Even through the dark tinted glass, the light of an early dawn had awakened me, illuminating distant hills and the forest in light blues. I wanted to feel nothing, to shudder under silk blankets, to be forgotten, yet habit would have me in the usual routine.
There was also the fact that I was starving and hard with morning wood.
Gingerly placing feet on the warm stone floor, limping toward the bathroom, I dragged myself to that monolith of a shower. The pain from yesterday seemed to have abated, feeling as though my ankle had hundreds of pinpricks rather than a constriction around tendons and tender bones, my hand feeling numb than a sting. Before stepping in, I discarded my garments and the linen wrapping, and the bandaging around my injuries, tossing it on one of the bathroom’s counter tops.
The hand itself had a long cut that ran from the wrist and along the pinky finger, now having clotted, the skin shriveled as though submerged in a hot tub. It seemed healed enough for a shower.
Using the shower was less straightforward than yesterday. Having stared at the display for a moment, I pressed one of the buttons. Rather than a torrent of cold water, a heavy hot mist fell. Huh…
With enough experimentation, I managed to repeat yesterday’s feat, my mind easing and the stresses of yesterday fading. Somehow, my boner persisted.
I had in mind to see what the tower had to offer, but not before addressing my hunger.
After redressing my hand (with bandaging found in the bathroom’s cabinets), yesterday's clothes and the pajamas had been discarded in a nearby hamper, one I assume for dirty laundry. A pair of large boxers with baggy, white pants and long sleeved, blue, loose v-neck shirt had done the job of covering me better than a quarter of the wardrobe present. Wearing cotton-like socks, I made sure to find a pair of shoes that wouldn’t fall off the moment I hopped another fence. It felt odd to use what was a stranger's property, even with Nabe’s implicit permission. Seeing as I had no option, there was no guilt.
Not even the fact that it was tailored made for someone with a large endowment fazed me, at least not in the moment.
From the fruit bowl, its contents new, and with a found knife from one of the kitchen’s drawers, one of those red not-avocados, something long like a banana deprived of oxygen, the palm-leaf-like thing, and an orange–a plain, normal looking, orange–were partitioned to bite size. That orange was the strangest sight, that in my alien surroundings this was one thing which is the most familiar, and it was the first thing I consumed. It was the best tasting fruit I ever had
After consuming two other pieces of fruit, I searched through one of the walk-in pantries. Ceramic jars lined the top shelves filled with things best left dry, below what looked like loaves of bread wrapped in waxy, see-through cloth. Grabbing a small loaf, I brought it to my cutting board, unwrapping to see it dark-brown and sprinkled with seeds, something that felt hard and shaped like sourdough. The taste of the slices were coarse and dense yet had honey and ginger, and I enjoyed the thought of what salted butter would do. Three slices were consumed, and I couldn’t eat more.
Much of what I had seen that first night remained the same: the top floor a suite of 4 bedrooms (not counting the master), one with a large queen-sized bed, and three full-sized, each with their own walk-in wardrobes of plain linen and cloth clothes; a rec room of what had to be the largest bonsai tree before a curved sofa that you could recline on, that which faced a large, flat screen affixed to a shale stone wall, a bar and something like a pool table on either side. Another room, what I had thought was a gym, was a study. The rug at its center looked to be an overly large yoga mat, and at the side a large desk with bookshelves embedded in a curved, also shale stone wall, and on this shelf rested many hard-covered books.
At the center of all of this, the dining area with the overly large kitchen and living room–its own large sofa before a fireplace below another TV(?), and at an isolated corner of filled bookshelves–dominated all else, drawing you in if you were ever lost.
Despite being familiar to a penthouse, it was overwhelming as it was welcoming. Like the buildings outside, it has this organic architecture centered around smooth concrete, the furniture likewise round and without much geometry. My appreciation of its craft was overshadowed by an outsider syndrome, as though there is a history that any visitor is not privy to. It could be sensed, with enough scrutiny, that everything was aged as a family’s 1920s oak table.
