Work Out Left Behind

I am hard. I am never not hard it seems. Always ready, always eager, always wanting and needing. And it's a sentiment the rest of the body shares in its own way. The hands clench and twitch and pull at skin that isn't quiet there. My heart is pounding and my breath is ragged and hot. It's amazing. Everything touches and fondles and holds itself in me with vice and claw and nail.

I doze there under the blankets I baked in the heat of my body turning itself inside out for the mental urge. I sit here in and swelter and char as the heat and the vice continue to embolden themselves on the world that is not. I grip the sheets. I grip the sheets and they might rip. They might rip and tear and slice.

There is skin in my dream, dark skin, smooth and supple and taught. There were muscles and lines and bone and curves. There was a body to oppress and touch and fondle in the false reality of my mind. There is tough scratchy hair that springs and bounces under my fingers. The face laughs and giggles. Some lips find mine and whisper some words to me that have no form. It's a soft voice that laughs for me. She touches me back, runs the hands over my belly and chest, my arms and my shoulders. It's wonderful. The touch is strong. The touch is eager, holding me and fondling and stroking.

The clench vice shatters me in tidal waves through my body. My breath catches, face contorted int a scrunched spiral and I shake as every muscle in my body devotes itself to the act of release. The half-glimpsed specter of inviting warm dark skin and gentle curves giggles again as it happens. It coaxes the ebbing tide to climb higher and higher, the flow like waterfalls in cannon shot pulses. I am vaguely aware of the noise it makes, squelching and sloshing in its containment, angry that there is nothing warm and wet to hold it and cherish it as it should be.

The tense and release in long drawn-out rhythm, the pull and clench of the body filling and emptying. I shiver and melt into the warm poll of soft glow light as it drags on and on and on and on. I am on the river, the warm river that pulls and pushes the current of my body free, jettisoning the deluge sea of my core into the world.

I am sticky and wet and still full enough to be uncomfortable, so it continues as the dreamt ghost of soft laughter continues to goad me on with devilish innocence. She is aware and unaware of what is transpiring. The effect of her mere memory in my presence will drown the world in the half-light fire smoke dream. I shoot and pulse in some odd play at impressing. She strokes and kisses and licks in her awe of me. I have more. She wants more. I will give her more.

Pulse and throb and ebb and flow, the endless sea of warmth and light emptying and leaving me hollow. It is calm at the bottom, at the core. The storm rages and the waves swell and deepest abyss only shifts with a suggestion of current. It is there. It will always be there. The laughing tempest of haunting ghosts and soft caresses and clenching muscle is only a distraction. The sea is vast and endless. Simply insurmountable.

The dream lips give a soft coo and short gasp as another pulse travels through me and drops the water line. The hum and the sigh pull another from me. I have lost track of time. There is the warmth and the tingle and the fading half-light pulsation. The lips kiss and the hands touch and some swell of breast and thighs presses into me and the blinding comes back and the thunder booms.

My teeth are clenched and I drown in the sea of my being. It does not end. It cannot end. I am infinite and unconquerable, some primordial force birthed before time and persisting beyond the endless pale cold.

I groan and rouse and pull myself from the dream for a brief moment. I breathe in the scent of the fantasy, heavy and murky and dark. Bitter salt on the skin, coating and slicking and turning over and over and over. Ruined. It is all ruined and destroyed from the storm of my dream. The dark lips kiss me and pull me back to the sweet embrace of unconsciousness.

It fades. The storm passes with a hollow in my core and a slight ache in my stomach. The more cognizant parts of my fractured psyche tell me to rouse and rise, take care of the aftermath before it sets. It loses. There is sleep and warmth and the memory of a body next to me that giggles in the cloudy dream. There is comfort and the lips do not disappoint when they find mine. They nip and suck and I have to laugh with them. They are sunshine and smiles. They infect me. They infect me with the hollow warmth and heavy limbs that cannot move anymore.

The lizard brain crawls up and drags me down in the dark death of the mattress and covers. The lizard brain and its maw of sharp needle teeth take me down to where there is nothing at all. It allowed me the moment to surface, to let the bits that think they are a person to make a fantasy to release. But it is all lies. There is the lizard maw and the dark softness and the smiling lips and nothing, nothing at all.

