“Don’t make me wait. I have been waiting for forty minutes with a —”
I don’t make her wait.
The claiming shaft first. Familiar. Home. The ridges she knows. She takes me with the sound that isyesandthereandalways.I hold still. Letting her adjust. Both of us are breathing hard. The bond-feedback opening between us.
Then the other. Careful. Slow. The secondary finding the entrance she prepared — slick and warm and open from the toy and my fingers. The first press and she tenses. Breathes. Opens.
“Don’t stop,” she says through her teeth. Hands gripping the belt above her head. “Don’t you dare stop. I have been thinking about this for three weeks.”
I press forward. Both sliding in. Two channels. Two pressures. Two different textures and rhythms. My brain short-circuits. Hers short-circuits. The bond-feedback opens and we are both short-circuiting together.
“Oh — both — I can feel them separately, the ridges in the front and the, oh God —”
They move. Independently. The claiming shaft pulsing with the ridges. The secondary flexing on its own rhythm.
“Jazil — I can feel them both — the pressure is, oh God —”
I move. Both. Different rhythms. Finding the counterpoint that makes her eyes roll back and her wrists pull against the belt.
On the crate beside us, the oil bottle — warm, uncapped, placed there as part of her meticulous planning — begins to rock. The movement of our bodies on the blanket, the rhythm transferring through the floor, the crate shaking with each thrust. The bottle sways. Tips. Rights itself. Sways again.
I am not watching the bottle. I am watching her face. The expression of a woman taking both of me and the expression is delight. She is loud about it. Three months of trust have made her fearless.
“There — there — both at the same, Jazil, please —”
The bottle tips.
The oil pours off the crate. Down onto her stomach. Her chest. A warm golden cascade that coats her skin, and she gasps — the sudden warmth, the slick contact on oversensitized skin — and the gasp makes her body clench around both of me, and the clenching sends a bolt through the bond.
“The oil — the oil just — from the crate, I’m covered in, Jazil —”
I look down. She is gleaming. Oil coating her body from collarbone to hip, catching the red light, slick and golden, and I am inside her — both — and she is bound and oiled and flushed and full.
She starts laughing. The bright, breathless one. “This is the most me thing — the crate, the OIL, during DUAL — I can’t —”
I am laughing too. Both inside her. The laughter makes her clench, and the clenching cuts through the laughter and replaces it with something sharper.
“Oh — the laughing — the oil made everything more slippery and the —”
She’s right. The oil has changed everything. Smoother. Deeper. Both moving with less resistance and more sensation. The warm oil on her skin is catching the red light, and she is glistening, and the visual of my mate — bound, oiled, flushed, full — is seared into my memory with the permanence of a bond-mark.
I thrust. Deep. Both. The rhythm that makes her grip the belt and arch and make sounds from beyond words. The feedback loop through the bond — I feel what she feels, she feels what I feel, layered pleasure spiraling.
The orgasm builds through the bond. Hers and mine. The plateau — long, vast, both coming at the same time, feeling each other coming, the hum-sense singing at a frequency that is joy.
She screams. I follow. Both. The dual release. The feedback loop catches, and the second wave rolls through and takes a long time to stop.
We lie on the blanket. The oil situation has spread beyond all containment. We are both gleaming. The storage unit looks like a crime scene at a spa.
“I am going to have to clean this up,” she says. Boneless. Looking at the ceiling. “The residential maintenance crew is going to have questions I cannot answer.” She sits up on one elbow. Looks at the blanket, the oil, the belt, the storage unit. “I should probably apologize to — no.” She stops herself. Laughs. The laugh of a woman who has caught the old reflex mid-fire and finds it genuinely funny now. “No, I am not apologizing to a storage unit. The storage unit volunteered.”
“HORATIO will send a drone.”
“HORATIO does not have jurisdiction on the residential level.”
“HORATIO has never let jurisdiction stop him.”
She laughs. She reaches for me — hands belt-marked, the skin pink — and I unknot the leather and kiss both wrists, and she threads her oily fingers through mine.
