by Sanity's Plight
A warning to readers: I refuse to reveal beforehand the flight of stories on the chance that they might make people uncomfortable. This story will make you uncomfortable. It's an aspect of storytelling, and it is up to you to see how it fits in your life. Suffice to say, if you have read Blowjob and found it to be within your tolerances, this should only be a small stretch.
PS: as always, feedback or commentary is welcome.
1. Quick Beginnings
"Some days I feel like work follows me home."
She smiles, "You don't seem to mind that much."
"Hey, that's not fair."
She cocks an eyebrow at him.
"If I couldn't work, I wouldn't know what to do with myself. I am very good at this, and it's what I do."
"I didn't mean it like that. I'm happy you like your work." He's not usually this touchy. He's agitated. Maybe he's getting it from her.
"Sorry..." A satyric smile, "Come here you little whelp, and I'll show you what I think real work is."
Lana laughs in what one would consider a musical tone, if the musician were a bit tone deaf.
"These flowers would go very well. Very well, sir."
And they will. Orchids will complement the black and white photographs for the gallery display, this one on Terns.
"You think so? I'm a bit flower-deaf, you might say. The birds I can do," and well, he being the photographer, "but these flowers are dead already. They don't look quite right now matter how I look at them."
He smiles at her.
Slightly odd yet romantically corny speech. A whimsical smile.
Her heart smokes through her veins, as she watches his eyes.
"I'll take them."
"No need, sir. We at the gallery will handle everything."
"Including myself," she doesn't add.
The distinct sound of a woman's masturbatory breathing. It's tight and controlled, to increase pleasure, but it's also a bit wild, from the pleasure.
She pulls the heavy comforter up and over her shoulders, and leans further into her pillow, which makes her breathing echo in her ears, and the gentle caress of the fabric weighs on her cheek.
Lightly stroking now, angling toward the goal but not running dead-out. Her knees curl up over her elbow, and she gets smaller and smaller and smaller.
And she's almost gone.
You almost can't see her.
And she's gone.
"You know the rules. You know the circumstances. You know the goal."
"There is no goal."
"Incorrect. There is the one goal: to never stop."
"You must never stop."
"Is there any strategy?"
"Is there any safe ground?"
"Does it hurt?"
Never stop. Once you go, you never stop.
You never stop.
"Mmmmm..." He really can kiss.
"Where've you been?"
And he never acknowledges it.
"At work. Another exhibit. Herons."
"More like an albatross."
"Money there is, and money there was, and money there yet may be."
"You think you're so smart, but I've seen you naked."
"And it's just like you to bring up pop culture."
"I had a puppy when I was 12, you know."
He looks at her oddly, "That's a rather odd way to put it. I mean, no one ever says 'I had the flu for an hour, ' now do they?"
"And how does this tie into your statement that I shouldn't get you a dog to celebrate you having a job for an entire year?"
She smiles. This crypticity will drive him nuts for a week, she's sure.
And she remembers the Pug's left ear.
.... There is more of this story ...