Mekamorphoses
Words, Fiction
2018—08
Denver, CO
Denver, CO
She bottoms out on top of me, taking me all the way in. I feel a warmth most pleasant, followed by sharp fingernails etched deep into my chest.
We hardly ever spoke before this. We might've shared a look or two but that's about it. I recall her mentioning her kids during her introductory presentation, so I just assumed she was married. But I guess that's a pretty silly deduction to make in this day and age.
The warmth. It radiates and sharpens, and I feel myself approaching a blissful edge, so I think of something else. I think of the symposium. The tech. The future.
Not a bad place to hold this year's FutureSym, this remote town on the Baltic Sea. In November, no less. A cool mist forever hovers in the atmosphere, and the forest surrounding the medieval castle that shelters us is always dead silent.
We're here to make things. Machines mostly, and new hands-on solutions for the future. More workshop than conference in a sense. If I'd told you this 50 years ago, you'd have scoffed and called it an assembly of nerdy losers, but here and now science is cool, and those proficient at it are superstars.
This woman, she walks like a star and dresses like a star. Also like a star -like a true superstar- she doesn't really say much. Her uniform, black linen and soft wool, changes ever so slightly each day of the week. A finer Cayce Pollard Unit, given extra flare with red sneakheels, matching red lipstick, and a black woolen hat with a wide-enough brim to shelter two small children. I don't know much about her to be honest, but I sure as hell know she can really ride dick.
I can't remember who it was but I recall someone advising me never to get with a classy girl. Never to be fooled by the pristine sheen of an immaculate woman, because all that is useless in the sack. For one to enjoy sex, they told me, it's gotta be filthy. You need a girl who's down and dirty. A girl who's seen some shit and is in no way inhibited with her words. A quiet, cold, mechanical woman is never what you need.
Fuck that guy, because quiet or not, there's nothing mechanical about this magnificent specimen riding my cock right now. Her motion operatic and her rhythm musical. Perfect abs stretching and contracting, glistening in sweatlets that catch the moonlight. A trail of wet heat runs down my scrotum and blows heaven up my spine. She brings a finger to my mouth, shushing me without saying a word. Did I say something out loud, I wonder?
"Call", she says. "I have to take it."
Now?
Excerpt from Mekamorphoses, a Times New Human story.
We hardly ever spoke before this. We might've shared a look or two but that's about it. I recall her mentioning her kids during her introductory presentation, so I just assumed she was married. But I guess that's a pretty silly deduction to make in this day and age.
The warmth. It radiates and sharpens, and I feel myself approaching a blissful edge, so I think of something else. I think of the symposium. The tech. The future.
Not a bad place to hold this year's FutureSym, this remote town on the Baltic Sea. In November, no less. A cool mist forever hovers in the atmosphere, and the forest surrounding the medieval castle that shelters us is always dead silent.
We're here to make things. Machines mostly, and new hands-on solutions for the future. More workshop than conference in a sense. If I'd told you this 50 years ago, you'd have scoffed and called it an assembly of nerdy losers, but here and now science is cool, and those proficient at it are superstars.
This woman, she walks like a star and dresses like a star. Also like a star -like a true superstar- she doesn't really say much. Her uniform, black linen and soft wool, changes ever so slightly each day of the week. A finer Cayce Pollard Unit, given extra flare with red sneakheels, matching red lipstick, and a black woolen hat with a wide-enough brim to shelter two small children. I don't know much about her to be honest, but I sure as hell know she can really ride dick.
I can't remember who it was but I recall someone advising me never to get with a classy girl. Never to be fooled by the pristine sheen of an immaculate woman, because all that is useless in the sack. For one to enjoy sex, they told me, it's gotta be filthy. You need a girl who's down and dirty. A girl who's seen some shit and is in no way inhibited with her words. A quiet, cold, mechanical woman is never what you need.
Fuck that guy, because quiet or not, there's nothing mechanical about this magnificent specimen riding my cock right now. Her motion operatic and her rhythm musical. Perfect abs stretching and contracting, glistening in sweatlets that catch the moonlight. A trail of wet heat runs down my scrotum and blows heaven up my spine. She brings a finger to my mouth, shushing me without saying a word. Did I say something out loud, I wonder?
"Call", she says. "I have to take it."
Now?
Excerpt from Mekamorphoses, a Times New Human story.