It's Always Time Act 06 Ch. 01

Yves reached out, prodding cautiously at first, but growing bold when his fingers only dimpled SB's upper arm. "Wow. Do you work out?" Oh, Jesus. Yves winced. What am I, twelve? What's gotten into me?

"My nanomek do it for me." SB rolled her shoulders and inhaled. Her round breasts jutted against her fiery dress, nipples erect and obvious and inches away from Yves' fondling fingers. "Wanna feel my pecs?"

I haven't been this close to second base with a girl since high school. Yves flustered and flushed. SB studied his face, winked, nabbed his other arm, and slathered it with a healthy gob of tingly jam. The delectable massage drove away memories of youthful, fruitless denial. "You're sure generous with that stuff," Yves said, sighing. "Thank you, thank you."

SB laughed. "I've come into possession of a dumpster full of it." She swallowed a bark of laughter and oiled Yves' arm. The creaking of pine branches and the gentle lapping of lake water against the bank filled the bashful silence until SB added, "Thanks to you."

Pain and stress vanished under SB's touch. Yves allowed himself to purr. "Mrr. Just what is it, anyway?"

"Have you ever heard of woad, Yves?" SB asked, swirling her thumbs around his elbow.

"Only as the past tense of the Keanu Reeves verb, 'to whoa'." SB smirked but said nothing. "It's a dye, blue, or something, right?"

"Or something, yeah," SB said. She leaned close to massage his upper arm. Her breath tickled Yves' his neck. "Anyway," SB began, "the ancient Britons painted themselves before every battle. They needed no other armor."

A memory of kilts and blue paint clicked into place. "Like Braveheart," Yves said.

SB froze, then snorted, "Nothing like Braveheart." She went to work on his shoulder. "I'm talking aboriginal Albion, Yves. And it wasn't blue, either. Julius Caesar called it vitrum." She shook her head in reverie. "Julius. Now there's a guy who knew how to spend five denarii."

"Vitrum," Yves repeated. He knew his Latin roots from years of applied science. "Glass." He raised his free arm. The glaze of massage oil blazed in the sun. "Vitreous armor." His skin glittered as the oil dried, mellowing into a healthy glow. He twisted his arm one way and the other. Sunlight played over whipcord muscle, his wrist, his palm.

Yves stared. The puncture wound on his hand had healed. "Glass armor." Only a faded, comma-shaped scar remained, as if Yves had born it for years. From birth, Yves realized, like I've born it since birth. It's a mark, not a scar. That's what SB said. But now what?

SB's eyes danced, her voice edgy with urgency. "Take off your shirt, Yves."

Yves tugged his undershirt up over his head, his arms smooth and sure but his back panged hotly, forcing him into a hunch. SB had a big, three-finger scoop of jam ready and aimed for his chest. She hesitated, watching his spiky blonde hair droop over his eyes as his undershirt fell away. She flashed a crooked smile, brushed his hair back with her free hand, and splattered the scoop of goop atop Yves' head.

"Hey," Yves startled, laughing, but SB ignored him and combed the stuff through his hair with her fingers.

"The soldiers of Sparta and Macedon," SB said, knee-walking behind Yves' back, "would groom one another with it, with the vitrum."

Yves felt SB's knee nudge up against his butt. He suspected it was her knee, at least. "I thought that was just olive oil."

"No." SB's aquiline chin pressed into the hollow of Yves shoulder. The slinky material of her dress whisked against his back. Her lips scraped against his ear as she spoke, "They used olive oil to fuck." Yves swam in the scent of her summer cologne. SB reached up and scrubbed the jam into his scalp without mercy until Yves protested that his brain was marinating in strawberry marmalade.

"Better marinade than migraine," SB said, oiling Yves neck and knuckling the ridges of his shoulder blades. "Wouldn't you say?"

"Just keep doing what you're doing," Yves said. The twanging pain in his back evaporated under SB's care. "And I'd say any little thing you asked me to."

Rose crystal arms snaked around Yves' chest and slapped a big blob of jam onto his stomach. "Do you know what's going on, Yves?" The arms slithered up his chest, spreading the melting jam in two tingling swaths of oil from his abs to his pecs. Her firm breasts squashed against his back.

"You're," Yves shivered as SB's fingertip skated across his nipple, "you're seducing me."

"Mm," SB agreed, squeezing oil into Yves' ribs, "but do I have to?"

"No," Yves said, realizing it himself for the first time. He turned to smirk at her. Shining blonde blades of hair bowed to occlude his eyes. "You had me at, 'Ride me, Yves.'"

