It's Always Time Act 06 Ch. 01

"Is it too late to say, 'Pygmalion'?"

The columns of steam condensed into billowing walls of mist, carried to the lakeshore by waves of heat. Yves' thumb prickled. Water, he thought, as the thick trails of mist moved in. She didn't say 'Don't go in the lake.' She said, 'Don't touch the water.' The temperature continued to climb and Yves felt faint. The water's coming to me but I doubt that makes any difference. What do I do? Do I run? He cast about, made his decision—No—and dove for the picnic blanket, throwing it over himself just as the first tendrils of mist coiled onto the shore.

Yves lay in darkness and cool grass. No wonder this fabric felt familiar. The terrible heat buffeted the blanket above him. It's spun lace insulant, just like Ursula's high-tech potholders.

The hissing from the lake stopped. Yves counted slowly to two hundred before testing the air: sultry as a New Orleans summer, but safe. He crawled out from under the blanket, the shore soupy and slippery beneath his hands and knees. The wild grass now resembled boiled cabbage, browned and overcooked. The reservoir was becalmed. Mist licked across the smoothed water. The hush heightened Yves' awareness of his own nudity and exposure. He adopted a ready stance.

A silvered blade rose from the reservoir, piercing the surface without a ripple. SB soon followed, striving in a weary swagger toward the shore, holding a sword aloft above her head. Dark water swirled around her bare legs, her flaccid but still massive dick slapping against her inner thighs. Her eyes were dim and unfocused, her frown severe. Her muscles trembled, as did her voice. "Yves Valiancourt!"

"I am here," Yves said, surprised at his own formality.

An exhausted smile lit up SB's face. She stepped onto the shore, seemed to see Yves clearly. "Yves Valiancourt."

"I am he." His heart in his throat, his blood signing, he added in whisper, "'SB' doesn't really stand for 'Strawberry Banana,' does it?"

SB at last lowered her arm, resting the flat of the blade across both her palms. "No," she whispered back. "It does not." She fell to one knee before Yves, head bowed. She sighed, raising her arms to present Yves with a long, curved blade the color of frozen moonlight.

"I have borne you a sword, Yves Valiancourt."

Yves hefted the sword. The grip, wrapped in a braided weave of rose silk cord, could accommodate two hands but felt equally comfortable in one. The round guard had been forged from a midnight purple alloy Yves could not identify. The sharpened, single edge ran along the outside of the blade, longer and more curved than the samurai swords seen in the movies. It took a moment for Yves to find his voice. "How did you know?"

SB glanced up, grinning. "The tanto you have in your shirt—neat trick, by the way, can't believe I didn't notice it until I was feeling you up. You've got the tanto slung the wrong way 'round for typical katana work. And you weren't exactly subtle back in the SRU parking lot." Kalidescope eyes sparkled. "I could tell you were a tachi man."

Yves smoothed his thumb over the flat of the pearlescent blade; slick but not sticky. "What is it?" He held it up. It refused to reflect the sunlight. This is what's left when you take away the metal but leave the edge, the lethality, behind, Yves thought. This is the ghost of a sword. "SB, what did you do?"

SB stood. "I told you you'd be surprised," she said, chest heaving as she caught her breath. "The things you can spin from carbohydrates and the trace elements found in freshwater. But the process gives off so much waste heat I have to jump in a lake or spontaneously combust. Anyway, it's a metallofullerene core edged in aggregated nanorods folded into a fractal lattice serration...What's with that face? Constipated?"

"This is my 'processing technobabble face'," Yves said, stepping back, testing the feel of the deadly thing. "Metallofullerene core: more ductile than steel." SB nodded, so Yves struggled on with his translation. "Aggregated nanorods: harder than diamond." SB nodded again, her grin growing wide. "Fractal lattice..." He squinted at the edge. It remained out-of-focus. "What's its effective cutting surface?" he asked. SB scratched her head. "If you straightened out all those microscopic serrations but kept the same surface area," Yves continued, "how long would the blade be?"

"Ten," SB shrugged. "Maybe up to eleven." Her grin returned, positively shit-eating, and she added, "Kilometers."

"So," Yves said, trying a two hand grip. "Fractal lattice serration: sharp enough to cut through, what, solid rock?"

"Honey," SB sighed, "you could cut a diamond Sherman tank in half with that thing. And diamond is one of the hardest, if not the hardest, metals known to man." Yves just stood there, brow furrowed, so SB grumped, "Dee would've laughed that joke."

"That's my point," Yves said, turning away from SB to gaze over the tree line. "I mean, shouldn't Dee be here, not me? Doesn't Arthur get Excalibur?"

