Nerves

Thank you for all the great reviews and support. So I reward you with more slash-o-rific smut! Not flat out smut again, you gotta build up for that. The unagi (eel) is a bit important, not really, just wanted to say that, Kasai is not as innocent as he appears *wink wink nudge nudge*. Occurs right after “Nerves”.

I decided to add this on to "Nerves" instead of keeping it a seperate story.

I would not mind seeing more anthro/human (anthro on human) pairings on this site. M/F or M/M.

Sensations

He had asked me where I wanted to eat earlier, and I knew no great places. It was an awkward silence as we sat in his cart and he drove. He asked me, and I didn’t answer—out of pure embarrassment. He asked me again, and I finally said I knew no places to get good food. My mind is alive with the sense of taste and flavor, smells, the movement of my own hands, the welcoming confines of my kitchen—not with the labels, not with other people’s hands…well…not back then…perhaps even hours ago, the comfort of another’s hand was nonexistent. My hands were my own companions they grasp each other at night as I sleep; they hold each other when they were cold. Now they are alien towards on another, perhaps it because they have found new partners to grasp…but are unsure if they should leave their old partnership and pursue a new relationship. But it is not my hands that are thinking this, it is me, my hands are my puppets. I twiddle my thumbs.

His hand rests on my thigh. He accidentally puts his hand on it when he reaches to put the car in reverse. It a welcoming, startled weight, like a heavy wool blanket, itching and confining, set upon your shoulders, a throw pillow that comes to roll upon a small portion of your body when you doze on the couch—uncomfortable, confined, heavy, yet when removed an odd sort of coldness, nakedness is left, and the body is left tingling, desiring that heaviness. It is best to leave things where they lie. He moves his hand back to the steering wheel, perhaps he does not notice my discomfort now, probably he does not realize it as he did not realize his hand’s placement. My thigh is cold.

“So you like Chinese food, you insist that you like it with lotus flour—yet you don’t know any great places, what do you do Kas, lock yourself in your apartment after work?” he asks me with a laugh.

“I cook at home,” I answer scratching my fake arm. And I don’t leave my apartment, my tiny three room home. I do not lock myself in; I do not even bother locking my door most of the time either. There is no reason for me to leave my apartment most of the time, so I stay in, the night like a blanket around my apartment, my lamp at my bed my orange campfire.

He quiets. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I answer. He taps the steering wheel.

What else is there for me to say? I cook for it is necessary a chore, and I have no pride to brag about it since I only eat what I make, there is no one to eat and tell me I can cook. It is hard to describe something when you simply do something. Is my mine truly so mechanical? I look at my mechanical arm, rubbing the elbow as if it was a skinned wound. The chip in my brain…does it affect more than my arm?

He notices.

“I know this great place at the mall,” he says, trying to mingle his drumming on the steering wheel with the music from the radio.

“I do not go to the mall that often,” I answer, looking down the road.

“There’s some great clothes stores there, and a few great kiosks, but everything else sucks, unless you’re like sixteen years old, and a girl, with half a brain,” he says tapping on the steering, the music is louder now.

“I order off the internet,” I answer. I do not avoid the mall because of I can avoid it; I simply do not go there because it offers little to me. The mall does not cater to my needs…after all; I am the only notadrach in this area…for miles around.

He is about to say something. Taps on the steering, stops, hums. “Are the deals the same?”

“I think,” I answer. I don’t know…

He nods. He probably does know if the deals are the same, he probably knows I don’t know. He understands.

He taps the steering wheel.

The music fades. I hear the wind, like a lonely howl, outside of the car. It is only when we arrive at the mall, do we hear sounds of life. They are muted outside the car windows. We sit for a moment in the car. Sound; car engines, heels on asphalt, children shouts, cell phone chatter, window shaking bass, swarm around the car like a flood, just so gently shaking, smothering it like a blanket. It is sound, it is heavy, it is myriad, but in the sanctuary of the car and its closed doors, we are only so aware of its existence. It is a heavy, tight mugginess.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod. He opens the door. Sound floods. He clothes the door. No sound. I get of the car and shut the door. Light, sound, openness, and the chill of a late spring day embrace me and pull me apart. I am slightly blinded by the bright light. He is standing on the other side of the car.

