Paresthesia Pt. 03

"I think I'm kind of high strung," she says, "If that is making me feel this, there might be something to talk about. Yoga?"

"Couldn't hurt. Might help. Worst case scenario, you get yoga pants and that seems like something that would agree with you."

She sticks out her tongue at me, but I am not hearing any rebuttal. She would look good in tight pants, and it would be good to look at her in tight pants.

"Do you need some reminding of tongue things?" I ask. She groans and I get a deep hit from her core.

"Why'd you have to remind me of that? I was good. I was calmed down and everything, but suddenly no. I want more, now. Jerk."

"Oh no. Now we get to have more sex. That sounds terrible. If only we would have no sex, then-"

She makes me quiet with her lips and that works. That works very well, and I still get to do some tongue things with her. She still tastes like night air and cold stars. It is cold. She is cold at the fringes. But there is still that core of thrumming warmth and shaking chord. She is in me and over me, lip to lip, tongue to tongue. I nip at her and she seems to like that, returning the favor with naked desire.

We help each other undress. There is so little to the act now. Her pants are over there with my shirt, her shirt is pulled up and resting at her collar bone. I am naked, completely hard and willing and relishing the goosebumps forming. Energizing, bracing, invigorating, like a kick to the mouth. It all falls away. There is just me and the other body pressed over and touching and prodding me. I am gripping the smooth stone of her skin, leading me to every part of her. She shivers and quakes and the roof tiles rattle like car engine. I groan and shiver.

"I need to be in you," I whisper in her ear. She likes that. The thunder from her spinal cord likes that, giving a salute of clapper bell.

That's all it takes. That's all it takes for her to get on me in earnest, throwing aside the game of play and tease until we are aligned. She looks to me and smiles. I smile back. I can't look away from her eyes and she can't break from mine. Blue, so incredibly blue, robbing the world of all the other colors just to make them shine that much brighter.

"Your eyes are always so green," she whispers. I lean up and kiss the hollow under her throat. It's the closest thing I can reach.

She drops slowly, parting herself over me and it is everything I ever thought it would be. Warm, I am so warm now and everything is tight and clamped and enveloping. I am warm and absolute zero cannot combat the endless warmth pouring through her.

My hands are on her chest, rolling up and down. Her hand is over mine. There is just the moment and motion shared and given. My other hand is on her hip and coaxes more and more depth given. She does not allow that. Her entire body fights with my will. Defiance for the sake of defiance. Never mind the pleasure of full depths plunged. There is joy in resistance for resistance's sake. I do not buck and thrust. I let her sit with the bad choices she has made. It's the only way she'll learn.

She does not learn. She just sits there, fighting the natural order of things for the sheer joy at my frustration. I do not like this smile. It's one of her worse ones. And the strummed chord reverberating the pane of reality seems to like this state of affairs well enough. She takes the tips and kisses the length with generous twitches. Her thighs have to be burning with the held pose. I hope they are. She deserves pain for teasing me like this. She deserves that aching hollow in her bell for some grand refusal to go forward.

"I thought you wanted this, Evan," she asks. The innocence she affects sends a jolt of anger through me, the playful kind that simply wants her to realize that she is wrong and that the world would be so much better if she didn't play these sorts of games with me. Only I can play with her.

It's a bait, it is completely a baited moved. If I move, I give her what she wants. If I don't, then I am still mostly outside of her. And her thighs seem to be holding up alright. Much better than I thought they would. The hand on my chest must be helping. The hand on her hips pulling her down doesn't seem to be giving her much trouble. I wish it was. She should have more trouble, just in general. She deserves it, if only for the torment she is giving me.

I take a gamble and move my hips away, just so I rest at the edge, completely open to the world. And the smile is gone, completely gone. It has transferred to me. Unexpected, but I am a man who sees MAD as a viable political strategy. At least, for this.

She drops. The game has turned against her and like any sore loser, she seeks to make me regret the action. I do not. It was the correct thing to do, because now I do not have to work as hard for my own enjoyment. She savors the fullness and I lavish in the grip. Tight, so incredibly tight, I can feel the crush over my chest. I cannot breathe. I do not want to breathe. I have a Hannah enveloping me in terrible grip and the gap between the stars starts to shake.

She is thrumming. She is tapping into the chord, pulling gat the strings until it all comes apart at the seams. Old washers and tin can rattlers, earthquakes and eruptions, tectonic shifts at the planet's center, she is the avalanche she wants to be, and her entire being is concentrated in making me submit.

I hold on as she rises again. I do not know how, but I do. She has set to a simple metronome tick tock pulse, matching her heartbeat. It rings in my ears. Her very life rings in my ears as those blue eyes pierce into me and dare to assert that the destruction I seek is what I want. It is. It really, really is. She drops and I can't think full thoughts.

Hard, so hard and tight and wet. Warm, she is warm over me and through me, the tight and wet and hum of rockslide fists clenched in her core and I cannot breathe. There is no up or down other than her motions on me and I do not want to even consider the possibility of a side to side. Entrapped, ensnared, inescapable clutches. She leans down to kiss my forehead and both my hands meet her chest. There is weakness there.

A pinch and a twist prove me right and she arcs back, frozen for the moment. My hands shall save my soul. I have my sense of self back and I think it is time I start to pull my weight. Once more, I find the position, propped against smooth roof tiles and a vent. There is the gap between her breasts right in front of my face, smooth pales skin. Moles and blemishes, a smattering of freckles and dots. A scar small enough and faded enough to be forgotten. All of this is hers and all of this is mine.