"Aw, don't be an idiot." SB gave Yves a dismissive but playful shove on the back. "Arthur's just a myth. Never existed."

"Oh, ha, ha."

"I'm serious. Arthur and Lancelot: both total bullshit."

"But, still," Yves muttered, "shouldn't Dee...?"

"Not everything's about Dee," SB insisted behind him. "Besides, Gawain got the green girdle. Yvain got the sword."

Yves would only stare down at the ghosted blade. "I don't know who those two guys were." Except one killed the other, according to Eurydice. "Unyx would know. She's a superhero. Like Dee. Like the rest of them." Yves' thumb prickled.

SB clucked deep in her throat. "Fine."

Yves whirled around, arms whipping up. Pale sword met pink scimitar a few inches away from his face. The two blades rang together in a crystalline tone as pure as two matched tuning forks. Yves boggled at the anger simmering in SB's eyes. "What did I..."

"Have it your way, then," SB growled and kicked Yves' left knee out from under him. Yves toppled backward. SB brought her blade whistling down at Yves' exposed neck.

Yves rode his collapse into a controlled tumble. SB's pink scimitar sank into the sodden earth. "You're quick," SB said, wresting the scimitar from the ground, whisking it high and behind her head. "Damn quick for someone who says he's not a superhero."

Yves sprang to his feet, pale sword ready in a two-handed grip. "Victory is not getting cut." He found his center and sought a Kamae, a kendo fencing ready stance. "That's not superheroic," he said, thinking, This is no kendo match and she isn't holding a practice staff. "That's just smart." He tipped his blade up, and entered a textbook perfect Water Kamae, reciting, "If you've thought of cutting, it's too late to cut." Her grip is tight. She's not ready. Don't move until you see it. "You must have already cut when you think of cutting."

SB's fingers relaxed. The scimitar's haft slipped a hairsbreadth downward. There. Yves angled his blade a few degrees, its tip pointed at SB's eyes. Now.

SB swung her scimitar down in a blurred arc. Yves was already moving, closing the distance to level the advantage of an overhead strike. The scimitar accelerated downward. He rotated his own sword. The scimitar rebounded and SB dropped back. Sport-drink red sweat beaded her bare breasts. Yves rotated back to his Water stance and waited.

"Your banter is pretty pithy," SB snarled, this time bringing her blade low and back, "for someone who says he's not a superhero."

Yeah, why the Hell am I bantering? "That's just my inner Dee talking," Yves said, and, feeling as uncertain as he sounded, he shifted his stance and lost his center.

"I know you're a superhero, Yves, and I know that you know." The pink scimitar swept up and out. Anticipating a feint designed to push him further off-center, Yves risked a sidestep—but SB swiveled her hips and double-feinted, her huge blade whirring faster than Yves thought possible. He walked right into an upswing about to crack open his chest like a book.

His thumb prickled. There was a screech of glass grinding against glass. Without thinking, Yves had leaned into the fatal swing. The scimitar grated over the flat of his blade until the guards of both swords clicked together. Yves and SB stood nose-to-nose, their swords locked together between them.

"I know you're a superhero, Yves," SB said, straining to break the lock and earn the riposte, "because despite all your training, all that muscle memory telling you to strike after each defense, you haven't even tried to cut me yet." SB narrowed her eyes, her face slick with sport-drink sweat. "Only the good guys are dumb enough to do that."

Yves hissed, every ounce of his strength channeled into his effort to hold the lock. "That's not it." SB arched a brow and Yves conceded, "Alright, that's not just it."

The swords squealed in protest as their wielders forced them a fraction of an inch one way and then the other. SB gritted her teeth. "What else, then?"

Yves began, "This is..." SB yanked the scimitar's guard away and Yves dredged up reserves of stamina he did not know he had to clamp the pale sword's guard down hard, locking the blades again. "This is so fucking hot," he gushed.

SB gasped and relaxed her grapple. "Oh, Jesus, Yves, you should see." She pressed her leg into his groin; his growing erection crawled up her thigh, became spotted with sport-drink sweat. "You should see how fucking amazing you look." She let her sword fall to her side, one hand squeezing its ruby pommel, the other winding around Yves' neck to pull him into a summer-sweet lip-lock. "Ride me, Yves," she said, and kissed him again. "Fuck me." And again. "Fuck me, now."

Yves dropped his sword. It sunk into the ground up to the hilt. He squeezed the rose-colored thigh rubbing against him, relishing the feel of SB's lithe but steely frame. He urgently reached for SB's groin, yearning to squeeze something else—and poked SB in the pussy.

