It's Always Time Act 06 Ch. 01

Act Six: Second Helpings

* * * *

Intermezzi

Tomoe Exposition walks into the sterile white plane. The click-clacking of her heels echoes. Soon she finds a worn, maroon leather recliner chair next to a counterfeit Tiffany floor lamp. "Wow. A Matrix reference. Why am I not surprised."

She sits in the lounger, taking care to cross her legs and smooth her black miniskirt. The chair faces the frame. She looks out at you, her dark eyes merry, her smile inscrutable. "Oh, hey! Long time no see." She scoots back into the chair, the leather scrunching. "Sorry for this hokey Fourth Wall routine, but Oblimo asked me to say a few words. Me, I don't think they need to be said." She folds her arms across her blouse. "He's a bit of a wuss when it comes to new things. Besides, if you've read this far, you probably know what's coming. Oblimo lets me read the roughs, so I definitely know what's coming, at least as much as he does, which—granted—isn't always that much. Sometimes, the inspiration fairy takes its time when taking a dump."

Tomoe plops her hands onto the armrests, and sighs. "Okay. Here's the deal: Yves' getting some in this chapter. More than some. If you ask me, it's about damn time. Yaoi is my second favorite thing to watch while I whack off, next to futa of course. That's 'homoerotica' and 'dickgirl' porn, respectively, in case there are any noobs out there." She reaches her right hand down and pulls a wooden handle. The back of the chair reclines and the footrest pops up.

She props herself up on her elbows to look out at you again. "This chapter features a ton of hardcore yaoi-futa fucking. Me, I'm in hog heaven. For some reason, Oblimo wanted you to know ahead of time. I'm sure there's more he wanted me to say." Tomoe bends forward and wrestles with the zipper on the back of her miniskirt for a while. "But I don't give a damn. If watching SB and Yves doesn't turn you on, that's your business." She wriggles her lithe, olive-skinned legs and kicks off the skirt. It drops to the nominal floor. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gunna get down to business."

The frantic fingers of her right hand squirm into the crotch of her rosy silk panties just as her left hand reaches up and switches off the lamp.

"Get writing, big guy."

* * * *

Chapter One: Come Easy

Yellow and black warning stripes marked a hairpin left turn few hundred yards up the road. Yves downshifted. The Aston Martin decelerated to a more comfortable speed, the speedometer dipping below the 100 MPH mark. The engine's revving modulated into a throaty feminine voice, "Trust the tranny, Yves."

"Just testing the clutch," Yves said, applying enough gas to keep the car humming at eighty miles per hour. He eyeballed the upcoming left-hand turn. The thick backwoods tree line afforded little room for error. About one hundred sixty degrees at the steepest, he judged. "You're tail happy, SB."

The muffler snorted. "You accusing me of skirt-chasing, or oversteer? I deny neither." The turn hurtled closer. "You want me to handle this one, yaoi-boy? Remember what happened last time."

"Nah." Yves kicked the clutch, spinning the steering wheel hand-over-hand to the right, shocking the powertrain. The Aston Martin lost its balance, rear wheels slipping wide, threatening to fishtail. Yves pumped the clutch pedal, teasing the flywheel, his foot angled to punch the gas and brake. The rose supercar's spin-out became a tight, controlled drift. Yves floated through the hairpin, accelerating out of the turn in a smooth upshift and an earsplitting squeal of rubber burning against asphalt. "I've got it."

The Aston Martin zoomed up the straightway, engine purring but nonverbal. Yves waggled the gearbox stick. "I thought you had a dry clutch, SB." He arched a brow. "Now it feels all wet."

"Wuh," the engine gulped. "Wow. So, uh, does this make us even? You know, for last time?"

"You mean when you reprofiled your camshaft without telling me?"

"Not my fault. You, ah, really know your way around a stick." SB's embarrassed mumbling barely rose above random engine noise. "So the VTEC just kicked in, yo."

Yves glimpsed a gray shimmer dancing behind the dense line of evergreens. "Looks like we found the reservoir."

"Oh. Cool. Um. Hey, Yves?" The stick shift shivered under Yves' fingers. "Can we take that turn again?"

* * * *

Unyx's sex was candied gossamer against Jo's tongue. The onyx glossing Unyx's cleft thinned and nestled until her labia flowered black and her clitoral hood gleamed as a black pearl. Unyx tasted of sex and licorice with an undercurrent of sweet liquor so potent it cut through the red rhythm fogging Jo's mind. Jo pulled away from her feast. "Ouzo?"

"of – course – what – else? but – please." Unyx's tail, still entwined about Jo's leg, tugged, gentle but insistent. Her gloved hands urged Jo back down. "please – finish." Jo flittered her tongue over Unyx's clit, a bud of black silk. "god – three – Ursula – Nyx – me – we – all – feel..." Unyx thrashed and pushed Jo prone onto the green bed, bundling Jo head-to-toe under her serpentine trunk.