“Ready?” he asks again.

“Yeah,” I answer looking through the shade of my hand. The mall is a grayish blurry block. I let him lead and I follow behind him, hands in my pockets, simply because I know what not to do.

The mall is busy. People are ambling everywhere. I would say like ants and bees, but they have order with their duties. Everyone ambles about in self appointed duties half paying, one eye on a window another on a child or companion, and no eyes on their path ways, unbalanced with heavy store bags all in one hand. I follow behind him. He knows what he’s doing.

I do not.

He walks with definite purpose, utterly ignorant of the droves of half minded people, cutting through like an iron wire through a block of butter. I am like a wildebeest trying to cross a river, and with each current of people I get pulled farther and farther away from my direct path. He gets to a kiosk, turns around, his somewhat cool face dropping when he realizes I am not there, then he smiles spotting me, ungracefully trying to clamored to the kiosk about thirty feet downstream.

“It’s busy,” I answer. Someone bumps into me.

“It’s not that bad,” he answers allowing me to walk before then walks up beside me. “It’s pretty dead for a weekend.”

“It gets busier?” I ask.

“Have you ever been to the mall Kasai?” he asks somewhat incredulously about my question, what could be mistaken for sarcasm was genuine honesty.

I answer honestly. “I’ve been in the parking lot, and I went to the bakery in the corner about twice for melon pan.”

He notes my discomfort with each bump and nudge from shoppers. People are moving like cattle, and I do not like the feeling on their bodies against me. “I don’t blame you.”

There is guilt on his face when a particularly hefty shopper strikes my fake arm, jarring me and sending a shock of electric right into my brain. The man ambles as if nothing had happened, rubbing his arm wondering what he just hit.

“I am okay, perhaps we should find an easier pathway,” I answer quickly stepping up to him.

And so we slowly make our way through the mall. We take refuge at one point in a candle store that smelt heavily of oily fragrances. The only shoppers in the store were a few elderly women. He busies himself by reading through the walls of candles—lined up like books—reading through with intent to buy.

The oily, greasy smells were overpowering. I stood somewhat confused a few feet away from him while the women over candles that smelt like resiny apple pies talked among each other, glancing up at me through the corners of their eyes, they twitch their lips and fix their glasses. They become aware of my companion…looking upward scratching his chin at some obviously floral candles…and their discussion becomes more fervent. I cannot even feign his interest in the candles; instead, I rub my arm and stare at the baskets of sales like the elderly women staring at me.

He buys a small lavender candle. I know it is lavender for it the smell that lingers the strongest when we leave the candle shop, leave the women who loudly discuss what they think they saw.

We find sanctuary again in a puzzle shop where the only shoppers are a young woman and her child, who follows me about the store as I look at models and kinetic machines asking me various questions about my homeland, who tugs at my pants every time I think I lose him.

I am a notadrach, no, the last time I was home I was two, I have lived here twenty years of my life…that makes me twenty two. I do not know my parents. I was adopted. By humans, yes, I am a pilot at the base. Yes my arm is fake. I do not feel pain.

But I do not feel pleasure either.

I let him tap my arm. He is amazed. He and his mother leaves. He wants a dinosaur puzzle now, not a tiger puzzle. I leave with a mobile. He leaves with nothing, but laughs at me carrying the massive box.

My stomach rumbles. We find refuge in a calendar store, a knitting enthusiast store, and a health store. Only aficionados—people who look like they belong in the store—are in the store. We stick out like sore thumbs, they stare at us. He attempts to feign interest in something, I just stare out the door, clutching the mobile box, looking for an opening in the crowds of people. We leave. It is not until we get to a kitchen store do we actually buy something. I need bamboo skewers.

My stomach rumbles louder.

Economics, I think, holding the massive mobile box under my arm and the bundle of skewers in my one hand, walking out into the crowds of people.

Economics.

There is no such thing as a free lunch.

He wants to look at the boats they have placed into mall. Just the boats, he ignores the cars. He just looks, he could fill out a card to win one, but he refuses. It's how they get you he says. You sign up for a boat and get six years of phone calls for air conditioner installment.

We visit a few kiosks before finally the restaurant comes into view. It appears crowded.

“The Imperial Dragon and the Golden Lotus,” he chuckles. “Isn’t that a funny name?”

