streetwork

Lurve

She throws the coat on the bed, then picks up a remote from a side table, dials in something and puts it down again. The lights turn a dimmer red, the windows fog up and the speakers start to throb.

--What's this?

--Squelch.

--Sounds like porno lounge music played by robots.

--That's what everyone says.

Some days, you think you've come out with a good line and the world turns up its nose like a guitar shop owner hearing the intro to Smoke on the Water for the fiftieth time that week.

She undoes the upper buttons on her combat gear, which it turns out fasten a sort of matador jacket that comes to her midriff. With it off she looks like a frame from the manga I've been overindulging in, all abundant breasts and nipped-in waistline. She looks like she's heading to a fancy dress party run by Babes and Guns magazine. As a Glock.

--I want to feel your big cock between my tits, she deadpans, leaning forward and pushing them together.

Irony aside, a short while later she has a cheekful of brandy and icecream whisking slowly around me, which is painful and thrilling until I start to go numb and have to tactfully pull out and spend a few minutes peeling her out of her remaining clothes while I surreptitiously thaw out. After several minutes knelt between her thighs in which I return to a semblance of rather soft normality she retrieves a bottle of oil from the bedside cabinet and embarks on a dexterous massage of my quickly-reviving meat wand between her generous orbs, after which I kneel between her lithe fishnetted thighs and attempt to penetrate her grotto of love.

After I've bent my rampant lignum at right angles it becomes apparent that we have a timing problem and we shift awkwardly into a move straight from the wrestling ring that gets both pairs of hands close enough to both pairs of love equipment to facilitate a combination double-handed tantric handjob and multiple-fingered lovebud-tickling session, after which I jump desperately into a hundred and twenty seconds of legs-in-the air stoking the furnaces of passion. At the end of this I manage to fake what I hope is a convincing orgasm and extract myself in order to proceed to a spot of breathing hard and feigning spent satisfaction.

--What's up? she asks.

--Don't know. I was a bit distracted by all the theatrics.

--I thought so.

--Sorry.

We cuddle, which is not exactly in keeping with the stolen sex by spies on the run theme that she's been trying to develop. She dozes off after a while, though, so I can only assume the cloak-and-dagger stuff is taking its toll on her too, or that she trusts me and is glad of the warmth, or that she didn't get enough sleep the night before, or that she's one of those people who naps when they're bored.

This is why taking a train of thought to its logical conclusion is often a bad idea.

--

She's shaking my shoulder. The windows are clear again, framing a belligerent sunset of pollution reds.

--Now what?

--Now we walk out of the front door. You're a cured subject.

--Wish the way in was that simple.

She shrugs. --They would have traced you here. We needed to break the surveillance.

This has an undeniable logic to it.

--What about the socket? I waggle a finger behind my right ear for emphasis.

She shakes her head. --Came prepared for that one.

She reaches into one of the numerous pockets in her combat pants and pulls out a baggie with a small lump of black plastic in it, which she waves at me significantly.

--What's to say they're not waiting for us outside?

She waves a hand, dismissively. --I'm not going through the security gates. They won't be looking for just you, especially in disguise.

--Disguise? There's more than the socket?

She digs into another pocket and comes out with a hardcase that holds something partway between an oversized pair of sunglasses and a Batman half-face mask.

--It's a standard thing we give out to patients on release. Everyone spends so much time with their eyes closed that the light gets to them when they head outside.

The "we's" have been getting to me for a while now. --So this is your day job? The family business?

--Yes. Part of it.

I start feeling like it's one man against the Shadowy Corporate Entity again.

--Let's go, she says.

posted by bokki @ 11:46 PM