by Oblimo
"Mm, I can’t even imagine," Eurydice sighed. When Ursula disappeared around the Jeep, Eurydice asked him, "Should I be jealous?"
"Excuse me?" Dee crooked his thumb. "You were the one who fucked her, apparently."
"No," Eurydice said, swaying close and running her hands over Dee's ribs. "I mean, have we ever tried that? Have you ever, y'know…" She left a curlicue finger-trail of green frosting over his abs. "…worn me?"
"Not like that," Dee admitted. "Not exactly."
Eurydice pouted. "Then I am jealous."
Dee waggled his eyebrows. "You don’t remember the Nanocream Bubble Spa Technique."
Eurydice pulled off her sunglasses to wonder at him wide-eyed. "Whuzzat?"
Dee scooped the frosting off his skin and popped it into his mouth, lips smacking at the tangy taste. "I don't kiss and tell, either." Eurydice mocked shock and Dee added, "You'll remember. You'll remember everything, I promise."
Dee smiled as confidently as he could and made his way past her toward the Jeep, pretending not to hear the anxious way her voice fell as she mustered, "Yeah, I know I will."
"This is an utter indignity," CeeCee protested from the trunk of the Jeep, a cramped gap between the backseat and the vehicle's rear hatch. "I like restraint if it doesn't go too far, but a woman of my stature should not be so confined."
"Get your boobs out of my head," Eurydice huffed.
Dee, intrigued by the peculiar phrasing, twisted in the front seat to get a good look. Eurydice mashed her elbows against the avalanche of confection-flesh billowing over the lip of the trunk. The speeding Jeep jolted. CeeCee's butter yellow tits bulged around Eurydice's arms and flumped against both sides of her head, orange areola smothering the green girl's ears through the hoody. "Great," Eurydice said as stiff nipples slipped through the surface tension of her own citrus gel, "now all I can think about is tight, scratchy sweaters, baby binkies, and—for some reason—Graham cracker crumbs."
"Unless your man's hankering for a slice of Key Lime pie," CeeCee told her, "we'd better get to this 'SRU' place in a hurry."
"Would you rather be stuck on the roof with Raspberry?" Eurydice threatened.
"I'm fucking the wind!" Raspberry hollered from above. Lavender Ghostbuster slime spattered the windows. Yves flicked on the windshield wipers, launching a spray of wiper fluid. "Oh, bugger off, you butt-pirate." Yves snarled and pumped the brake. Raspberry cried out with each lurch. "Oh, yeah! Harder! Give it! Aw, was that the best you got?"
"I think I'm beginning to hate her," Yves said, pinching the bridge of his nose. Eurydice shot Dee a worried look. Dee put a hand on Yves' arm. "I'll be okay," Yves muttered. "That caffeine headache must be kicking in early. Are you sure you know where we're going? The GPS thinks were in middle of the county reservoir." Dee gave Yves a reassuring shoulder squeeze and Yves sagged in the driver's seat. "Look, I'm know I'm not 'great' or even close to 'fine,' but I will be okay, so let's just get this thing done. I swear I'll let you know if I get in trouble. Hell, you'll probably know before I do. All right?" Dee nodded and Yves glanced into the rearview mirror and spoke to Eurydice. "You too, all right?" Eurydice nodded and fought back another landslide of cheesecake. Yves rolled his eyes, frowned, and angled the rearview mirror. "Ursula, what's up? Carsick?"
Ursula sat in the backseat next to Eurydice, flushed and agape, her face prickled with sweat, her oval eyeglasses askew at the tip of her nose. "N-no, not really, I'm fine. Really. Just..." She shifted in her poncho. The rubbery collar around her neck looked dappled and slick. "Just don't bounce and jerk the car around like that again, okay? All that cum, um, commotion caught us by surprise, that's all."
Yves shrugged, scanning the road ahead. Eurydice, arms spread wide to hold back the marshmallow tide, grinned at Dee but said nothing. Ursula turned to look out the window, cupping her chin with a gloved hand. She ran two black-lacquered fingertips over her lips. A single, impish giggle escaped her and she sucked her fingers into her mouth. The inky material of the glove wrinkled and wriggled in frantic motion, but Ursula just worked her fingers in and out, her slurping laughter deep and muffled.
"Do I want to know?" Yves asked as Dee spun to face forward.
"No," Dee said, blushing scarlet, "you really don't."
