Not His Body, Only It's Sound

The air-BNB was nothing special, but she supposed that's what you got when you rented mid-price and last minute. It looked enough like the pictures that she was not disappointed. A small living-room was attached through an open doorway to the kitchen, with front windows that faced out over a small lawn. A hallway led from the wooden front door--one of those old-English style ones with a barred porthole window and large hinges--down to a clean bathroom and her bedroom. The bathroom counter was scattered with beauty products and tiny hotel shampoo bottles. An open suitcase took up the lounge chair in the corner of the bedroom opposite a bed; the drawers of the dresser beside it still empty. Her clothes spilled out over the zippered edges.

The house was garish. That was good. This place didn't feel like home--and it shouldn't. On either side of the window, white polka-dotted black curtains hung. A couple of boxes sat in the living-room, beside the couch. She had to step passed them as she made her way into the kitchen. She'd arrived last night, and it took her a couple of minutes to locate the coffee maker. It looked like it had been purchased in the late nineties--cheap white plastic, but it would do. Picking it up, she placed it on the counter and plugged it into the wall socket. Setting the small glass bot inside of it, she filled one of the top compartments with water from the sink and the other with ground coffee from a large tin in the cupboards above the stove.

The house hadn't come with food, but it had come with coffee. That, she supposed, was good enough.

Outside the windows, the day matched her mood. Listening to the light rumble of the coffee maker, and the slow drip of liquid hitting the bottom of the glass pot, she glanced out of the kitchen window. Small lines of rain tracked down the glass, leaving faint impressions for a moment before they faded away. Overhead, the sky was heavy and grey. It promised a proper downpour of rain before the day was over. In the yard, between her and the neighbors, two large oak trees reached gnarled limbs up toward the overcast sky.

It was ugly, she decided. Ugly--and perfect.

Her thoughts were also ugly. They were suited to the day. She tried not to think as she worked, knowing what she was avoiding thinking about even as she tried to keep her mind blank and stared out of the window. Stepping closer, she pressed her hands down against the wooden mantle beneath the window. Like every other piece of wood in the kitchen, it had once been painted white and still mostly held that colour, though brown showed in long streaks where either the paint of the wood had cracked in lines. Turning her fingers into her palms, she pressed her knuckles against the wood hard enough for it to hurt. Hard enough that a couple of knuckles cracked, the sound and the slight easing of pressure toward near-pain managing to center her for a moment.

Her thoughts might have been ugly, but she wasn't. She could see a faint reflection in the glass of the window, between its slightly fogged edges. A face that held the shape of an oval stared out from the sweep of her brown hair, which fell well passed her shoulders; straight, and currently loose. A pair of wide brown eyes and slightly loose-looking pink lips were all that remained to tell of her Bulgarian heritage. If her skin was slightly darker around the neck and shoulders, fading more toward brown than beige near her hairline and the back of her hands, she knew that most people passed it off as a tan.

She stood tall, her chin raised on a slightly short neck, trying to hold the image of a proud woman. Something that she didn't feel.

Luke--the name in her head came to her with the same sound as the rain hitting the glass. The same sound as the drips of coffee slowly filling the pot behind her. Pressing her nails into her palms, she tried to focus her anger into her hands. She tried to make her anger white-hot, as if she were attempting to burn it out of herself in a single flashing, rage-fueled moment. It didn't work. The name caught in the back of her throat, and for a moment she struggled to breathe around its weight. Luke and--there should have been two names there, but she'd never learned the second one.

They were a blankness. An empty space, which could have been filled by anyone. Over the course of the last forty-six hours, she'd spent a lot of time thinking about that; wondering whether it was a good thing or not. It was good, she decided. She wanted her rage directed at Luke. The empty space that whoever it was took up, the space that had once been hers, wasn't to blame.

He was--right?

