Work Out Left Behind

I finish and part the heavy fog in my mind that has the very nice lady with a very nice body naked and screaming for a last couple of moments as everything is signed and checked. All the boxes are on the right floor, with the right furniture, with the right room. A place for everything and everything in its place. I am tired and hot and sweaty and the length coiled and strapped has been straining against the contours of my body stronger and stronger every moment of the delicious agony in that house. I sigh as I let the weight of it all roll of my shoulders once I find myself back in the Taskmaster's truck, generous tip in hand.

I carefully fish myself free and let the length and the vein and the rigidity grow to whatever massive full size it wants to take. It can breathe and so can I. The beads and the drops and the rivers of murky preseed fall in time with my heartbeat as I count the money. It nestles almost to my chest, staining my shirt and once again I have to add more things to that poor overworked machine.

The money hides a secret. A handwritten note that has a phone number and a name. Saoirse. Another surge hits my stomach and I can't quite control myself enough to stop a small deluge pouring from me.

---

I am going insane. It is plain to see. I am losing my mind over red hair and green eyes and freckles and strained t-shirts. I do not think of any other possibility that could explain the incessant need to let myself be free and open and endlessly hard. I cannot stop stroking myself to the naked dark skin of Louise and the remnants of her touch and embrace on me. I cannot stop thinking of red hair and freckles and green eyes looking at me in simple awe as I open her to something terrible and monumental that the world created to punish her.

I am covered in the prelude to release, slick and sticky and shining. Every line in my body is flooded. My abs and my cleavage, the nooks in my arms, my collar, every inch is covered. I love it. I adore the amount within made without. I relish in the simple creation within my body. I sigh and groan as another shot runs through my spine. I shiver and shudder and my cheek is stained with bitter heat. It touches to corners of my mouth and the tongue reaches out to taste the discharge. My mind goes blank and heavy and fogged. There is only the touch and the heartbeat. There is the dream of dark skin and familiar scent, my name muttered in simple eager awe.

But it is not enough.

It is a familiar routine. It is known and conquered, enthralled to my being. Even a continent away, her thoughts are of me, the hours spent whiling away until idle boredom becomes primal excitement. I should spread out, infect and intrude on others' lives.

A jolt and a shudder, some lighting release from thunderclap, and my face is drenched once again.

There is red hair in my mind now, green eyes and freckles. She too is in the same hazed state of bewitchment. She is naked. She is eager, lips wet and eyes wide as she joins the congregation. Saoirse eyes me with glittering emeralds as the length and the veins anoint her with my heavy seed.

It starts deep in my belly like the Armageddon earthquake. The image of her chest shiny and pearl, that is what sends me over the edge. The dark skin is stained already, and the scatter shot of peppered freckles joins in the same abstract painting of carnality.

It starts it end at the base of my pelvis, rising up and up and up the length, up the vein, up the river. The storm surge urges destruction and ruin. It wants for simple terrible desolation. Paint the world white and let it flood, carrying away the pretense of our sapience. Thick and heavy, the pulses carry seed of thick heavy virility.

A burst and detonation against the world and the dream of freckles and darkness. They are drowning in it. My release is behemoth. Earthshaking disaster and end of the world through wrath and vengeance. I am covered. I am sinking through a swamp of heavy scent. I cannot breathe. I cannot think. I cannot be anything other than the endless release of something bottled and raging.

The dreams are soaked and cooing, more awe at the endless expanse of my production. It's endless. It is insanity. It is the world turned inside out and upside down. Every ounce of existence is devoted to me and my release.

I stain the world for an eternity. I spill everything out and it is not enough.

It ends with my breath sighed and ragged and ugly. It ends with the length falling in impatient respite across my stomach, coated in heavy, stained seed. It ends with a hand across my forehead and a sigh that stretches just as long as the orgasm itself. I feel amazing as the glow swims under my skin. There will be a moment in the short future where I feel the slight disgust of being slathered. Or it will just get me going again. Kind of a coin toss, although the last little while has certainly made me feel that the coin has be loaded.

