It's Always Time Act 04 Ch. 03

SB fumbled her way upright. She plucked the proffered sword from Yves' hand, grimaced, and gingerly cradled the blade against her shoulder. Hunching over, she scuttled away. Tomoe followed SB with her eyes, inscrutable smile dawning, as the rose girl crossed in front of her and raced around a whitewashed corner of the store.

* * * *

SB careened into a green metal dumpster standing flush against the building's western wall. Damn thing was always on the rear dock with the recycle bins. What the fuck was it doing here? Oh, that's right, Tomoe had made SB empty and haul the dumpster around the side last night for some unfathomable, Tomoe-ish reason. Unfathomable last night, SB corrected herself, but obvious now. This was just one of the prices SB paid for falling in love with a woman who could see the future unrolling before her like a movie in 4-D. Of course, Tomoe wanted that future to be a porn movie full of as many scenes of SB cumming as hard, as much, and as many times as possible. Over their three thousand year affair (not counting the relative-eternity time-loops Tomoe enjoyed watching the best), Tomoe took precautions and performed Rube Goldberg level machinations to ensure SB's life was filled with mind-numbing money-shot after mind-blowing money-shot after soul-shattering money-shot. Everyone wondered what Tomoe was always smiling about, but only SB knew for sure—or rather, would surely find out for sure in a few hours.

Last night, she should have known better than to wonder why she was moving the stupid dumpster. She should have remembered moving the dumpster, period. "Hose down the inside," Tomoe had demanded. "With the real hose, I mean." She had smiled inscrutably as SB fumed. "At least at first. Oh, and leave the top open, so it can dry. What, can't a woman want a clean dumpster every once in a while?" SB had forgotten all about it, had forgotten about nearly everything once that beautiful boy started working her scimitar like it was a tantric sex toy.

All these thoughts flickered through SB's powerful mind-web in the split second it took for her to smack into the rounded lip of the dumpster, lose her balance, and be carried by her momentum up and over and into the mouth of the fucking thing.

SB twisted at just the right moment and landed, blessedly, on her back on the floor of the dumpster. The scimitar lay heavy between her breasts. The monomolecular smart-edge of the blade knew the quantum signature of her flesh and would not cut, so instead it just thrummed there, sandwiched between her tits like a four and a half foot long, fourteen inch wide, thirteen pound dick.

Which was exactly what it was.

For the first time in many years, SB was scared to reattach her penis. On countless occasions, she had woken up in the morning to find that her penis was missing again. That usually meant Tomoe had gotten carried away watching her private SB cosmic spacetime bukkake filmography, and had made off with SB's dick for some "us time." SB would just sigh and smile, knowing Tomoe would soon slink back so SB could rejoin with her dick and experience all the fun the two of them had just had. There had been a few scares before, like the occasion Czarina Catherine hired Mata Hari to fuck SB's penis off and smuggle it into the Winter Palace. ("Why did you give Mata a time machine?" SB had asked one cold October morning in Paris. "She paid five gulden!" was Tomoe's excuse.)

It took SB and Tomoe thirty years to get the dick back, although Tomoe spent most of that time laughing her ass off. Catherine had used it monstrously, convincing SB she would never get it back until the Czarina died—which she did, stroking out in the bathtub while stroking off SB's penis for Catherine's twelve thousandth male orgasm-by-magical-proxy. When SB finally reattached her cock, the resultant money-shot lasted about eighteen months.

Tomoe had spent most of that time laughing her ass off, too, come to think of it.

But this was the first time someone else had ever used her dick, detached, right in front of her. If SB had not locked it into its sword-form before handing it over, the boy would have been drenched in jism, she was sure of it. As a sword, SB's dick responded to swordplay as a cock responds to foreplay, and this boy was an apparent master of both. But locked into its sword-form, her cock could not cum. On the numerous battlefields upon which she and Tomoe had fought—Atlantis' she-demon engulfment being the absolute worst—SB would cleave her way through a dozen or so opponents before sneaking behind a convenient balustrade, unlocking her dick and watching it erupt, only do go through all those orgasms all over again when the battle was won and her dick was between her legs again. This was the first time someone other herself had wielded her weapon as a weapon with an apparent expertise rivaling her own, so her scimitar had reached orgasm-point in a matter of moments, but, locked in form and in someone else's hands, could not achieve release.