Deep down, she knew that it wasn't her fault. Somehow, the knowing didn't help. It didn't ease the slight prickle of anger from behind her eyes, the one that had been threatening tears for the last two days. It didn't help lift the Atlas-sized stone from inside of her stomach. It didn't help her breathe around the name that was caught inside of her throat. The one that threatened to choke her, any time she spent time thinking about it. The worst part, she thought, was that the memory was still there. When she paused, she could still feel him. The weight of his body standing behind her shoulder, the warmth of his arms around her waist, the slight bristle of the beard he had been perpetually growing around his mouth.

When she woke up in a strange bed this morning, in the moment before she'd remembered where she was and what had happened, she had reached an arm out instinctively to his side of the bed. He was still there--because she could still feel him.

She could feel him inside of her. The length of his cock parting her, opening her; a memory that once would have sent a flush of pleasure through her so violently that it was nearly uncontainable. A memory that now made her teeth feel too large, too sharp, too hard in her mouth. Something travelled up her spine, making her shiver slightly; a small spark that had once been desire, but was now something... colder.

Angrier.

That was something else that he'd left behind, another thing that turned her stomach inside out. She had never been an angry person. It wasn't that she'd never been angry, of course she had. Everybody was angry, once and a while. But until two days ago she'd never felt like this. Like a shell had fallen inside of her, and was waiting for the smallest change to detonate. As if she were lying beside a bomb, unable to close her eyes, waiting for it to go off. Everything annoyed her. The sound of the rain. The sound of the coffee maker. How the salt and pepper shakers stood slightly off-center on the counter. She'd never been angry with herself for something that wasn't her fault.

At some point, she knew, she was going to explode. Everything else, everything in between, was only a waiting game. How long before something set her off? How long before she went fucking nuclear?

Pushing the thought roughly out of her mind, she turned and slid the now full pot out of the coffee maker. Taking a cup down from the cupboard, she poured it about three-quarters full. The slightly click of the glass pot going back into the coffee maker annoyed her. The tap of the mug against the counter annoyed her. The fact that the cupboard creaked as she closed it annoyed her.

The fact that the dishwasher was broken, and that she'd contacted the property owner earlier and received no response annoyed her. That one, especially, ticked her off.

Carrying her cup of coffee into her room, she glanced at the laptop on her desk. She could work--that could distract her. But the though felt hollow; unfulfilling, because she was still filled by something else. The memory of him, inside of her. Instead, she turned her head slowly and glanced down at her suitcase. Setting her cup of coffee on the empty dresser and began to sort through her clothes. She pushes the piles from one side to the other, searching for something.

She had to breathe down a scream of rage as she realized that she might not have brought it. She was almost certain she had--she had taken it out of the closet, hadn't she? She could remember doing that, but had she left it on the bed in her packing? Had she--

The thought disappeared as her hand closed around a black felt bag, closed at the top with a small silver drawstring.

Setting the bag on top of her clothing, she undressed quickly. Kicking her jeans under the chair, she worked her finger into the knot that held her tee-shirt closed around her waist. She'd bought it for ten dollars in one online store or another--dark grey, with the faint white image of pine trees surrounded by a circle. Dropping it beside her jeans, she took the felt bag and moved to the bed.

The sheets were cool against her skin. The rain made everything feel slightly damp, but she didn't care. Something was burning inside of her--the slow crawl of a fuse cord. She wasn't even really aroused, but if she looked at her anger from the corner of her eyes, it could almost pass as that. It was fuel. She could use it. Closing her eyes, she slid her fingers down into the strings of her underwear and pulled them off, dropping them beside the bed. She hadn't bothered wearing a bra, this morning; she wasn't going out, and she sure as hell wasn't seeing anybody.

Pulling open the strings on the felt bag, she reached inside of it. There was a small collection of things inside; a couple small bottles that she knew were water-based lubricant and toy cleaner, respectively; a small bullet vibrator in chrome silver; a couple of spare batteries that clicked loose in the bottom of the bag; a pair of nipple clamps connected by a thin metal chain; a box of condoms; and... yes, that.

She drew the vibrator out of her bag. She'd purchased it about a year ago. It was technically a dildo, she supposed, but that word always made her feel slightly squeamish--which was strange, because most words she was fine with. Cock, pussy, cunt, vibrator; those words were perfectly fine. Dildo, though? Something about the word had always felt strangely childish to her.