There is the balcony, accessible by the three exits, not counting the main one beside the kitchen. The platform was of a coarse-surfaced stone with metal railings, an ovaloid that ran almost the full circumference of the abode’s top floor, exposed to the outside and covered by an overhang. With its lounge chairs and tables, and the T-shirt-worthy weather, one would be tempted to stay, content to gaze at the semi-urban landscape below and the nature beyond.
Taking stairs to a smaller balcony below, through a full sized window one of the second floor’s rooms had been revealed to me: a gym of strange equipment and matting, three times as big as the master bedroom, colored by dark wood flooring and walls of the same grey shale rock that gave it a naturalistic look. Past the glass door, it felt as similar to any home gym, smelling metallic and fresh of cleaning agents, warmly lit by hanging lights but cold enough for most exertions. Another studio, half as large but empty, seemed made for martial arts or yoga with its padded flooring, and beside both a large bathroom adjoined to an egg-shaped sauna, each linked to a center hallway with a guest bedroom and the stairway at its end.
The next floor below had half of it dedicated to storage of both durable and perishable things, and of strange utilities with pipes and wires running along its walls and ceiling in a highly organized, complex manner. Machines of flashing green and red lights as tall as the refrigerator, in one room, were locked behind thick glass and stone walls that couldn’t be accessed (not by me, at least), beside it wall-mounted monitors arrayed over a cubicle beside a waist-high window. These rooms were the very definition of a refined industrial design, practical in most senses, smelling sterilized and dusty, feeling cold, but never losing the neo-futuristic look, a contrast to a neighboring guest room and kitchenette which adopted the look of the above rooms. Its balcony was the smallest of the floors and was there only for the guests’ benefit, yet it was accessed easily enough from the wide, outside stairs that wrapped around the tower like a ribbon. It is this floor that I feel is the most familiar.
Strange, it’s like the server rooms at my old office.
Further down the stairs revealed just how tall and imposing the ‘ground floor’ was for it is the tallest and most open. Along the stairs, I limped around 7 pillars of carved stone (or concrete?), arching high to the base of the floor above, curving and leaning around like the twist of licorice, surrounding what looked to be a swimming pool that flooded past 3 of them. The only ‘room’ was the lobby, where I had run through yesterday, having the same elevator and stairs. It felt like being in an open-air cathedral that received too many donations.
For a long while, I wondered about the walled grounds. Much of it was a garden of wildly thorny and viney plants colored in an array of greens and indigos, trees with branches that curled like central coast ferns, bark dark as ink with leaves unfurling along its straight length. The scents were pleasant as they were strong, mildewy and vanilla, minty but laced in iron, burnt peanut butter but mixed with Doctor Pepper. Paths of flagstone and concrete branched here and there, winding and curving through the few pavilions–one housing what had to be a hot tub–and patios. It was a strange mutation of Mediterranean and tropical landscaping, all combined with that organic architecture, all of it familiar and not.
Ghostly seemed an appropriate description, given that I was the only one that wandered it.
No, that wasn’t entirely true.
Nabe might have been right to have posted guards, for pairs of them were at each of the 4 gates. In hindsight, it was naive of me to think that freedom of the grounds meant freedom from house arrest.
Curiously, all of them were female, half with that similar, red colored hair, the other half either white or black.
As I had passed one gate, one of the white ones gave me a strange look, like one for someone that you recognize, the woman and I briefly exchanging awkward waves. She looks… almost like me, yet her eyes are red…
The more I kept seeing the striking hair and eye colors, the less certain I was that dye and contacts were being used. One purpled-haired, pink eyed girl may raise an eyebrow, but seeing multiple with the same traits? If this was some offshoot of humanity, they either had strange genetics or cultural tastes.
It probably is hair dye and contact lenses.
Also, where the hell are the dudes? Not one of the many pedestrians I had seen (today or yesterday) looked male, aside one looking androgynous. It was like I was in some strictly female-only colony, a very strange place that reminded me of one from The Time Machine.
