2 comments/ 20264 views/ 7 favorites Low Batteries By: MrFoxwood Author's note. This is a really quick one, inspired by a comment which I briefly misunderstood and which highlighted both my technological and sexual innocence. I hope I am endearingly naïve, I suspect I'm embarrassingly clueless. ***** Down by the lake, in his ancient canvas tent, with its flimsy partitions and orange hue. With this new friend, of mutual interests, of piqued interest, of hands dealt but un-shown. In late Spring, with late Spring showers that leave them languishing within, out of breeze and out of sight. Their conversation exhausted for now, they linger in their separate compartments, the glow of her reader shown through the canvas, the dry turn of his pages marking the time, joint with the patter of rain on their slanted walls. They slant too, in their roundabout way, leaning back-to-back through the canvas for want of better support. It is late in the afternoon as they while away the hours, the occasional swish and chatter of fools in waterproofs strolling along the track outside. The words on his pages seem to fade in and out of his mind, his eyes vacant as they follow lines. His mind is elsewhere, out there, in the rain perhaps, with her, hoping that wet clothes will stick to skin. Thoughts centred around the firm press of their shoulder blades, thin canvas screen that divides them. Abandoning his book he takes up his ballpoint, notes on his lap. She asks absently if he's writing again and he nods to himself, humming a yes, then, more conscious, hoping she'll not ask what. The words come so easy, the fantasy unfurls, just nonsense to be honest but honest release all the same. A week in a tent, in such proximity, with such small privacy, and with her, has both stoked and tempered his needs so that now he daren't let eyes wander too far for fear of what sights will inspire. She has a habit of sundresses that would convict marble statues. Her voice again, sweet and clear, trickling like honey to his ear, of asking if later maybe he'll read it to her, or she, she'll read it to him. His non-committal reply is full of hope that she'll forget, or the rain will stop and they'll wander by the lake, or she'll believe him when he says nothing got wrote. This last is a fool's hope, the scratch of his pen is all too much for her to ignore. This he cannot help, she inspires it, she makes it pour out, he thinks that he may burst if such release were not so forthcoming. So he writes, the scritch and scratch of this and that, of skin on skin and wet lips and his canines and her cat, and everything of flesh and teeth and tongues, and whispered words and bees and birds, and his breathing it quickens and his movements are shaken, his arms are unsteady as pages are filled, and moved to his side, sheaf his desires and his lust to hide. And then, as he expected, as he chose to forget, she tells him he's getting a lot written and she can't wait to hear it. Then comes the beep, the electronic tone of disappointment and death, the warning of resuscitation required, of resurrection desired, the red light of low batt. He hears her reader dropped, feels her head turn and words proceeded by her lazy sigh, as she asks if he's got any spare batteries. With literature before illumination he empties his flashlight, his torch, thinking nothing of the night. Then moves, exits his quarter and unzip her compartment to crawl on hands and knees in, hiding arousal, to offer as requested and return to his pen. Pages rest on his lap as their shoulders find each other and settle back. And the words come quicker, fuelled by the vision of her seated there, just skin and smile and perfect hair, and a dress that promises, that confides so much without saying a word. He's aware of her movement, the ease of her back and the adjust of her shoulders. It reminds him of her presence, her touch there through so thin a shield, which barks orders and demands salute, salute and tribute, a statue erected in her honour. Then the hum, the sound that comes, to fill this tent, rain-drummed from without and now this within. He wonders, not for long, but long enough to silence the sound of pen on paper, to signal his attention caught. Realisation, or at least speculation, causes blushes and strained shorts, and sends nib blurred over pages. As if she warms the world the rain eases off, the sun returning and bathing him in the warm orange glow this tent offers. Her soft sigh, quiet behind his ear. The shuffle of feet repositioned on the ground inspires images that race, tormenting, through his mind's eye. And then another sigh, of contented intent, in tent. And a hum, a thoughtful, pensive oral sound, unspoken, unbidden but voiced, a hum of her grip on control releasing, letting go. Another fabric shuffle, bare feet on the ground, then the alternating pitch of that hum, as it vibrates, as moved, slow. That slow change, that slow sound that whispers images to him, images of her delicate fingers dexterously angling, finding that spot that- oh yes, she murmurs. He tenses as her body moves against this partition, feeling her move away, so he moves away too, kneeling and turning to look towards the sound. The setting sun renders silhouettes, blurred but discernible shapes, forms and movement of her kneeling, knees apart and the slow rise of one arm to raise her dress and press that foreign shape. He watches, enchanted by the