Paresthesia Pt. 03

We help each other dress. There is no real need for it, but that's the point. It's supposed to take longer with another person. There are supposed to be interludes where the cloth and the skin meet and diverge. There are supposed to be bits where we are not clothed, where we instead take off the cloths and engage in other acts. Various states of undress, shifting vertical to horizontal to diagonal, together we flow like the tide.

The moment, the moment right now as the thoughts enter me and take me, I am without a shirt. I have one boot, though. My hair has been dyed, but it still needs to be sculpted to a large fin. There is a pair of lips pressed to my collar bone. There is a set of teeth nipping the skin. It hurts in the best way. There will be marks. I hope there will be marks. There better be marks.

My hands have a spine to trace and a series of muscles to draw. They shift and they move. They slide together and apart. I will not leave marks. I do not want to leave marks. My presence will be remembered all the same. There is a reverberation of my touch and echoing ripples from my will imparted on the other body. There are hands on my back too, finding the ripples and dips and lines. It slips through the teeth and lips from my front. They meld in my core.

The other body also does not have a shirt. That's good. No shirts all around. But there is a jacket there and I am unsure how that happened. I do not care. She is shirtless. She is open to me and my touch, rough leather on the back of my hands as my palms find skin. I do not want to know the skin I am touching. It is there. It is in my hands. I am in her lips. I am on her hands and I am touching her and I do not want any more clothes on me so I can keep feeling skin on skin and lips on lips. A push, a pull and I am on the floor and the other body is on me and over me and there are less pants involved for all parties.

She thrums and slips down and I slip up.

"Do we have time for this?" Hannah hums.

"Do you care?" I whisper back.

"Sort of. Want to have a good impression for this."

"We're not a punctual group. And they'll understand. Doppel's going to be the only one on time. Sunday, too, but he lives there. This is more important."

The words excuse the thoughts and the need for actions. I touch her and she touches me and I do not care for the time. I do not care about ticks and tocks. I am here now and there is a later that might matter when it comes around.

Hannah agrees with the statement that this is more important. The act of give and take and rob and mug is much more important than a smoky conference room with dim lighting. The sun opens from behind the clouds and I take all of her in with the shining warmth.

Clay. I have said it before and I will say it again. She is clay. Molded and sculpted and chiseled down to mason perfection. She has been pierced as well, a small stud on her navel, one on her left nipple, another stud on her nose. She is thinking about the brow as well, the tongue, the ear, every part of her covered in chrome and silver. I suggested against it. Piercings tend to get caught on things in a fight or flight scenario. And if they get caught, then they tend to rip and tear. She pouted and for once I got the unabashed pleasure of being right. She is still set on some form of tattoo. I also suggested against that, mainly because she shifts what she wants it to be almost every day. As soon as she decides, though, then I am all for it. Full sleeve and ink covering her body, painting the sculpture in postmodern degeneracy. I should get a piercing now that I think about it. Maybe the other nipple or something, so we could match. Better yet, something on my tongue.

That would be diabolical for what I do to her. It's a stutter of moments, of taken times from her and me and the world into the endless gray of my existence. She does nothing to me as I slowly take down the statue's form. Dust and rubble, my tongue in its stutter flutter step reduces her to rubble. Pride, unabashed pride at the hands gripping my thighs, the words that mean nothing as my tongue is in her and my fingers spread her, the slip time doubling hits to her core in a way that a mind simply isn't meant to handle.

I am buried in her thighs and that is an amazing place to be. A rockslide avalanche in a woman wrapped around my skill. She will break me if I let the moments linger, the muscles tighten the bones lock and join. But I don't. I lick and worship in my time. Every other moment is mine and mine alone.

"Evan," she whines like a tea kettle, "You're a dick. Why do you do this to me?"

"Because it's fun," I say.

And it appears that I have made a mistake. That moment of real time where it moves as it should was enough for Hannah to shift and move away. I am unsure on her strategy, however, because the endgame still has my tongue to her lips, nose to her pelvis, staring down a riverbed of abs to gaze upon the rolling hills of her chest. She looks down at me and I can't help the amusement spilling forth. Her chin is tucked into her neck and now she looks like a thumb. I grin and that apparently sets off a chain reaction in her that pulls a deep bass thrum.

