Ashes to Ashes Pt. 04

He goes to my chest and the sharp goes with him. There is no escape. Even with the steel beam, there is enough bleeding out through the rest of the nerves to stun and overwhelm.

"You make it so easy to say yes Ike," Micaiah sighs, "Have it your way. If she gets out of hand, you're both going in the Maiden."

There is a flash of fear that dances across his face again and I do not appreciate that. There should be awe in the fear. This is just unsullied and raw fear. The sharp jumps to him and brings him back to the moment with me and my bare chest. He should focus on my bare chest. That is all he needs. Not a bed of metal and rust and stains. Not a hovering bitch with iron in her veins. Not a cage of bent rebar hovering over a mountain summit drop. Just me and the cold of my skin and the swell of my chest under his palm. The rebar pries off and slides away. It joins the throne above us and I am back to the red eyes of ruby flame and the chest of night sky star showers.

The weight joins the sharp in the tingle of his touch and I give it power. I give it the pulse it wants and they play once again. It touches the heels and all the area of skin on the immense heft of him. There is nothing but the crush of the night sky and the needles driving in to prop it back up.

He is hard. He is hard and thrusting down into my stomach, the hard lines guide him up. I missed the shape he can make with me, the suggestion of what he will do to me when he has full reign over my body. I move my hands to his shoulders and pull him back to my lips. The finger was nice, but I want him and his mouth and his tongue on mine, The weight is almost invisible with its presence. The temperature is nonexistent. The texture is the same. It is only the pressure he can pour into me, widen me, that is all it is. All it can be. I moan into his mouth a sweet song of open acceptance.

There is no fumbling with the clothes. They are easy to slide off now that the restraints are gone. I am open and free and he is the same. He is open to me and the soft pads and the too low ceiling. Even as it lets someone fly, it is too low. Sky should be high, so impossibly high that no one can scale even halfway up. I could probably jump and reach it if I tried hard enough. Ike might not even need to jump.

He moves like the world coming to an end down my body and I can't help but moan at the way his fingers trace the lines of my work and strength. I want more. That is a simple fact. I want more of his hands on me, touching me, stroking me, holding me and it is a travesty that he only has two. A legion of hands, all his, should come down from the sky just to worship and fondle and grope. His lips do not leave me and all I taste is wight.

A hand goes between my legs and the sharp snaps at him. This is not quite what I want. It is a pale imitation of the act. It is not the heated length probing and spreading. It is narrow cutting fingers, slicing and evisceration the walls and the lips. It's nice. Very nice. But it is not the destruction I crave. It brings me flashes of starlight and gust of cool breeze. Not the ell encompassing nova of white, the sheer winds of barbed hail. Still, good hands. Very good hands. And a very good tongue that plays with mine. The sharp jumps between the up and down, flowing into him and out, just as the weight spreads and opens. Terrible, simply terrible teasing of the event that is coming, but we wait. We simply wait for the next step. There is a show to put on where I am submissive and obedient. Everything will fall back into its pale sooner or later. The world is too orderly at the moment. That will change. That has to change.

He is still good, pooling his weight and his strength into me. And it is more than what was. He is finally strong again. Still at his peak, but well on his way to ascension. I am excited, so excited for that day when the mountain top comes. The thought alone sends shivers and jolts through me. At least they have been good to him here. Enough food and water, although exercise seems lacking. There is form to him now, clinging to his bones. And it is all collected and pooling in the digits and their dance. He takes his mouth to my chest and bits the tender skin. Greedy little thing he can be sometimes.

Through half lidded eyes, I glimpse the audience finally start to pay attention. She does not want to. This is work, the task to be done, the will and orders to be carried out. What are we but beasts coupling for a prized stock generations down the line? She should not show interest. That would be unbecoming. But the glances and the stares, the parted lips and the wide eyes, show that there is something bewitching through the bestial coupling. The dark and light intermingling, the pale tamed and leashed through lips and hands. It is a good show. I arch my back and stick out my chest. I hope, I pray that there is a flash of inadequacy through her, just for my petty will.

Ike brings me and I gaze to the night sky and let the pin pricks of starlight take me away. A million needles prickling at my skin, all cold and heated at the same time. So many little pokes and prods and all the things that make the feeling come alive. It's sublime, the dance of fingers and touches within and without. And I do nothing in return. Just as passive the rest of my audience, I have to wait for what I want to be given. Terrible, simply terrible. It is there, it's right there on the edge of the world and all I have to do is reach out over the lip and take it. But I can't. I have to be good because I was told to be good. It will be good. It has to be good, once all the restraints are lifted.

It is nice, this little submission to the world, if only for the novelty. It's been a long, long time since I've had to submit to the world. I wish to rage and rebel, but I settle for scratch and touch of the dark back. He winces, and I lavish with the slight will I can inflict back on him. He thinks he should be in charge and that is simply wrong.

