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this story should be read while listening to `Lorelei' by the Cocteau Twins.

There is a knock at the front door. I rush to open it, because I know who it will be… you stand there, with an overnight bag full of Reeboks slung over your shoulder and the weary expression of the seasoned bus-traveler draped over your features. You rush into my arms, almost knocking me over, and as we kiss, I murmur, `Oh Mark… I'm so relieved that you're here…' and, for a while after that, there is no need for words.

Somewhat later, we are sitting cross-legged under the huge dining-room table, trying to reduce my parents' liquor supply to zero. `Would you like some more Kahlua in that milk?' I ask, holding up the bottle (which is still half-full). `You're trying to get me drunk, aren't you?' You smile as I top up the tall glass until the fluid is the colour of dark swiss chocolate. I force it to your lips. `Come on, skull it, SKULL IT!' after a brief struggle with only about a tablespoon's-worth of liqueur spilled, your blood-alcohol level is quite above .05. As you sway backwards to lie on the floor, I trace patterns in the fluid running down your cheek. You grasp my hand, stroke my finger with your tongue, and then gently draw my finger into your mouth. Before this can go much further, I withdraw, and playfully nudge your shoulder. `Come on, there's a more private place down the road from here.' your arm snakes around my waist and you drag me closer, down next to you. You breathe a heartfelt sigh, and murmur, `Kelanie, if we don't do it in the next ten minutes, I'm gonna explode.'

It's just past one a.m., and we are at the tram-stop, waiting for what passes for light rail in Adelaide. `Yes, we could have taken my father's car, but my feet don't reach the pedals, and you are pissed.' I explain. `Anyway, here comes the tram.' Yes, it was old ninety-seven, the only tram in Adelaide (and possibly the only tram in the world) run by the undead. The driver's skull, covered with thin tatters of rotting flesh, peers out over the large round light on the front of the tram. I could just see glinting, metallic green lights in his eye-sockets. We climb on board, and have no trouble finding a seat, as the only other passengers are strung up by their feet from the hand-straps, concerned with decomposing. The conductor would ordinarily have been by to collect our fares, but he seems to have rotted away completely… there is nothing left of him but a pile of mouldering slime with bare white bones poking out at odd angles. You glance about in mild surprise, and say, `I had always heard that Adelaide was dead on weekends…'

The tram passes some residential areas, with crowds of people happily engaged in burning suspected witches (or other malcontents) at the stake. At the shopping centre, there are five blackened figures tied to a large lamp-post, blazing away above a stack of tyres. A maypole-chain of little children are dancing around the fire at a safe distance, singing in beautifully clear soprano:

`Amor est magis

cognituus quam cognito...'

A line of monks trail past, murmuring:

`Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam…'

The tram is now out of the residential area and into the light industrial zone. We pass a number of factories; dark, satanic mills which belch smoke in a truly Dickensian fashion, before we come to a slight hill, where the tram slows down. `We'll have to jump off here, Mark, 'cos the tram doesn't stop,' I caution you, `so get ready.' As we jump to the ground, I imagine that I hear the conductor mutter the mystical word, `Minadoor'. We run from shadow to shadow down the darkened street, giggling like six-year-olds, and you catch up to me, grab my hands and hold them outstretched (this isn't fair - your arms are longer than mine!), pinioning me against a cyclone netting fence. Your lips seek out mine, and they make contact again. You hold me there for almost a minute, only pausing to catch your breath, which gives me an opportunity to gasp, `We're here, Mark.' You look around, and smile. `You want to do it in the street? That's more private?' I jerk my thumb towards the factory behind me. `Barnstable's Mattress Factory.' I extract one hand from your grasp and fish a small pair of wire-cutters from my purse-pouch.

I lead you around the fence until we reach the point closest to the warehouse. We hide behind a tree until the security robot stamps past (it's sort of like ED-209 with teeth), and then I snip a small hole in the fence, near the ground. `That won't be detected until the maintenance crew inspect it, which happens once a week. Like, next Thursday.' I get down on my hands and knees, drop to my belly and wiggle through. Standing on the other side, our fingers touching through the mesh, I whisper, `Come on.' `You've done this before, haven't you?' `I lived in this warehouse for two months, after Raf's squat burned down… come on, the guard will be back in eighty seconds!' You crawl through the narrow gap, and follow me over to a fire-escape at the side of the building. You follow me up the rusty ladder, and when I pause at the top to make sure the coast is clear, you climb further until you can rest your cheek on my thigh, with an arm wrapped tightly around my legs. `Mark… I'll warn you once: if you bite my bum out here, you will sincerely regret it. Come on, there's a gap in the skylight up here in the corner.'