The vibrator itself, however, made her feel anything but squeamish. It was seven inches long, in the shape of a cock, and curved slightly upward in her hand. Beneath the beige silicone covering, it even had a couple of "veins" that stood out along the sides and top. A small black plastic knob made up the bottom of the shaft. Turning it to the lowest setting, feeling the shuddering of it travelling through her fingers and palm, she smiled for the first time that day. Despite how familiar it was, it was still a strange sensation.

Her heart beat at the same pace it had before, but slightly harder. She could feel it against the top of her chest as she slowly lowered the vibrator between her legs. She didn't put it inside of herself--not yet. Instead, she held it in one hand and fit the upper curve against the top of her labia. It drew a small, slightly shaky inhale from her as the silicone touched her skin. Her feet caught the sheets as she brought her knees up slightly, spreading her legs toward either side of the bed.

For a moment, there's a frustrating sense of nothingness. Then she felt it. The buzzing of the vibrator against her skin, between her legs, teased out a similar sound in the back of her mind--something like humming. It came from somewhere inside of her; distant and alert. Twisting the small wheel on the bottom of the vibrator, she felt the power increase ever so slightly. The one issue with the toy, in her opinion, was that she had to be slightly careful. Turning it increased the force of the vibrations, but if you turned it too far then it started going into patterns; which she was sure was great for some people, but had never done anything but frustrate her.

She could feel that frustration edging away as she began to slide the vibrator, quite slowly, along the outside of her labia. The sensation would have been ticklish, if she hadn't been turning herself on. Instead, the small vibrations that travelled out into her thighs and up through the bones of her hips made her feel more desperate.

A couple of moments, and she could feel herself becoming wet. A spreading of heat, lower and deeper than the anger before it had been. She could still feel that anger--like the ticking of a clock in the back of her mind, but more muffled now. A bomb covered by a heavy blanket. Wetness began to creep forward as she continued massaging herself, lightly but insistently, with the curve of the vibrator.

Tilting it outward, she drew a deep breath as the slightly indented silicone head touched the front of her labia, just over the opening of her pussy. She could feel a slight fluttering in the lips of her labia; a strangely opposite sense of numbness and acute sensitivity.

Very slowly, she eased the head of the toy inside of her. It was slightly thicker than any of the men she'd been with, and she could feel herself stretching slightly as the shaft began its slow, carefully guided journey upward. As it entered her, the vibrations of the device did so as well; moving from her skin to her muscles, and finally through her stomach. Clenching her toes in the sheets, she felt a familiar tightness in the back of her knees. Using one hand to control the vibrator, moving it forward and backward slowly, she brought the other hand up and grasped her breasts. Using her hips, she began to rock against the fake cock inside of her; matching the movement of her body to the movement of her wrist.

The movement brought her left breast into the palm of her hand and then away again. She pressed it flat against her chest and then reached upward to tug her nipple; gently, and then slightly less gently.

Inside of her, the vibrator felt incredible--but something was wrong. It came from the ticking, she knew. It had been almost inaudible, at first. Now, though... it sounded like the clicking of nails against hardwood, like the sound of raindrops on grass, like the sound of coffee hitting the bottom of a pot. And then, awfully, it sounded like his laughter. Like a thousand grains of rice turning over in a rainstick. The motion of her wrist stopped short, her hand resting just between the top of her stomach and her chest, her eyes open and staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

Was this it? Was this the detonation?

It was useless. With the vibrator inside of her, all she could think about was the feeling of his cock. She'd done this to fuck the memory of him out of her, to replace it, to remind herself that he wasn't the only one who'd ever brought her pleasure. This was having the opposite effect.

Closing her eyes, she forced herself to think of anything but him. It was useless. Her usual fantasies slipped away, like trying to hold a handful of water, or a handful of smoke. Frustration rose through her, threatening to spill over. Her arousal began to drift away, like smoke from a wavering candle. In it's place came something... uglier.