I glance up at the sign. “Don’t they all have names like that?”

“This one is a dirty joke,” he states. I look at him. Other people are too. “Let’s get lunch.”

And so we do. We are seated in a booth right by the salad and desert bar, where only one side were we surrounded by half dazed shoppers who wondered back and forth from their seats, carrying plates of chocolate pudding and deep fried dumplings coated in chalk, pasty powdered sugar.

I order sesame chicken, unagi (I am surprised to see it on the menu), with a seaweed salad, and miso soup as my appetizers. He orders sesame chicken and has his soup and salad changed to extra egg rolls. He eats his extra egg rolls and I succeed in getting him to try a forkful of salad, which he describes as strange, chewy, and bubbly, and says he is not fond of the chili and soy sauce dressing, but eats the last forkful from my plate before our actual meals arrive. He refuses to touch the miso, describing to me that the texture of the tofu were too strange and he didn’t like the feeling of it against the roof of his mouth.

His foot rests on the top of mine while we wait for the main course. His toes tap lightly through the sole of his shoe, reverberating through my shoe to my toes. He cocks his eyebrow. It is intentional. He does not remove his foot. I do not mind. I wiggle my big toe back, telling him it is okay. He presses down. I respond. It continues for several minutes.

The chicken comes and we eat. He takes his foot off mine, but keeps it pressed beside mine foot, fitting along side mine. I try to imagine the tendons and veins of his foot through the thick, stiff material of his shoe, the feeling of the smooth, thin skin, against my own. It is distracting.

“How is it? As good as home made?” he asks.

My shoulders twitch, and I sit up straight, pulling my foot away from his on impulse. We both seem a bit discomforted at the sudden lost of pressure and warm.

“Good,” I answer I push my foot beside his; it is not the same as earlier. He pushes back, we fit together; it works, not perfect, but it works. We eat. The food is a bit heavier than homemade, slightly tougher, but it does not stop me from finishing my plate and my white rice.

They bring my unagi at the end. He looks at the sushi rolls on the odd platform. “What kind of sushi is that?”

“Here try it,” I say, offering him a piece. He looks at it.

“What is it?” he asks, looking suspiciously at the roll. I do not answer vocally, answering only with a smile. He takes the roll and prepares to gently nibble the edge.

“You have to eat it in one bite,” I tell him. “It’s offensive not to.”

“I don’t know if I want to,” he says. “You like a lot of weird things Kasai.”

“It’s good, I promise,” I tell him. He pops the unagi into his mouth and chews it up, and swallows.

“Sweet, teriyaki, flaky, definitely a fish,” he states. “Cooked, not raw. Very good”

He reaches for another piece.

“It’s eel,” I state. He seems a bit startled, but not that much, which depresses me. We all want someone to like, to fall in love, with something odd after a sense of shock. He pops the piece into his mouth.

“I was worried it was some kind of roe or fish intestine,” he states.

“I wouldn’t do something like that to you,” I answer, and pop a piece in my mouth. I offer him a piece of pickled ginger. “It gets ride of the fishy taste and smell. Good for the sinuses.”

He pops the little rosette in his mouth and winces. “That’s nasty.”

He spits it into the napkin.

I pop a piece in my mouth and smile. I am used to it. The waitress brings our bill and fortune cookies with a few slices of an orange. He pops a few pieces of orange into his mouth; sucking the juices, then neatly biting off the flesh, the pith, leaving a clean rind. I reach for my wallet.

“I’ll pay Kasai,” he says pushing my hand away. “I’m the one taking you out.”

A few people glanced over. He throws down some bills. “Come on, let’s go.”

The mall is less crowded. The bustling families and older people who amble like elephants give away to a younger slightly louder crowd of people. They crowd around drink stores, clothing stores, and music stores, their talk loud and vicious. Our walk is unmolested.

“You’re going back to my place, right?” he asks. “For movies?”

“I guess, if you want me to,” I state. There is nothing for me tonight. I pause. “I need to get some groceries.”

It is true I am out.

“We’ll stop at the market and get some and you can keep that in my fridge,” he states. “And we’re stop at the rental place and get some movies. What do you like watching?”