The bishi and the dickgirl yelped in shock and surprise, and glared at each other before spluttering embarrassed giggles and snickers. "Sorry, I'm so sorry." Yves blushed beet red. "Totally forgot."

SB waggled the pommel of her sword. "It's over here, Sherlock." She plucked it up, and proffered the pink scimitar to Yves. She pouted and rocked her hips. The longing look she gave him could have raised the dead. "Would you make a man out of me?"

Yves took up the oversized scimitar, heard SB's gasp as he gripped the polished quartz handle. He marveled at the sense of power in potentia it possessed, remembering the feeling from when he had held it before, back in the SRU parking lot: an almost drunken empowerment. "How do I?"

SB whimpered her need and drove two shaky fingers into her sex, her burning eyes never leaving his.

Yves was awestruck. Mother of God. "Lie down, sword bearer." SB stumbled and sprawled supine onto the picnic blanket. Yves fell to his knees beside her, clutching her sword. He goggled at the plum-sized ruby in the pommel, glanced down at SB's cleft. No way. No way can this thing fit.

Head lolling, SB spread her legs and parted her flush labia with trembling hands. "Please," she said, unabashed.

I can't believe this. Yves' head swam. I can't believe this is happening, that I'm doing this. He brought the sword-pommel close to SB's cleft. I can't believe this is making me so God-damned, mother-fucking horny. "Tomoe," Yves said, his breath haggard. "Tomoe made you like this?"

SB bit her lip and nodded. "She taught me. She taught me how to take it off. Now, please, put it back on." The pommel nudged against SB's mons. She thrashed and sobbed. "Oh, God, put it back in."

Sweat stung Yves' eyes. "Tomoe's okay with this?" Yves swabbed the sweat with his forearm. "With us?"

SB's laughter was faint and dazed. "I hope not. I hope she's jealous as Hell, of you as much as she is me." Her fingers fell away from her sex. "She's watching us, you know. Right now. A hundred years ago. A thousand years from now. So she'd better be jealous."

She brushed a golden lock of Yves' hair behind his ear, then tipped her head back and shouted at the sky loud enough to make Yves flinch and pull the sword back. "You hear me, out there? You see me, Tomoe?" Her cry was triumphant, not angry. "It's me. I'm the one! Not Ursula, not Galatea, not Raspberry, and it sure as shit ain't gunna be you! I'm the one," she said again, her tone softening. She pressed a palm against Yves' cheek, her smile as rapt as it was wicked.

"I'm the one who gets to fuck Yves." Her fingers dropped away from his face and wrapped around Yves' hand. She guided him down until the scimitar's bulging pommel nestled into her sex. "Do it, Yves." She luxuriated beneath him, hips pumping as her nether lips flowered to accommodate the pommel-stone. "It's time.

"It's finally our time."

Yves applied pressure to the pommel, felt the resistance of SB's most tender flesh. SB's fingers trembled over his. She spread the petals of her sex with her other hand. "Yves," she breathed, and opened herself to him.

His heart slamming in his chest, Yves pushed down on the rubicund pommel. SB clawed his chest, kicked against the blanket. "Yves!" Her labia enfolded the pommel. Pungent nectar drizzled around the hilt, the blade towering above the both of them. She led him to angle the scimitar down.

"Deeper, Yves."

Balancing the weight of the scimitar delicately in his hands, he eased the hilt in. Yves realized he wasn't breathing. SB screamed his name and threw her arms around his neck. She curled and huddled beneath his chin. The sword slipped further into SB's core and Yves felt a subtle shift in the contours of the rose girl's body. She felt more sleek, angular, and hard against him. Between his fingers, the scimitar began to burn.

Even though Yves hovered only inches away, even though Yves watched agog as it happened, even though Yves' hands were wrapped around the scimitar as it coarsened and thickened, the exact moment of transition—the moment where Yves could say, before it was her sword, and now it was her cock—escaped him, or maybe never truly occurred. One minute Yves was fucking an Amazon with the hilt of her own sword, the next he was jacking off a dickgirl with the biggest prick on the planet.

The potential power locked in SB's scimitar was a flickering candle compared to the flamethrower of her cock. Yves adapted to her size quickly, using the hollows of his palms more than his fingers to tease and squeeze her shaft. SB convulsed and groaned with each stroke. "Yes. God. Yes. God! Ye—No. Wait. Wait!" Yves threw his hands in the air, dragging one last shuddery cry from SB.

"Jesus Christ," Yves growled, standing with fists clenched. "I want to make you cum." He bared his teeth in a mirthless, horny leer. "Is that so much to ask?"