I sigh and turn over, ignoring the slick stickiness as best I can. There is time for that to become a problem in the morning. There is time to deal with the reality that the small dark parts of me do not want to deal with. There is sleep and dreams and the lack of reality behind the closed eyes. The empty spot in the bed next to me doesn't hold anything worth my attention anyway.

---

I shut the washer door with a heavy thunk and sigh. I've lost count of how many times I've done this in my life. Highschool was worse. That was always mixed in with the shame of having parents know what I am. The early mornings and the deflected questions, the unmet gazes and dad's odd chuckles. Not sure if that was the appropriate response, really. Then again, I'm not sure what the appropriate response is. The open maturity of another person who blossomed into their sexuality respectfully guiding another through the same tumultuous process does kind of breakdown when it was almost a nightly occurrence. At least the attention was diverted away from me once my brother started on his whole journey with the body that he has. My mom, though, must have been through hell.

I open the balcony door that has just become mine. I don't feel like it is, but it's only been a month. Actually, a little less, now that I count the days. It's farther away from RTL's but still close. Train close when it was walking close, so it balances out. And its nearer Papa Jam's and that Mexican place that I can't seem to recall at the moment. Louise's place is higher than mine was. There are roofs that I can see, string lights and pools and facsimiles of yards above the clouds. I take a deep breath in. The air feels clearer up here, but I think that's just me. The bottle I stole from the fridge opens with a sharp hiss and there is bitter crisp beer down my throat in a moment's time.

I shift in the cheap seat and it protests immensely over the suggestion of movement. I have to move. I simply have to. The dream last night was not enough. The strokes and fantasies this morning were not enough. The work and movement kept the body a little too busy to descend into the rut, just barely and as soon as I returned to my new home, I was back in the space to mate and fuck and cum. But I had to do it all by my lonesome.

That's what the pull and clench and vice grip hate. I am alone to attend to my needs. There should be more. A harem, a town, a kingdom at my beck and call. I have only managed to ensnare one other with my actions and even she has abandoned me for a useless bit of drudgery to earn something as useless as money. I sigh and take another drink. It helps in an odd way. Makes the thoughts swim and wander a bit. The current pulls a certain way, but there are rocks to break the flow.

My pocket vibrates and plays a tune of harsh bass and social distortion. And I smile when I read the name.

"You're coming home, Louise. Now," I say to the phone in my hand. The edge in my voice creeps and crawls in the words. I'm done holding it back. There is silence on the other end for a good long moment.

"You make a very, very good point, Rachel," she says. And she cannot hold the longing in hers any more than I can. I can feel the flush in her cheeks, the heartbeat quickens, the thighs that start their rub and clench and twitch. The mind turns and sparks and fires the thoughts in order to find some path that would lead her back to me.

"But I can't."

The words break me to hear them almost as it breaks her to say them.

"I'll be back next week," she continues, "How bad is it?"

"Had another dream last night," I sigh. It's hard, terribly hard to shove down the rage at the world that separates us. Once again, office jobs are terrible and nobody should have them. Nobody should have jobs in general. They get in the way of me and Louise being together and naked and sweaty. That's the only reason for existence really.

"How bad?"

"Couple of wash cycles. Maybe. Might need a couple more."

"Did you take any pictures?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Pride. Maybe. It has to have felt really, really good, right?"

"I think so. I was asleep for most of it."

The washer dings and stops its rumble hum behind me. There is a bit of a jolt to get up. All the dings and chimes have me trained. But I am on the phone and I'd rather hear Louise's voice than deal with another cycle.

"And I kind of want to see what you do," she says, "I mean, I like that you can do that sort of thing."

I am hard. I am hard at the suggestion of her arousal, but there is no easy way to remedy that. I shift in my chair on the balcony and watch the world go by. Clouds and lights and cars, life that refuses to stop. I could masturbate out into the common green, but that might cause more problems than its worth. Could be fun, though.

"Do you want me to send you a video?" I ask.

"I already have the ones you sent over from my last trip. And I don't think that's a good idea. I would leave. I would totally leave and come back if you did that. I am fighting super hard to not walk up to my boss and just tell him I'm going home."

