathing—as he came back in.
Her eyes were closed. She didn't hear him. The top half of her body was naked. Unlike him and Olivia she had no muscle tone to speak of, but a nice belly anyway. She was lucky that way. She'd taken off her hat and shirt and bra, and her nice little B-cups were out, nipples hard and jutting up for his inspection and appreciation.
Cara loved breasts/boobs/tits/waps/etc., especially right now.
He didn't realize he'd stopped moving just to take in the sight of her.
He quickly banished the thought from his head, but for just a moment he considered fucking Cass. Proper fucking. The thought came to him unbidden. He had some condoms in his and Olivia's bedroom, but he knew before considering going to get one that, if he even started moving in that direction for that purpose, he'd be crossing a line he couldn't uncross, a Rubicon between Cass and Olivia that he'd already crossed once the other way, the healthy way.
A small part of Cara's mind, after failing to convince him to go get a condom or two, undiscouraged by failure, reminded him that after a little while in their relationship Cass hadn't even let him use condoms with her anymore. Cara brushed the thought away, but remembered the feeling, which didn't help. Then he resolved not to do it. It would've felt good for a little while even, if he didn't get off; but he would've felt awful as soon as Cass was done, and he couldn't have lied about doing it with her to anyone.
Her eyes opened and acquired him a second after that. Her whole body brightened up, blooming at the sight of him. In a dirty smutty way she was strikingly beautiful, comfortably sensual. He saw some of her juices sticking to and between her fingers and her vulva—she lifted her hand to show him—clear scintillating sticky wetness—one of the dim lights of the room catching it perfectly somehow.
He could see that she'd also wet one of her nipples. He would've liked to watch her do that. She was twisting and squeezing the nipple with her other hand when he looked.
She tensed and smiled, in anticipation of all kinds of things he wouldn't be doing to her. Again he felt guilty. He let go of that; if he let himself feel guilty, he wouldn't do this nearly as well. He smiled back.
He held up one finger to her, like "just one second," and she understood and it thrilled her even more somehow. The deliberation, maybe, that he knew what he wanted. She thought she knew what that was. He went quickly back around the corner and closed and locked the room's door.
"You don't want them to watch us?" Cass said, kind of mid-moan, like a wave of pleasure hit her halfway through the sentence. She hadn't stopped touching herself, or slowed down. She had this even dirtier look on her face now that she was doing it and he was watching.
No I don't, he thought, ashamed, but he said, "That's just so you can't get out." It's enough that you're loud, he thought, and considered stuffing her panties into her mouth or maybe choking her, which she would've liked.
She moaned again at what he said. And his voice—just his voice did that to her. It was hard to talk to him normally sometimes, especially in the morning or late at night. The meaning of his words now made it even sweeter, headier. She touched herself, loving it, happy, watching his deliberate movements towards her and the hard lines of his shoulders, watching him come close to her, writhing herself, unable to contain her arousal and glad he didn't want her to.
"I'm so wet for you, Cara," she said proudly, almost in a whisper, when he got close, showing him her fingers with her pussy juices on them again.
She was trying to perform, to sound sexy and husky and entice him, but it was real, too. It gave him a mixed message. It did little for him because it was clearly put on, but it was sweet of her, and he liked it, the portion that was true. It didn't arouse him, for no reason he was aware of. He looked at her clinically. What does she need me to do? he thought.
He was thinking that when Cass showed him her sticky fingers, and when he saw her do that, without hesitation he leaned close and took her hand in both of his hands and sucked her wet fingers into his mouth, not touching them with his lips on the way in so he'd get all of her juices. He sucked on them individually, licked them and swirled his tongue around them and stroked them, and sucked her juices off of her and savored the taste and even moaned a little himself. His eyes closed for some of it, but he also looked over her shaking body and into her eyes, hungry for her and watching how he was affecting her. She tasted good. He told her so. She moaned suddenly at that and the feeling of it all. And that she got to have him. He was sofucking good with his mouth.
