this story should be read while listening
to `Lorelei' by the Cocteau Twins.
There is a knock at the front door. I rush to open it, because
I know who it will be... you stand there, with an overnight bag
full of Reeboks slung over your shoulder and the weary expression
of the seasoned bus-traveler draped over your features. You rush
into my arms, almost knocking me over, and as we kiss, I murmur,
`Oh Mark... I'm so relieved that you're here...' and, for a
while after that, there is no need for words.
Somewhat later, we are sitting cross-legged under the huge
dining-room table, trying to reduce my parents' liquor supply to
`Would you like some more Kahlua in that milk?' I ask, holding
up the bottle (which is still half-full).
`You're trying to get me drunk, aren't you?' You smile as I top
up the tall glass until the fluid is the colour of dark swiss
chocolate. I force it to your lips.
`Come on, skull it, SKULL IT!' after a brief struggle with only
about a tablespoon's-worth of liqueur spilled, your blood-alcohol
level is quite above .05. As you sway backwards to lie on the
floor, I trace patterns in the fluid running down your cheek. You
grasp my hand, stroke my finger with your tongue, and then gently
draw my finger into your mouth. Before this can go much further,
I withdraw, and playfully nudge your shoulder.
`Come on, there's a more private place down the road from here.'
your arm snakes around my waist and you drag me closer, down next
to you. You breathe a heartfelt sigh, and murmur,
`Kelanie, if we don't do it in the next ten minutes, I'm gonna
It's just past one a.m., and we are at the tram-stop, waiting
for what passes for light rail in Adelaide.
`Yes, we could have taken my father's car, but my feet don't
reach the pedals, and you are pissed.' I explain. `Anyway, here
comes the tram.' Yes, it was old ninety-seven, the only tram in
Adelaide (and possibly the only tram in the world) run by the
undead. The driver's skull, covered with thin tatters of rotting
flesh, peers out over the large round light on the front of the
tram. I could just see glinting, metallic green lights in his
eye-sockets. We climb on board, and have no trouble finding a
seat, as the only other passengers are strung up by their feet
from the hand-straps, concerned with decomposing. The conductor
would ordinarily have been by to collect our fares, but he seems
to have rotted away completely... there is nothing left of him
but a pile of mouldering slime with bare white bones poking out
at odd angles. You glance about in mild surprise, and say,
`I had always heard that Adelaide was dead on weekends...'
The tram passes some residential areas, with crowds of people
happily engaged in burning suspected witches (or other
malcontents) at the stake. At the shopping centre, there are
five blackened figures tied to a large lamp-post, blazing away
above a stack of tyres. A maypole-chain of little children are
dancing around the fire at a safe distance, singing in
beautifully clear soprano:
`Amor est magis
cognituus quam cognito...'
A line of monks trail past, murmuring:
`Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam...'
The tram is now out of the residential area and into the light
industrial zone. We pass a number of factories; dark, satanic
mills which belch smoke in a truly Dickensian fashion, before we
come to a slight hill, where the tram slows down.
`We'll have to jump off here, Mark, 'cos the tram doesn't stop,'
I caution you, `so get ready.' As we jump to the ground, I
imagine that I hear the conductor mutter the mystical word,
We run from shadow to shadow down the darkened street, giggling
like six-year-olds, and you catch up to me, grab my hands and
hold them outstretched (this isn't fair - your arms are longer
than mine!), pinioning me against a cyclone netting fence. Your
lips seek out mine, and they make contact again. You hold me
there for almost a minute, only pausing to catch your breath,
which gives me an opportunity to gasp,
`We're here, Mark.' You look around, and smile.
`You want to do it in the street? That's more private?' I jerk
my thumb towards the factory behind me.
`Barnstable's Mattress Factory.' I extract one hand from your
grasp and fish a small pair of wire-cutters from my purse-pouch.
I lead you around the fence until we reach the point closest to
the warehouse. We hide behind a tree until the security robot
stamps past (it's sort of like ED-209 with teeth), and then I
snip a small hole in the fence, near the ground.
`That won't be detected until the maintenance crew inspect it,
which happens once a week. Like, next Thursday.' I get down on
my hands and knees, drop to my belly and wiggle through. Standing
on the other side, our fingers touching through the mesh, I
whisper, `Come on.'
`You've done this before, haven't you?'
`I lived in this warehouse for two months, after Raf's squat
burned down... come on, the guard will be back in eighty
seconds!' You crawl through the narrow gap, and follow me over
to a fire-escape at the side of the building. You follow me up
the rusty ladder, and when I pause at the top to make sure the
coast is clear, you climb further until you can rest your cheek
on my thigh, with an arm wrapped tightly around my legs.
`Mark... I'll warn you once: if you bite my bum out here, you
will sincerely regret it. Come on, there's a gap in the skylight
up here in the corner.'
You trace a frivolous skull-and-crossbones pattern in the dust
and grime that coats the glass paneling, and then we wipe it away
and peer through.
`I can't see anything down there... are you sure?' I smile
sweetly back at you, and work the loose panel open.
`No.' then I step through the gap and drop in.
`KELY!' you shout. There is a soft thump, far below.
`Shhhh! Come on, you're right above it, just step through the
skylight, and try to land on your bum.' It is a testimony to
your trust in me that you do so with only a moment's hesitation,
and you land on the top of a fifteen-foot tall stack of
mattresses, next to me.