"You should. Think of everything that's waiting for you when you get back. Me. The bed. The shower. The couch. Papa Jam's. Me again."

"I hate you so much right now. Temptress. She-devil. My mom was right. I don't know what I'm messing with."

"How is the conference?" I ask, shoving the obvious urges aside.

"Terrible. Just terrible. Shook a lot of hands, so I'm probably going to get sick as soon as I come back. Had some overpriced drinks. Oh, and at least 5 guys have tried to take me back to their rooms. All with wedding rings."

"Amazing. Did you go with any of them?"

"Hell no. Aside from the fact that you have obviously ruined me, thank you by the way, it's a work thing y'know? Don't mix business and pleasure. I honestly don't know why we even do these things. It's to get some handshakes and faces and whatever, but it's all boring speeches with boring words and I might kill myself if I hear the word strategic alignment one more time."

I pull the phone away from my ear as the rant continues. Rude, I am aware, but the rant must be vented and the act I am about to perform should alleviate some more of the frustrations she feels. I shift again to the chair's dismay and work my waistline down and down and down some more. A dark spot forms at my summit as the grand act is about to begin. There is the voice and I am getting naked so it must mean only one thing.

Vein and throb and pulse, my shaft is made of vein and throb and pulse, the red anger cooled slightly with the chill of a fall evening. It does not stop, though. A jolt runs through and a bead of preseed forms at the tip and falls down the valleys. The rant continues, now on the topic of a stuffy plane ride in economy while her boss was in first. A sharp light and a small fake shutter click and I have a wonderful picture that flies through the air and lands right next to her head.

I hear the breath catch in her throat and the small gasp of awe escape from her supple chest.

"I hate you so much right now," she sighs, "But motherfucker, that is beautiful."

It jolts and spits again and now I have to add a t-shirt to the next cycle. And there will be a store run to get more detergent.

"Happy to help. Are you sure you don't need a video or something? You've seen it. I need to calm it down."

"You do not know how much I want that. But then I'd spend all day in a hotel room masturbating and miss out on learning what synergy actually means. I hate being the responsible one."

"Then don't be. Come home. You know what's waiting. And it needs you too."

She whines and I think she thunks her head into something hard. Probably a desk. Hopefully a desk.

"Rachel, please stop torturing me. I am already in hell. Every hell. There's no reason to turn up the heat."

She pauses a long moment and the thoughts rattle around again.

"And there's no reason to hold yourself back like this. If you're like this after what, two days, then you really need something to help."

"You're the one on a business trip. That's where people cheat."

"You won't be cheating. I'm giving you permission. Or something like it. Look, the rules are different with you. And I'm fine with that. You seem to need this, and I'm not worried about being left out when I come back."

"And I've been on the other side of this. It can get ugly, is all I'm saying. I'll survive. Your mattress might not."

She sighs and the rush of the distorted speaker grates against my ear. She shifts again and I can't help but picture her rubbing her thighs, biting her lips, eyes wide and gleaming in challenging anticipation for me. But she is on the other side of the country with cheap pajamas, frustrated in every single way.

"Y'know, my ex-boyfriend would have jumped at the chance to sleep with other women."

"And that's why he's your ex."

"No, not really. There were some money things that didn't pan out in a good way. Think about it at least. I promise I won't be mad. Save the poor mattress. And I got to go to bed now. There's another thing at like 7. And the more I sleep, the more I pretend I'm back with you. You're not the only one with fun dreams."

"You better be ready when you come back. I'm not going easy on you."

"I hope not. Night, Rachel. Love you."

"Love you too, Louise."

The phone goes silent and there is a bit of me that is left vacant and hollow. It comes back to life with a notification and a picture of her breasts. I grunt and find that my bottle is empty. I do not want it to be empty, but it's probably for the best. Drunk and horny is really only a good combination when there is another person who is in a similar situation.

---

The washer chimes again. But I am not there to attend to the infant cry for attention. I have my own terrible responsibilities to manage. I wipe my brow and put the hat back on my head. My back screams in wonderful agony as I wretch and pull the muscles free from their work. The chair was heavy, I will admit. But I got it up the stairs of the town house and now no one can tell me I didn't earn my money for the hour. I am allowed a moment to recover and rest before the clock resets and makes me prove myself once again.

