Paresthesia Pt. 02

She sets a slow rhythm, showing off more than anything. My hands find her ass, and morph to tempo to my own interests. Hannah doesn't mind. She moves with the guidance, rebelling when appropriate, acquiescing when she decides that I might have some valuable input. But she keeps the thrum under lock and key. That is restrained. That is something to keep between us. And as excessive as it can be, the simply act of a shared rhythm toned down to something muffled and quiet. A room or two over, the music filters in, quiet, but distinct and clear.

I hear something else come through the song we make, not quite in time. Not quite the same tempo, rushing a little at some points, lagging at others, but not quite unwelcome. I tear my gaze from Hannah's body, the lines and the tone and the quake. Kieran openly plays with herself, regardless of our song, spreading and prodding, finding her spots and her own folds to push and stroke. She sighs as something hitches and catches within her and she stops for a brief moment. Only a moment, though. She goes right back to it. A little bump, a little shiver through her body as the sensations mount and peak.

The first shockwave hits me as Hannah brings my attention back to her. The show I can see is nice, but I am not a participant. I am merely an observer for that. Here, right here, I am the star, center stage and spotlight. And Hannah brings herself to the grand finale.

Each shockwave tears through her, finding the right rattle to hit and sway. Hard. She is going so hard on me, slamming, and booming and ringing. The couch we are on doesn't care for it. Too much power, too much strength for it to hold against, too much raw energy to contain. There are still locks and chains, the most ancient, rusted things inside of her, holding back the final release. But they are breaking down.

More slams on top of me, turning bone to dust and liquifying my muscles. She moans into me, letting me reverberate with her as the breath hitches and rises in her chest. Close, she is close, and I am close with her. I catch a glimpse of Kieran from beyond the avalanche.

I stop the world and let the gray consume everything. The rising peak within me collapses, the pleasure fades and my senses come back to me. A moment, just a nice long moment to myself to savor the clamp and pressure. But it takes me back down, just as the release was coming. I count to 8, 9, 10, and give it back.

She is still crashing into me, beating me into the earth with her hips. Another handful of slams later and she freezes, tightens everything down, muscle to stone, tense and clenched and absolutely impenetrable as she climaxes. Always so still in the moment, everything so tightly knitted together that it doesn't let her move. Breath comes in squeaks and hisses and gasps as the crack fades and loosens. The locks come back in and clamp down on the thrum in her core and she softens into me.

"You didn't finish," she murmurs. Her legs shake and I can't help but feel a small amount of pride. Heat radiates from her flushed forehead. I kiss the crown and stroke her hair, scratching the scalp. She hums and it climbs up the walls.

"Don't let me keep you then," she sighs as she rolls off of me, "I think Kieran needs some attention."

With a languid motion, the woman on the other side of the room uncoils herself from the solitary play. The show has ended one act and the next needs a volunteer from the audience. Hannah drapes a hand over stomach as she makes room on the couch. The poor piece of furniture protests at the weight of another person, but it still holds. Brave, strong little thing. I admire its tenacity. I need to find out who she got it from. We broke my other one a few weeks ago and I still haven't gotten around to getting a new one. Fragile things when it comes down to it, couches.

She constricts me, finding ways to wind and squeeze and smother me in soft wrapped muscle. Tight hugs, grips, finding different parts of me to choke and pressure. A hand goes to my throat, just for a moment, just to let me think of the strength behind the hand and what it could do to me before it trails down my chest and my stomach.

"You are so smooth," she hisses to me, "I could just do this."

"I hope you don't," I manage to squeeze through the constriction.

"Don't worry, Evan. Don't worry. This is nice, but I want more than nice."

She doesn't go for more than nice for another moment, trailing my chest, my shoulders my arms. Slow, control, every motion she takes has a thousand others behind it, stretching back to the beginning of time. So much momentum, glacial and tectonic crashing down into me through her hands. There is no lock, no chain, just valve and lever, diverting the energy into me as I hold into her.

I trace the snake on her body, the crawling ink, as she guides my hands to her. Heat, wet heat, in my palm and I shudder as she slowly moves my hand to my shaft, stroking it through me. She digs into me as I dig into her, sliding and slipping me as I squirm and shake. I want fast. I want the hardened lock to crash over me.

I get the slow pressure building over me, the slow envelopment of wet muscle and gripping digits into my shoulders. Tight, so incredibly tight. That's all there is, just the endless tightening into me. No thrum, no endless vibration of internal metronome amplified through stadium setup. It starts to coil though, up, and down in endless spiral. Kieran's hips circle against the internal writhe. And she is still throughout the process. Her golden eyes gaze into me and watch my own chest spasm as the realization dawns on me.

And then she starts to stroke her hips, liquid oil slipping through grates and sieves and pooling over, up, and down, side to side. Only silent joy as the sensations worm into me. I have trouble finding the rhythm. Fast. It should be fast, going into frantic and panicked fear that the release won't come. This rhythm realizes that the climax is inevitable, it will come crashing down onto both of us if we only keep the endless act up. It is something to be milked, to be teased slowly, each moment drawn and elongated into eternity.