I stretch again and feel the same stretch and claw against the muscle fibers. Tear and rip, feels so amazingly free and clean. It hurts for that glorious moment before fading into that same wonderful glow.

I am still hard. It was inevitable. I am hard and there is more in me to expel. It will come out. I have to detonate out of me with raging typhoon force.

All the flowing thoughts halt when the sensation comes to my hand and the cramped muscles. It goes up my arm. It all burns and aches. Flex and stretch, pop and crack. IT helps, but it doesn't make it better. As much as I want to go again, there is still the fact that the rest of my body is having trouble keeping up. Probably could do it if I didn't work today. Definitely could. I've done it before. But I am breaking down. Toys break even faster.

To my surprise, I am still mobile with a little effort. Wobbling, unsteady, but upright in search of food and water. Caged animal pacing to the kitchen, then back to the couch, then back to the kitchen. The same pattern repeated ad nauseum to relive the tedium of my life.

For a while, my will holds. I clean and straighten as best I can. Rinse myself free of seed, straighten the cushions and pillows, open windows and doors to let the fresh air in. But I am still hard. So painfully hard. I flex my fingers again and the joints protest any sort of movement allowed. They need rest. My core needs rest. My heart needs rest and my mind certainly has other things to think about. Like food. I am kind of hungry and I have earned my appetite.

---

More dreams, more held urges, more and more and more of my mind lost to the endless dance of something horizontal. It does not get better. I cannot get better. I look to the street and leer at anything vaguely feminine. I look to the clouds and see the same forms. The dreams have bled over into the waking world and all I can think of is sex and rut and mating. It is the fourth day.

My body is in revolt against the universe. It does not like my refusal of offers freely given. I still have that number. I still have that eager beck and call to come and see what happens. And it knows what will happen. It's always the same. A display to entice, a few words to pretend to actually be people, and then glorious ruinous union.

My phone rings again with its harsh distorting and the name that comes up sends that beautiful rage through me. That name has abandoned me and the punishment upon its return will be terrible.

"I'm going for it," I say to the small screen of black glass. Even now, that edge in my voice is menacing and predatory. There is no will to hold it back. I get a long moment of silence in response.

"Okey dokey," Louise says, "That's fine. Not much I can really do about that."

I take a deep breath and try to get some of the reason to reassert itself. She deserves that much at least.

"Sorry," I mutter, "It's been rough."

"No, no, no, I get it. And I have to admit, it's done great things to your voice. That can stay. That can stay as long as possible."

I hear the rustle of cloth and bit back moan and once again my control slips and a dark spot forms at the knee of my pants. That should be hers. But I should play at civility again. Should have at least started with that. Politeness and all that.

"Anything actually good happen at the conference," I venture. She wails at the idea of thinking more about her torture. Good and buried. It all should be good and buried when we talk. I bring simple rapture through flesh and now it wants to talk of logistics and professional decorum.

"Nothing that I haven't already complained about. Found someone who knew about Dust-to-Dust finally. I was starting to think you were the only fan they had."

"That concert was sold out. You saw them."

"I was also drunk, so my entire recollection of that night is gone. I think I blew you though. Pretty sure. In an alley. It was fun. Kind of wish I was doing that now."

The memory shifts in me and a hand goes to my length and starts again with the idle stroke and touch. Nothing hard, nothing intense. Dreamy touch and dreamy thoughts with dreamy movements. It is the start of the action once more. I keep it gentle my off hand still needs a bit of time to recover. Not that the length and the flesh cares.

"Would it be worth the sore jaw?"

"Little bit. And my cheeks hurt anyway from all the smiling. I need a new job."

"You could come work with me."

"No. We'd get nothing done, and I don't want to lift heavy things. No more job talk. That's all I've done today. So, tell me about your potential hookup. I'm curious."

"Met her at work, actually. Helped her lift heavy things into her house. And she's a fan of Dust to Dust. Unless she's one of those terrible people who wears band shirts for the logo. She just gave me her number with the tip."

"Usually, you're the one giving the tip, and everything else. But body, paint me a picture."

"I'm not that good with words."

"Still, try. For me. I got nothing better to do. I'm using you to get out of a bar crawl with some senior execs."

