DISCLAIMER: The characters herein are used without permission. No infringement intended.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To corchen[at]gmail.com
there are so many tictoc clocks
By Corchen
"Did you hear something?" Myka asked finally, a distinct gleam of amusement and lust in her eyes.
Helena slipped her hands up under the thin shirt Myka was wearing, her hands ghosting along silken skin. "I didn't hear a thing, darling," she murmured, cutting off any reply with a very satisfying kiss. "Not a thing."
There was a faint clatter from several aisles over, as if someone (who could it possibly be?) had run into a collection of objects and knocked them to the floor. There might (or might not) have been the sound of muffled swearing - but nobody heard a thing.
Helena slipped her hands down Myka's sides and gripped her firmly by the hips, lifting her up and onto the desk. Myka squeaked slightly in surprise, not expecting the move from the slender woman although of course she did know that Helena was deceptively strong. Helena stepped into the space between Myka's thighs and tugged her back towards the edge of the desk until only the solid presence of her hips stopped Myka from slipping back onto the floor.
Somewhere, a whirling mess of sharpened steel hit an obstruction with a terrible squealing sound of metal on metal.
Myka let her hands thread into Helena's hair, feeling it silken and smooth and warm against her skin, caressing her palms and curling about her fingers. She tightened her grip just a little, and Helena moaned quietly into her mouth at the slight tug. The sound made Myka's heart give a sharp stutter and she repeated the movement, hoping to hear that sound again. Helena's response to the more purposeful tug was deeper, throatier - her fingers curled so that her nails scratched slightly at Myka's back, and she bit down lightly on her bottom lip.
There was another crash as something solid and heavy met something light and brittle - followed quickly by a masculine yelp of pain.
"Do you think," Myka managed to gasp out, because now Helena's mouth had made its way to her pulse point, "that - that we should maybe..." She opened her eyes and tried to focus on the ceiling of the Warehouse, taking in a deep breath and concentrating on speaking and not on the sinful things that Helena was doing with her mouth. "Shouldn't we rescue Artie?"
Helena let her lips slide up Myka's neck until she was breathing into her ear, and Myka shuddered at the sensation of hot breath as it whispered across the sensitive flesh. Helena's hands were still inside her shirt, drawing slow and intricate patterns on her back, tracing every indentation of her spine, and she was finding it hard to remember to breathe let alone form any kind of coherent sentence.
"He's a big boy," Helena murmured, voice lower than Myka had ever heard it before. Something about the sound, the depth and richness of it, slipped down inside her body and curled up in the pit of her stomach. "He can take care of himself."
Helena's teeth met Myka's ear, and the sharp, not-quite-painful sensation drove all thoughts of Artie out of her head. She let one hand slide down until it was draped over the tender nape of Helena's neck, the other hand still wrapped up in that glorious, heavy mass of hair. Her head dropped back and her spine arched but Helena followed her, leaning forwards so that they were pressed together, breast to breast, hip to hip. When she felt Helena's tongue flicker rapidly over her earlobe, she wondered with a moment of utter clarity just what that dextrous tongue would feel like in other places.
The thought left her lips before she could reel it back in.
Helena drew back, one eyebrow raised, her lips wet and red, cheeks flushed, eyes dilated dark. Myka could feel the heat flushing into her cheeks and chest, hear the blood pounding in her ears and, embarrassed, wished to unsay the words. But with Helena's eyes fixed on hers she couldn't look away. Helena drew her hands away from Myka's back, feeling her way blindly forward with her gaze still intent on Myka's face.
Her hands slipped around Myka's waist, finding her belt buckle and threading the leather through the metal with dexterous fingers. The button was next, then the zip, and Myka, still pinned motionless by that intent gaze couldn't even manage to want to stop her. Helena hooked her fingers into the belt loops of Myka's pants and pulled her hips forwards in a wordless demand. Myka let herself be moved and shifted forwards the slight distance until her feet touched down onto the floor again.
(There was a distant yell, but it went unheard.)
Helena's hands slid into the top of Myka's pants and between the soft cotton of her panties and the softer skin of her ass. Further down, palms skimming over the smooth curve and fingers curling into the tender place where buttocks become thigh. Myka's pants shifted along with Helena's hands as she explored further down, her slender fingers tracing over Myka's legs and just a little in between. When Helena's fingers slid across slick warmth and found the evidence of just what she was doing to Myka her smile became feral and Myka, still caught up in her gaze, had to bite her lip and clutch onto the desk at the jolt of desire that look sent through her.