SB had not known she could experience a self-perpetuating feedback-loop of orgasm denial. The needed components for creating such a harrowing phenomenon were rare enough to not present themselves throughout her long life until now. As the beautiful boy manhandled her, the cresting pressure and sizzling sting of the moment of ejaculation had bloomed in her belly; bloomed but then did not ebb; did not ebb but then increased; did not only increase but also increase exponentially as the sensation of continual imminent release itself fed the strength of the impending orgasm that never came but just built and built and built.

SB hefted the pink scimitar with the care of a demolitions expert probing an unexploded bomb. Her mind-web spent a few precious microseconds—the orgasmic feedback-loop still building (and building and building) deep within her—analyzing all the possible ways her predicament could play itself out. There was only one conclusion: Tomoe had labored to engineer this moment, to take advantage of the variables of the universe—or, perhaps, to arrange those universal variables in the first place—to maneuver SB into this situation, this crowning masterpiece of pleasure-torment, and Tomoe's grand vision would not be denied. SB propped her neck and shoulders on the wall of the dumpster, knees bent. She brought the pommel of the scimitar, a round, fat, polished ruby, down to her crotch and spread her legs.

The feminine slit waiting there was pouting, wet, and ready. More than ready, since her feminine side experienced the feedback loop as a clitoral orgasm that never truly came but only coiled in the anticipatory tension of her muscular core. She leaned forward, grabbing the scimitar's grip with both hands, and hefted it into the air to inspect the pommel gemstone, red as blood and as plump as a plum. How could she experience a clitoral orgasm, she thought, when her clitoris counterweighted twelve pounds of lethal, metaphorical manhood?

"T, my lovey, my creator, my cheeseburger," she muttered as she brought the pommel back down to nudge against the folds of her female sex. "You are into some seriously different shit."

She pressed down on the pommel. SB's rugged flesh did not give like other goo-girls'. She felt a spark of pain as her pussy stretched to accommodate the intrusion. It was soon replaced by a flood of pleasure from being so full as the pommel pushed inward, followed by the first inch of the grip, then the second and third. The flood of pleasure became a searing tower of need as the pommel melted and merged with her innermost nectar. Her sword transmogrified from an intruder invading her sex from without, into an extrusion of her sex, thrusting out from within. The blade softened, thickening in width but shrinking in length until it returned to the three-foot, dick-girl erection curving up from between her thighs that had started it all.

SB remembered how she had surprised and frightened her creator in the eon past, when SB first emerged from the icy, luciform waters of the nymphaeum grotto in the navel of the world. SB remembered how she had changed Tomoe's mind. She remembered how Tomoe had promised to make amends for that initial rejection, and how SB had, all those years ago, failed to notice that when Tomoe swore "I will never look away from your dick again," and SB had replied, "In fear. Never look away in fear, you mean, right? Right. I accept your oath," Tomoe did not say yes or no. She had only smiled.

"Mm-Gawd-yes!"

Meliae jism, gouts and gouts of cloying, sweet seminal fluid, surged from her core and rocketed out of her dick. Cum plastered the wall of the dumpster behind her head and spattered onto her face. Only a fraction of the orgasm feed-back loop had unwound, so the nanomek in SB's core went into overdrive, rush-producing and then pneumatically launching another gallon, then two, then ten, of melia cum. Twenty seconds and a quarter billion nanogasms later, the dumpster resembled the strawberry preserve cooling vat in a jelly factory. SB sprawled at the bottom, completely submerged, awash in both body and mind in an ocean of release.

Consciousness returned and SB slithered up from the depths of jam, her dick detumescing. She burned a few thousand nanomek cleaning herself up as much as she could, and a thousand more manufacturing another copper-colored one piece dress. It felt cool and soothing against her still-weeping manhood. She hopped out of the dumpster, knees trembling until her nanomek rebuilt the carbon-crystal muscles in her legs. She marched toward the front of the store. "T," she panted. "Devil-bitch. Gotta get even. Got to get more nanomek. Got to go club—I got it!" She hunched her shoulders, mussed her hair, disassembled and melted a little musculature until she looked as worn-out and wobbly on the outside as she felt on the inside, and hobbled around the corner to the front of the store. "Here comes your darling cheeseburger."

* * * *

The rose girl zipped around the corner. Dee heard a hollow, metallic bang. Yves and Tomoe sized each other up. Tomoe sighed and shrugged one shoulder, then stood on her tiptoes to regard Dee. "Oh, hey," she called, "Dee! Who's your bish—"

"Mm-Gawd-yes!" SB's exultation echoed around the parking lot, followed by a confusing series of pitters and patters and heavy, resounding splats.

Tomoe checked her wristwatch as the sounds grew faint and threw a hand in the air. "Pfft, typical. Anyway, Dee, who's your bishonen buddy?"