Pause…

“I’m not sure,” I answer. I do not have cable at my apartment. My coffee table is covered in science-fiction and mechanics magazines and books. I have a television stand in my bedroom; it is covered in puzzle boxes. I answer honestly. “Science fiction I guess.”

“There are some classics from when I was a kid we could watch,” he says.

“That sounds good,” I answer.

We go to the rental place first. He picks the movies; I merely glance through the stands of movies. Everything looks like a magazine advertisement; garish and shallow. It is second nature that I overlook them. I find it difficult to take them seriously, and cannot keep my eyes on them long enough to take in anything. An utter inability to interact, I sigh looking at busty women, muscular men, fast cars, young girls wearing clothes that even a hooker would refuse, guns, brave cartoonish animal films with photo-shopped grins and winks look back at me with a grasp of reality that is as thin as a paper they are printed on. They lack the sincerity of a book, the depth that is swirling works and deep blank ink, the feeling of finger warmed pages, and the smell of nature, of wood, of age, history, memory, and magic. Writing is a labor of love, I could say. Filming is a labor for money. You sense it in the end.

He chooses the movies…a small pile. I do not what all he grabs, by the time he nudges me to go, I am somewhat dazed at the similarity of all movies.

“We’re not going to watch all those in one night, are we?” I ask. Eight movies…

“No, I just rented what looks good, and what I want to see,” he answers as we check out.

We ride to the market with the windows. I put my arm out the window, and feel the air, just a bit cold. He tells me he needs to get groceries too, and has been holding it off, that I’m a good incentive to buy some.

I grab a cart at the market, he picks a basket. I lose him at some point while in the produce aisle…which means I lost him practically at the door. The last moment I recall seeing him was when I was twirling a bag of parsnips to close it, just of the corner of my eye I saw him. I put the bag in my cart and he is gone. I wander around the store, trying to find him and pick up groceries off the top of my head. At the end of the store towards the registers at the freezers do I find him finally. I look incredulously at his basket full of boxes, and he looks wide eyed at my cart not full of boxes. I smile, reach into the freezer and grab a frozen dinner—bean burritos and Mexican rice—at random and toss it into my cart where it lands with a thump between the rice noodles, the package of tofu, and a bag of green plums and donut peaches. He grabs an orange on the way to the register and places it obviously into his basket.

We pay for our groceries, the frozen TV dinner and the single navel orange like beacons among our larder. It is laughable, a joke I feel. We smile, which throws the cashiers off. I can spot the orange from the register I am at; he can spot the bright red box. We are still smiling when we leave the store and load up the car.

Both the windows are down in the car when he drives back to his house. The car is filled with a mixture of cold air and smugness. Our heads nod, with big smiles, to each blast of cold air, to the music just audible over the vastness of the outside.

“You have fun?” he asks.

“Yep,” I answer.

“Me too,” he answers. We say nothing more; just stare ahead at the road.

The sun is just setting when we arrive at his house. We hurry up to the door, loaded down in bags, too proud, too lazy to make two trips. It involves a lot of juggling for him to find his keys. He flings the door open and we pour into his kitchen.

“Just put your groceries into the fridge, I’ll get the movies ready,” he says, tossing his bags into the freezer without thought.

“Okay,” I answer and opened the door. A bulging carton of milk, several dried out carry out containers of food, and an empty plate covered with crumbs greets me. I put my groceries in the fridge, leaving them in the bags. When I go to place my TV dinner in the freezer I find it filled with boxes of frozen food. I remove the orange from one his bags, sit it on the plate in the fridge and squeeze my dinner into the freezer.

He shows up in the kitchen. “Hey, you ready?”

I shut the door. “Yeah.”

“Do you want popcorn, or chips? Pretzels?” he asks.

“Only if you want some,” I answer. He reaches into a cupboard. It is filled with bags of said food, boxes of breakfast cereal, and cereal bars.

“Go make yourself comfortable, the living room is down the hall, the first door on the left is the bathroom,” he tells me, opening a bag of popcorn. “I’m going to guess homemade stuff is okay with you?”

“Sure,” I nod and slowly make my way down the hall into the living room.