I began to notice other things as well, or the lack thereof. No spaceships, flying cars, a hovercraft, or even a normal car. This was either the most rural settlement of 30,000, or these people simply chose to live minimalistic.
Maybe they’re invisible? I’m definitely missing something.
As I rounded the perimeter, observing the greenery and stone works, I came upon that wide front gate, and I would have kept going had I not caught sight of a peculiar, young woman. Long is her wavy blue hair under a wide brimmed hat, her dress an indigo with blue strips, beside her a child of white hair. Both were confronted by two of the guards with harsh sounding words exchanged between them. Part of me felt compelled to approach.
In the next moment, our eyes met, hers of desperation and recognition, and she stopped conversing with them. The plea from her was almost desperate, nonverbal as it was helpless.
All I could do was act dumbfounded.
For that moment we kept staring until one of the red-headed guards pushed her away. Hobbling past, I averted my gaze.
The rest of that day was essentially a long, frustrating study.
With nothing to do, no one to talk to, not even a video game to play, I took to experimenting with the living room TV, which I found is just a larger computer with its own keyboard and mouse.
Fortunately, the peripherals were intuitive enough to handle, save that each of the keys’ letters and symbols still appeared foreign even if vaguely familiar. Turning it on proved tricky as both the ‘TV’s’ screen and box had to be handled manually. (There might have been a way to do it remotely, but I couldn’t figure that out.)
The thing started blasting some kind of pop music, displaying an app with a layout far different than Spotify’s, that at the top right of the display an image of a trio of girls–one of hot-rod pink hair, one a deep burgundy, and the other chocolatey brown–rose over various settings, with various other albums (or songs?) arrayed as musical icons on the left side. It was enjoyable at first, the catchy tunes sounding like a harmonious collection of electric violins and guitars to the beat of drums, all tied together by vocals that either belong in opera or k-pop.
After the second hour of listening and toying with the ‘TV,’ I shut off the thing. There is only so much repetitiveness I could take.
The rest of that afternoon was spent browsing several books that couldn’t be read, feasting on more fruit and leftovers, and simply gazing at the surrounding town… or ‘borough,’ the landscape appearing nightmarish under stormy weather in evening light, as though facing an oncoming squall in the jungles of Chile. Girls and women milled about, finishing some chore or job before they went indoors, and it would have been fascinating to watch had I not been distracted.
I found myself thinking of yesterday’s conversation, what it meant for me. The idea of being a literal motherfucker had its appeal, yet if the pickup artistry world was anything to go off of, it eventually led you to too much drama or being very lonely, neither of which appealed to me. It couldn’t be helped but thought that the women here are no different to those from memory, from those on Earth, for they looked, acted, and sounded almost the same… except for being prettier, beautiful even. It felt jarring that they, from what Nabe shared, would simply view me as some sort of prized breeding stud. Are they that uninterested in romance? Did they see me as just another valuable slave and nothing else?
My rod pulsed with heat and pressed against my pants at the thought. The thing had remained flaccid for part of the morning and most of the afternoon, a difficult feat since it felt as though I was going through puberty again.
Not now, boner.
Nabe had mentioned I could find ‘companionship,’ but what did that mean? It seemed like it was a contradiction to me being a pump-and-dumper. That couldn’t be the case with how Syvis and Nushala behaved on our first night. Was that kind of affection normal? Why bother with that if they just wanted to get pregnant?
It’s for their pleasure, a cynical part of me thought, role play or simply to make you feel comfortable.
… No, that doesn’t add up. Something is there.
It was difficult to see, but in the street below, I caught sight of something interesting.
Two girls rushed down an avenue, hand in hand, their dark silhouettes masking their features. Every ounce of my focus was on them the moment one had pushed the other into a nearby alley, conveniently out of sight where no one could see them, the other pressing herself against their ‘assailant.’