He teases the starlight from me, letting the needles settle and spread the pores in my body. The sharp fills the gaps around the spread. The arc comes from the gaps, the gaps of life and the space of what is in me. The arcs and the lines and the volts pour from me into him. The mattress smokes around him, but he does not mind. It blends to his skin. There are dark clouds scattering thunder from the heavens to the era and the hands, the wonderful hands tease more and more and more from me. But the deluge never comes. The final damn burst of light and energy is too far away, too high up for me to grasp. There is just the feigned nonchalance of an audience member watching the animals mate. She is not above this. She is down in the blood and the dirt with the rest of us and the hands of sharp weight dig into me and bring me back to the constellations that do not form shapes.

Ike finally puts a bit more effort into the act, and it is welcome. The stars in my vision dance and sway and twinkle and spark their sharp dance of blades and needles and it finally feels good to end. IT final shows the light that there is an end goal in all of the action. There will be release and salvation through the terrible ecstasy. It is in his hands and the Armageddon but it is coming and it will be glorious.

It comes with trumpets and the dead wailing and a long tongue tracing down my stomach with a mischievous pair of eyes situated just above it. They promise play and dance and song of knife fire, but all it gives me is tentative licks and kisses. Which are very nice. I am, once again, not in the mood for nice, no matter how very it is.

"More," I moan, trying to put more emotion into the voice than is actually there. And he does give me more. There is more tongue and more lips and more fingers doing the act of slap and tickler. But it just makes the starlight colder. It does not join and unite the endless bright against me. It just makes the dance a little more than it once was. MY legs go over his shoulders and I hope that goads him a bit deeper than what I am currently getting. I hope so. I really hope he gets the message.

I am sure he does, but the audience does not want that. If anything, she wants the main event to hurry up and arrive, and I have to agree with her somewhat. This is a farce, a joke and fool's errand that is fun to run but has to come it an end. I will not summit from this, although I can. There is the edge sitting right over there and it just hovers out of grasp.

Ike does finally stop the charade. Putting on a show and all that, but certainly not worth waiting around for an encore. He rises up, back to my eyes with his and I glance down as he lays himself against me. I can't suppress the throaty chuff that comes from me. I don't want to. I want him to know that this is not enough and he knows it. He can't not know it. The show must go on, but I will burn down the stage if he does not get inside me and actually try.

He does get inside of me and that is very nice. Very, very nice. My opinions on very nice have been established. Really, anything with that classification is good as an opening move and nothing else. But we shall sit here with the slow spread and open and fill of my body while we settle into the think cushion. I take him easily. I take him so easily. The hollow is sated again and I am complete. The circuit runs its track between us and I finally pull a whimper and groan and a wonderful shudder from him. The current traces its favorite paths as the weight in him makes it all so easy for him to do. It's easy, so easy and conductive for the world to be this way. The sky is full and clear and open as the wastes stretch to the horizon and back and all the world is locked and keyed. It is as it should be,

Our bones meet and I close my eyes to savor the feeling. Full, so full. The wastes are clear and rolling dunes stretch and wave. It is what I want and therefore what I deserve. It is the world giving me my due and that cannot change. It should not change. Breaking that iron clad rule is sin and trespass. I am whole with the coupling and the union. It is right because it is mine.

He starts his motions and the world somehow becomes truer. The reality of the forgotten thoughts aligns with the reality of witness phenomena. It is right, simply right and whole. He leaves me with the hollow of his shape as he withdraws for that agonizing moment before slowly going back in.

I chance a gander at the audience and she has forgone all pretenses of inattention. There is something magical happening below her in the dirt and blood from the common folk. Her throne of pointed iron does not pleasure does not excite. It simply hovers in the end, obstinate and opulent. There is no excitement there. It is all down here in the bloody soil. Ike thrusts and I have to yelp. My fault and I will wear that loss on my sleeve. I should have been paying more attention really.

There is naked desire on her face, for me, for him, for the touch of another that can take the goddamn pace. I can't help but smirk up at her as she rubs her thighs together in some ineffective dance to still the turmoil sea within her. It is not working. Her mouth moves to take a lip under her teeth and I let out another moan as his hands go to help his length with its administrations.

Ike is focused on the starlight it seems. And I have to admit, the strategy is coming together. Many bombardments scattered and fragmented can do the same as an overwhelming strike. And if one is blocked, then the others can still do some damage. Admirable in its own tight, although not quite in line with the call of my body. All the same, the light starts tracing its paths once again as his pace is set. Slow, terribly slow, putting the weight to it, letting every inch gained feel like a mile, just from the endless pressure. He is good and he is novel. The pace is slow, but that does not make it soft. IT takes time for mountains to form, even more for them to rise and tetter over the edge.

But just a moment for it to come tumbling down.

The sharp snaps at the patient wait. It is done being patient. It is done with the show for the woman that does and does not care. It is done at the play of breeding and sowing. It just wants. It wants Ike to hurry the hell up and get fast again. He can go breakneck and gale-force, so there is no reason, no reason at all to be so sluggish. My legs move behind him again, locking him down and sending the circuit to new places between us.