His living room is quite big…compared to my living room/kitchen. There is a stereo towards the back, a big screen television at the front, one couch, and a coffee table in front of the TV set. I sit on the couch, the television screen flickers with previews. The room is dark, I feel alone. I glance at the magazines on his coffee table, a mixture of mechanics, some girly magazines, and one boat magazine. Papers, pencils, tracing papers, a ruler, and other articles are piled up in one corner. I sift through them. Measurements for new limbs, circuitry, real muscles, fake muscles, tendons, joints, material, notes, coffee stains, sweat stain grease stains, the scent of food…

He works here…

The popcorn popper goes off. It echoes into the darkness of the room. I set the papers down.

Just as the movie starts he appears with a bowl of popcorn, the room in is filled with the smell of buttery and salt.

“Wait a moment,” he states, and sets the small lavender candle down soundly on the table. He lights it and breathes it in. It flickers along with the TV set. He answers sheepishly, “Lavender is supposed to calm the nerves.”

I look at the tiny candle and scratch my chin. The light flickers and we look up at the television screen. The movie begins. He sits the popcorn between us. I grab a handful and so does he. His foot presses against mine again. We are not wearing shoes now; I feel the tendons of his ankle, the pliable veins, the bones of his feet, and the thin, soft skin.

He watches the movie sitting back into the couch; I watch the movie leaning forward. His foot remains against mine, and with the exception of both of us eating all the popcorn, not much else happens throughout the movie. The movie ends.

“You hungry?” he asks, scratching his stomach. I look at mine. It rumbles with emptiness. Popcorn is like tinder. It feeds hunger like paper feeds a fire.

“A little,” I answer.

“I’ll make some toaster pizzas for us before the next movie,” he says.

“How about I cook?” I ask. “You bought me lunch, I could make you dinner.”

“You don’t have to do that Kas,” he states as I stand up before him.

“It’s okay,” I state. “It won’t take that long and I won’t make that big of a mess.”

I dig through my bags in the fridge, and toss my ingredients onto his island. I am surprised to find he actually has seasonings in his cupboards, which he points out his mother bought for him in a spice rack for Christmas. 6 months old...

While I cook, he glances over my shoulder and does the dishes I hand him. When we are ready for the next movie, we have bowls of flavored rice and teriyaki slices of barbecued eel on the bamboo skewers to eat.

He starts the next movie, but we do not watch it.

“Kas, where did you learn to cook?” he stated, pulling a chunk of eel off of a skewer.

“I’ve always known how to cook,” I answer honestly. “I’ve cooked since I could remember. My adopted family, we didn’t have a television to keep us company. We, the children, did a lot of different things, like work in the garden and help cook the meals.”

“That explains a lot,” he responds. “My mother waited on me hand and foot. I was not even allowed to handle a potato peeler. The moment I was accepted into a college at sixteen, she threw me out of the house practically, because I was ‘an adult’, and not a ‘baby’ anymore, and then she wonders why I do we always eat takeout when she comes over and wonders why I do not use the cooking utensils she sends me for Christmas.” He shoves a mouthful of rice into his mouth. “It’s really good Kas.”

“Thank you,” I answer.

We talk. Only the flashes on the screen, the change of light in the room, the flash of colors, even tell us something is happening on screen. But we do not watch; we talk. We set the empty dishes on the coffee table. The lavender candle flickers with the reverberations. He lets out a contented belch. We look at the movie screen, I have no clue what has gone on so far, and by the look on his face he does not either. I try to decipher what has occurred in the little world. His foot presses against mine. Without the popcorn bowl between he sits close to me.

“Hey Kas,” he says softly very closely to my ear.

“Hmm?”

“Do you know what is going on?” he asks.

“Not really,” I answer.

“You want to watch something else?” he asks. “Or start it over from the beginning?”

“Maybe we can pick up what is going on if we keep watching,” I state.

He whispers softly in my ear, “Do you want to keep watching Kas?”

“Hmm? Yeah, I guess,” I say turning around to face him, somewhat confused at his questions.

Then I feel his mouth press against my own mouth.

I melt into it. It is unexpected—a deluge of warm, soapy bathwater. A welcomed unexpectedness that pulls you inward and melts you. The candle flickers orange, the screen flickers blue. The tip of his tongue rubs against mine. His hand strokes my shoulder, massaging the fabric into my pricking skin. He rolls my shirt up with his other hand, worming his hand against my skin. I cannot react immediately Blood rushes north and south. He pulls away.

