“Thelamein”
They were large quad copters chased by things that, at a distance, seemed as small as mosquitos. Both their bodies were ovaloid but flat on their tops, their four, winged arms holding separate sets of blades in the center of thin toruses that swiveled about. One was smoother, colored white and trimmed red with an unmistakable image of a heart on one side; the other geometric with a green-gray camo, bearing the awesome terror of weapons–that of a turret under its forward-facing cockpit and what looked to be rockets under its front wings. The closest comparison would be an Osprey fused with a drone’s form, a project of Lockheed Martin’s engineers inspired by the likes of Halo and Mass Effect.
The details of smaller drones were harder to see. They seemed like miniaturized, gray versions of the passenger crafts, flowing as a school of fish in single harmony, each glowing red like eyes shining in the dark. I counted 20 of them.
In one moment they were hovering, their muted vibrations having caught my attention from inside the top floor. Out on the balcony, they were as loud as roaring drums, distant enough that I didn’t need to plug my ears.
At the twist of their propellers, they lurched forward into a smooth glide, following some designated path toward a distant column of smoke. The smaller drones sped past them.
For a long while, I kept staring at their destination, soon hearing faint pops and cracks not unlike the discharge of weapons, the sounds of war echoing dangerously close, signaled by bright beams of light that priced the horizon. It was an unreal scene at odds with the borough’s peaceful nature, and it left me unnerved.
Only the white quadcopter returned by that afternoon. It was hard to make out the passengers, but of those that left I thought I saw two strapped to something like gurneys.
One was covered in a bag.
It was dark.
Naberoa had yet to show.
The early evening saw a light workout, just enough exertion to kill time, some basic stretches and a focus on the core, still too sore from Saevel’s ravishings for anything more. Rather than cold, mild headaches and jitteriness, now there was only a warm embrace of clarity and an adrenaline high, with a surety of what was to come.
From the embrace of a warm shower and under heated lights, indecisiveness ruled me. The choice of which scented soaps, the aches over which perfume to use–stuck between one with a minty fragrance and another smelling like cedar of dozens–, and fretting over a wardrobe was what led to it. Before, all that seemed necessary was a quick shower and a decent shirt, sweatpants, and some slippers, yet now I was acting like a school girl before prom.
It had nothing to do with what happened earlier with those quad copters. This was something else, something sillier.
Something of this night felt as though it would encapsulate the others, a climax that had yet to release, and it couldn’t be wasted. Some part of me knew that every touch, brush, and press will be had; that every kiss, nibble, and suckle will be given; that every push and pull, she will share in kind.
Nabe had left such an impression, and I knew it was more than our morning passion. It is the way she carries herself, her composure, and the utter confidence in her dress and body, that gorgeous, sexy, fit form of hers. It is all despite that she is the embodiment of my imprisonment, and I was willing to suffer Stockholm Syndrome to feel her touch.
After an hour of experimenting, it was a snow white turtleneck and near-form-fitting, gray shorts that I decided on, wearing black knee-high socks without slippers or shoes. My hair had been brushed enough to banish stray strands, wavy along its length, falling over my ears and behind my shoulders. A reserved amount of that minty perfume was used with a liberal amount of aloe-like skin moisturizer. My past dude-self wouldn’t allow for any more cosmetics, the idea of eyeliner and lipstick uncomfortable despite my uncomfortable resurrection and change. It came from a part of me that seemed central to my identity.
What. The. Fuck. Am I doing?
I wasn’t even certain if what I had done would make me more attractive. Hell, the process left me completely nerve wrecked, as though I sacrificed manly dignity to indulge in a lady-like pursuit. It was an annihilation of my frame.
Only gay guys and women do this, right?
It was the glances in the mirror and a vision of the end result that kept me going, in a way disassociating from Thelamein. This was dress-up for my, and for their, amusement. Thelamein is a woman in all but her biological sex, if being loyieda meant not being male. Taylor is not, but he is not in front of the mirror.
If I had a second opinion…
Preparations were made, setting aside blankets in an area of the living room, several containers of a lube-like gel (something the girls and I use) tucked away in convenient shelves and surfaces, spare pillows and blankets in the bedroom and living room, anything that would set my mind at ease.
And then I waited.
And waited…
The seconds gave way to minutes, minutes crumbling to an hour, accompanied by Gmoie and her blue glow past tinted glass. I thought to pass the time with the gifted book, instead lazing within the living room’s confines, having snacked on the restocked fruit bowl and some of things from the pantry. There was too much pent up heat.
Another 10 minutes, and there was still no sign.
Maybe she forgot?
Another 10 minutes, and my heart was beginning to wither.
It’s just like at Vinarius…
Part of me wished I had a phone, something to check for the time, or for a message.
Another 10 minutes, and there was a chime.
Twisting about, I witnessed the entrance’s white pad flash green. The double set door parted, and I was on my feet.
“Naberoa?”
She stepped past the threshold, holding a small, stylish black purse, her gait reserved but elegant, and when she caught sight of me there was a sudden, subtle tenseness with her eyes widening (if faintly), maybe of apprehension or surprise.
With a slow pace, my steps felt pronounced on the mat and stone floor as I rounded the sofa, each thud vibrating in flesh and bone, each in rhythm to a beating heart.
Beating and beating.
For a moment, Naberoa breaks her gaze, setting her bag on the countertop, her white overlapping coat radiating in a fairy-like gleam, a hidden silver sheen revealed in the instant. Her legs were bare past the hem, from thigh to calf and manicured toes–fair skin rolling over smooth muscles and tendons with grace–, wearing high heels black as her hair, strapped around her ankles and the bridges of her feet.