Helena let the tip of her tongue slide over her lower lip and Myka found herself imagining that it was her lips that tongue was caressing. Helena's hands smoothed further down Myka's legs, until she had to step back and bend her knees to continue down. She dropped gracefully to her knees and looked up at Myka through dropped eyelashes, that little smile still lurking on her lips. Myka whimpered.
Helena lifted one of Myka's feet and slipped off her boot, letting it fall carelessly behind her. Then the other, and then she guided her to step out of her pants, leaving them puddled next to the desk. She leaned forwards to press a gentle kiss onto Myka's hip, nosing aside the tails of her shirt to do so. The pale blue fabric skimmed Helena's forehead and with her hair tumbled carelessly across her cheeks and her eyes turned suddenly soft she looked somehow more innocent than Myka had ever seen her.
She reached down with one hand - although the other maintained its desperate grip on the edge of the desk - and traced the curve of Helena's cheek. Helena's eyelids fluttered, and she turned her head to brush her lips across Myka's palm. For a long moment, neither of them moved, both absorbed in the tender touch. Then Helena blinked once, a slow lowering of her eyelashes, and sliding her hands between Myka's thighs gently urged her legs apart.
(Silence. Somewhere, man and machine were at a stalemate.)
Myka took a deep shuddering breath as Helena leaned forwards, her own breath brushing across Myka's skin. She paused there for a long moment, inhaling, exhaling, and her breath was warm and steady, teasing, rhythmic. Myka's stomach quivered just a little at the effort it took to remain still, not to push her hips forwards the fraction of an inch that it would take to bring those lips into contact with her. The hand that wasn't white-knuckled on the desk clenched and unclenched and clenched again as she fought the urge to slide her fingers back into Helena's hair and pull her into herself.
Helena made a quiet sound in the back of her throat, and leaned forwards.
At the first touch of Helena's tongue, Myka thought she might faint. At the second, she woundered if she would die. At the third, she knew she was addicted.
Helena's hands were warm and confident on her, unmoving, a gentle presence that said 'I'm here, you're safe.' Helena was not rushing. She was taking her time, tasting, exploring. It was almost unbearable but Myka didn't want it to end. With a long breath that came in moans and whimpers, she let her head fall backwards and closed her eyes.
Helena smiled - Myka could feel her lips curving - and hummed softly into her. Myka gasped at the faint vibrations and her free hand flew to Helena's head, fingers tangling in her hair as if it would somehow steady her, ground her. She felt a thousand feet tall, she felt like a dust mote, she felt like everything and nothing all at once. Her entire being was concentrated between her legs and everywhere Helena was touching her felt so incredibly alive. It was as if until now she had felt everything through a thin layer of gauze.
(There was a soft, far-away thudding, growing gradually louder, as a large riderless red space-hopper bounced slowly and purposefully past the end of the aisle. Neither of them noticed.)
"Tell me," Helena said, looking up at Myka with glistening lips, "what you need."
Her fingers stroked gently across Myka's thighs, teasing the sensitive skin with the blunt tips of her nails, drawing circles that made Myka's mind circle with them. She blinked stupidly down at Helena, but her lips answered before her mind had even quite realised what she was going to say.
"I want you to fuck me," she said, hearing her own voice rough and demanding. She never demanded. Never asked for what she wanted from her lovers - and certainly never so bluntly. Until Helena. "I want your fingers inside me," her voice continued, "I want you to make me utterly yours."
Helena smiled again, that dangerous little upturning of her lips that Myka found so irresistible, and purred her response. She didn't need to speak. Her right hand drifted from its spot on Myka's thigh, fingers nestling into the sweet spot under the projecting curve of her hipbone, and traced slowly downwards, stroking through damp curls and over wetter skin. Myka's hips jumped forward at the press of Helena's fingers against her, and Helena bit her lip as she looked.
Myka bit off the loud groan that escaped her as Helena's fingers slid insistently into her - how many, she didn't know, didn't care - and she couldn't tear her gaze away from those dark, wanting eyes, even as her own eyes threatened to roll back in her head. Helena curled her fingers, and Myka gasped.
"Your mouth," she said, almost whimpering now, "I need--"
But she didn't have to finish the words, because Helena cut her off with her lips.
(There was a high electric whine from many aisles away, that was suddenly cut off by a loud pop. A half-heard shout of triumph echoed across the Warehouse.)