He used to be a prostitute. Not in Vegas, but somewhere further east. At her insistence and begging he'd told her lots about it on more than one occasion. He hadn't been a slave in the same way they used to be in the Gomorrah, but apparently he might as well have been. Wherever it'd been, the brothel had enjoyed a strangely high position of esteem in the small horrible raider city it was a part of, not the scummy low one the Gomorrah here endured. But for a while he didn't get to choose whom he'd service. He considered himself basically straight but he'd still had to do men about as often as women, as a prostitute. He'd told her about being with johns who were women and men. She didn't know why, but sometimes Cass liked to fantasize about watching him kissing and then passionately fucking another man, or blowing somebody he and she hadn't even met before, presumably expertly, sucking the head and stroking the guy's cock and licking his balls; or maybe fucking a couple of other guys, two or three or four, and Cara easily making them all come, enjoying it, and walking unsteadily back to Cass, who'd be watching it all from their bed, and then he'd fuck her too and finish them both off and sleep with her and just kick the other guys out, done with them.
While Cass entertained ideas, Cara analyzed her. There were so many different things he could do, tools at his disposal. He looked at her clinically because any other way would bother him and he'd be out the room and he couldn't do it. He didn't touch her that way, though; didn't treat her clinically. His vast experience helped him with that. He knew exactly what he was doing. He stepped in and took control.
He got her pants right off, out of the way, because their still being on her would bother him until he took care of it. He lifted her legs up into the air—she was surprised at that, but didn't try to resist him, just let him manipulate her freely—and pulled her jeans off, careful not to do it too forcefully to avoid ripping more holes in them, and then tossed them to the floor without a thought, then slipped off her panties too, but faster, effortlessly. She hadn't even pulled those down before, she'd just pushed aside the faded pink cloth crotch to touch herself. Meanwhile he said, "If I'm gonna fuck you I'd want your pants off, Cass." He didn't say, You're a lazy drunk and a bad lover. She was pretty hot right then, though, so it was easy not to say.
She heard the extra act in his voice, the added tone of disapproval. He was being dramatic for her; he didn't really care that much about her not taking her pants all the way off. She liked it. She giggled, drunk and happy and horny. I'm getting what I want, she thought, watching him intently and struggling to breathe.
"Thought you might finish me off with that," Cass said.
He didn't know what she meant. Maybe she meant his completely soft cock? He checked it—Yeah, still completely soft, he thought upon confirmation. Cass saw him checking and thought he'd just felt the need to stroke himself at the sight of her, and she got even more turned on. Or, Cara was trying to guess, did she mean choking her, with her clothing? Or what? Maybe tie her bra around her neck? Cara said "That's the idea, baby" agreeably anyway. He knew she liked his voice, so he spoke.
He leaned over her and kissed her face and her lips and just made out with her for a little while, sort of gently but firmly, enjoying her and adjusting exactly the way he did everything as he went, fitting her rhythms, finding out where she was at and what kind of intensity worked for her—adjusting to her, finding a better fit.
She didn't think he would kiss her. That made it a lot better somehow. Cass watched porn; he didn't kiss her like people in porn did each other. She liked that.
While he did that Cass started touching his nipples, rubbing and squeezing and twisting, softly and occasionally a little hard. He didn't hate it, but it didn't do anything for him. For whatever reason his nipples just weren't sensitive, didn't really function as an erogenous zone for him. He'd told and told Cass that, but she never remembered. Cara liked other people's nipples; he was good with them. He thought maybe that was where Cass and other people's confusion arose: if he paid attention to theirs and was good with them, he must like his touched too.
Then Cara started groping Cass's body, her waist and her hips and her legs and her belly and her tits, then kissing and licking and nibbling and biting around her neck, one of her major weak spots. He didn't have to stay at her neck for long before she was losing it, needing more now badly. She didn't have to say anything; he could feel it.
He didn't take any of his clothes off, or let her take them off of him, or even pull his cock out. He was holding back. Cass didn't see quite where this was coming from but she loved it. It was different. And hot: The thin veneer of his clothing just barely holding back the animal beneath, that wanted to come out, but so far had only in glimpses.
He went around her neck then lower, avoiding her tits for some reason and kissing and licking and nibbling and sucking around her skinny belly. She got louder, responsive and breathing hard and moaning openly.
At one point he pulled his head back a little to say to her, joking, "Skinny bitch." Cass laughed. He laughed. She loved that he was confident enough, comfortable enough in his masculinity or whatever, that he could laugh and have fun during sex with her. He hadn't talked about laughing much with other partners when she and he talked about sex, but she assumed it happened at least sometimes with them. He was funny. A few times Cass and Cara had made sort of a kink out of making each other laugh during sex. Somehow it seemed to make her a lot hornier, too, often made orgasms better if she'd laughed during the buildup.