It felt as though I should have uttered for her, but it was something with the golden-orange eyes, something with the eyeliner and red lipstick, something with the freshness of soft skin that silenced me. The makeup was more pronounced, her expression softer, and it drew me in, enchanting me through that composed look that she never lost, the kind a woman wears when utterly sure of herself. Our silence spoke more than words could.
With our eyes still drawn, she unbuttons the coat, stripping it away with ease and tossing it onto the couch. It was underneath that she wore nothing but something like lingerie, a black colored two piece that left much less to suggestion, its patterns swirling and flowing, made of something elastic and form-fitting. My heart thundered as my core began searing, a deep pressure building and building.
She looks down to my bulging pants, then to my large chest, stepping closer, close enough that I could feel her hot breath. “Egala [shirt].”
I didn’t quite understand. “[Yes?]”
“[Take it off.]”
I must have been too slow, for she started lifting the hem of my top, managing past my midriff before I took over, her nails scraping my sides, sending a shudder along my spin. The turtle neck was tossed over her coat, the piece draping lazily.
Snaking arms around my neck and waist, just as mine slid around and below her silky-covered rear, we tease along our curves, massaging and caressing as we search. Her hands travel up, she pulls me down, and I lift her to her tip toes. We press in, my groin and breasts pressing to her midriff and collar.
Our lips meet, our tongues dance, our essences mix, the taste of mint and lavender invading our senses. It was the passion we had this morning, a sliding ride that fused us, leaving me hazy, against the soreness and cut on my lip.
We squeeze, we pull, we search, I moan. I tugged her leg up, exploring her thigh, rubbing that smooth, unblemished skin and hidden sluices, feeling something more than just muscle and tendons, something much more dense, and it made me curious.
A hand brushes my arm aside, away from her thigh. Between kisses, she husks, “Lis die [down].”
Letting Nabe slide, my hands and nails dug into the channel of her spine, eliciting her first, deep moan, a plea which almost made me lose self restraint.
In fluid grace, with surprising strength, she lifts me, hands and nails gripping tightly to my thighs as I straddle her waist, my lower legs crossing behind her as I lurch in. With my breasts smothering her, she digs herself in, lips and tongue dipping into my cleavage and collar.
My arms snake around her neck and shoulders, the brush of her silky, midnight hair sending warmth through me, feeling some sort of plate at the back of her head, where her neck joins.
Odd.
Straining, she carries us to the sofa, sinfully assaulting me, wet, hot lips and a tongue cherishing my endowment, spurring my mind into a sparkling haze, bringing me into an arch, a feeling rich with the excesses of vice.
“Yeah… [Yes… more…]” I breathed.
There was no oblige, and in a sudden drop Nabe had me on the sofa, forcing us apart, pushing me back so that I rested firmly on its cushions, and as she peels herself away, her hands slide up and along my legs and rear, to the hem of my shorts, now tight and wet in a certain spot, undoing its buttons.
With them loose, I lift my hips, and she pulls the article freely, caught briefly by one of the knee-high socks, sliding off my legs and tickling my feet, and with it she throws it aside. The moment the first button came undone had my cock slipped free, its warmth radiating in the cool air, the tip glistening with precum, fully erect, reaching to my sternum.
Kneeling she stares, her eyes trailing along its length, smeared lips parting as she takes a breath, hands brushing her wonderful hair back, her composure shifting, the sight heating my core.
“[Lube… there,]” I point to a nearby night stand on its second second surface.
She leans over, grabbing the glass jar, setting it beside us. Standing, she straddles me, knees touching my thighs, sitting on my lap, my rod between us. My hands reach for her waist, just as she cups my chin. We resume our heated makeout.
Every passing second, I feel my core pulse, my rod throb, my tip’s fluids coating us. Nabe melts further and further in, her hands sliding along my arms and my back, her possessive desire fueled by hidden strength as I constrict her lower back into me, crushing us in a gentle squeeze. We endure, in this eternal moment, without care of time or decency, wanting nothing more than this and more, what we’ve always wanted since our eyes first met, cyan to golden-orange irises.
At some point, I notice her hips start to move, her base undulating into mine, the lingerie wet and radiating a fire. I lurch in, my tongue reaching deeper, hers doing the same, and that lower rhythm intensifies.
She breaks away, both of us shaky and out of breath, our eyes half lidded.
I forgot my Vinlis. “I want you.”
Suddenly, she snaps forward, and there’s a harsh pinch on my lower lip where the cut is. I recoil back, grunting in pain and tasting copper.
Pulling back, I notice blood coating her lips. Before she could let me speak, she rasped close to my ear, “Dylor [me.]”
I lick my lips, feeling pain flare, stilling with uncertainty.
Nabe leans back slightly. “[Bite] de mayafy.”
It was in hesitation that I leaned in, shaky with my breath, first kissing, then biting her lower lip. I didn’t want to hurt her, and neither did I want to deny her. It felt wanton in the most honest way.
With sudden force, she grunts, and I taste something unique, not copper but something heavier, heavier than iron and potent, stronger than the lipstick, spreading fast and encompassing copper, mint, and lavender. Guilt takes me as I suckle the cut as though trying to nurse a deep wound, instead feasting on her life force as if it were my own, against the pain of my reopened wound. It was unrestrained, my core becoming molten.
She pulls back again, and I see shades of deep and light reds coat her lip. “[Now, I am yours,]” she husks as her hips grind harder.