"I am so sorry," says the woman behind me, "But that was supposed to go downstairs. It got mislabeled."

And not for the first time in my life, I want to hit a customer. Everyone should get one, in my opinion. Just one action of violence to vent frustration. Nothing severe. Nothing lethal. A good punch or a slap or a kick. Maybe not a kick. Those can do some damage if everything lines up in the right way. Still, violence would probably be the solution in this instance.

But I can't bring myself to hit someone wearing a Dust-to-Dust t-shirt, even if they are the source of all the pain I feel. The way she stretches and pokes at the fabric also seems to add points in her favor. The red hair and the green eyes and that odd lilt in her voice again wash away the rising frustration.

She's tall, just a bit under me. I can't help but notice the dust of freckles that cover her entire face, leading down her neck, no doubt pooling around her collar. Slender, graceful, something pure and serene. I had her name at one point and I can't seem to recall it. Things must be moved, and that is the main task for the mind. Who I move them for is certainly something important, but that comes when I grab the clipboard with all the paperwork. Now, I look to a woman in a tight t-shirt and loose capris that hide her legs just enough to know that they would look wonderful spread open.

"Give me a sec," I huff, "I'll get it in a bit."

"No, no, no, don't worry about it. I can manage. So long as it's in the house. That's the hard bit."

"You're also paying me to move stuff. Kind of backwards to move it yourself."

"I also thought that there would be like two or three of you."

"I've been around a while with Taskmaster. They trust me. I get it done."

"Yeah, you do. Take your time. Can I get you something?"

"Glass of water would be nice."

She smiles and I have trouble remembering the dark skin and soft lips and wild hair of Louise for a brief moment. It is there and I will keep that in mind and it will be alright. She will be back soon and this entire ordeal will be over. Until she has to leave again. And she will. She will leave me again.

The memory fades completely as she turns around and flaunts the hips and the sway and all the wonderful ways she can make her body move. There's an odd gait that I can't quite place a reason for, but it works with the bend. A twitch and a strain and every part of me almost lurches after her. There is a thing I want and there is the opportunity to take what I want and it would be glorious. Temptation manifested and indulged and I am worth it.

The fight inside my head lets her slip away back downstairs. The strength in my limbs has returned and I can handle some of the lighter stuff still in the truck. I'm almost done and then the day is over. Half-day for once. Nobody wants to go anywhere or change anything. It's all static and still.

The truck still has the assortment of boxes and tubs full of accumulated nonsense that everyone has, solely for the purpose of having it. I am not complaining. We all have the right of meaningless clutter. I am not immune from the stagnation of physical goods.

Three, I manage three in a stack. I could do four, but I deserve a break. And the label says downstairs. And it will go downstairs, near the kitchen. I will get the water and drink it and not think of that tight ass spread open and broken on me while Louise watches in silent awe of me and my virile prowess. The odd scent of another's house hits me again as I cross the threshold. It's good, just different. Always different. I'm still not used to Louise's apartment, although that is slowly fading.

The contents rattle and clack as they meet the chair. The confusion hits me and I now believe this place is haunted. I took that chair upstairs and there it would live forever more.

"Figured I would take care of that now," says the ghosts' mistress from the kitchen, "There are going to be some boxes up there, so there might as well be more room for them. Don't worry about."

"Took care of that real quick," I say. The nameless customer hands a glass of cold water to me and our hands brush from just a moment too long to be considered an accident.

"Downstairs is easier than up," she shrugs, "And the only reason I'm getting a mover is cause I packed up all this stuff. That's half the work right there. And I'm only one woman."

It's cold, so wonderfully cold and jolting as the water slides down my throat. That ice pulses through me for a brief moment before the heat of the work and the heat from watching her neck stretch to the glass, override it. Hurry, I need to hurry and finish all of this and then I will run as fast as I can to empty myself of every impulse I will ever have. Gallons and streams and rivers and seas, oceans of essence and I will have a clear head for the first time since she left.