Jo reveled. Muscular, python power surrounded her, quivering against her legs, her arms, her everywhere. The taste of ouzo and sex flooded her mouth. The random spasms soon settled into a slow, steady pulsation, beginning with Unyx pressing her pussy into Jo's mouth. The pressure traveled down Jo's neck, over her breasts, tummy, thighs—pausing to prolong the tender squeeze over Jo's sex—and legs in undulating waves. Jo felt as if she would melt.

Then the tip of Unyx's tail glided between Jo's labia majora, moving to the same pulsing beat, and Jo felt as if she would fly. Jo stretched up, hugging as hard as she could. Her arms barely reached halfway around the sleek snake swaddling her. The thick tail-tip nudged and nuzzled but would not penetrate. A greedy, empty need yawned between her legs. Jo arched her neck, the back of her head crushing into the flowerbed, her chin burrowing into Unyx's sex. She screamed. She begged, "Fuck me. Oh, God, fuck m—" The tail-tip slid into her, in perfect time with the beat. "My-fucking-God!"

The beat pulsed within her, without her, around her. Unyx's tail-tip filled Jo up, so thick it throbbed against her clit, only to withdraw again. Jo ran mad. "Stop teasing and fuck me—Jesus oh God so deep. More, dammit, more." Then, unthinking: "Cum. Cum in me."

Unyx's punishing rhythm began to falter, her steady rocking started to seize. Jo felt a giddy rush of triumph. "Yes, yes, cum in me!" Jo heard Unyx's wordless, helpless yelp. A single spasm shot through the bulk above her. The tail-tip thrummed once, twice. A sizzling, fluid warmth gushed inside her. Jo climaxed, laughing in lazy delirium. The tail-tip shuddered and withdrew, leaving Jo's womb awash.

Jo came down far enough to think about it. "Wait. What the fuck just happened?"

Unyx flopped down beside her on the flowerbed hard enough for Jo to feel the shockwave. "So," Unyx gulped, her milk-white skin slick with sweat, her eye-mask retreating into contact lenses. "So that's what it feels like."

Jo felt positively oozy. "That's what what feels like?"

"I think..." Unyx mopped her brow. "I think I finally reached the end of Galatea's lesson number five."

Unyx's tail twitched in the jasmine flowers between Jo's knees, shiny-slick, almost greased. Jo daubed her hand over her sex, more curious than trepid. Her fingers shone with her own wetness—she'd been in near constant meltdown for ages now, or so it seemed—but little else. Her sinuses twinged. "Ow." She rubbed her nose, smearing her nostrils with her own musk. "Ew. Stupid, stupid." The pinching twinge spread out in a spiky ring around her head. "Christ, what's happening now?"

Unyx held up her hands, her right with every finger outspread, her left gesturing thumb's up. "Lesson number six."

"Say what?"

"I'm closing ion channels."

Jo's headache faded, leaving nonplus in its wake. "What?"

"Un-mindfucking you."

Jo growled and squeezed her knees together, squashing jasmine and Unyx-tail between them. The obsidian, ophidian goth girl yipped like a puppy, her tail recoiling. "Gah, careful! It's really, really sensitive." Unyx giggled. "We're Unyx. We've got afterglow." She closed her eyes and settled into the flowerbed. "We've gotta take a nap."

"I liked you better when you over-explained everything." Jo sat up and grabbed for Unyx's tail. She overshot, amazed at her newly-grown reach and frustrated with how much her newly-huge-and-bouncy boobs still managed to get in the way. Jasmine petals flew as Jo and Unyx played a giggly game of keep-away with the tip of her tail. "Start expounding or Mr. Happy gets it."

"All right," Unyx laughed, squirming. "All right! But, listen: do you hear her? Do you hear Black Cherry's blood music any more?"

Jo froze. "No." It was true; the party-next-door-but-between-the-ears sensation that had plagued her for hours had fallen silent. "Wow, no! Did you do that? Oh, thank you! But how?"

Unyx shrugged, eyes closing again. "How did Black Cherry mindfuck you in the first place? Get the blood music inside you, we mean."

"I'd crawled into bed." Jo blushed. "With my jelly-egg vibrator. I was friggin my way past Pluto when that cherry-chocolate tramp strutted into my room like she owned the place and sat on my face." Jo relaxed and lay back. "I was too far gone, and she tasted too good, and the whole thing was too damn kinky...so I ate her out. She came like crazy and the music started up."