He started lightly grazing, then, ghosting a few fingers over her pussy, but not touching it much, and going close to but avoiding her clitoris, exposed already; doing whatever he wanted and taking ownership of her. He felt a bit of a power trip there. He felt himself stirring. Sometimes he was really into things like that, power and mind games and domination/submission stuff; not tonight. He wasn't doing it for himself, and he wasn't going to let himself enjoy it more than he needed to—a denial which somehow made it all hotter—to bring her to one good orgasm. To make it better than masturbation. He'd do whatever he needed to to activate her body more, awaken more feeling in more erogenous zones and nerve endings, turn her on further, deeper, primally, whatever she might think of it consciously.
He took at least half a minute, which felt like almost 40 minutes to her, just to kiss her and touch her and sweeten her up and feel her and find out what she needed. It only later occurred to him that swapping bodily fluids with her wasn't a good idea.
Then he started using his fingers on her, masterfully. She was very grateful. He was spoiling her.
He used his other hand on one of her tits then nipples, making Cass moan all the while, it was kind of incredible, then he held her face with that same hand and moved his mouth lower, from her neck to her tits and seconds after that went kiss by kiss down her heaving chest, and rapidly expanding and contracting belly, and brought his lips and tongue to her pussy. The noises she was making were slightly loud by then with pleasure and arousal and just everything he was doing to her.
At some point she went to touch herself, but he wouldn't let her. A few seconds later she was too overwhelmed by pleasure to even be able to touch herself, throbbing clit and heat and all. He took care of her quite well with one hand, though, while his mouth moved upward momentarily.
He went back up and sucked on her nipples, which she hadn't expected and which felt nothing short of amazing to her, and made her moan loudly, then he dropped to her belly then her thighs, and then he was all over her pussy, both sides of the outer and inner lips, and after some of that her clit. She'd been waiting for him to suck on that. And lick it. And kiss it. All of which he did.
She had to work to hold out longer against him.
The serious business with his hands on her and his fingers in her and his lips and tongue and mouth on her clit began then. Cass got loud.
She started sucking on one of his long fingers at some point; she'd taken one into her mouth from his hand on her face. She wasn't great at sucking cock, but she liked doing it, and she sucked his finger distractingly well, and swirled her tongue around it and acted like the fingertip was the head of his cock. After a distinctly dirty thought or two he slid the finger out slowly past her lips and took it back and smiled up at her from between her legs with her juices making his face shiny—with his tongue sticking out of his mouth, applying pressure around her clit. She was smiling herself, between moaning and panting and making lots of noise, unable to contain it, and occasionally watching him, with his fucking head between her legs, and occasionally only able to lay back and enjoy the feeling of it all, hardly aware she even had vision or any senses other than touch and smell.
"Oh my god," she said loudly at some point. It was ecstatic and memorable and honest and raw. It stuck with him for the next day. She said a lot of other things but he didn't remember them.
At that point Cara's sexually conditioned body started to respond to her, but he defused it, mostly by not acknowledging it. He carefully applied himself to her and her body. It was about herpleasure, that's what he wanted. His attention wandered to himself only briefly—he remembered his own body—and he felt himself softening again. He was so focused on her and not interested in his own pleasure it went away; he forgot about his own body, leaving it far behind.
Occasionally his body betrayed his mind some more, though. I don't want her, he thought. Yes you do, his cock and balls strongly affirmed, seemingly independently of one another, giving him a heavy impulse of "Shove it in her!"
He fingered her mercilessly and curled his fingers inside of her and brought his mouth back up, keeping her on her toes and not sure what he might do next, and kissed her tits and her neck so nicely, and sucked and nibbled on her neck in spots and on her nipples some more, and tweaked her nipples with his fingers, and in all that time never stopped working her pussy with his other hand, then went back down and licked and sucked her clit and kept fingering her—"Cara," she moaned at some point. He liked it when she said his name.—and added a second finger into her pussy and curled his fingers up inside of her, and spread a little against her walls—"Cara!" she said, frantic, squirming against him, under him, "Cara! I'm—Baby!"—and he hit her G-spot then hit it again and again, and worked her clit at the same time with his lips and tongue and sucked her clit too—both of them, both of them, and she came, hard. An especially loud "Ah!" or two came from deep in her chest at some point, hurting Cara's ears, but he liked it. "Fuck!" she said. She might've screamed a little, coming, gasping, moaning, gushing cum onto him, his fingers and tongue and lips. From his perspective, knowing her, it looked like a pretty good orgasm.