The Jeep creaked behind him as the four—Five, Dee reminded himself, Ursula doesn't really treat Nyx like an article of clothing and neither should you—as the five women skipped, oozed, or, in Raspberry's case, disengaged from the vehicle. Yves gave Dee a familiar arch look meaning Yves wanted him to take the lead. Dee shook his head, pointing a finger to his mouth, miming silent speech.

"Don't worry about it," Tomoe said, flipping back her dark hair and tapping the sunflower yellow lump stuck in her ear. "Aegean beeswax."

Dee scratched his head, then shrugged. "How did you know I was coming?"

"I have my ways." She glared up at the incessant doorbell. "Loud, annoying ways." Ursula and the three meliae crowded behind Dee and Tomoe added, "That's some posse you got there."

"Thanks," said a denuded Raspberry. "It's a snapper."

Dee decided it was time for introductions. "That's Raz; just ignore her. The bishi is Yves."

"Ah, so I see." She nodded as if that explained everything. "But why did he coldcock my girlfriend?"

Dee did his best to mirror Tomoe's ineffable air of happy-go-lucky devilry. "She was waving her big thing around like she owned the place."

The rose girl toddled back into view sans sword but sporting an oblong bulge disrupting the simple symmetry of her dress. The lump under the fiery one-piece diminished, leaving a trailing stain from SB's belly button to her crotch as she shambled to the storefront door. Her cornrows frizzed in cottony tufts. Tomoe took one look at SB's angry red flush and her inscrutable smile upended into a peevish frown. "Some cheeseburger you are." Tomoe spoke in a crass imitation of SB's contralto. "'Better stay back, lovey. I'll handle this.'" SB stumped in silence up the handicap access ramp next to the door, wracked with yawns. "Was that the sort of manhandling you had in mind? You got owned, SB."

SB reached the threshold of the storefront and paused at Tomoe's side, the bell yammering above them. Without meeting Tomoe's withering glare, SB panted, "Invite...him...clubbing." She disappeared into the store.

Tomoe balled her fists. "Masaka!" She stormed in after SB. The jarring bell and closing door muffled a string of crabby outbursts in rapid-fire Japanese. Yves listened for a moment, his face blank, then shrugged and moved for the door. Dee pulled him aside.

Dee hissed, "Do you have any idea what you just..." Then he thought about it. "Wait. Of course you do."

"Damn right," Yves said as Ursula strut past. Yves smiled, still tense and exhausted, but Dee thought the pressure building inside his friend no longer approached critical mass. "I know a cock when I grab one."

Ursula pushed open the storefront door and stood at the threshold of SRU. A hush fell over the lot. The absence of noise raised Dee's hackles but it took a moment for Dee to realize why: the awful doorbell hung silent and still above Ursula's head. Tomoe's merry welcome rang out instead. "Oh, hey! Little sisters. Come on in." Ursula crossed the threshold and the bell started up its obnoxious clattering again as the door closed behind her.

Eurydice slunk over to Dee, nesting in the crook of his arm. "Is it safe in there?" She eyed the windows piled high with display boxes of diagnostic gadgets, mobility scooter gear, and absorbency pads for every eventuality.

"Each time I've gone in there," Dee admitted, "I've come out a different man, one way or another." Eurydice shivered and Dee planted a hard, lingering kiss over her eager mouth until his lips stung with citric acid. "But I'll never look back." She sighed and melted a little, suffusing his arm in gentle warmth. Dee's throat closed and his vision blurred.

"C'mon." Eurydice tugged him toward the storefront. "We'll go in together this time." She insinuated herself under his arm as they walked. "Mm. Dee blanket." She wriggled her fingers behind his back and under the cinched waist of his sweatpants. "Heh." She flinched when Dee opened the door and the bell's clarion call was worse than ever. "Jesus, what the fuck?"

SB sat on the glass countertop, hands clapped over her ears. Tomoe jumped off her stool behind the counter's cash register and waved them in. "Just move away from it!"

Dee and Eurydice jogged past a couple of aisles. The bell dampened its enthusiasm but still clamored for attention.

SB refused to move her hands away from the sides of her head. "Some things should stay at the bottom of the ocean."

Tomoe poked SB on the shoulder. "You were the one who did not go down on the Titanic."

"Only because the bed in our cabin was too narrow," SB protested.

Through the rose girl's translucent crystalline flesh, Dee caught a glimpse of Ursula bustling around in the supply closet behind the counter. "Ursula. For God's sake, be careful."

