We help each other dress. There is no real need for it, but that's the point. It's supposed to take longer with another person. There are supposed to be interludes where the cloth and the skin meet and diverge. There are supposed to be bits where we are not clothed, where we instead take off the cloths and engage in other acts. Various states of undress, shifting vertical to horizontal to diagonal, together we flow like the tide.
The moment, the moment right now as the thoughts enter me and take me, I am without a shirt. I have one boot, though. My hair has been dyed, but it still needs to be sculpted to a large fin. There is a pair of lips pressed to my collar bone. There is a set of teeth nipping the skin. It hurts in the best way. There will be marks. I hope there will be marks. There better be marks.
My hands have a spine to trace and a series of muscles to draw. They shift and they move. They slide together and apart. I will not leave marks. I do not want to leave marks. My presence will be remembered all the same. There is a reverberation of my touch and echoing ripples from my will imparted on the other body. There are hands on my back too, finding the ripples and dips and lines. It slips through the teeth and lips from my front. They meld in my core.
The other body also does not have a shirt. That's good. No shirts all around. But there is a jacket there and I am unsure how that happened. I do not care. She is shirtless. She is open to me and my touch, rough leather on the back of my hands as my palms find skin. I do not want to know the skin I am touching. It is there. It is in my hands. I am in her lips. I am on her hands and I am touching her and I do not want any more clothes on me so I can keep feeling skin on skin and lips on lips. A push, a pull and I am on the floor and the other body is on me and over me and there are less pants involved for all parties.
She thrums and slips down and I slip up.
"Do we have time for this?" Hannah hums.
"Do you care?" I whisper back.
"Sort of. Want to have a good impression for this."
"We're not a punctual group. And they'll understand. Doppel's going to be the only one on time. Sunday, too, but he lives there. This is more important."
The words excuse the thoughts and the need for actions. I touch her and she touches me and I do not care for the time. I do not care about ticks and tocks. I am here now and there is a later that might matter when it comes around.
Hannah agrees with the statement that this is more important. The act of give and take and rob and mug is much more important than a smoky conference room with dim lighting. The sun opens from behind the clouds and I take all of her in with the shining warmth.
Clay. I have said it before and I will say it again. She is clay. Molded and sculpted and chiseled down to mason perfection. She has been pierced as well, a small stud on her navel, one on her left nipple, another stud on her nose. She is thinking about the brow as well, the tongue, the ear, every part of her covered in chrome and silver. I suggested against it. Piercings tend to get caught on things in a fight or flight scenario. And if they get caught, then they tend to rip and tear. She pouted and for once I got the unabashed pleasure of being right. She is still set on some form of tattoo. I also suggested against that, mainly because she shifts what she wants it to be almost every day. As soon as she decides, though, then I am all for it. Full sleeve and ink covering her body, painting the sculpture in postmodern degeneracy. I should get a piercing now that I think about it. Maybe the other nipple or something, so we could match. Better yet, something on my tongue.
That would be diabolical for what I do to her. It's a stutter of moments, of taken times from her and me and the world into the endless gray of my existence. She does nothing to me as I slowly take down the statue's form. Dust and rubble, my tongue in its stutter flutter step reduces her to rubble. Pride, unabashed pride at the hands gripping my thighs, the words that mean nothing as my tongue is in her and my fingers spread her, the slip time doubling hits to her core in a way that a mind simply isn't meant to handle.
I am buried in her thighs and that is an amazing place to be. A rockslide avalanche in a woman wrapped around my skill. She will break me if I let the moments linger, the muscles tighten the bones lock and join. But I don't. I lick and worship in my time. Every other moment is mine and mine alone.
"Evan," she whines like a tea kettle, "You're a dick. Why do you do this to me?"
"Because it's fun," I say.
And it appears that I have made a mistake. That moment of real time where it moves as it should was enough for Hannah to shift and move away. I am unsure on her strategy, however, because the endgame still has my tongue to her lips, nose to her pelvis, staring down a riverbed of abs to gaze upon the rolling hills of her chest. She looks down at me and I can't help the amusement spilling forth. Her chin is tucked into her neck and now she looks like a thumb. I grin and that apparently sets off a chain reaction in her that pulls a deep bass thrum.