He does expediate the whole process, although not to the best of his ability. There is still the leash, the shackle that he has settled in his soul. And I understand. That's the wort part. I understand that this is the way things have to be. There is some grand twist on the horizon, but I want him to unleash and break the bonds that keep him bound to reality. He can be more and he has chosen me to be more with him. The star lights dance and shine and brighten once more to blinding. Not searing but blinding.

Even still, even through all the disappointments and concessions, the light and the wastes sing their song of my release and it will be glorious. Maybe too strong of a word, but that is what they say. It will at the very least be very nice. And that's horrible. But nice.

It comes with the needles turned to razors, little pierces to cuts and it bleeds from me. Slowly at first, the cold seeping in as the warmth files away. More and more of the cuts come and the sharp cold comes quicker and quicker. I am left hollow as the starshine bleeds me dry. Hollow and cold and white end sweeping through me.

The surge of my current sharp sends the light to sear, just for a moment, just for brief beautiful second of annihilation. My fingers rack across that wonderful back of his, the lines, the spine, the muscles, the bones and it is all marked for me and me alone.

The end comes for me. I let it come. I do not fight it. It is too soon to be over, but it has to be this way. At least Ike is on the same moment I am. His eyes are narrowed and his brow is furrowed and I get one last sweet song from him as the pulse and throb and twitch and quiver collect into something desolating.

That warm rain comes within me and I sigh and laugh and giggle like a child at the endless torrent given to me. It's been a while. Too long. He should not be this way, pent up and frustrated and caged. But he is and there is wonderful release at hand. There is annihilation so close to him. The sharp finds my mind and his and fries everything. There is sweet release as the lights in the sky turn to jagged stars. I don't think of anything other than the blank collapse we both bring.

His ends before mine, partly because his hand teases more and more from me. That's very nice, actually. He can keep doing that. He can keep doing that forever, even when we're not quite in the act. But, like everything, it fades back into existence and makes itself known as a part of reality. I am still staring at a ceiling of rusted metal and poured stone. Ike is not there. He is sitting far away, flushed and panting. He gets his break. But there better be more coming.

There is not.

The urge and hunger have faded from me for the moment and I look to the poured stone walls reaching up to a poured stone ceiling. More bits of rusted metal and open pipes cross my vision like a grand spider web. Ike is on my chest under the web. He should be under me and I should be under an open sky.

Micaiah is distracted by the show and her fingers and the thoughts that come with all of them intermingling once more. Ike is tired and sore and thinking through all the permutations of what he can do.

I can do something. I can do something incredible and wonderful and absolutely idiotic. But I'll do it away.

I throw Ike off of me and send him rolling, once, twice, as his weight starts to well in him and pour through the open air. It hurts me and it hurts the sharp to do so, but I have to try. There is urge and will and there must be an attempt. The warden finally opens an eye to see the anvil crawler come to bear down on her entire being.

The sharp finally gets to play as it wishes in the world, taking the entirety of everything and turning it to crackling slag. It cuts into me and tears at my skin, alighting my veins with their blizzard light before jumping from its minuscule vessel.

Micaiah is hit. She is hit with the lashing tongue and scraping fingers of the end of all things. She brings the metal to her form, trying to draw it from her body. But it is in there. It has started its riot in her body. The muscles clench and twist and spasm and I am on her as the bed comes cascading down into a mangled pile of useless rust.

I clasp onto her arm and wrench it as hard and as deep as I can, pouring more and more and more and more of the sharp into her. Her will fights it. Her will cannot squash it. It tries to move the vein and path to something non vital. But it is all vital. It is all important and soft and the sharp just wants to burn it all down. Her other hand clenches and moves as the sharp still pours from me.

There are stars. I see stars. And I hear a dull ringing in my ears that does not seem to fade away. A piece of steel beam hangs over me, pushing me down. There is a spot of blood on it, and from the way my head feels, I believe it might be mine. I don't like that. My blood should be inside of me. That is where it belongs. That is its home.

An Ike comes to me, looking down as his ghostly double slots in beside him. Both their mouths move and I think they say something. I don't hear it. But another piece of metal comes and takes him down too. The metal crushes me and hoists the both of us to vertical hover before our terrible warden. The sharp jumps and snaps at her. It wants to play some more. But it can't. It has a pool of blood to deal with pouring from my temple. It can't play without its toys and now it all might be broken. Micaiah is saying some words, shouting them more likely, as she clutches at her arm. I don't hear any of it.

There is just the rebar from the flushed Micaiah taking me back and pining my arms to my side. There is still just rage, pure unyielding rage at trying to keep everything still and silent. It rampages and roars and does all the things it can to bring the sky falling. It does nothing, nothing at all, other than bring the steel cage so close, so tight, that I cannot breathe.