It took her a moment to hear the sound, consumed as she was by the buzzing of the vibrator--now outside of her--the ticking of the whatever inside of her head, and the beating of her heart. Maybe it was because the sound was faint, or maybe because it fit so neatly in them. It was the sound of knocking. Turning off the vibrator, she slipped it beneath the pillow and listened again. Strangely, whether it was the disappearance of the vibrator or her sudden concentration, the sound of ticking also quieted slightly.

There it was again. Knocking, definitely.

Luke? She hated that the thought of it sent a small spark of hope ricocheting through her chest. Her anger flared once more, but whether it was directed at him or herself, she couldn't tell.

Rising from bed, she quickly retrieved her clothing from where she'd left them in crumpled piles against the floor. Pulling her jeans up around her hips, she retied the shirt just above them, leaving a bare strip of skin between the blue and gray fabrics. The room smelled like sex, she realized suddenly. She didn't know whether it was something only noticeable to her or not--the faint smell of her pussy, the smell of sex-toy latex against her hands. Dragging her fingers through her slightly sweat-damp hair, she brought it into as much of a semblance of tidiness as she could manage. It would have to be enough.

Making her way down the hallway, she hesitated for a moment in front of the front door. There was no time to collect her thoughts; somehow, over the past forty-six hours, she'd thought of a thousand things she'd wanted to say to Luke. Most of them hurtful. At this moment, none of them seemed appropriate. Taking a deep breath, she pulled open the door.

And her thoughts stopped dead in their tracks.

Whoever this was, it wasn't Luke. It took her a moment to see the features of his face; partially because she was so struck by the man's height, and partially because he was looking away from her toward the window of the living-room. As the door opened, he turned.

"Good afternoon," the man's baritone brought her thoughts running back to reality, "I'm Carson." She realized that the man had reached out a second ago, offering her his hand. She look it quickly.

"Patricia," she replied, feeling slightly dumbstruck.

"I'm here about a dishwasher," his smile revealed two rows of white teeth, particularly startling against his dark skin, "Know anything about that?"

"Uh..." she blinked, "Yeah. Sorry, yeah! I didn't hear back from the owner. Sorry, I just wasn't expecting you."

"Ah," he exhaled, the sound low and understanding, "I have the work order in my truck. I can wait there, if you want to call...?"

"No," she said hurriedly, stepping back and giving the man room to step through the door. Stupid some small, still-rational part of her brain chided her. Inviting a strange man into a rental house.

But he did had a small toolbox with him, which he picked up from the porch and carried inside with him. He was wearing a pair of khaki pants, black shoes, and a pale blue shirt that had Boyer's Repairs and Contracting stitched over a small logo of crossed hammers on the breast pocket.

Truthfully, none of that mattered. The moment she laid eyes on the man, what he was wearing ceased to matter. She saw a pair of proud shoulders and a chest that pressed flat against the rain-flecked blue of his shirt. She saw a pair of tattooed arms, the blue ink almost hidden against the dark brown of his skin. She saw a pair of almond-shaped black eyes, which blinked out at her from a handsome, slightly round-boned face. His hair might have been curly, but was shaved close enough to his head that it was impossible to tell. His face was clean-shaven, revealing a pair of hollowly dimpled cheeks and a mouth that seemed to take up the entire bottom of his face when he smiled. Even factoring in the thick-soled black work shoes he wore, the man must have stood six-four on the flats of his feet.

Patricia's thoughts had absolutely nothing to do with dishwashers; nothing to do with what was or wasn't running.

At the sight of the man, the ticking had gone silent.

The heat of arousal which had earlier slipped away came roaring back to life, like gasoline thrown over the last coals of a fire. As she stood aside and watched the man bend down to undo the laces of his shoes, leaving them beside the door, she felt unexpected warmth gathering between her legs.

Was she really the kind of woman who fucked the repairman? The thought almost made her laugh; a low, dangerous laugh. It was something straight out of pornography. It wasn't something people actuallydid. Except that today it was--she was.

"Your clothes are wet," she said, trying to make the words sound like a casual observation.