She rattles my skull with the cord wound tight plucked like a guitar string. A hand finds her stomach and I can feel it run parallel to her spine. She shudders and my vision blurs as she vibrates the pulse of my tongue. Her weight, her glorious weight presses down into me and I cannot breathe as I should think is necessary.

So, I steal the moment and pull in some fresh air.

Clay and statue and molded sculpted perfection. Blue eyes so blue that even the gray cannot rob them of their entirety. And she knows. She knows what I have done. The thought came to her at the same time it came to me. The slight bit of extra pressure in her thighs says as much, but I escape the worst of it.

It's a task, it always is, to pull myself from her and find my terribly lonely freedom in the gray. But I have it and it is mine and now I can stare at Hannah's ass as much as I like. And her back and her shoulders and her arms and her chest and those miraculously blue eyes that I swear, I swear, follow me.

I have my angle of attack. It's an awkward angle, to say the least, but I manage. Our hips are aligned and I am ready, so incredibly ready for this. From the part and the weep, she is as well.

I bring my hips up and I am inside of her. Tight, so very tight, vice and squeeze and clamp and grip together over me. The one drawback is that I have to do all the work. I am more than willing to do my fair share, but this is for her, some grand revenge against the euphoric prison of her thighs.

I drop my hips and slide out of her. The face of granite does not betray anything new. It is still frozen in that playful, lustful frustration that comes from the act not quite at its climax. The end should be all of it, every moment, a gorging of orgasm stretched to eternity. I am merely thrusting in and out of her from below into a statue of her that betrays nothing at all.

In all honesty, it is somewhat disappointing. The act should be with another fully able body, one that is warm and moving and touching and moaning. It's still nice, and there is still that fun level of transgression against her with trust and love. But it's not the same. There is not a twitch and squeeze and hit from her. Just static tightness, that still manages to feel simply amazing over me and on me.

I buck and thrust and move, hitting everything I can in her all at once. There is no technique, no swift dance of passion. There is only the simple in and out, side to side with her. It will come to her when it is good and ready. Each stroke doubles the impact down the line, compounds on the flurry of blows to her. Every raindrop in the sky falling down on one blade of grass. The weight of the eternal moment courses through me and my motion.

My own release comes on the edges and I have to stop and think. I do not want it to end. The act should continue, if only for its sheer magnificence. Despite that, there is only a limited number of moments left before we actually have to stop and get dressed for real and do other things than fuck. And I want to do those other things. Most of them, at least. Some of them.

I let it happen, I have done enough to her and with her and hopefully this is the time that it actually sticks so we can get on with the rather important business of doing something else. Hopefully. It's not some grand explosion of starlight and passion. Her thrum has been mostly absent from this particular instance. But it is nice. It is calming and warming as the tension builds and the muscles clench.

For the final moment, I slip outside, pulsing against her stomach. I gaze into her eyes and the piercing glare that shifts through time. Pulse and throb and shot, definitely not my best work. But I am happy and satisfied and falling to that dull warm fuzz of afterglow.

I kill the moment and let it all come rushing back in an instant. Hannah catches on quick.

"Oh, you bastard," she manages before everything collapses on her.

Whatever strength she has falls and knocks the wind out of me. She is gripping me, holding me, throttling me with reckless abandon as the mind tries to parse the conundrum of a moment lasting for an eternity. It does not do well. It does not find reason and pattern. There is only sensation and feeling.

I always forget how strong she is, her grip, her push, her pull. The deep base bells coming from her also lends her impact. I am shattering with her, lost to that same tight chord string pulled. I still hold her as she holds me, shaking and stammering and trying to find some meandering meaning to the starburst in her belly.

It's long. I did not mean it to be this long. I must be good at this sort of thing. Her own climax hits the floor and I feel the growing puddle seep beneath us as she continues to spasm. Such a tightly wound wonder. I kiss her forehead and stroke her hair as it all finally collapses and the stars grow dim.

"I hate you so much right now. I hate that you do that," she sighs.

"The good type of hate though," I say.

"Oh, the best kind. Never stop making me hate you."

She sighs again and giggles a bit, just another minor quake through her and me and the foundation of the building.