So much minute detail in her contortions, each fold and slither absolutely miniscule and pinprick. But together, absolute and controlled. Each second passes when Kieran allows it. Each moment moves to the next when she decides that it is worthy. She throws her head back and moans, filling the room. Hannah watches us, enraptured by the swirling movement. She plays with herself as well, spreading and prodding.

Kieran finally relents to some call of quickness within her, riding up and down. I bury myself in her chest, right on the snake's tail. The coil comes from her core, just as the thrum comes from Hannah's, the incessant writhe. Up and down, up, and down. The smaller details are smoothed over as she increases the pace. The motion is still there, the added sum of each centimeter of twitch, but each twitch is then lost. That's fine, the whole picture of the action is bliss. Everything goes into everything else, building on something done in the last handful of moments. I know what the end is, but I cannot see it from here.

Even with the breather I took, my own release starts building in my core. Too much, too fast and the time it took to catch my breath in the last moment has not prepared me for the next. I am stuck in the endless river of time carrying me forward. I do not want to stop even if I could. I know that I cannot fight the endless march. I know that I cannot stop this. I can only lie back, move my hips in some reflection of the pace and wait for the end.

At least Kieran is reaching the peak as well. I have some trouble reading her rounded edges in the movement. Hannah is sharp, blown out wave forms visible from a mile away. I am inside a field of rolling hills. I know there is up. I know there is down, but the point at which one comes to another doesn't quite strike me as obvious.

"Soon, soon," I manage to grunt into her chest. Kieran hisses and murmurs, glad to accept my release.

Her peak comes slowly, just as the rest of the act with her. It plateaus, leaving her lingering in the clouds, full and tight and heated. It wrings my own release out, savoring the motions, the twitches, the jumps, the shots inside of her. She growls a clean growl, note pure and light as something clicks and releases and the descent begin. Just as long as the buildup, just as long as the plateau, a gentle relaxing of her frame as she becomes the second one to collapse on top of me. She sighs into my collar, the heat transferred over to me. I come down with her, skin alight, core glowing, back into the dim light of her apartment.

"Boo," says Hannah, "You call that sex? The couch didn't break."

She stops the self-love and stretches out, the mere act of stimulation enough for the moment. She gives a little huff as the muscles in her stomach tear so sweetly. Kieran nestles into me, silent for the moment. Hannah, done feeling left out, shoves a her-shaped hole in between us. The gray calls that it is ready again, but I don't feel the need to go there right now. I like the warm bodies pressing into me, the gentle rise and fall of their breathing. Gray statues do not breathe like that.

---

I wake up to the smell of coffee and that's more or less perfect. No bacon or eggs or any of the other things that usually come with the morning after. But I am not one to knock a good cup of coffee. And Hannah and I can always stop on the way back to the warehouse. New place near Station Avenue and Juniper Street that apparently does a very good huevos rancheros that also might be a front for Alizarin and her entourage. New lady in town and I have yet to pay my new neighbor a visit. I can't find my pants and that is one of the best problems to have.

We moved to a bed at some point, presumably Kieran's. Definitely not mine, pillows too thin and hard, but it makes them easy to roll out of and onto the floor. Something hisses at me and I believe I just narrowly avoided stepping on poor Mizuchi. Kind of a bad spot, under the bed, with the last night's activities, but I don't judge.

I hear the women already up and about, idle chatter that ultimately means nothing. That sort of talk always means nothing. Not to say that it's not important. It's probably the most important sort of speaking, mindless gab to establish relationship and rapport. Definitely better than political debate at least. I didn't quite notice how thick Kieran's carpet was last night. It feels wonderful to feel between my toes.

"He goes to the batting cages a lot," says Hannah, "and it's the weirdest thing, but I love watching him do it. He just gets so focused on it and sometimes he sticks out his tongue just a bit. And he's really good. Like really, really good. I don't think I've seen him miss one."

She sits naked on a seat, steaming mug clasped between her hands. Kieran sits more splayed, having some decency to throw on a robe, even though its open and loose. I won't complain. I refuse to complain.

"Coffee," says Hannah, holding up her cup, "Pot and cup's over on the counter."

I return to the spot that Hannah has so tenderly made for me. She immediately moves back to sit on my lap. I burn my mouth a little on the drink, but in the good way. Shoulder's starting to act up, the pain of yesterday making itself known. A few shifts later and I find a configuration that lets me embrace Hannah and quiets the ache.

"Good coffee," I say. It will take a minute to let it hit me and then I can actually say anything more complex than a simple statement of pleasure.

They talk some more, although I'm not really paying attention. It's just nice to hear their voices bouncing back and forth, the smile and the joy laced within. My mind starts to catch up and I figure I might as well ask at the next lull.

"So," I begin, "Kieran. Might be a bit of a long shot, but Bloody Sunday's always looking for-"

A raised hand stops the words in my mouth. They politely sit back down at the back of my throat.

"You're good. Both of you," she said, "But not that good. I have my own career to worry about and that's a little too entrenched to break right now. Maybe a few years ago. But I'm good. I'm in a good place now."

I shrug. Fair enough. Hannah's a little disappointed, but she's sitting in my lap and that is always a happy place to be.

"Not to say that we won't be doing this again," Kieran says. Hannah perks a bit back up in my lap. I do as well, something stirring in me, the hunger surpassing the power of the flesh.

"I'll take that," I say. Small victories. The kind that keeps the game going.