Tomoe looked petulant and was about to protest but Ursula answered, "Don't worry, I'm not going to buy anything. I'm just looking."

"Doesn't matter," Dee said, ignoring Tomoe's frantic waving. "Just going in there makes you—"

"Wait!" Tomoe cried, waving hard enough to flag down a semi-trailer truck.

"Hey..." Dee started, but trailed off when he noticed Tomoe was looking behind him, not at him. He turned to see Yves outside the front door, about to push his way in. He registered Tomoe's ducking behind the counter in the corner of his eye, but before he could react—

CLANG

—the bell's copper clapper thundered louder than a foundry hammer and a palpable wall of noise knocked the wind out him. Eurydice keeled over, viridian droplets scattering in buckshot burst patterns around her. The glass of the countertop, still veined with cracks from Dee's last visit, shattered and SB jackknifed down into the counter. A support strut in the supply closet gave way and a shelf dropped diagonal, its contents shifting sideways before pelting to the floor. Yves danced in a stinging shower of copper shrapnel.

Ursula leaped out of the closet. "Holy shit, everyone okay?"

"No," said Yves, plucking a metal sliver from the pad of his thumb. "I need a tetanus shot."

Tomoe peeped around the cash register, her face scrunched up. "Itai...itai..."

SB's feet dangled above her head. "I've got a sphygmomanometer up my ass." Something made a fluffing thump and she lisped, "Anth my dich in my mouf."

Dee bent over Eurydice lying prone on the floor and haloed in olive mist. "Honey?"

After a terrifying silence, Eurydice said, "I've been subwoofered." A galaxy of green dewdrops zipped around the linoleum floor like beads of mercury rolling over felt cloth, smashing together into spinning gyres one instant only to burst apart into smaller and smaller clusters the next. Dee knelt and stroked her cheek.

Yves selected a small First Aid kit from a window display and carried it to the intact half of the counter. He popped the kit open and fished out a bottle of antiseptic. A single spot of blood stood out against the kit's white plastic lid. "Mind if I take some freebies?" He dabbed an antiseptic-saturated pad of gauze on his palm.

Tomoe, still half-crouched behind the cash register, looked up at him and sighed, "Shikata ga nai."

"Oh, come off it," Yves said. "You're not Japanese." Further down the counter, SB spread her legs to get a good look at him, her mouth stuffed with the plump head of her own cock. He contemplated the spectacle in silence, then turned to Dee, and spoke to him in a slow, even deadpan. "I hate you. I hate you so very, very much."

"It's not my fault." Dee grasped at a green spheroid whizzing by but it squirted through his fingers, reformed, and rolled away. "I was perfectly happy being alone and miserable back at the bar. You were the one who decided to drop by and try and cheer me up, if you care to recall. Anyway, how do you know she's not Japanese?"

"Her accent, for one thing. It's completely muddled." Yves said. Tomoe rose up behind the cash register, her face a mask of indignation. "Her grammar, for another. No one says 'desu' so damn much. Not in real life, anyway."

Tomoe waggled a dismissive hand at him. "You're the wannabe poser, here, not me, blondie. You want to know what it's like to be Japanese?" She crooked her thumb at the supply closet behind her "I've some pickled ginseng that will knock your socks off in there." She glanced down at the clutter spilt around Ursula's feet at the mouth of the closet. "Down there, I guess. Hey, little sisters, watch what you step on. You break it, you pay five dollar, you got that?"

"'Kay." Ursula pussyfooted in Nyx's go-go boots over the pile. "We'll be careful." She froze, frowning down at the floor. "Hm?"

"I'll pass on the ginseng, thanks," Yves told Tomoe as Ursula bent down to push aside a few boxes of SRU-label anti-aging cosmetics.

Tomoe treated him to a trademark one-shoulder shrug. "What do you want then?" Dee thought the cock-blocked SB was watching Yves and Tomoe's interplay with a curious care. "You've got the look of a guy who hasn't been well-laid in a long time." Tomoe maneuvered around Ursula and pulled a SRU-labeled atomizer from the muddle on the floor. "How about some unisex body spray. Want some? For you? Five d—"

Yves raised an open palm. "I'm perfectly happy with who I am, thanks."

Tomoe rocked back on her heels, swooning as if Yves had slapped her across her face. SB's cheeks bulged with air and her cock bobbled free. "See?" she said as her massive member bowed backward. "I told you, he..." Her erectile gel-tissue bent back as far as it would go before popping right back into her mouth. "A wittle help here, pweath, thumb-buddy."