"That's a weird thing to say," I hum.

"Little bit. Do we have to go out and actually do some stuff now? Or can we go again?"

I glance over at the clock on the wall and do some simple math. I don't like the answer the equation gives me, but it is right. The world does not let me have more of those moments for myself.

"Yeah, we have to get up now. And I think we actually have to get dressed."

"I don't want to get dressed though. Can we go like this?"

"That'd be a fun gimmick at some point. But first impressions. Gonna have to look like the real deal for this one."

Hannah sighs and I sigh with her. It's terrible. Simply terrible. And I have to deal with cum squishing on my stomach. Can't even take a shower. It would ruin my hair. I'll manage. Somehow.

---

I managed. Somehow. I am clean and looking fine, dressed to kill, to the nines, all the things sharp and cut. Green stressed leather, tight shirt and tight pants, my wonderful bat held tight in my hands. And my hair, my wonderful fin of emerald cutting through space and time and all sorts of ethereal forces, it stands from my skull with absolute uncompromising pride.

"Is it weird that I'm nervous?" Riot Girl says.

"Not really. But you're in good company. Figuratively speaking."

"But I only know you, Beat."

"And the Doppels. You know the Doppels."

"I know a Doppel. Not all of them."

"If you met one of them, you met all of them. The host one might be there. That's a fun time."

"There's a host one? How can you tell?"

"The copies feel like glass and the host one feels like, y'know, a person. Still kind of cold though."

She's stalling. I know she is stalling. And I do not blame her for stalling. It can be nerve-wracking stepping though the bay doors and into the noise. I stalled. I was alone. But she is not alone now. I reach for her hand and she reaches for mine. I squeeze and she squeezes back, a little too hard. It makes her feel better though. So, it's worth it.

I take the bat and knock against the steel. It rings like a bell dropped into a canyon. It takes a long, long, long moment for no response to come back to us. I sigh. I let go of Riot's hand and smash the door as hard as can.

"HEY," I shout, "HEY. IAN. OPEN UP. IT'S BEAT."

Through the music on the other side, I hear someone scramble and scrape to their position. A small slit opens and a pair of wide eyes peak out.

"Beat," says the eyes, "Evening. Sorry for the wait. Who's the bird?"

"The bird," Riot says, "Is coming in."

The bird lets hard line come to her voice, the voice for scumbags that should get on her knees and put their hands behind their heads. Ian laughs and that breaks the composure.

"Oh man, it's true," he says, "I thought that was just a rumor. Welcome to the good fight Blast. Sorry, Riot."

The little metal shuts and the big metal opens and we are finally permitted entry to the grand cavalcade of mad villainy. Smoke, so much smoke, pouring from the gaps. Ian, the doorman with thick knuckles and a thick neck, claps me on the back and pulls me close.

"Fucking lucky punk," he whispers, "Good for you."

I smile and say nothing at all as I pull away. He pulls in Riot for the same sort of pep talk and pulls a laugh from her before getting shoved away. He closes his door and picks up his cigar. Ian is a busy, busy man.

"So apparently I arrested that guy like 5 times," she says.

"That low? Guys been in and out for most of his life," I say, "He's been taken in by pretty much everyone. I think I actually got him once in Junior."

Her hands find mine again and she is still nervous. There is still that mask of law and order in her, but it doesn't quite fit right for the party.

People, so many people crowded together, milling and churning. Most of them are Troubles, half in and half out of their supposed kit. Lots of black, splashes of red and gold here and there, every so often a bit of camo stitched on. Never quite got the point of that. Urban environment and forest camo. Looks good if you're into that sort of thing. Ultra-Violence's Droogs are a bit harder to find. All in black, up to their eyeballs, sticking to their shadows and corners and silence. Good bunch all things considered. And I even see a few Doppels mixed in, same blue hood pulled up and over.

Riot sticks close to me, hand in mine, as we both go to the row of kegs at the back. The crush of bodies presses close like drowning seas. I try, I really do, to keep her in sight, but there are simply too many people. They cut the line and I turn back. I do not see her. I do not hear her over the conversations and joy of the crowd. Someone else claps my back and gives me a wide smile. A Droog, a little tipsy, but still congenial and kind.