Cass lost her sense of space and melted into him, spasming and trembling and quivering and tensing and untensing, riding the intense throbbing waves of her orgasm out with him. He held her.
As usual, Cass was out for the night after that, one and done.
Cara picked up her clothes and put most of them by the bed, then put her bra and panties back on her, hooking the bra properly and sliding her panties up her legs and making sure they didn't fold and everything. He recalled taking her clothes off loads of times, but couldn't remember putting any back on her. As he did it she was very pliable, panting but cooling down, trembling uncontrollably a few times, in the best way, enjoying life, feeling very good, sort of insensate and coming down from a relentless long orgasm, odd for how quickly Cara had brought it upon her.
She couldn't move much, but still helped him put her underwear back on her. She didn't normally sleep naked. She would've gladly helped him do more, of whatever he wanted.
It was quick but really good for Cass, and his pacing was perfect. He'd gotten in sync with her just right. She didn't even have to tell him to slow down, or not to stop when he hit the right spots, or to go faster. He'd done all that on his own. He knew. He remembered. It felt like much longer than two minutes to her, and yet like much less than two minutes too, like just a few seconds. It went by too quickly.
For just a moment Cara's body betrayed him strongly again. It nearly won out. He got a very strong urge to stand triumphant over Cass's naked body, still shaking with her orgasm's aftershocks, and rub one out of himself, then watch his cum spurt forcefully across her tits and belly, or on her pussy or in her mouth, and imagine sperm in the millions waggling around and dying on her tongue, in a thick sea of her saliva and his semen, and traces of them on her lips and deep down her throat. He might've been able to come in less than 20 minutes, maybe less than 15.
He was able to pull his mind out of totally aroused mode, and his semi-erect cock re-softened. He just held Cass. Knowing well the kind of endurance he had helped him not be swayed; knowing that it would genuinely take him forever to come. They'd both get bored waiting for it. Cass had hardly touched him, and his cock had got no attention. Because he fucked so much, too much, his body had developed stamina and staying power and tolerance to stimulation, pleasure or pain alike, of his own or other people's on him.
And it would be several different kinds of fucked up if he really did it, jerked off after this, whatever kind of cumplay or lack of it they engaged in, even if it actually felt good, even if he could let himself get all the way hard with her.
He still wasn't hard, not even after watching and feeling and smelling and tasting her come, all of which had been nice. His cock never got more than halfway erect. He'd feel awful afterward too, or maybe even as soon as during his orgasm.
High on life now as well as sloppy drunk and very satisfied, Cass asked, "Are you gonna sleep with me, Cara?" She expected him to.
She didn't even know if he was aroused—that he wasn't—or that he hadn't got any stimulation himself, except technically when she touched his nipples a little. Things like this happened to her sometimes, he knew. For that matter, he might've just got off and she still wouldn't have known, probably wouldn't have cared. He could've just unloaded into her pussy after an hour of sex in multiple positions, not just a few minutes of fingering and oral only on her. She'd got hers, now she was out.
"Sure," he said to her and didn't.
He picked her up again, bodily—easy for him—and pulled the warm bed's sheets down with one hand, set her in the bed and tucked her in. There were some wet spots on the bed. He kissed her goodnight, on the cheek.
He put her rattan shitkicker hat on the nightstand beside her. He took her whiskey bottle; there were other alcoholic drinks in the room but it was taking the one she brought with her that mattered.
Then he went to the bathroom, leaving the guest bedroom door most of the way closed and only one small lamp on in the room because other people would sleep in there, and washed his hands and face and brushed his teeth and used mouthwash for a minute.
Then he went back into the rec room, feeling weird and embarrassed but knowing he'd taken good care of Cass. She'd get a good night's sleep. She'd think he was with her. She might even remember it that way.
They all stared at him, even the robot and the dog.
"That quick, dearie?" Lily said. Raúl laughed. Arcade raised an eyebrow. Olivia didn't look pleased or amused.
Cara knew what she meant. He said, "I just fingered her. Like I said." He gestured at himself. "If I fucked her I'd still be hard—" he said, and Lily gasped at the use of the f-word. "—even if I got off," he finished.
He wasn't hard. He walked close to the group of them. He didn't look aroused or flushed. There wasn't even the smell of sex on him—not that anyone but the dog could smell, and even Rex could barely smell it. Rex nodded at Cara with gregarious manly approval, then lay back down on his pad and gnawed at a chewtoy.