"Her name is Saoirse. Don't ask me to spell it. Hair fiery red and blazing with intense lust. Eyes of emerald seas glinting with terrible hunger for carnal indulgences. A scattering of freckles dotting her pale skin like a stargazer's delight inverted. Tits as big as some really, really big tits."

I get a snorting laugh and a coughing chuckle and that almost slips through the heated lust, but the warmth adoration simply gives way to the boil.

"I'm glad that you know what you like. Bigger than mine?"

"That's not that hard. Bigger than mine, actually."

And a low whistle slides through the tinny speakers.

"I know that you have thing about taking pictures, but you got to. For me."

"It still has to pan out. I haven't actually made a move on her yet."

"You'll do fine. You punched me in the face and now we live together. Considering you did this mystery firebrand a solid with heavy lifting, I expect a marriage by the time I get back."

"Maybe not a marriage, but probably a kid, if things go the way I want them to."

She snorts again and I can't help but pick up the pace. The length liked that last little add on. Something to think about with Louise as well.

---

The call with Saoirse was surprisingly quick. There was a slight flustered moment when all the things that I am came to her, but after that it was a simple matter of setting up a time and a place. And we agreed to all of that and then it was a matter of waiting with my cramping hand and visible heartbeat coalesced in turgid skin. It was terrible. Simply terrible. And messy.

And for the first time in a while, I am nervous. Always nervous when it starts. Always nervous that the end of the night will have me alone and in a cold bed. Louise alleviated the worst of it, because I knew that the bed would not remain cold for any great length of time. But there is still the chance that the whole of my existence will be rejected. It's a touchy subject for some. And there is still the fact that I am technically attached.

So, I sit there in my corner of The Bullet Club, drink half drained and eying the couple that just walked in. Don't like the guy's hair, that limp half curtain thing that hangs like he's been drowned. Girl's cute though, if a little small for my tastes. A woman at the bar with long blonde hair and a scar on her bare shoulder eyes me eyeing her and I might have a backup in case this entire night goes pear shaped.

Plan A is still in effect when Saoirse comes strutting in. I am somewhat disappointed, in all honesty. The Bullet Club is by no means a high-class establishment, but there is a certain kind of dress up to be had. Ripped and denim, military but in a coopted sense, and she is here in a t-shirt and jeans with a simple jacket. Granted, they are tight, tight things for her body, but there is mundane tightness. This is a place for advanced tightness. Even now, my bomber jacket is tight on my arms, mostly from my efforts.

Still, she does not look bad as she looks for me. She looks a little worried as she looks for me, but I am apparent and open and she just has to wait for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The world aligns for her and it all comes to sense me and my half empty glass. There is a slight trepidation in her steps as she weaves through the tables and chairs, more and more and more eyes on her and that wonderful sway in her hips. A newborn fawn in a den of wolves and she comes to the hungriest mouth with wide eyes pleading for mercy. If only she knew.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," I say. Eloquent. Poetic. A novel's worth of conversation and escalation in two words. I shall now proceed to bend her over the table and get to the good part. The play at civility is over. I take another drink and the length down my pants urges me to actually do any of those sorts of things, public decency be damned. It's an outdated concept, really. Another sip and another deep breath and I set it down with a little too hard clink.

"So," I start, "Before we do any of this, I got to lay some stuff down. I actually have a girlfriend already. She knows that I'm out and she's ok with whatever happens tonight."

That catches her off guard and I don't blame her. She considers it. Rolls it around in her thoughts.

"Odd situation," she says, "But I don't really know what I expect to happen either. I wrote my number down on a whim. Figured new city meant a chance to take some risks. And this is certainly one of them. But I'll stay for another hand. Anything else?"

"Maybe. The next secret depends on how the night goes."

"Fun. That sounds fun. What are you drinking?"

Banal, the game is banal at this point. Trading secrets and unknowns like playground trinkets. She is an event planner. I lift heavy things, although she knew that one, so I had to give her the name of my gym. She is also a card player, it seems, and good enough to actually have some money come from it. I am drinking a beer and now so is she. She used to live across the mountains in the plains, but the world there wouldn't let her do what she wanted. So now she is here and the world will be better to her. It has to be. In my opinion, it already has. She met me.