"Good," said Yves, pulling the Jeep into a wide, empty parking lot with a white brick building squatting in the middle of it, "because we're here."
"No Mini Coop," Dee observed, "but the sign says 'Open,' so SB is probably inside. Don't park too close. We don't want to interrupt anything."
"Mm, listen," Ursula said, pulling her wet fingers out of her mouth. "They've got a bathroom in there, right? Because I really gotta pee—Eeep!" She sat up, stiff as a board and thunderstruck. She blinked, blushed, and relaxed. "Uh, never mind."
Eurydice edged away from Ursula as Yves picked a parking space halfway into the lot. The Jeep's engine cut off and Dee heard a discordant ringing at the edge of hearing. The car ticked as it cooled. "Well," Yves said, waving a hand at the cluttered storefront window. "Now what?"
The ugly claxon grew loud as the door with SRU MEDICAL stenciled in fading blue ink opened inward. A lean, muscular girl with skin the color of Ruby Red grapefruit juice and cornrows of cotton candy stepped out onto the sidewalk. Her coppery, sleeveless dress rippled in the wind, tracing the sleek physique beneath.
"Dee, I thought you said Strawberry Banana was hung like a horse," Yves said. The rose girl stepped down onto the pavement. Dee nodded. "Some dick-girl," Yves scoffed, eyes narrowed. "Where's her dick?"
The rose girl raised her right arm parallel with her shoulder. She furled her fingers and a forest of fractals sprouted from her palm. The pale, rainbowed lines and wedges zigzagged through the air, reminding Dee of the sudden, geometric spread of ice crystals captured with time-elapsed photography. The cloud of chaos whirling away from her fingers grew random and fractured and unrecognizable, but at some hidden instant collapsed into solidity and certain, deadly shape.
The rose girl held her scimitar aloft. Its wide, curving blade of pale pink crystal dazzled with sunlight. She wrapped her left hand around its huge pommel and brought it down before her chest in the imposing two-handed grip of a harem guard from the decadent flights of Arabian fantasy. Her diamond eyes were cold and expressionless. The sickle tip of the sword towered above her head. For a long while, Dee heard no sound other than that horrid bell, blessedly muffled behind the closing door. Then came the crunch of dust and lose pavement as the rose girl advanced on the Jeep.
Yves stared ahead. He clucked his tongue.
"Do something, Dee," Eurydice whispered, huddled into CeeCee's pliant flesh.
"What should I do?" Dee asked as the rose girl drew closer." SB could probably kick my ass six ways to Sunday. Maybe I could talk to her?" He shook his head to clear it. "Wait, what are we worried about? She's made out of Jell-O. That sword is made out of Jell-O. It’s useless."
The rose girl swept the sword out and down in an underhand grip. Its tip connected with the pavement. Sparks flew. She stepped over the charred, smoking scar the sword left in the blacktop. The swing followed through and the sword slapped back into both hands again, unmarked.
"I just shat my pants," Raspberry announced from the roof. The rose girl had crossed half the distance between the store and the Jeep. "I had to grow pants just to pinch a loaf in them. Somebody better appreciate the effort I went through before we all die by shish kabob."
"I think," Yves said calmly—and Dee knew that Yves at his calmest was also Yves at his most dangerous—"I've had enough of this sort of thing for today." Yves clicked open his seatbelt, eased out the driver's side door, and ambled into the rose girl's path. He walked with an unhurried gate, shoulders squared, his knees and arms kept bent at a relaxed angle.
"Yves' in trouble," Dee said.
"Don't let her hurt him, Dee," Eurydice pled.
Dee hunkered in the Jeep's busted doorframe, ready to leap out at the two figures closing ranks in f
ront of him. "I won't." Damn it,, he thought, none of this makes any sense. SB wound her scimitar back, a batter ready to swing for the bleachers. Dee coiled to jump. I can't think of any reason for SB to act this way…
"I've sparred with a Swiss Flambergé," Yves said, never breaking his stride as he stepped within striking distance, "a Zweihänder sword almost as tall as I am, even a stupid Klingon bat'leth." He did not stop until he and SB stood toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye. "But that…" Yves nodded at the crystal bladed scimitar glinting high above their heads. He let the silence stretch, his observation incomplete. SB cocked one eyebrow. The sword dropped a fraction of an inch, and Yves said, "…is just gay."
Dee thought, Unless this is another test?