Helena's tongue, Myka thought dimly, needed to be insured for a truly obscene sum of money. Then Helena twisted her fingers and rippled her tongue and Myka wasn't thinking at all. Orgasm had never come quickly for her, she'd always needed time and patience and sometimes (often) she had simply given up. But now - now she could already feel the tension collecting in her groin, pooling hot in her belly and thighs. Her head was spinning, and she hadn't even come - yet.
Helena murmured something incoherent, muffled, and Myka couldn't tell and didn't care what it was - the simple sound of the other woman's voice had as much effect on her as anything she could have said. It was as if she wasn't hearing her words with her ears, but with her whole body - it was as if Helena's voice was a physical thing that could somehow slip through her skin and caress her from the inside. It melted along her body until it became a part of her, part of her heart and mind.
She didn't know if it was hearing Helena moan into her, or if it was the way Helena flexed her fingers, but the orgasm that had been slowly building since - if she was honest - Helena had first looked up at her with that truly wicked smile suddenly began to crest within her. She gave a gasp of almost-surprise and Helena moaned again, flickering her tongue even more impossibly fast than before, curling those long, incredibly talented fingers just so.
Her back arched as she came, and she would have screamed if it had not been for the fact that her breath was caught in her chest, heart hammering furiously. And it wouldn't stop, either, it was just an insistent wave of pleasure that crashed through her and left her gasping and incoherent. She collapsed down against the desk, panting, and Helena slid up along her body to take her in her arms. Myka leaned forwards, resting her forehead against Helena's collarbone, feeling boneless and limp. Helena crooned something softly into her ear, some quiet, half-wordless thing of love and devotion that meant everything.
Myka took a deep breath, hearing Helena's pulse race. She seemed calm, but she was flushed, warm against Myka's skin, she was breathing fast and her arms, confident though they were, seemed to tremble a little. Myka sighed, and Helena shivered at the hot breath brushing over her neck, lifting her hair.
"Can I--" Myka started, but Helena interrupted before she could finish, her voice high and just a little desperate.
"Please."
They were pressed together and it wasn't the most graceful thing in the world but it was the work of a moment for Myka to slip her hand down the front of Helena's pants annd find her wet and wanting. Helena shuddered as Myka's fingers entered her and it didn't matter that it was cramped, that her wrist wasn't really supposed to bend that way and that the back of Helena's belt-buckle was digging uncomfortably into Myka's arm.
"I won't last, darling," Helena whispered, voice tight, and Myka smiled into the side of her neck.
"Then don't," she suggested, and crooked her fingers, pressing down with the heel of her hand.
She shifted a little, moving to capture Helena's lips with hers, just in time to swallow a moan. Helena's hands clutched at the back of her shirt and her kisses became desperate. Myka felt her tightening down around her fingers and smiled a little into the kiss, biting gently down on Helena's lip in wordless encouragement. Then it was all rhythmic pulses and shuddering and Myka wondered if Helena always come in silence or if it was just for now - and was, for a moment, utterly happy to realise that she was going to find out.
In the office, Claudia looked up just in time to see Artie attempting to cross the room without being seen. As he turned his back to her, she realised why - the seat of his pants was almost completely shredded, letting his Tweety-bird boxers show through.
"What the hell happened to you?" She asked, staring at Artie, and then realising that she was in fact staring at Artie's ass. "Oh, ew, gross, pass the brain bleach."
"Pass the - never mind. I had a run in with Edwin Beard Budding's lawn mower, and I will be filing a disciplinary report against those women. As soon as I have found a fresh pair of pants."
He exited the office with an airr of aggrieved dignity that did not sit at all well with the cutesy little cartoon birds that festooned his ass. Claudia watched him go, one eyebrow raised, before shaking her head with an amused snort. She had known that Artie had liked those boxers, despite the fact that he had looked at them with disdain. That was the thing with gag gifts - people could pretend to hate them all they liked - they'd come around.
there are so many tictoc
clocks everywhere telling people
what toctic time it is for
tictic instance five toc minutes toc
past six tic
Spring is not regulated and does
not get out of order nor do
its hands a little jerking move
over numbers slowly
we do not
wind it up it has no weights
springs wheels inside of
its slender self no indeed dear
nothing of the kind.
(So,when kiss Spring comes
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
lips because tic clocks toc don't make
a toctic difference
to kisskiss you and to
kiss me
(E.E. Cummings)
The End