I move and she shudders and shakes, every muscle tense and every joint locked. And the gears grind and shudder while the machine keeps moving. Gritted teeth and savage pride, defiance and anger bottled and vented. There is frustration and release, all the pain finally given out. I am the receptacle of vengeance manifesting in hips and grip and rumbling giants awakening in rage.

I kiss her and she hums some happy noise that needs no words. And I am not alone in the exertion. A few moments of confusion and mismatched pace and then we are as one. Her body sings with mine, reverberations of a wineglass half full with a finger on the rim. It is glorious and there is some grand dance. She shudders and holds and I think she just came again, judging by the stream hitting my stomach.

"That wasn't fair," she sighs, "You did the time thing."

"I did not," I say. Smug, I have evolved beyond the simple pride of pleasure giving and gone on to the great smugness of my inattentive skill. I could try. I could actually try and do something incredible.

"I don't believe you."

Just to hammer the point home, I decide that her frustration should be preserved. And I move, I give her the sensations that she says she knows. She has forgotten, and I do not blame her. A lot of things happened and she does not recall the rush break of sensation.

Slow, I take my time, slowly going in and out. And it is hard to keep it slow. I want this to last, if only for me and my own personal take. But still, the stone still grip and fold and part of her body does take a lot from me. Distracted thoughts and nonsense ideas, baseball, cold showers, every concept I have known to keep my mind away from pleasure and joy. It feels good. I did not forget. I could never forget.

In all honesty, the cold gray of my world is the only hope I have of lasting. I strike and saw, hammer and spread, into her. She can take the pace of a moment's collapse. I hammer into her with the strength of renewed cold chill in my long moment of solitude. Bitter work for sweet rewards. I bring myself close through her, just to the edge. With my last bit of rational thought, time begins once again.

The final thing I see before I close my eyes and give myself to the current is her face. There is no smile, no frustration. It's expressionless, almost. The mind does not know what just happened, so it all resets to blank neutral. I see darkness as the waves of warmth roll through me and I let every bit of tension go, holding her hips just as a suggestion of strength, the illusion of control.

She howls for me like a beast and I am a smug bastard through the wave warm pulse. Clench and release, the both of us. Hannah collapses and holds me. There will be marks. I hope there are marks. Claw and scratches, trophies to commemorate the annihilation of body and soul. I am in her and I do not stop. There are no thoughts to the future, the past, the present. Time slips away and I am in her while she shatters and breaks over.

Loud, I have forgotten how loud she can be. Up to ten, eleven, twelve and beyond. But it is still beautiful. Pure tone of joy echoing and bouncing through steel and glass. They probably heard that across the river. I know they heard it next door. Or they would have if there was anyone there. Most people leave the docks once the ships leave. No one is paid to stay after hours. So, I am perfectly fine with her noise. The neighbors better mind their own business.

Mine finishes before hers, but she is not too far behind. Her voice gives out and she starts panting giggles that settle into deep, deep breaths. She is tired now.

"Now that's what happens when I do that time thing," I whisper.

"I hate you so much," she sighs.

"But in the good way?"

"In the best way. Can we go downstairs now? I want to put some things in the wash before we go to bed."

We help each other stand up. We help each other walk across the loose gravel, bunches of clothes held in ginger grips. Between the two of us, there is just enough strength to collapse on the bed while the moments keep slipping by.

---

Sunday's warehouse is quiet now. All the Troubles are out doing goon things. Muggings, protection rackets, enforcements, all things that dumb muscle can do without the brain telling them what to do. A good number of them might also be planning a prison break. It's Tuesday. Prison breaks always happen on Tuesdays. They all get locked up over the weekend and they get Monday off.

There are still kegs though, full and waiting to be tapped. I won't tap them. It's too early in the morning for anything civilized. I am not one of those, but I like to pretend.

My footsteps echo and the tinny clink of my bat clash against the high ceiling. I am alone, alone as I can be in this vacuous room. The only other thing I hear is a TV muted and garbled by distance and walls.

Ben does not hear my knock, so I don't even bother. The place still smells like smoke. I wonder if any of it was from Hannah. Probably was, but the eons past and the plethora of others mask and her contribution. He's not in his kit, and old man in a robe with slippers on, a pair of spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose.

"Fucking hell," he shouts at the TV, "Why do you even have a club? The way you're slicing, might as well have a butcher's knife."

And of course, he's watching golf. I'm just glad that he doesn't have a bedpan. His blood bags are enough of a hassle as it stands, as useful as they can be.

"Having a good time, Ben?" I ask.

"Evan, my boy," he says, "Not in the slightest. I owe a Doppel $500 now. Another one owes me $250 at least. Pull up a seat."

"It is weird to see you with your bat but not the hair," he says, "Just doesn't feel right."

"Going to the cages after this," I say, "So I brought her with me."

"Still trying to beat the record?"

"Yes, you bastard. I will strike your name from the books. Nobody will ever remember your name."

He chuckles and shifts a bit. The blood bag is almost full. I hope that I leave before he asks me to change it for him.

"I came about the Hall job," I say. His hand finds his temple and slowly takes off his glasses. The hands take a moment to wipe the lenses clean. I don't think there was anything on them anyway.

"It was a dumb idea," he says, "Old man getting some big ideas, trying to get some pep back in his step. You were right. Something that big is going to stir up some shit that's better left still."

"It is a dumb idea. But those are usually the good ones too. Sell me on it."

And I have to admit, the smile he gives me is up there. Not my favorite, but top 5 easy.