Ashes to Ashes Pt. 03

As the thought leaves my mind, I am once again on my back, staring at the red rock sky above me. And then I am staring at red flame eyes burning into me. Both are very nice, but I think I prefer the eyes.

"I said I didn't want to get on the bed," I grin.

"But you're not moving away," Nia says. Her hands slink down my body, finding my sides once again. They trace the skin where the steel slid and made me bleed.

"Please don't. I have a wound there."

"This will be good for you. So let me work."

I watch the stars slip over the rock and slide down my body. Line and scar and dark, it's all flowing down, over my breasts, my chest, my stomach like a great serpent. The corded knots of muscle find the hard slabs in me and slowly let them crumble to dust.

She kisses my thighs and the sharp starts to build again. It bubbles in the back of my throat and I can't help the giggle, the innocent little giggle at the sensation from the thin lips and edged cheekbones. My core clenches for a moment before opening and weeping. I move my hands behind my head. I see no reason to resist anymore. I do not, however, lock my legs behind her back. That would be a little too needy for me right now. So, she has her freedom to worship and anoint as she wishes. It's really all I deserve.

Her tongue takes well to the sharp and the folds. Practice, she has certainly had practice with the act. It's always so nice to have fun with someone who knows the game. As fun as it is to teach, sometimes there is the need for just the play. The licks and kisses and fondles, a sharp tongue that spread and pierce like a dancing knife. No clumsy bludgeoning or wayward strokes. Every motion is precise and controlled, assaulting and crumbling the slabs of muscles and sharp wires beyond into pulverized dust.

But she does not have the sharp and the weight beyond reality to collapse into them. There is skill and speed, but no strength to her. Despite the rather rapturous lightning storm of my mind, kit is not the collapse of the sky shattering into the night voice of nonexistence. It is merely the thunderbolt storm bringing rain and flood to the plains. Survivable. She is survivable. It is a shame Nia cannot bring about the end of the world, despite the pleasure of her disaster. There will be survivors, unfortunately.

Every thought that I bring to the table is now rendered moot by a single addition I did not account for. She has hands. She has hands of corded rope and tight tendon to pluck at the strings. She may not have the weight, but she has the sharp strings and anils to touch and poke and prod all the things I am. She drums on the tight skin and the gaps respond in kind. She cannot enter that realm, but she can certainly make it resonate.

The sharp finds its old playmate again and snaps to her digits. The muscles turn erratic and I finally feel the strength of an apocalypse. And I weather it all. The desert did not stop me. The beasts did not stop me. The endless gale of golden wind slowed me down, but I refuse to let it stop me. There is a constellation administering sweet terrible worship to me and I am invincible.

The fingers and the tongue work to cut and splice me open. And they find tight drumhead skin to keep them at bay. It is not enough to stop me. It is not enough to get me slack and calm and coiled. My legs finally move to lock her into place, now that the sharp has moved to be by my side once again. She cannot run. She does not want to run. There just is the taste and the lick and the endless thrum of power making her finger dance for me.

They both work together in me. The sharp guides the way and the fingers find the spots and the rhythm to beat to. And she is good., now with the borrowed strength of mine takin her movements. She is the puppet and puppeteer, a marionette holding its own strings and I do not know which is making which dance. I just know that it feels good and right and wonderfully soothing to the muscles and the skin and the sharp. It is all so wonderful.

It is cutting the tendons from me, the gummed-up flesh of scars. The knife, the sand, the endless wind that tore me open, all of it had to fall way to the stiff tissue in its place. Through the sharp and the fingers and the tongue, all of it is broken again. The breaks find joints to slot into. Loose, everything is loose and free to flail as it pleases.

My core tightens and my teeth grit in a rictus grin as I feel the start of the end. Nia has been led to the spot and found the pattern that I like the best. It is all finally enough to come to an end and I welcome it gladly with open arms. Wonderful, it is all so wonderful now that the deluge in the wastes comes to a full storm head. I wish she had hair to grip and steer. But it is smooth. There is still enough to grab though. Her skull fits in my palms and I am strong enough to keep her there, with or without the locks to intertwine.

Thunder shakes the room as it finally happens and I am left with a cold barren waste inside me. The sharp and the slice have taken all from me and I have my open endless sky. White sand, cold and stark, stretches from horizon to horizon, flat, completely flat. I see beyond the curve and it all tilts away from me. There is a ringing in my ears, that might come from the thunderclap, might come from the sharp and Nia, might come from nowhere at all. Screaming, I am screaming my desolation to the world and the world rattles and shakes with me. Every bone is tight. Every muscle is clenched and still and trembling. I cannot think. I do not want to think. There Is nothing so serene as the world gone with the blast wave.

The scream turns to a bouncing laugh as the mind catches up with the end of the storm. I can think and feel and make sense of things now, unfortunately. I would much prefer to be in my blissful state of annihilation a bit longer, but here I am, sweaty and loose and an odd mix of cold and heat mingling in my stomach. Nia is resting her chin on my stomach, a conqueror's grin on her face. A hand idly traces up to my breast and circles the nipple. Blue-white light traces the touch.

I keep the light dancing in me. I take my arms away from her and stretch. Something pops in my neck and a spark travels down to the souls of my feet. Nia shivers once it hits her.

"Is it always like that?" she asks, "Do you always feel this way?"

I shrug.

"More or less. Some days it's calmer. Some days it's not. It's been good ever since I came across Ike. Calmer, somehow. I have some ideas about the way he can move things, but I don't know if I can put it into words. He can nudge people."

She takes that thought into her head for a moment or two, considering it.

"Would that be why Bryce was so adamant I turn him over?"

"I have no idea. I have no idea what he wants. I have no idea where he is. So, I guess, that's the first step."

"I can help you with some of that at least. He comes down from the mountains. There's an old strong hold there, where he plays at having a court. He only lets in people with fine things to trade."

I gaze up to the rock ceilings and think for a long moment. I know a people who dabble in the trade of fine things.