`Yes, isn't it? We all used to sleep up here - Mark, stop that,
we'll fall off - Mark, I'm not kidding; it's very - mmmmff
wwffwf-' and, once again, I am impressed by your skill in
silencing me by the most direct method available. While your
kiss presses me back into the mattresses, your hands slip up
under my windcheater to cup my breasts. I can feel your erection
pushing against my thigh, and so I return the gesture, bringing
my knee up between your legs, while my hands claw your back
involuntarily. As you tweak my nipples (again, there is little
margin between pleasure and pain), I feel your hands begin to
move hesitantly, and as you wriggle your hips, I understand your
dilemma, and giggle,
`You'll have to let go of me to get your pants off!' and so we
release each other, and while still joined in what is proving to
be one of the most erotically stimulating kisses that I have ever
been involved in, you fumble with the brass stud on my jeans,
taking the time to trace a smiling face in the tingling area
around my belly button with your index finger. I use one foot to
lever off my sneakers, and in doing so, apply pressure (with my
knee) to your erection, which grows impressively. You moan,
`Oh Kel, stop that, I'm going to come in my pants!' You hug me
tightly, and I throw my head back, gasping, as you sink your
teeth into my throat. With my jeans somewhere around my knees,
you claw frantically at my panties, and then you slowly,
teasingly, insinuate your middle finger into my slick wetness,
your palm flat against my pubis. You take both my hands in your
free hand, holding them above my head, teasing my collarbone with
your tongue, slowly forcing my legs as far apart as the tangled
jeans (which are now around my ankles) will allow, with your
knees. I can hardly move as you slip two, three, and then four
fingers into me, stroking the outer lips; as you slowly propel me
towards the focal point of ecstasy, my gasps become hoarse,
gutteral cries which you smother with another deep kiss. I am
almost there when you withdraw your hand, and being left hovering
on the edge is exquisite pain, which you can sense in my
trembling body. You trace tear-tracks from the corners of my
eyes, down my cheeks, with a finger, fragrant with my fluids.
Just you wait, Mark, I think.
Before I can give vent to a scream of frustration, you bring
your erection towards me, gently inserting the head, teasing
again, and then (finally!) you slide in to me. We both shudder
in unadulterated pleasure as you bury yourself in me to the hilt,
giving a playful twitch of your hips towards the end of the
stroke. We lie there, intermeshed, as close together as it is
possible to be... I caress your shaft with tiny contractions, and
you stir within me with a pulsing movement that makes me draw
short ecstatic breaths through gritted teeth. I manage to kick
my jeans off completely, and you begin to withdraw, only slightly
impeded by my legs wrapped tightly around your waist. For a
moment, I am suspended there, while you kneel with me clutching
desperately to stay with you... but gravity defeats me and I
slowly slide down your shaft, gradually coming to rest with the
swollen head of your penis clasped in me. You pause there, and
with my mouth, I can feel a smile on yours as you wait.
`Mark... stop teasing!' I have to punch you on the shoulder
before you begin the next stroke, sliding in with a smooth
mechanical motion, with that twitch of the hips at the end of the
path that makes me want to cry out. You withdraw, and your next
stroke is even slower than the previous. I can feel the
trembling of an orgasm building, like the intimations of an
earthquake that only the most esoterically sensitive can
perceive. You begin a slow, steady rhythm, lifting me off the
mattress with each withdrawal, forcing a gasp from me with each
insertion. I begin to add to the sensation by squeezing down on
you as you slide out; I can tell that it affects you, as your
timing becomes more erratic as you approach orgasm. I feel a
rush of warmth below my belly, which shoots up my middle and
knocks my breath from me. I throw my head back as you shudder,
plunging in as far as you can, my legs squeezing your hips as you
come. As you lie there with your erection pulsing within me, I
feel as if I am balanced on the edge of a very tall building...
you give a final thrust and push me over the edge, and I scream
in pleasure as I follow you into orgasm.
The sound echoes around the empty warehouse, gradually dampened
by the mattresses... and then, we hear the pneumatic hiss of
pistons outside, as the robot guard approaches. We both gasp and
fall silent, not daring even to move. The corrugated iron door
rolls up with a clatter, and bright white light spills in from
the end of the warehouse. Perched up on this stack of
mattresses, I don't think we can be seen... the hiss, clank,
hiss, clank sound approaches... and then, I feel an after-orgasm
building in me. I whimper, and you force your lips over mine in
desperation, holding me very still. The machine is standing at
the end of the stack of mattresses... its search-lights play over
the roof, just missing the open skylight where we entered. My
legs contract sharply around you as I come again, only barely
managing to subliminate my squeal into a high-pitched `mmnn'
sound. For a terrible moment, I think that the machine has
sensed the sound of the mattresses creaking as I came; then, it
turns and stamps off. We wait until it has shut the roller-doors
again before we dare to breathe once more.
We lie there, utterly exhausted, breathing into each other's
ears, still intertwined. You give a short chuckle of relief.
`That was very close, very close indeed, Miss Camden.'
`Oh, Mark... tomorrow night...'
`There's this American Military Base not far from here - '
This file is Copyright (c) Nikolai Kingsley, 1995. Unlimited
electronic reproduction and one hard-copy per user is permitted, for
non-profit use, providing that this notice is left intact.
hail eris - Fnord - all hail discordia - 93 - oops, that's my banana