Oooh… hello~
they began kissing, the passion morphing into a makeout, hands snaking around and inside their clothing, caressing and molesting arms and privates. The faintest moans could be heard from the balcony, possibly from one of them fingering the other, their legs doing interesting things. They were so blatant, so animalistic about it, that the suddenness of their ravishing reinforced its shock value.
The pressure in my pants grew tighter by the second, and it suddenly proved too much when, strolling languidly from that same avenue, a third woman, just as attractive as them, joined in, forcing herself upon the ‘assailant,’ hands snaking around her neck and thigh. I thought I saw the other remove a shirt.
Holy shit!
I retreated back inside, racing back toward the master bedroom with as much speed as my limp would carry me. Lights turned on the moment I had entered, and almost as quickly I had begun stripping my pants and boxers off. There was only one way I could relieve the heat in my core, a heat that proved too demanding.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, hands around my exposed erection, I stopped myself. You dirty bastard… bitch, use the bathtub!
Standing up, with a surety in my step, I passed the receding glass door to the bathroom, tossing the shirt aside. I was once again naked, and just before passing the full body mirror I stopped to view myself, witnessing that gorgeous body, ass, and bust doing wonders to my imagination. The intense heat within rose two-fold.
Part of me felt strange by the sight, still put off that I was someone else. It felt wrong to ogle her… myself like this.
So much for discipline…
Both of my hands began on my shoulders, trailing down my collar and toward that perfect endowment, each groping a melon to my sweet moans. Fuck… they’re sensitive.
One hand continued downward, brushing through the channel between my breasts, gliding along that not-so flat mid-riff, it found the base of the shaft. With a sudden rush, the entire palm reached toward the tip, gently messaging and squeezing for its wet essence, spreading and pressing it along the entire length, much to my pleasure and to the pain from the laceration on my hand.
I looked back to the reflection, gazing deep into those glacial eyes, admiring her perfect jaw and shapely cheeks, the narrow brows and marble hair, traits of someone that was beyond stripper hot, and I still found it hard to accept that I am her.
Was it narcissism or confidence that I found myself sexy? Was this crazy or sane to be ok with this? Was it gay or straight to be turned on by a dickgirl?
There’s time for philosophical debate later, I told myself.
Precum kept leaking from the tip as I felt myself edge closer, the hand on my rod messaging at a faster pace. I slowly stepped away from that mirror, already bemoaning the loss of the reflection, stepping into that large, concrete bathtub and resting in one of its built-in recliners. Adjusting so that I rested leaning up, one hand grasping the long, pulsating, firm sex, slowly and smoothly moving up and down, the pace escalating just right; the other continuing to grope my left breast.
My thoughts trailed to Syvis, how we merged as her channel constricted around my rod, those dazzling eyes staring into mine, her boobs pressing into me; then to Nushala, who pushed herself unto me, how she moved and pressed around my cock, how her passionate kisses fueled my lust, and how she imprinted her fairer charm unto me. The grunts and moans I felt in those moments left my lips, my hips lifting slightly as I came closer.
And closer…
The movement soon mimicked that of what I had felt the night before, but it was a far cry from the actual experience. Vivid was my imagination, and from it I could feel their hot breaths and warm lips, our burning cores churning with each bounce, the smell and taste of cedar and something sweet from Syvis and Nushala. I let those senses fill me, fill me as I had filled them.
The dam broke once more.
A long moan left me, the feeling of fire from within racing along my shaft in an instant. Cum left my tip in spurts as it arc in the air and drenched me and the bathtub with the smell of pine, each cascade preceded by an intense pulse along my whole sex. The moment seemed to slow itself, seconds becoming minutes as I basked in the high of it, letting my singing voice carry the flow into eternity.
In the next instant, it stopped.
Heavy was the air as my lungs consumed. It felt as though I ran a marathon, the high and ecstasy guiding me through the gasps, the bliss, a sweet aftertaste of a pink cocktail. There was no rational shame.
Only the feeling of loneliness…