Mark de Silva - Square Wave

Amanda slid down and Lisa’s nose ran up to her clit. Their lips met in a cross. “Take it in,” said the stunt-cock, as the girls had a habit of calling his kind. He grabbed her ponytail and thrust her nose down into the cunt.

“Just stick out your tongue,” Amanda said. Lisa’s tongue came out. Amanda took the ponytail from the stunt-cock and steered Lisa’s head, and with it her tongue, into her. The taste was also a complex, and it seemed to Lisa utterly uninferable from the smell. She didn’t mind either of them, really.

He buried his cock in Lisa. Few if any johns had a cock like this, none she could recall, and this was with the benefit of muscle relaxants. While he fucked Lisa from behind the stunt-cock thumbed her asshole open. After some work he got three fingers in. He pulled them out, spit on the asshole, evacuated the cunt, and filled her asshole in a single thrust that, for all the Soma, drew a sharp yelp from Lisa, though Amanda’s crotch muffled it somewhat. The two of them pinned Lisa’s face there until she felt less from both orifices. The sense of taste seemed to disappear from her mouth, the touch from her asshole, except when he would pull out to make it gape for the cameras, which she would later find out it did. Frank said she was a gaper.

First there would be the ache of decompression. On reentry she would be struck by a pain like a paper-cut made by thick stock, the unsealed envelope from a luxury stationary set maybe. The cock would rub the cut crossways as it entered, until the head was past the fissure. Then only the smooth base of the cock would worry it, a background irritation she soon forgot.

“You want to clean this up, sweetheart?” the stunt-cock said to Amanda. She let go of the ponytail and took the pressure away from Lisa’s face, one of two pressures she’d been feeling. The second disappeared as he pulled out of her.

Amanda stuck her tongue into Lisa’s gape first. This felt like nothing to Lisa, not just because of the Soma, but because of the size of the gape the stunt-cock had created. He pulled Amanda away by the hair, replacing the tongue with his cock. Then he slipped the cock down Amanda’s throat until sputum came up.

“You taste so good,” Amanda said to her. Lisa didn’t know what to say. So she said nothing as she lay there, the leather ottoman holding her up, the stunt-cock going back and forth between her gape and Amanda’s mouth.

There would be no ass to mouth for Lisa, though. Frank didn’t want to spook her. She’d only been in the house a couple of weeks and this was her first taste of hardcore.

The stunt-cock pulled out and brought Lisa around with her ponytail to where Amanda was. She wobbled and tripped to the ground; the Soma was turning her to jelly.

Flanked by the girls, their faces on either side of his cock, he stroked himself off. Lisa could smell her own bowels on his cock. They were familiar to her from the smoothie shoot back East. He kept jerking while the girls waited. Amanda squeezed her tits together and gargled his balls sympathetically for a while to encourage him. But he was tiring. He switched hands and his strokes got jerkier. Amanda was starting to look as if she felt sorry for him. Lisa was having trouble simply staying on her knees; the pills wanted her to lie down.

Eventually his face began to bob with belief. All three of them brightened. In an impromptu maneuver, he got to Lisa’s side and burst across both their faces. The two girls separated their cheeks and long strings of come fell on their thighs. Come hung from Lisa’s chin. Amanda clipped it off with her lips. A beat went by that felt like a call for reciprocation. Lisa slurped the come off of Amanda’s gummed eyelids. The blonde giggled and pecked Lisa on the lips with guts on her breath.

Like a tambourine continuously shaken, going on twenty minutes now. This, the sound of crashing keys. They bristled from the ring in copy-proof cuts, circular, tubular, square. The brassy rattle of the keys against the dashboard had been almost pleasant at first, softening the rumble of the ancient jeep’s engine. It distracted Ravan from another rattling, of his body, as they drove over the mud saucers of the flats of Death Valley, the common origin. Now he’d reached a second phase. Rather than diverting him, the jangle melded with the jarring of his viscera, encouraging the sickness.

“Why so many?” Ravan said with his palms flat on the scarred dash, eyeing the keys.

“Lots of doors in the national labs,” Menar said.

“No, but why did you bring them all over with you from India?”

“I didn’t think not to, really.”

“Well, you could separate the key for the ignition.”

“But then this lovely music would go,” Menar said, gesturing at the keys. “Wouldn’t you mind?” The suggestion of a smile breached his face. Only a relative could see this.

“No.”

“Okay, I will do when we get there. Ten minutes. The way back will be a whisper if you like — except for this yappy engine, of course. I just hope we’ll get to play baccarat before I leave. I’ve never been to Vegas, you know.”

The station appeared ahead, a C-shaped aluminum tube with entries on both ends of it and a broad pair of doors in the recessed middle, raised up like a garage. Everywhere the ground was paved in hexagonal mud scales, a chemical signature of the valley soil that produced this kinetic signature in passing vehicles.

Ravan looked in the rearview mirror and saw nothing but dust.

“Your NOAA people tell me these stones — see that one? — they leave trails. Only no one has ever seen or recorded them move. That can’t be right.”

“I really don’t know.”

“Sailing stones.”

“Yes.”

“They also mentioned an unplayable golf course somewhere in the valley.”

“Did you bring your clubs then. For the challenge.”

“What people you work for, Ravan.”

“With.”

They exchanged a family smirk, Ravan’s wryer than Menar’s. A resemblance held them together, the smirks. Otherwise the brothers did not look much alike, except for a shared softness in the eyes. Menar was the taller, by half a head, perhaps 6’3”. He had a long, clean-shaven face with a sharply tapering chin. His skin was a pale tan, a shade or two lighter than Ravan’s, and he wore his hair short and neat, the inverse of his brother’s.

“It’s a craggy salt bed,” Ravan said. “The Devil’s Golf Course.”

“Well, as I say…” Menar trailed off, or referred back to something Ravan couldn’t pinpoint, something indefinite, a general idea, maybe, or several at once, even an infinite conjunction. Menar said a lot when he was in the mood for it.

They pulled into the station under marbled, pregnant skies.

“Well timed,” Menar said.

“Dr. Peshwa, we are so pleased to have you here.” A bearded man, not so old, in a light blue button-down and dark blue jeans approached them as they hopped out of the jeep. Two more men stood within the station.

“We have a live feed set up so the rest of the team can see back East,” the bearded man said.

“Ah, hello Michael,” Menar said. He squinted and twisted his face. “And please — it’s Menar. You don’t call this one doctor, do you?” His hand trailed back toward Ravan, who approached from the back of the jeep with two white duffle bags.

“So the matériel has arrived, I take it,” Menar said.

“Just over there,” Michael said. “Dispersers on the left, seeders on the right.”

“Slakers and makers,” Ravan said softly as he passed by his brother with the bags.

The garage held a central server, four workstations, a bank of laptops, and a large monitor some hundred inches wide. Beyond the workstations was the storage and lab facility. Ravan set the duffels on the ground next to the weather missiles crowding the racks.