"Black Cherry's cum was full of nanomek—what she calls 'novilunium'," Unyx explained, and then she blushed, silvery blood flushing milk-white skin. "So was ours. The binding we ate was very strong, you see, so we couldn't give you any nanomek until we got really excited. Stopping a mindfuck costs more nanomek than starting one up, so we had to get really, really excited." She grinned, shook her head. "And the spooge shall set you free."

Jo lay awhile in thought. She felt sated and stuffed enough to ignore the gurgling, orgiastic noises from across the flowerbed, at least for the moment. "So you cured me of blood music."

Unyx bobbed her head. "Yep."

"By fucking my brains out until you came like a sperm whale."

Another head-bob. "Yep. Had to burn all the nanomek in our cum to do it, too. So you're truly free from all headfuckery now."

"I wasn't even thinking about that," Jo said. "When Black Cherry did it—did me—it felt like she was being selfish, taking something from me. But you," she laughed through her blush, "you gave and gave until I almost blacked out."

Unyx, her eyes still closed, waved a silent Aw, shucks, at Jo. "So what were you thinking about, then?"

Jo rolled onto her side. "I was thinking about my sorority sisters."

"What about them?"

"Can you cure them, too?" Jo asked.

Head-bob. "Yep."

"The same way?"

Head-bob. "Yep." Unyx sighed, resigned. "In fact, it's the only way."

"Um." Jo paused. "I'm not sure how to tell you this. There's lots of girls in the Ep-Zed House this weekend—we're throwing a big party tonight—and I think Black Cherry got to them all. I mean lots of girls. Like, over a hundred."

Unyx rolled over and leered. Her eyes sparkled like black ore, her tail toying with the petals of countless flowers. She bobbed her head. "Yep."

* * * *

The rose-colored Aston Martin supercar growled down an abandoned road, little more than a narrow strip of potholed hardpan dusted with gravel. The engine groused at being kept in such a low gear. Yves shot a sour look into the rearview mirror and the engine's grumbling grew self-conscious. "I want to go fast," the engine said. "Can't help it. Not when you're behind my wheel, driving me like that."

Yves maneuvered the supercar through a rusted-open chain-link fence. "Like what?"

"Like 'wow'," the engine chuckled, a strange bubbling sound. "Like I want to scream, 'Floor it! Floor it!'"

Yves shook his head, bemused. "You are every red-blooded American male's wet dream, SB."

The engine mumbled, "I seriously doubt every." They drove down the old gravel road in silence and second gear before the engine affected an overblown fake orgasm. "Ooh! Ah! Floor it! Floor it!"

Yves laughed hard enough to bring his headache pounding back to life. "I can't. If I did, we'd drive right into the reservoir." The road curled into a dead end behind a wide grassy bank. A fallen, weatherworn sign insisted upon no fishing without a county permit. "We're here. And you still haven't told me why you wanted to come in the first place."

"You need to relax." The supercar's engine noise dropped into a subsonic purr. The driver's seat thrummed against Yves' neck and the small of his back. Yves yawned, headache gone. "This place is pretty relaxing, isn't it?" the engine asked.

A thick wall of pine trees circled the bank. The reservoir stretched out ahead of them in a great, flat bowl. The early-afternoon sun reflected off the dark water in flashing triangles. The grass grew wild and tall, cutting off sight of the road, completing the illusion. "It's amazing," Yves confessed. "A mountain loch in the middle of Middle America."

"Reminds me of a bend in the Durance River," the engine whispered, "a long time ago."

Yves left the stick in neutral and engaged the emergency brake. "So what do we do now?"

The engine cut out and the driver's side door clicked open on its own accord. "We get the fuck out."

Yves hopped out and ambled down the sloping bank. He heard a metallic sigh behind him. He bent at the water's edge, hunting without success for a good skipping stone, hearing SB's swaggering walk rustle the grass behind him. When he stood up, a strong hand slipped around his shoulder, fingers firm and cool. A breeze carried the scent of wild strawberries and cotton candy. "How do you feel, Yves?"

Yves stretched. "Deliciously sleepy."

Those slim fingers patted him on the back. "C'mere, Yves."

SB wore her signature one-piece dress, sunlight painting her in fiery shades of red and gold. She knelt onto a wide tartan picnic blanket, patted the spot in front of her. "Come on down."

Yves tapped the blanket with a sneaker. "Is this you?" He hoped he sounded more curious than nervous.

"It's of me," SB explained, "but it's not me. I've locked it, it's just a thing." She smoothed out the blanket. "Well?"

Yves sat cross-legged before her, inspecting the tartan textile. "Soft. Feels familiar, somehow."

"You'd be surprised, the kinds of things you can spin from sugary carbohydrates. If you're working on the sub-molecular level, that is." SB read Yves' expression and added, "Okay, maybe you in particular wouldn't be surprised." She shifted, her cheeks darkening to a true crimson. "What're you looking at?"