I think I'm two or three in and she's settled at just over one. I have kept my glance at her chest and the tight fabric and the way she sways and moves and bounces. They would be much better in my hands or my mouth, or around my shaft with her lips on the tip and a mischievous submissive stare over my frame.

There is a foot on mine for a moment. I pull it away and I tap it twice. It taps back. And the game has become a little less censored, however slightly.

"If I can ask," she says, "Is this like a weird bull thing? I mean, Louise knows about tonight. Is that part of why you're doing it?"

"Not really. Maybe a little. More I just have energy to burn and she's on that thing, so I need to take care of that. And you made the first move on me. That has to count for something."

"I mean, I wouldn't mind if it was. Sounds fun."

"Not quite the way I want to roll. I just want more than one person, it turns out. Do you want to be a plus one?"

The foot travels up my shin and lingers where it meets my thigh for a brief moment. She picked the wrong one, it turns out, to find out something rather strange and mystical. She will, I think, find the surprise by the end of the night.

"I'm thinking about it. I am interested. I really am. It would be my first time with another woman and I think that it really is a nice chance to try out so many new things. Would you believe that this is actually my first time in a bar? Like any bar at all? Not even in college."

Her foot keeps tracing fun paths up and down, up and down. She can't quite reach anything really fun, but fun is more of a state of mind than anything else. And I am having fun relishing the secrets I will divulge later.

"College bars are terrible," I say, "They're full of college kids. And college kids are terrible. Having never been a college kid, I am clearly an expert on all things."

"Wait you never went to college?"

The leg stops and I realize I never should have said anything. That just stopped the fun. And now I have to talk about less fun things.

"Went straight to military. And then I pretty much went straight out of the military. Military kids are terrible. I'm starting to think it's just kids. But like the older kids that are technically adults, but still kids."

She giggles a bit into her glass and she does not disagree with my entire assessment of a demographic we are both just outside of. Saoirse pulls at the neckline of her shirt, stretching it down just a bit more. I am surprised the whole thing hasn't ripped open. Buttons, she should be wearing buttons or a zipper or anything more fragile than a strained logo.

Every idle moment she makes is soft and inviting, suggesting acts too uncouth for the dim bar. Naked skin and insertions, bending things and swaying things, ideas that come from the lizard part of the mind with nothing else in pertinent view.

My glass is empty and so is hers. I stand and she stands with me. I believe we are the first to wander away from The Bullet Club, but I'd put money down on us not being the last. That one lady from the bar almost looks disappointed as I saunter away, but her eyes find another corner to peruse.

---

There is a bit of me that finds it odd that I have brought a new lady friend to a place that still doesn't feel like mine. It is on paper and certainly by the original occupant, but there is still that odd sense of transgression. I should have brought her to my place, although I think that got rented out again almost as soon as the last box was on the truck.

Saoirse looks around as the door closes and there is still that nervous fear in her eyes. Trepidation in unknown waters, too dark to know how deep the abyss stretches. Like a polite guest, she takes off her shoes.

"Nice place," she says. I shrug. I agree. It is a nice place. And it is mostly clean of my influence for now. Open windows and fabric freshener and a dutiful washing machine have all done their part to ensure that the dwelling remains sanitary. And keep the surprise hidden.

We move to the couch underneath the watchful gaze of a large window open to the city. Stars and manmade reflections, dark and light intertwining. I can still hear the city's thrumming lullaby. A plane overhead, the green line a few blocks down rattling away, a car horn pressed in the reddest of road rages. So many things constantly jostling together in a chaotic cacophony as I add the soft rustle of fabric on skin, mine and hers. The play and dance and stretch of thread. J

She makes the first move, which honestly surprises me. But I don't mind the force and the urge. There is hunger there, under the caution thrown to the wind. There is something primal and eager and conquering of fear festered in the stomach clutch for too long. Thrown off the cliff and hoping clouds are strong enough to catch her. I let her set the pace of the plummet, the fall the insanity with me.