"Really? You'd still be hard?" Olivia said, intrigued, but thinking he was just joking. "You didn't . . . go, did you?" She wasn't okay with his fingering Cass—a mutual friend, if a slutty one—who'd clearly got off from it, but if he'd come too it would be much worse.
"No, I didn't get off. She hardly touched me. And yeah, really, I'd still be hard," Cara said. "Occasionally I have some recoil, but I usually don't. I didn't even get cocked for this. Maybe it's cuz I'm young, or in good shape. Or genes. I don't know. Is it cool that I'd still be hard? Or, like, dumb?" Nobody answered his question. No one seemed to hear it.
Olivia giggled self-consciously at the use of what for her were firearms terms, recoil and cocked, for something dirty, amused and uncomfortable, and otherwise feeling a little weird and jealous. She'd heard Cass coming. It had been graphic. She wasn't sure if she'd ever actually heard, in person, another person having an orgasm whom she wasn't having sex with herself, and she didn't think she'd ever heard another woman come before. Maybe, but she didn't really remember. It was when she was very young. She'd talked about sex lots with friends, but that was all. She'd kind of liked hearing Cass, in addition to many other related conflicting feelings.
People often talked about sex or vaguely alluded to it but she never saw anyone else doing it, the dirty, the beast with two backs; not that she could remember anyway. Except for a couple of pornography holovids she'd seen brief clips of—sometimes just a few seconds and sometimes a few minutes, clearly not the whole of whatever the people did together.
The porn was apparently made in New Reno, Nevada, a city from before the war a couple counties north and west away from Vegas—they were something like 400 miles apart—but in the same state, the weird square distended downward of Nevada.
Olivia had heard New Reno called "little Vegas" or "the littlest big town in the world" or something. It was a place even more sinful and wealthy in vice than Las Vegas, run by gangsters and crime families, and it had a bunch of casinos and even these porn movie studios, not just a few prostitutes and a measly four working casinos like Vegas. That's what she heard, anyway. Some people said the inhalant drug jet had been invented there; Olivia didn't like it, had only ever used it in combat and didn't know what it was made of. Reno was also part of the Big Circle, brahmin traders; or maybe it was just traders generally. It was kind of a square anyway. (New) Vegas had only been running for a few years, though, 10 or less if she remembered right, and while House said he had defended Vegas, or the Strip anyway, from a lot of nuclear missiles using laser cannons he had on the roof of the Lucky 38, Reno hadn't even been shot at in the war. It'd gone through looting and chaos like anyplace else, but was never a ghost town.
Apparently before the Great War there had been these business-companies called movie studios that made movies. She'd seen a few movies but didn't remember any of them well. She seemed to remember a lion in a film strip, text over mountains, and stupid smokeless explosions of gasoline, going off around motorcycles, that didn't look anything like real explosives.
There was talk that some people in the Gomorrah were gearing up to make porn in Vegas, too. Olivia kind of wanted to watch it get made, or see it when it came out anyway.
She didn't know what it would be like. She had to assume that it didn't always look weird and fake, unreal, for pretend, and that the cameras, however those worked, weren't only ever interested in seeing close-up penetration of things, usually vaginas or assholes, usually by weird-looking guys' big crooked penises, through lenses wide enough to distort anything put close to them, which made things look even more unreal. The cameras always got really close. It was also all about the guys' getting off, which might've been worse than the wide lenses and bizarre focus on abstract penetration. For the first minute or two, a working pre-war TV screen full of a mostly erect cock, pushing in and out of a mostly dry vagina, had been shocking and a little hot to her, but then it became boring, just contextless and disembodied random anatomy, disconnected, objectified somehow and removed from the whole people they were only small parts of.
Well, maybe not that small, but not big like a torso or an arm or leg. She didn't want to see any penis that big. She wouldn't be able to do anything fun with it, wouldn't be able to get it in her or her mouth, certainly not her ass, probably not even between her tits. Maybe she could kinda jerk it off with her hands. Or use it like a pole? She seemed to recall these dancing pole things for strippers in the Gomorrah. She never watched the dancers when she went there, though, so she didn't really know what you did with them; maybe "stripper pole" or "poll" was just a euphemism for some sex machine. But maybe a cock that big could fit between her legs? Probably. She didn't even want to know. Anything that big was just absurd. In between the legs themselves, the thighs, not meaning euphemistically for in her pussy. Maybe with artificial lubrication. Or spit. She'd never tried that before, or seen it or even heard anyone talk about it. Suddenly she wanted to try the between-the-thighs thing with Cara. It sounded kinda hot. She thought she'd like it, at least with him. It might feel nice. Cara's cock was nice and big, but not impossible-to-accommodate big, not four feet long. He wouldn't have to break her pussy to fuck it.