"I need you," SB said in an alto voice so deep it bordered on baritone. She rolled over onto her stomach, the pillar of her erection forcing her up on all fours. "I need you inside me." She scooted backward, pressed her ass against his groin until their balls touched. "And you know what they say, Yves." She threw him a shameless smile over her shoulder. "Ladies first."

Yves squat down behind her, his knees locked tight about SB's thighs. He loomed over her, bending down to kiss the sweet-and-salty, sports-drink sweat droplets off her brawny back, making her shiver. "What about lube?" he asked between kisses.

SB arched her back and rocked her hips in silent response. Her skin was satin against his chest, giving him another serious case of gooseflesh. His dick slid across the crack of her ass. Her cheeks were solid muscle but his shaft glided between them. Yves moaned and pressed his face into the sheaves of cotton-candy dreadlocks trailing the nape of her neck.

"No need," SB said, grinding her ass over his groin and her back across Yves' chest. She felt pillowed in luscious oil. "Not with the vitrum. Not with a goo girl, or even a goo dickgirl. Now fuck me." She bent up and back at an inhuman angle to plant an open-mouthed kiss on Yves' forehead. "Fuck me."

After almost three hours of non-stop flirting and foreplay, banter and battle, Yves needed no such encouragement. He was already reaching back, aiming the head of his cock at the bud of SB's anus. "Yes," SB whispered, relaxing. She reclined her head on her folded arms, her ass bobbing between Yves' thighs. "Yes."

"Yes," Yves hissed, and penetrated. SB's passage was tight but supple, forcing Yves' foreskin back but accepting the sensitive, exposed head of his prick, bathing it in a snug, delicious heat. "My God," Yves said, pressing his chin into her shoulder, feeling her whole body quake beneath him. "You're incredible." Yves slithered into her.

A single, hiccupping sob burst from SB's lips before she bit down on her fist. Yves started a slow rhythm, pumping the first few inches of his cock in and out of her in time with the low waves lapping the nearby shore. SB moaned after each stroke. "Mm. Mm. Mm—more!" Her fist popped out of her mouth. "More, dammit!" She rocked back on her elbows and knees in time with Yves' next forward thrust. Yves' dick sank into her ass until her balls slapped against his.

"Whoa-fuck," Yves said. SB's innermost nectar clutched his shaft. He withdrew, then drove forward. "Oh, wow." He built up a strong, lunging rhythm. "Oh, hot damn."

"Oh, thank fucking God," SB said, an obscene smile blooming across her face as she readied herself for some serious reaming.

Yves hugged himself tight to SB's back, stretching his neck to mutter in her ear, "Nuh uh. No rest for you." The sensuous, torrid friction of her core around his cock threatened to drive him mad. He bucked and reamed and bit her shoulder. SB slammed her fist between her teeth in and screamed. The juice of wild strawberries, so tart it was almost bitter, trickled around Yves tongue. He pulled away long enough to growl at SB, his teeth stained maraschino-red. "You are gunna cum so fucking hard."

SB craned her neck—"Wha'?"—but Yves' pounded into her as strong and steady as the crashing surf and she flopped onto the picnic blanket, cross-eyed and keening.

Her helpless pleas of pleasure triggered a rising pressure within Yves' groin. The urge to pump his pelvis became an imperative. Yves bit down again, wrapped his arms around SB, and hauled the two of them up together onto their haunches with his next thrust, his deepest yet. SB threw her arms wide. "OhmyfuckingGod—Yves!"

Yves' slipped his arms down and around SB's waist and pinioned her prick. "So hard," he promised her, his dick buried in her ass, his hands stroking the length of SB's massive member. "So fucking hard."

SB tried to protest, "B-but..." Yves stroked down on her cock while plunging into her ass and she could only wail his name, again and again.

"I know," Yves soothed, but would not relent. "Nanomek, I know. But don't worry." He stroked and plunged. "You feel so good, SB, I can't hold back." The pressure and tension focusing in Yves' groin began to crest. "And if I am going to cum..." He swirled one hand around the base of her shaft while pushing two fingertips into the wide slit atop the head of SB's dick. "Then so are you."

They came together in a torrent of release. Yves lurched and spurted deep within SB. The rose dickgirl sobbed and spewed a geyser of seminal fluid high over their heads. She fell backward against him, he collapsed into her. They kissed and panted and held each other close.

The intimate and glorious afterglow lasted about ten seconds before they were both spattered head-to-toe in a downpour of piping hot strawberry jam as SB's meliae jism fell to Earth.