SB scooted around to Yves's side and kissed him. This time, Yves returned the kiss and took her in his arms. The giving flesh of her lips and toned expanse of her back felt as firm as any man or woman's, but her silken touch, her summery smell, her salty-sweet taste were beyond exotic, almost unearthly. SB broke their kiss and Yves, breathless, rested his forehead against hers. "I think I understand Dee a bit better now," he said.

"So," SB said, sitting up and daubing strawberry balm on the tip of Yves' nose. "If I'm not seducing you..." The balm melted into oil and she spread it across the bridge of his nose and around the orbits of his eyes. "Then what am I doing?" She swabbed his temples and forehead and Yves breathed easy; he had never felt more clear-headed in his life.

Yves thought about it as SB rouged his cheeks. "You're anointing me."

SB grinned and glanced aside, as if remembering some private joke. "I'm a-knighting you."

"I thought you knighted someone with a sword."

SB's introspective grin turned downright wicked. "That comes later." She finished her handiwork on his face and sat back to admire it.

The balm tingled as it dried. "Glass armor," Yves remembered. "You're armoring me. Outfitting me? No." He found the right word and it both thrilled and chilled him. "You're girding me."

SB leaped close, her third kiss hungrier than the last two combined. "Lie down, Yves," she said, voice low. "Lose the pants."

Yves settled into the picnic blanket, scrunching the wild grass beneath. His hair fanned over his face, shading his eyes from the cloudless sky and the sun high above the pines. He twirled a finger through a sheaf of his suddenly salon-perfect coiffure. "I've never been vain about my hair." He bunched his legs up. His knees still creaked and his thighs cramped but he ignored the pain as best he could and shucked off his slacks. The cuffs caught on his sneakers.

SB's arch smile hovered into view. "Silk boxers?"

"I'm vain about other things," Yves readily confessed. SB padded down to his feet, giving Yves a slow-pan eyeful of her copper-clad, powerhouse ass. "Uh." SB's rear swayed from the heavy counterweight tucked between her legs and hidden by her flowing dress. "Oh, boy," Yves swallowed. "Anyways, I always just let my hair do whatever it wanted." Yves propped himself up to watch SB undo his laces and a blonde tussock fell neatly across half of his face with an almost audible foop! noise. "I never expected a hairdo would take me literally."

Sneakers and socks sailed into the surrounding grass. SB administered the strawberry balm to Yves' feet. Yves yelped when she kneaded between his toes. "Quit squirming," SB said, smothering his heels and ankles in extra helpings of the stuff. "Achilles was ticklish, too, so I missed a spot and I bet you know the rest."

"Oh, ha, ha," Yves said. SB glanced up, her expression blank, and Yves added, "Um. Ha?" SB held his worried stare a moment longer, then thrust her tongue out between her teeth, dug her fingers into his calves and tickled him until Yves' howling laughter echoed across the placid reservoir. When Yves caught his breath, SB was smoothing salve over his knee. His lower legs wore greaves of glassy grease. "Okay, so you're girding me in vitrum—Ah!" A pressure point in Yves' knee popped and relief flooded through his leg. "God, that feels fucking fantastic. A minute ago I was nearly crippled. Now I want to run a marathon."

SB moved on to Yves' other knee but her eyes were fixed on the crotch of Yves' boxers. "Save your strength."

Yves heard the meaning behind the innuendo. "So vitrum is not going to make me strong like Dee."

"Nope," SB said. She popped another pressure point. Her hand crept up Yves' thigh.

"Good," Yves sighed, closing his eyes, letting the last of his pain and weariness wash away. "I'd be worse off with it. If I were suddenly Superman, I'd have to unlearn years of fighting with limited resources." SB oiled Yves' inner thighs, hands squeezing in a lazy rhythm. Blood rushed into Yves' face and his crotch. His slowly engorging dick slid against the silk of his boxers. "I guess virtum doesn't make me bullet-proof, either?"

"No," SB said, her oiled fingers working under the left leg of his boxers. "You'll never be bullet-proof, but fight well and you won't have to be." Her fingertips brushed against his pubic hair and she turned her attention to his other leg.

One of Dee's interminable comic book lectures rose unbidden in Yves mind. "Superman versus Batman," Yves heard himself say.

SB's sensual fingers froze. "Say what?"

"Superman's power comes from who he is. Batman's power comes from what he does." Yves had heard this bit from Dee so many times he could not help but plunge ahead. "Superman stands his ground and bullets bounce right off him. He doesn't even have to think about it. Batman can dodge bullets because he's careful and brave, clever and quick." Yves sat bolt upright. "Plot armor. That's what Dee calls it. That's what vitrum is." Yves rubbed his stomach. The oil had soaked into his skin, but he could still feel the energizing tingle. "You're covering me in plot armor."