"And that," Yves finished, "is coming from a guy who voluntarily has sex with men." The scimitar's scintillating tip traced an eccentric oval in the air as SB's poker face cracked into perplexity. "I mean," Yves added, pointing, "look at that thing. It's got to be over a foot wide, and, what, four feet long? Something from a video game." He shook his head. "Not a real sword. What the Hell can you do with it? Run around screaming 'Hassan chop'?" SB glared in silent defiance, turned aside, and brought the sword down close, hugging the pommel between her breasts, like a toddler protecting her favored teddy bear from a bullying brother. "Fine," Yves shrugged, stepping back. "I'll show you." He held out his hand. "Give it here."
SB stared down into Yves open palm. Dee stood up in the Jeep doorframe, leaning outward. "Uh, Yves?"
Yves flicked a Stay-out-of-this frown in Dee's direction before waggling the fingers of his outstretched hand at SB. "Well?"
Scowling in uncertainty and moving with exaggerated care, SB offered the haft of the scimitar to Yves. Yves wrapped a hand around the roseate bulge of the pommel. SB stared at Yves' tan hand for a while before Yves said, "You've got to let go eventually, you know." SB relaxed her fingers and the full weight of the blade transferred to Yves. "See?" Yves grunted, quickly grabbing the scimitar with both hands. "It's got to weigh over ten pounds. There's no way you can…Huh." He choked up on the grip and took another pace backward. "It's got good balance, I'll give you that." SB pursed her lips, a sarcastic smirk beginning to blossom on her face—the scimitar swooshed once, twice, three times around Yves' shoulders as he whipped it about with the expertise of a champion baton twirler—and SB gasped and gawped instead, hands clenched over her heart.
Dee hopped onto the pavement. "Hey, Yves?"
Yves ignored him and set the scimitar spinning on its pommel in the flat of one hand. SB broke out into a sweat, her hands dropping to trace little, twitching circles over her washboard abs and chiseled obliques. "Alright," Yves confessed, tossing the sword end-over-end and high into the air, "it's got freakin' amazing balance." The sword purred—whum-whummm—slicing the sky before Yves snatched it and began an effortless twirl again. "But let's see what it can really do."
SB's eyes flashed with panic. "Wait…" Yves executed a simple, modified kata form-exercise: knelt on one knee then barked wordlessly, striking out horizontal with the blade before rising for a wicked quick, overhead cut in the empty air. SB moaned and plopped down hard onto her ass. Yves performed a series of fluid slashes, cuts, and thrusts of a kata for practicing fending off three attackers at once. SB, her eyes glazed and jaw hanging, watched him shuffle, swing, and shout as he completed one maneuver after another, describing a circle around her. "Please," she begged, clawing at the pavement. "Nn, God, please…I, I can't…"
The hollering bell grew loud again. "Hey, blondie." A young woman with raven hair glowered from the storefront doorway. Yves stopped in mid-mock decapitation to turn and look. Below the quivering blade, SB's eyes rolled back into her head and she toppled over insensate.
"Give Strawberry her banana back," Tomoe said.
Yves snapped out of his combat-trance. "Sorry. I'm really comfortable working up a sweat with this thing for some reason. I guess I got carried away. And I stand corrected about what I said before: this is a real sword." He knelt, holding the scimitar out to SB. "Here you go. Hey, you okay?"
SB fumbled her way upright. She plucked the proffered sword from Yves' hand, grimaced, and gingerly cradled the blade against her shoulder. Hunching over, she scuttled away. Tomoe followed SB with her eyes, inscrutable smile dawning, as the rose girl crossed in front of her and raced around a whitewashed corner of the store.
SB careened into a green metal dumpster standing flush against the building's western wall. Damn thing was always on the rear dock with the recycle bins. What the fuck was it doing here? Oh, that's right, Tomoe had made SB empty and haul the dumpster around the side last night for some unfathomable, Tomoe-ish reason. Unfathomable last night, SB corrected herself, but obvious now. This was just one of the prices SB paid for falling in love with a woman who could see the future unrolling before her like a movie in 4-D. Of course, Tomoe wanted that future to be a porn movie full of as many scenes of SB cumming as hard, as much, and as many times as possible. Over their three thousand year affair (not counting the relative-eternity time-loops Tomoe enjoyed watching the best), Tomoe took precautions and performed Rube Goldberg level machinations to ensure SB's life was filled with mind-numbing money-shot after mind-blowing money-shot after soul-shattering money-shot. Everyone wondered what Tomoe was always smiling about, but only SB knew for sure—or rather, would surely find out for sure in a few hours.