You trace a frivolous skull-and-crossbones pattern in the dust and grime that coats the glass paneling, and then we wipe it away and peer through. `I can't see anything down there… are you sure?' I smile sweetly back at you, and work the loose panel open. `No.' then I step through the gap and drop in. `KELY!' you shout. There is a soft thump, far below. `Shhhh! Come on, you're right above it, just step through the skylight, and try to land on your bum.' It is a testimony to your trust in me that you do so with only a moment's hesitation, and you land on the top of a fifteen-foot tall stack of mattresses, next to me. `Whoah!' `Yes, isn't it? We all used to sleep up here - Mark, stop that, we'll fall off - Mark, I'm not kidding; it's very - mmmmff wwffwf-' and, once again, I am impressed by your skill in silencing me by the most direct method available. While your kiss presses me back into the mattresses, your hands slip up under my windcheater to cup my breasts. I can feel your erection pushing against my thigh, and so I return the gesture, bringing my knee up between your legs, while my hands claw your back involuntarily. As you tweak my nipples (again, there is little margin between pleasure and pain), I feel your hands begin to move hesitantly, and as you wriggle your hips, I understand your dilemma, and giggle, `You'll have to let go of me to get your pants off!' and so we release each other, and while still joined in what is proving to be one of the most erotically stimulating kisses that I have ever been involved in, you fumble with the brass stud on my jeans, taking the time to trace a smiling face in the tingling area around my belly button with your index finger. I use one foot to lever off my sneakers, and in doing so, apply pressure (with my knee) to your erection, which grows impressively. You moan, `Oh Kel, stop that, I'm going to come in my pants!' You hug me tightly, and I throw my head back, gasping, as you sink your teeth into my throat. With my jeans somewhere around my knees, you claw frantically at my panties, and then you slowly, teasingly, insinuate your middle finger into my slick wetness, your palm flat against my pubis. You take both my hands in your free hand, holding them above my head, teasing my collarbone with your tongue, slowly forcing my legs as far apart as the tangled jeans (which are now around my ankles) will allow, with your knees. I can hardly move as you slip two, three, and then four fingers into me, stroking the outer lips; as you slowly propel me towards the focal point of ecstasy, my gasps become hoarse, gutteral cries which you smother with another deep kiss. I am almost there when you withdraw your hand, and being left hovering on the edge is exquisite pain, which you can sense in my trembling body. You trace tear-tracks from the corners of my eyes, down my cheeks, with a finger, fragrant with my fluids. Just you wait, Mark, I think. Before I can give vent to a scream of frustration, you bring your erection towards me, gently inserting the head, teasing again, and then (finally!) you slide in to me. We both shudder in unadulterated pleasure as you bury yourself in me to the hilt, giving a playful twitch of your hips towards the end of the stroke. We lie there, intermeshed, as close together as it is possible to be… I caress your shaft with tiny contractions, and you stir within me with a pulsing movement that makes me draw short ecstatic breaths through gritted teeth. I manage to kick my jeans off completely, and you begin to withdraw, only slightly impeded by my legs wrapped tightly around your waist. For a moment, I am suspended there, while you kneel with me clutching desperately to stay with you… but gravity defeats me and I slowly slide down your shaft, gradually coming to rest with the swollen head of your penis clasped in me. You pause there, and with my mouth, I can feel a smile on yours as you wait. `Mark… stop teasing!' I have to punch you on the shoulder before you begin the next stroke, sliding in with a smooth mechanical motion, with that twitch of the hips at the end of the path that makes me want to cry out. You withdraw, and your next stroke is even slower than the previous. I can feel the trembling of an orgasm building, like the intimations of an earthquake that only the most esoterically sensitive can perceive. You begin a slow, steady rhythm, lifting me off the mattress with each withdrawal, forcing a gasp from me with each insertion. I begin to add to the sensation by squeezing down on you as you slide out; I can tell that it affects you, as your timing becomes more erratic as you approach orgasm. I feel a rush of warmth below my belly, which shoots up my middle and knocks my breath from me. I throw my head back as you shudder, plunging in as far as you can, my legs squeezing your hips as you come. As you lie there with your erection pulsing within me, I feel as if I am balanced on the edge of a very tall building… you give a final thrust and push me over the edge, and I scream in pleasure as I follow you into orgasm. The sound echoes around the empty warehouse, gradually dampened by the mattresses… and then, we hear the pneumatic hiss of pistons outside, as the robot guard approaches. We both gasp and fall silent, not daring even to move. The corrugated iron door rolls up with a clatter, and bright white light spills in from the end of the warehouse. Perched up on this stack of mattresses, I don't think we can be seen… the hiss, clank, hiss, clank sound approaches… and then, I feel an after-orgasm building in me. I whimper, and you force your lips over mine in desperation, holding me very still. The machine is standing at the end of the stack of mattresses… its search-lights play over the roof, just missing the open skylight where we entered. My legs contract sharply around you as I come again, only barely managing to subliminate my squeal into a high-pitched `mmnn' sound. For a terrible moment, I think that the machine has sensed the sound of the mattresses creaking as I came; then, it turns and stamps off. We wait until it has shut the roller-doors again before we dare to breathe once more. We lie there, utterly exhausted, breathing into each other's ears, still intertwined. You give a short chuckle of relief. `That was very close, very close indeed, Miss Camden.' `Oh, Mark… tomorrow night…' `Yes?' `There's this American Military Base not far from here - ' `Kelanie!'


This file is Copyright © Nikolai Kingsley, 1995. Unlimited electronic reproduction and one hard-copy per user is permitted, for non-profit use, providing that this notice is left intact. hail eris - Fnord - all hail discordia - 93 - oops, that's my banana

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