My lip pulses, craving his heat.

“Do you want to Kas?” he states. I do not know why I pause to answer.

“Yes.”

He finds the remote and turns the TV off. The DVD player still runs…a rich, green light from the numbers, the red-yellow light of the candle. The player clicks, the candle crackles. They are the only “hard” sounds.

His lips touch mine. I taste his tongue; I feel his hand down my stomach. My skin pricks. I hear only the cracking of the candle, the muted swirling of the movie player, the sounds of the couch fabric as we move around, the ruffling of clothing, as I feel his two real arms with my fingers, running my fingers up and down from wrist to shoulder. And he does not deny affection for my real arm and my mechanical one, and the wet pressure and touching of our lips. He kisses me again.

Just for assurance…

He pulls away, unbuttoning his shirt.

He pulls his shirt off and is already attempting to help me pull of mine as I unbutton my pants, which jerks me around a bit, making the situation a bit difficult, and lasting much longer than it should. He leads me. He locks his mouth with mine again, his hands running up and down my chest. My arms wrap around him, as I enjoy the taste of him on my lips, and I do not wish for him to pull away. His hands feel up my spine, fingers pressing down on each individual vertebra. I lean back from the pressure and he kisses my throat, my hands pulling him close, keeping his body from leaving mine.

He kisses down my neck to my collarbone sucking a way at the bone. His hand pushes down through my jeans to my member already flushed with blood. My hand goes into his pants, craving his heat just as much if not more than my own desire. I crave the feel of him, the feel of his flesh.

My body runs my body; my mind is nothing more than a receiver of pleasure, of sight, smell, and hearing. The function of thought, of deeper thought, is gone. Even sight itself is becoming, a pinked ringed blur. The TV is muted, the lavender light is bright; it crackles upon hitting the liquid wax. His hand slides up my erect member and slides off as I move, repositioning myself. He grabs hold of me again. I find him through the stiffness of his pants, the light material of his boxers, a stiff peak. It’s easy to find. I spread the fabric of his boxers.

I feel him, he feels me. I rest my head on his shoulder; he nibbles lightly on mine. I run my hand up and down his organ. My palm can feel every essence of his form, soft skin, veins, the moisture of sweat, the smell of sweat, salt and desire. Only shivers, pricks from my own member, the softness of his palm, reminded me of me and what he was doing to me.

Near climax, we stand up and face each other. We embrace and kiss again; my hand is the one that draws the two of us together, pressing his member against mine. He sighs and pants and leans onto me, his face buried into my left shoulder. He kisses softly at my skin and the metal, pressing the flesh of his face against the warmed metal. His fingers just scratch at my right arm, my bicep, rubbing the skin before my elbow. My flesh tingles.

I press and rub both our members together, the feeling of his own organ, the silky skin covering with the odd stiffness, is more of turn to me than the feeling of a palm. Desire plus desire, energy plus energy; is our similarities together. Acid and base, water and oil, the touch is explosive. He looks down, panting. I huff. His hand just weakly touches my chest, stroking it halfheartedly—like if you are fighting someone who is tickling you, the strikes just fall short. And they are very enjoyable. Our flesh is swollen, and beads of fluid form at the heads of our flesh. His body is jerking. I feel him tremble, I feel the pulse of his heart.

Desire and desire, oil and water, stiffness and stiffness, acid and base…

Pull close…blow apart…draw…explode…

“Ah!” he exclaims.

I do not cry when I climax with him. Seed, hot and glistening in the candlelight, pours down us, down my hand. I keep pumping, my hand slick. He gives no more, there is no more from me either.

But it is not over. He presses both his hands on either side of my jaw, and pulls me to him, uniting our mouths. He pulls me to the couch. He makes me sit back onto the couch cushions and crawls on top of me. We kiss; he pulls away, kisses down my neck, down my chest, teasing each nipple with a sweaty mouth. His tongue runs circles on the flatness of my chest, my stomach, ringing around nipples, chasing my trembles over the valleys and mountains of my ribs. His saliva glistens like silver, like dew in the orange light of the candle. He kisses back up to my mouth. I feel the blood returning.

I sit up, and press a finger behind his ear, feeling the downy hair. I ease him back onto the cushions. His fingers stroke my elbows as he falls back slowly, and I pull away slowly.