"Your eyes," Yves answered. "It was recently pointed out to me that I do not pay close attention to a woman's eyes."

"Dude." SB gestured at her lap, where her manhood folded between her knees like a bendy third leg. "Do I look like a woman?"

"Do appearances matter?" Yves asked in return, still scrutinizing SB's face. "I thought they were rock candy or some other sugar crystal. Your eyes, I mean. But they're not, are they? They're real diamond."

"So?"

Yves nodded. "'So,' indeed. Diamond's just carbon, after all, less complicated than sugar in some ways." SB's wry smile set her eyes twinkling. Yves nodded again, downcast. "Yeah, I'm stalling. I don't even know what's going to happen, and I'm stalling. Wow, listen to me..."

SB tipped her head. "Yves?"

"...I'm talking as much as Ursula..."

SB coughed politely. "Hey, Yves?"

"...No worse: Dee."

SB plucked Yves' head up by the chin. "Yves. You really, really need to unwind." She held up the mason jar of strawberry colored jam in her other hand. "How's 'bout a rub down?"

Every bit of Yves ached, from his brain to his balls down through the soles of his feet. He wondered if any part of him, body or spirit, had escaped torture in the past twelve hours. He doubted it. "My arms are a little sore, yeah."

SB rolled her eyes, goosed Yves' cheek, and popped the jar open before setting it beside them on the picnic blanket. "Hold out your arm, then," she said.

Yves offered up his arm. SB gently rotated Yves' hand palm-upward. The improvised bandage on the pad of his thumb had frayed and curled up around the edges. SB picked off the tape and unwound the blood-spotted gauze, revealing a small but deep crescent-shaped puncture in Yves' flesh. "The cloister bell," SB murmured.

"Hm? Oh," Yves nodded, "the exploding doorbell, yeah. That sucker really took a bite out of me." SB gingerly inspected the wound. The sudden flare of pain took Yves' breath away. "Still stings a bit."

SB scooped a small dollop of jam onto one finger. "This will help." The jam's vibrant red contrasted the soft rose hues of her translucent flesh. "But you'll always bear the mark." Yves wanted to ask her what she was talking about but she smeared the stuff across the pad of his thumb without another word. He readied himself for another sharp stab of pain. It only tingled instead. A droplet of strawberry red nectar streaked down into the cup of his palm. Yves frowned.

"Your skin is warm enough to cook it into oil," SB said as more tingling syrup pooled in his hand. She held him by the wrist, and rubbed her thumb over the strawberry smear on his hand, tracing the flexor tendon anchoring his thumb and working the red salve into his skin. The puncture wound itched, felt tender when the skin around it flexed, but the pain had fled. Her gaze fixed on his hand, SB added, "You okay?"

Yves was not sure how to answer. I'm amazed. I'm relieved. I'm a little scared. "What do you mean?"

"The color." She gathered Yves' hand to her chest, soothing the stuff over his palm, then sliding her thumbs around and between his fingers. "Before it cooks into oil, it kinda looks like blood."

"You mean, do you remind me of Black Cherry?"

SB looked up from her ministrations, squeezing each of Yves' fingers in turn. "Well?"

"You're nothing like Black Cherry," Yves insisted. SB pressed the flat of his oiled hand against her cheek. Yves smiled, "You want details?"

SB dipped a finger into the jar and massaged more jam into Yves' wrist. "Just a couple."

"You'll have to give me a minute."

"Why?" SB slid her fingers up his forearm.

Yves sighed, eyes closed. "I just want to...feel this, for a while." The tingle stretched from Yves' fingertips down to his elbow. The muscles of his hand and forearm were as butter, all tension gone. SB found a potent pressure-point and a clarifying calm stole over Yves. "Black Cherry's dark currents give her that horrible, arterial red look," Yves heard himself say. "Yours is the red of rosé wine. Black Cherry felt like clay, wet cement, really. Raz and Eurydice felt like living, standing waves. You feel, well, real." He opened his eyes. SB paused, her hands encircling his upper arm. "With my eyes closed," Yves explained, "I can't tell that you're meliae. Just someone who wears a summery cologne. Uh, I mean perfume."

SB stroked the length of Yves' oiled arm. Yves resisted the urge to purr. "I'm not built like other goo girls," SB said. "I'm organized."

Yves eyed the crowded crotch of her dress. "That's apparent." A breeze blew across the grass and rippled SB's dress, defining the angles of her lap. Good God, Yves thought, how big can that thing really get?

"Stop," SB breathed. She gave him a playful push, planting a strawberry-red stain over Yves' undershirt. "Or you really will start sounding like Dee. Anyway, that's not my only organ. I've got internal structures. Check this out." SB flexed her right arm. Her toned, oval muscles bulged. "This bicep ain't just for show. Striated pectin. Go on, check it out."