Seeing disembodied sex organs bumping just didn't do it for her. Even if the dicks or the tits or asses were big. People in love and enjoying sex was what turned her on. Or maybe sometimes just them enjoying it and each other for pleasure's sake, not in love or caring about each other's feelings—but definitely not only their bits bumping. People in porn didn't seem to enjoy the sex.
She wondered, not knowing, what happened to super mutants' genitalia after they were dipped in FEV, when they mutated. It all had to get bigger, right? And presumably turn green. The parts of their bodies super mutants didn't clothe became some shade of green, and their bodies 8–10 feet tall; though they all hunched, so they never seemed their full height. Maybe their genitals shrunk, or just fell off, to make them more efficient or something. She knew Cara's cock was going to be more than she was used to, anyway.
Cara knew people at the Gomorrah; she needed to ask him what he'd heard about porn production there. Where would they get cameras? They'd need film too, right? What about lights? Editing machines? Would they try to make up the lame stories people endlessly made fun of porn for having? Would it be parodies? Olivia'd never even seen a porn-with-plot movie before. They sounded cheesy and awful. Maybe they were better, though, if they had some erotica, not just porn. She hadn't seen the whole length of a porn-without-plot movie either. Maybe Cara had some. He was a guy. They must have some at the Gomorrah, right? Because sex? She should ask.
So . . . now Olivia had heard Cass come, in real life. It'd sounded like a good quality orgasm, too. Olivia was proud of Cara. Well, sort of. She almost wished she'd watched. She wanted to see Cara work. And just watch his body move. And see the effects he had on Cass, how he touched her and made her feel.
Cass, Olivia was confident, didn't care enough to perform for others, and when she was that drunk she especially wouldn't care.
Olivia wanted to see Cara's cock; dick; penis-whatever; he said he'd been exposed to a lot of radiation but she was pretty sure he only had one of them. Then she wanted to watch it harden and fill with blood and grow rigid, and maybe help it along the way, too.
"Anyway I'm really sorry about that, guys," Cara was saying. "I went to talk to her. And apologize. She was crying. Which you heard some of. I held her. When she stopped crying she—tried to take advantage of me," he said, pausing awkwardly. "It was just wrong. But, I wasn't sure what else I could do, and I knew it would help, so . . . I fingered her. I'm sorry. I kinda went down on her too, a little. I knew it would bring her relief, and she wouldn't have to feel alone, and she'd go to sleep after. I know people get . . . weird about sex. I've been around it my whole life. Usually in a bad way. Sometimes it doesn't mean much, emotionally. And that certainly didn't."
Olivia slept with Cara (not sex) that night. They locked the door to their room so Cass wouldn't stumble in at 4 am again.
Cara dreaded the inevitable awkward conversation about his just fingering and using his mouth on Cass, but he wasn't going to put it off or try to avoid it. But it didn't really happen. Olivia seemed to understand. Which made Cara nervous. He thought she was just trying to trap him into saying . . . whatever, so then she could tell him to "go sleep with Cass in the guest room if he fucking wanted to," or on the couch in their master bedroom; anything, anywhere rather than with her.
Olivia had a fairly no-nonsense, cool attitude about it, though. When he asked she said, "This is our room. Yours and mine," with a tone like "which hasn't changed." She also said, "And I never wanna sleep alone again. Without you. With anyone but you."
By then Cara was too tired for his normal distrustful paranoid thoughts, such as "Oh, so she doesn't care cuz she just doesn't want to sleep alone." or "She's definitely fucking other guys." And he trusted Olivia. She seemed to be telling him the truth, and not holding anything back.
Olivia still felt a little weird about him and Cass, she told him, over the course of a long discussion of all of it . . . after he'd recounted everything he'd just done to Cass, and what little she'd done to him, in detail at Olivia's insistence.
He said, "You're the only person I want to be with," and though they kept talking for at least an hour, that told her everything she needed or wanted to know. They still stayed up together, only wearing underwear, late into the night talking, giggling, gossiping and cuddling and snuggling together.