SB had not moved since Yves started blabbing. "Are you trying to turn me off?"

"Hey, now. You, Tomoe, Nyx and Galatea are the gals running around empowering nerds." Yves lay back, hands behind his head. "What did you four expect?"

SB blinked at him, then whipped off his boxers. She dug deep with both hands into the mason jar, leaving nothing but dregs of jam at the bottom of the glass. "Really hot and freaky sex sprinkled with the occasional Monty Python reference," she said, fingers dripping.

"It's a fair cop," Yves admitted.

"Quiet, you," SB said, and brought her hands down.

Her left hand traced circles about his balls while her right slid straight down his scrotum. The jam melted immediately into oil. SB did not lose a single drop to the blanket beneath. She massaged rolls of oil into Yves' sensitive skin, running his taint between her ring and middle fingers.

SB's expert hands and the tingling oil electrified Yves and his pelvis pivoted up to meet them. SB wasted no time and dove her fingers into the crack of his ass. She teased the rim of his anus and he barked in surprised pleasure, bent his knees and pushed his butt off the blanket. "Perfect," she said, grabbing a cheek, "stay just like that." She cooed as she oiled him up, one hand squeezing his ass, the other curling around his balls and teasing the root of his cock. "Ooh, is this fun." Yves erection surged, the glistening red head of his dick peeking out from his foreskin. "Gotta get me some of that," SB said, bringing her right hand up and spiraling down his shaft, peeling his foreskin back with each pump, determined to paint every ridge and wrinkle of him in oil.

Yves groaned and collapsed onto the blanket, his twitching dick pointing skyward. SB's eyes unfocused, her lips puckered into a hazy smile. She coddled Yves' balls in her left hand, milked his cock in her right. "C'mon," she hummed. "Come on." Tension gathered in Yves' crotch and released in a full-body twitch, again and again. SB burst, "Oh! God," and "Oh! Yeah," with each shudder Yves gave her. She rocked up high on her knees and her own hardening prick flopped onto the blanket between Yves legs and pressed up against his inner thigh.

Yves felt some switch thrown deep within him and the maddening tension became a tide of building pressure. He moaned and muttered, inarticulate with encroaching orgasm.

SB bent forward. "God." Her lips hovered inches from the head of Yves cock. "Oh, God." She wrapped both hands around Yves' throbbing shaft, pushed its head between her lips. Yves whimpered and seized. SB sobbed—"Oh, God,"—around the head of his cock. He came.

And SB wept and nursed on his cum as if their lives depended on it.

"Holy shit," said Yves when SB finally rocked backward. "The only other time I've cum that fast and hard before, I was alone. And seventeen." SB tried to laugh but only gasped for air. Yves asked, "Nanogasms?" SB nodded, eyes crossed, and Yves added, "You just gave me a massive macrogasm, SB. You deserve more than a little blood music." Yves sat up, bare chest filmed in sweat, and eyed the mammoth bulge in SB's dress. "Why aren't you naked?"

He reached out, one hand following the distending curve of SB's dress. SB's hard-on grew and throbbed, as wide as Yves' hand, beneath his touch. I only caught a glimpse of her at the store, he thought, taking the hem of SB's dress in both hands. SB bit her lip as Yves sat close, drawing her dress upward. I know she's big, Dee said she was humungous, but how big could she possibly—"Ow," Yves said, as the head of SB's dick bopped him on the nose.

Yves gawked at a candy-red, fist-sized cock-head, polished in maraschino-cherry pre-cum and crowning about three feet of rose-red shaft. The whole package looked crystalline and fleshy at the same time. Veins like chiseled rose quartz somehow pulsed with life. SB worried her lip and searched his face with anxious eyes. Her childlike pout put Yves over the edge, and he laughed so hard he had to hold on to the sides of his head.

"No one," SB muttered, then shifted and raised her voice over Yves' delighted cackling. "No one has ever laughed at my dick before. Ever."

"Why not?" Yves wiped tears from his eyes. "It's amazing. You're amazing, SB. I mean, look at you. You've got the biggest penis on the planet and you're still insecure. If a three foot cock can't make a dickgirl confident, mortal men are doomed."

SB threw her head back and cracked up, her dress cinched around her belly. Her glans bobbed and weaved as she shook with laughter. Yves tracked the red cock-head's perambulations with his eyes, more amused and amazed than mesmerized. "You've got to tell me, how on Earth do you and Tomoe...relate?"

"She's lost a little weight since we first met," SB snickered.