Despite the initial panic, I am not worried. Not much anyway. More of her fear than any actual chance of harm. I keep my beeline to the edge of the crowd, if only to get a good vantage point. Ramshackle, ad hoc, strapped and taped and glue together, it's all so magnificent.

Another hand hits me and I will not be drinking alone it seems.

"Where's your sweetie, bud," says Ultra-Violence. A champagne flute plays in her hand, full of sparkling bubbles. No idea where she pulled that from. Bloody Sunday only serves whiskey and beer.

Her face is deep behind a layer of powder and mask. White to black, splashes of blood red, stars and lines. A circus of paint on her face. Sharp, more formal than I could ever be, but disheveled all the same. Untucked shirt, sleeves rolled, pants cuffed and I am fairly certain her blouse is misaligned. And relatively lowly buttoned. I do not pay attention to that.

"Good to see you too Violence," I say as my own red cup of beer finds its way to my hands, "Lost her in the crowd trying to get a drink."

"And you're not worried? Lot of rough characters around here."

She looks to me and I can't quite make out the expression under the paint. She takes off her own bowler with languid ease before downing her drink and pouring herself another. Her curls bounce with the motion. A lot of things bounce with the motion.

"She can take care of herself. The only ones here that might give her some trouble are you and me."

"Not for her, lover boy. For you. Something could come along and snatch you up. Precious little treasure that you are."

She very, very slowly brings the cup to her lips and swallows.

"Whoever does that is in for a surprise. Riot can get pretty territorial."

"Even if it's just one of our movie nights? She seemed more than willing to share with Serpentor."

I say nothing. Nothing at all. Denial would be confirmation. I have my silence and it is golden armor. Nothing can break me down.

"Old Man Sunday's talking with Alizarin right now," she says, "So I imagine he'll want to talk with her once the meetings through. Put her through the ringer. Remember yours?"

"Yeah, what a ringer. He gave me a cigar and we talked about baseball for like an hour. She'll crack for sure. I feel like I should remind you, she almost put me away with that bank thing. And she's gotten you a handful of times too."

"Relax, bud," she says, "So prickly all of a sudden. I'm just glad that we have some new blood that can hit heavy. Muscle's been pretty thin ever since Megaton retired. Doppel said that she did well against Deadman and Azure."

"She did. And I did well against Serpentor."

Violence smiles and it is daggers and dirks. Something pierces my skin and I grow cold as I am sharpened up. She looks away and climbs the bar top, scanning the crowd. Frankly, a good move. I should have thought of that. And now I get a very nice view of her thighs, but I am not thinking anymore about any of that.

"Sure, you did, bud. Go rescue her. She's at about 7 o'clock, talking to a gaggle of Doppels and I think they're pontificating at her. Bring one of them back with you. Might as well get the crowd gathered. Old man says it's a big day after all."

I sigh and set the course through the sea of bodies milling and churning. Back straight eyes forward, I start the journey of press and squeeze.

"Go get her lover boy. I'll be here if you don't find her in time," Violence yells. I want to show her my favorite finger, but I can't seem to raise my arms high enough.

The directions were good and the crowd is accommodating. Not the most, but good enough for an A to B jaunt. I pass a few more Doppels and they guide my way. I do not get to test any of them. All probably fakes anyway. I break through the final line and find Riot talking to three blue hooded figures, all deep in thought.

"Why would one hand cut off the other," asks a sage of the Doppel clan.

Riot does a very, very good job of pretending to think about it. She found a red cup of her own, already filled. I would not trust that, but I am not her.

"What if a hand gets infected or something? Like, what would be the antibiotics in this metaphor," she says.

The trio of Doppels considers the proposition.

"Harmony. Oneness. Understanding," says the right one.

"Debate. Discourse. Conversation," says the middle.

"We'd talk it out," said the left, "Usually goes well. There's virtually nothing we actually disagree on when it comes down to it."

"But it does happen right? It has to happen."

"Last time was the mayoral election of 2007," said the right, "There was a Doppel that wanted to vote Libertarian."

"We don't talk about that Doppel," says the middle.

"We only count as one legal person anyway," says the left, "So elections are always fun."