Last night, she should have known better than to wonder why she was moving the stupid dumpster. She should have remembered moving the dumpster, period. "Hose down the inside," Tomoe had demanded. "With the real hose, I mean." She had smiled inscrutably as SB fumed. "At least at first. Oh, and leave the top open, so it can dry. What, can't a woman want a clean dumpster every once in a while?" SB had forgotten all about it, had forgotten about nearly everything once that beautiful boy started working her scimitar like it was a tantric sex toy.
All these thoughts flickered through SB's powerful mind-web in the split second it took for her to smack into the rounded lip of the dumpster, lose her balance, and be carried by her momentum up and over and into the mouth of the fucking thing.
SB twisted at just the right moment and landed, blessedly, on her back on the floor of the dumpster. The scimitar lay heavy between her breasts. The monomolecular smart-edge of the blade knew the quantum signature of her flesh and would not cut, so instead it just thrummed there, sandwiched between her tits like a four and a half foot long, fourteen inch wide, thirteen pound dick.
Which was exactly what it was.
For the first time in many years, SB was scared to reattach her penis. On countless occasions, she had woken up in the morning to find that her penis was missing again. That usually meant Tomoe had gotten carried away watching her private SB cosmic spacetime bukkake filmography, and had made off with SB's dick for some "us time." SB would just sigh and smile, knowing Tomoe would soon slink back so SB could rejoin with her dick and experience all the fun the two of them had just had. There had been a few scares before, like the occasion Czarina Catherine hired Mata Hari to fuck SB's penis off and smuggle it into the Winter Palace. ("Why did you give Mata a time machine?" SB had asked one cold October morning in Paris. "She paid five gulden!" was Tomoe's excuse.)
It took SB and Tomoe thirty years to get the dick back, although Tomoe spent most of that time laughing her ass off. Catherine had used it monstrously, convincing SB she would never get it back until the Czarina died—which she did, stroking out in the bathtub while stroking off SB's penis for Catherine's twelve thousandth male orgasm-by-magical-proxy. When SB finally reattached her cock, the resultant money-shot lasted about eighteen months.
Tomoe had spent most of that time laughing her ass off, too, come to think of it.
But this was the first time someone else had ever used her dick, detached, right in front of her. If SB had not locked it into its sword-form before handing it over, the boy would have been drenched in jism, she was sure of it. As a sword, SB's dick responded to sword
play as a cock responds to foreplay, and this boy was an apparent master of both. But locked into its sword-form, her cock could not cum. On the numerous battlefields upon which she and Tomoe had fought—Atlantis' she-demon engulfment being the absolute worst—SB would cleave her way through a dozen or so opponents before sneaking behind a convenient balustrade, unlocking her dick and watching it erupt, only do go through all those orgasms all over again when the battle was won and her dick was between her legs again. This was the first time someone other herself had wielded her weapon as a weapon with an apparent expertise rivaling her own, so her scimitar had reached orgasm-point in a matter of moments, but, locked in form and in someone else's hands, could not achieve release.
SB had not known she could experience a self-perpetuating feedback-loop of orgasm denial. The needed components for creating such a harrowing phenomenon were rare enough to not present themselves throughout her long life until now. As the beautiful boy manhandled her, the cresting pressure and sizzling sting of the moment of ejaculation had bloomed in her belly; bloomed but then did not ebb; did not ebb but then increased; did not only increase but also increase exponentially as the sensation of continual imminent release itself fed the strength of the impending orgasm that never came but just built and built and built.
SB hefted the pink scimitar with the care of a demolitions expert probing an unexploded bomb. Her mind-web spent a few precious microseconds—the orgasmic feedback-loop still building (and building and building) deep within her—analyzing all the possible ways her predicament could play itself out. There was only one conclusion: Tomoe had labored to engineer this moment, to take advantage of the variables of the universe—or, perhaps, to arrange those universal variables in the first place—to maneuver SB into this situation, this crowning masterpiece of pleasure-torment, and Tomoe's grand vision would not be denied. SB propped her neck and shoulders on the wall of the dumpster, knees bent. She brought the pommel of the scimitar, a round, fat, polished ruby, down to her crotch and spread her legs.