Yves knew he would not get any better answer than that, and his mind was elsewhere anyway. "Well." He cracked his knuckles. "In for a penny..." He reached out again, with both hands this time.

SB shied to the side. "Wait."

Yves' fingertips hovered, poised to grasp. "Why?" His eyebrows waggled. "I'm really good at this bit."

"I know. Wow, do I know." She sighed. "That's the point. But cumming costs me nanomek, and, Yves, you turn me into a walking fire hose."

Dropping a gentle hand to SB's knee, Yves said, "I feel wonderful, SB. Better than I've felt in years. Awake, alive." He gave SB's knee an eager squeeze. "Horny. Hell, you probably saved my life. I want to share, SB. I need to." His hand inched up SB's thigh. "Sex is something that happens between two people, SB, and I want it to happen to you so good you'll see stars. Why are you so nervous?"

"Not nervous." SB leaned in for a sweet kiss but pushed Yves' hand away. "I'm not done sharing with you yet, that's all."

Or you're still too nervous to let me take the lead. "Very well." Yves swooned onto the blanket, the back of his hand pressed against his forehead. "Have your way with me, you cad." SB goosed Yves on the big toe, stood up, and walked straight past him. Her shadow fell across his face, soon followed by her dress. "Hey." He rolled over and looked up, the fiery dress dangling from his hair like a unwound turban.

SB stood naked at the water's edge. Her broad, sinewy back tapered down to a trim waist and a thick, traffic-stopping ass. Yves asked, "Are we skinny dipping?" SB turned and presented Yves with her profile, adding the high curves of her bust and impossible scimitar of her cock to the mix. Her substance possessed a milky translucence and the sun lit her up. She glowed from within, radiating a buttery aura, and Yves could only breathe, "My God."

"Actually, you need to stay onshore." SB stepped into the reservoir. Waves lapped at her ankles. "No matter what happens, no matter what you see, you can't touch the water. Understand?"

Some small part of Yves wanted to quip at the corny, fairytale instruction, but it was overruled by his awe of her beauty and the certainty in her voice. He nodded.

"Good." She strode deeper, proud and confident, until the she dipped low enough to dunk her balls in the water. She jumped back with a high pitched, piping squeak. "Eee! Cold!" Yves bit down hard on his bottom lip to keep from laughing as he watched SB shiver and crouch. "Well," SB said, "I'll fix that soon enough." She gave Yves one last, admonishing look. "I'm not Tomoe; I mean exactly what I say."

"And I'm not Dee," Yves said. "I don't touch my plate just because the waiter warns me that it's hot."

SB dazzled Yves with her smile, then gazed out over the dark water. "I haven't done this in a long, long time," she said, waded in deeper, and vanished below the surface.

Yves sat up, crossed his legs, draped SB's dress across his lap, and waited for something to happen. He watched the clear sky, half-expecting dramatic, stormy clouds to scud in over the horizon. None came. The sun climbed closer to the zenith of noon, warming the still air.

"Is this when I say 'It's quiet, too quiet'?" Yves shaded his eyes, scanned the tree line, then peered over the reservoir. "Hello? Ah, well. Thinking cap time, I guess." Okay, there's no denying that I'm caught up in Dee's story, or whatever fairytale he started when he bought his nanomek, then derailed by making Galatea first. "Is that all this is? Just part of Dee's story? SB?" After all, I didn't buy anything from SRU. I didn't start anything. Did I?

     ["...It's not my fault. 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..."]

Yves stood up. The dress fell. He cupped his mouth and hallooed over the reservoir, ire rising with every word. "So all this happened because I chose to cheer a friend up? That's all it takes get stuck in my own fairytale? And why the fuck did it have to start with some psycho-bitch fucking me in the ass?"

A wave of sultry heat rolled over the shore. The whispery woodland sounds died. Whitecap waves chopped up in the heart of the reservoir many yards away. Yves folded his arms. "That's more like it." The heat grew oppressive. The whitecaps churned into a growing circle of froth. "Wait a minute." The fizzing whitewater expanded, raced closer. The air turned savanna-hot. "Uh, SB?" At the water's edge, steam rose and wildgrass wilted. "The, uh, lake's starting to boil." Columns of steam wafted skyward and the roiling waters boiled like a sign of the Apocalypse.

Yves backpedaled away from the shoreline as the ambient temperature rose from sizzling savanna to roasting sauna, hot enough to scald his throat or even burn his lungs if he risked breathing in through his mouth. Yves' hair frizzed out and fountained around his head in a cross between a bowl cut and an overgrown spider plant. His voice cracked and croaked.