She rattles my skull with the cord wound tight plucked like a guitar string. A hand finds her stomach and I can feel it run parallel to her spine. She shudders and my vision blurs as she vibrates the pulse of my tongue. Her weight, her glorious weight presses down into me and I cannot breathe as I should think is necessary.
So, I steal the moment and pull in some fresh air.
Clay and statue and molded sculpted perfection. Blue eyes so blue that even the gray cannot rob them of their entirety. And she knows. She knows what I have done. The thought came to her at the same time it came to me. The slight bit of extra pressure in her thighs says as much, but I escape the worst of it.
It's a task, it always is, to pull myself from her and find my terribly lonely freedom in the gray. But I have it and it is mine and now I can stare at Hannah's ass as much as I like. And her back and her shoulders and her arms and her chest and those miraculously blue eyes that I swear, I swear, follow me.
I have my angle of attack. It's an awkward angle, to say the least, but I manage. Our hips are aligned and I am ready, so incredibly ready for this. From the part and the weep, she is as well.
I bring my hips up and I am inside of her. Tight, so very tight, vice and squeeze and clamp and grip together over me. The one drawback is that I have to do all the work. I am more than willing to do my fair share, but this is for her, some grand revenge against the euphoric prison of her thighs.
I drop my hips and slide out of her. The face of granite does not betray anything new. It is still frozen in that playful, lustful frustration that comes from the act not quite at its climax. The end should be all of it, every moment, a gorging of orgasm stretched to eternity. I am merely thrusting in and out of her from below into a statue of her that betrays nothing at all.
In all honesty, it is somewhat disappointing. The act should be with another fully able body, one that is warm and moving and touching and moaning. It's still nice, and there is still that fun level of transgression against her with trust and love. But it's not the same. There is not a twitch and squeeze and hit from her. Just static tightness, that still manages to feel simply amazing over me and on me.
I buck and thrust and move, hitting everything I can in her all at once. There is no technique, no swift dance of passion. There is only the simple in and out, side to side with her. It will come to her when it is good and ready. Each stroke doubles the impact down the line, compounds on the flurry of blows to her. Every raindrop in the sky falling down on one blade of grass. The weight of the eternal moment courses through me and my motion.
My own release comes on the edges and I have to stop and think. I do not want it to end. The act should continue, if only for its sheer magnificence. Despite that, there is only a limited number of moments left before we actually have to stop and get dressed for real and do other things than fuck. And I want to do those other things. Most of them, at least. Some of them.
I let it happen, I have done enough to her and with her and hopefully this is the time that it actually sticks so we can get on with the rather important business of doing something else. Hopefully. It's not some grand explosion of starlight and passion. Her thrum has been mostly absent from this particular instance. But it is nice. It is calming and warming as the tension builds and the muscles clench.
For the final moment, I slip outside, pulsing against her stomach. I gaze into her eyes and the piercing glare that shifts through time. Pulse and throb and shot, definitely not my best work. But I am happy and satisfied and falling to that dull warm fuzz of afterglow.
I kill the moment and let it all come rushing back in an instant. Hannah catches on quick.
"Oh, you bastard," she manages before everything collapses on her.
Whatever strength she has falls and knocks the wind out of me. She is gripping me, holding me, throttling me with reckless abandon as the mind tries to parse the conundrum of a moment lasting for an eternity. It does not do well. It does not find reason and pattern. There is only sensation and feeling.
I always forget how strong she is, her grip, her push, her pull. The deep base bells coming from her also lends her impact. I am shattering with her, lost to that same tight chord string pulled. I still hold her as she holds me, shaking and stammering and trying to find some meandering meaning to the starburst in her belly.
It's long. I did not mean it to be this long. I must be good at this sort of thing. Her own climax hits the floor and I feel the growing puddle seep beneath us as she continues to spasm. Such a tightly wound wonder. I kiss her forehead and stroke her hair as it all finally collapses and the stars grow dim.
