Considering Olarte’s nearly two feet taller than me, I can only imagine a worst-case scenario that would end with me stuck in traction in the infirmary.
No, thanks.
I have no desire forthatkind of pain.
At allll.
I mean, a slap on the ass, a little choking? Sure, I’d be down for that, as long as I trust my partner.
Biting?
Yes, please. I loooove being bit and biting during sex.
I’m a huge proponent of passion and spontaneity. Of taking the bull by the horns, as they say, and jumping in there.
Except I’m an equally huge proponent of consent. If Olartereallyisn’t into me, and won’t ever be into me, I don’t want to make things weirder than they already are.
If I wasn’t so attracted to them, I’d sayfuck it, and walk away.
But…Iam.
To anincrediblyunusual degree. Forme, that is. I’ve never had someone get under my skin like this before. Fantastic sexual partners? Absolutely I’ve had more than my fair share. But I was always able to walk away from them without a look back.
Hell, we haven’t even had sex during the past two years of whatever thehellfriend-zone limbo this is, and yet I can’t get Olarte out of my mind.Allwe’ve done is talk, and share meals together, and spend alotof time together.
And sleep in a bed together, but nothing sexual ever happens.
Not for lack of wanting to on my part, that’s for sure. Except other than that first shore leave when I met them, I have not even talked to them about sex, much less pressured them for more than what we have. I’ve refused to be a dick about this, because every nerve ending in my body screams that Olarte is my forever love, if I’m just patient enough to wait them out.
I’ve even had a couple of discussions with Dr. H’looder about augmentations. He’s eager to work with me, but I’m not going to take that step unless or until Olarte and I sort out whatever the heck this is between us and…progress to another level.
I can close my eyes and inhale and imagine Olarte’s scent is rightthere, wafting through the air and filling my lungs. It’s a scent I didn’t first smell until I was in my twenties and on shore leave on a planet, spending a few days at a rustic inn.
Fresh-mown grass, or hay. A warm, sweet, earthy scent that makes me crave Olarte like…
Well, likecrazy.
Thisis crazy.
Allof this is crazy.
The very fact that I’m sticking around and have re-upped with the same ship several times now is more than noteworthy, if you take a look at my history.
I just… Idon’tstick around.
Before now, I’ve never had a reason to. I haven’t even visited a holo brothel or cruised bars for a hook-up while I’m away from Pfahrn.
That’s right, kiddies. Davies McKellan hasn’t been laid in overtwofucking years, and counting.
By willfulchoice.
Because I can’t get Olarte out of my mind.
I mean, other circumstances being different, I might have had a fling with Olarte and got them out of my system, but that’s not ever going to be athingwith Olarte. That’s not how they roll, and I respect that. If I thought this was nothing more than a simple infatuation, I’d go find myself someone else to pound me into a bunk, screw myself into exhaustion, call it a day, and move the frack on.
It’snotthat simple.
I don’t want to be a dope, permanently plant myself on this space station, and give up my career based on nothing more than our current situation. But every time I say good-bye to Olarte to begin another run, I feel a nearly painful tug deep within my soul as the ship slides out of the berth and we leave Pfahrn behind us.