“What are you going to do Kas?” he asks.

I answer with silence. It’s what he wants.

My fingers, metal and flesh, crawl over his chest like hermit crabs.

I count his ribs, I measure his sternum by running my finger down his chest. I run circles around his nipples…hardening…at my touch. I press them down, attempting to mold them into him again, I pull them up. I mold his pectoral muscles with my palms. He is my template, as I am his. He is hard again. He rubs my shoulders as I work, as I kneed his body, the skin and muscle surrounding his heart. He watches me as I watch me.

I am hard again. He sits up, his member erect through layers of clothing. He gives mine a tug and leans over to taste me, and pulls away before anything can occur. He is satisfied.

We kneel on the floor. It is darker than on the couch, the light like a halo above us. I see nothing; only touch and smell are significant now. He does not talk, I do not talk; we do not need sound either. He puts a finger to my lips, and gestures with his head what to do. He crawls past me, lying on the floor, his back to the couch. I crawl on the floor, my back to the coffee table when I lay down, facing his feet.

He embraces my legs, one arm force underneath my legs, the other over them, tightly hugging my jeans. I shove one arm underneath his legs. I feel the itchiness of the carpet, the heavy, stiff fabric of his pants. My one hand peels away his boxers again. I can smell him. I wait for his lead.

I feel him swallow me, engulfing the head of my organ in his starving mouth. His tongue rubs and wiggles against my skin. Through my jeans, I feel his head moving, rubbing against, my thighs. I hear him, muffled mmms down at my feet. He lets go, and holds my organ steady, licks around the head, licks the sensitive skin on the bottom of my shaft, then licks the skin on the top of my shaft, tracing veins with the tip of his tongue.

I lick the top of his member, running my tongue in circles around his organ, flicking my tongue over the tip. I feel the vibrations from his moan run up my member, up my spine. His head bumps against my legs. I taste his sweat and his saltiness from earlier. Now I take him in my mouth.

I feel the pleasure I give him through the moans from his mouth. I hear them, I feel them. And they make me respond, whimper and moan. My hums, my moans tremble his member. I hear his moans, the soft grunts, sucking sounds…I hear our sounds…the sounds heady, ruffling sounds of love. He moans. I hum with satisfaction.

We are lost…stuck between the coffee table and couch, lost in sounds, lost on the prickly carpet, lost in an embrace, in pants, in pleasure—mine and his, his and mine—lost in a circle, a cycle, a cycle we make, we can continue…we will continue.

I hold his organ steady as I work. I taste salt, and I feel him climax. Just as I taste his seed—straight and hot—I climax. One long moan from him tells me he knows.

I finish…he is finished, I pull away, panting. Strings of seed and saliva hang from my mouth. I wipe my mouth and linger on the floor beside him, so does he. I bathe in the dying heat and serenity, an unearthly steadiness…like lying on the floor of a haunted house...ghostly, the death after life…just memories remain. I hear the player click off. He moves a bit, I am not alone. His hand moves up, fixing and zipping up his pants. I do the same.

He sits up. I sit up. My arm and torso tingles from the carpet. We face each other. We kiss. It is nearly as dark as night…almost darker than night; I can barely make out his features in the dying light of the candle. The wax glistens like moonlight on the ocean in the dying ember of flame, when I glance over at the little bead of orange on the coffee table. He touches my jaw, I look back at him.

We kiss again. His fingers run down my lips, down my neck, down my chest stalling over my heart, just a steady beat now. His fingers remain on my chest.

I do the same, tracing his profile in the failing light of the candle. My hand rests on his beating heart…slow…slower…slower. Everything is growing still. We slowly melt and pull together, not for action, but for tranquility. He pushes me to the floor, I pull him with me. Our heads rest on a throw pillow. He snuggles beside me, into me, his head pressed into my neck. He put his arm over my arm. I feel his body slacken, sense his eyes closing. His breathing slows down, just a soft whisper, like he is speaking to me. Perhaps he is…his body and mind tell me thoughts his mouth could not.

I watch the bead of orange light up on the coffee table. It goes out with a hiss. Darkness. I feel his fingers move, feel his breath, sense his dreams. They are weighty like a blanket.

I sleep.