half-view as she pleases, her hand drifting slow either up and down or back and forth, the lack of perspective permitting only half a show. But then he knows, as her hands both grip her hem and lift, peeling her dress up and off, leaving the tell-tale shape gripped, half-within. His own shirt follows, followed by jeans, and shorts. Hand takes hold, controlled grip as he witnesses her slip that battery hum back, losing it as it rises past her torso's shape, her head turned aside to show slow, deliberate kiss to its tip and then long slow loving lick. She moans, soft, of pleasure rising, of inhibitions tossed to the wind. The desire to reveal, to invite witness to her act so personal, so intimate. Rhythm intensifies, pitch descends, her song sung in disjointed, ragged, verse. Down on her hands and knees she removes such easy visual exhibition but gives instead the low sigh and moan, the slick wet slip, then renewed rhythm. A rhythm that inspires the gentle rock of her body back and forth, his grip trying to match her, an intention to holdout until she's done. Then her forehead touches the canvas between them, a soft bump, there then gone, there then gone. He moves forward, awkward on knees, fingers out, her head there then gone, there and he touches, then gone, there, back at his touch and she stays, her rhythm slowing to a gentle easy probe. She turns her head, cheek to his touch, pulling his hand higher as she crawls forward, rising, body close to that which separates them, then closing the gap, to press breasts. To invite touch, to welcome fingertips and palms to brush over her. Their bodies close, lips breathing through to one another, soft moans of pleasure and frustrated lust. The contours of her figure in relief through the canvas are the landscape his fingers walk. And hers walk his, finding his swollen peak, knuckles grazing up and down, coaxing a fluid through. He pushes firmer, bulging canvas on her side, feeling her shift to push back, their heated cores begging for more. Their unsteady kneeling posture, their hips move to grind, fingers touch through, faces turned and pressed cheek to cheek. Fingers on chests, on shoulders and throats, coasting back to make returns, to touch tips, embossed lips, then rising. His left hand and her right, palm to palm, up to the roof, up to where this screen is tied, where its ribbons fix it. Anxious wet digits fumble, obstructing each other as their first touch of skin on skin meets their frantic ambition. One ambition, one goal, one unified, climactic vision for the future. Frayed ties, those sweat-slicked ribbons, no hook, no zip, no bowed lace, no clothing has ever been so urgently tugged loose, no lingerie has ever remained so stubbornly in place. While two pairs of hands fail to untie knots pulled carelessly tight days before, two bodies press together, this screen between, feeling all lust, all heat, all need, all but touch. Their muttered whimpers of effort, of frustration and hunger, mouths so close, breath shared. No thought given to parting, to moving from their vexed caresses, they are only there, in that space they share. But she leaves, her warmth, her form, her perfect silhouette, all gone, crouching. He panics, certain she's abandoned them, his fingers hopeless, nothing but ten thumbs. And then she's back, five fingers on his chest, her press, her push, steadying him, his heart pounding on her hand, his arms dropping. A spear of silver, deliverance tearing through this screen, horizontal release, fingers reaching up before the cut is complete. Her knife dropped and four hands rip until they meet, fingers interlocked as she pulls him down on top. Mouths mesh, hands together above heads, legs kick, toes slip and try to grip, to push down the torn remnants of this screen. Until, by increments, skin touches skin, revealed only to feel, collar bones, breasts, ribs, hips, canvas kicked, her legs lifting, appearing, thighs rise and part to offer, to request, to demand. Her breathed pleas, a thousand words of desire on the tip of her tongue, ready to pour in to his ear, a primal primary syllable hissed and silenced, cut short as he plunges within, her dialogue catching, silenced in the back of her throat, gurgled and breathless against his animal grunt. Their compressed coiled spring, their concentrate need, fired, released without poetry, kinetic and unapologetic, stretching them to arched backs and splayed limbs, muscle, bone and skin, every inch in bliss. But springs unsprung return, momentum compelling desire renewed. Pressure off, hands touch at faces, fingers in hair, tongues and lips, whispered nothings. Sweat-glistened skins slide and writhe as they love and roll. He withdraws with wet slip, edging lower to lick between breasts, to rake teeth over first right then left nib, fingers tease, lips close and suck. Her hand on his head, holding him there, then pushing him below. She smiles towards the slanted roof, ten fingers in his thick hair, hips rising from the ground to meet the first eager lap of his tongue. He tastes himself on her, watches as liquid pearl oozes from swollen red core, takes sample and rises back to kiss, her willing acceptance of his spirit and hers, before she pushes him back down. He laps, he licks, hot wet folds, throbbing clit, begging for attention and sucked between puckered lips. He pulls labium in lips, tugs with tender teeth, the bridge of his nose grazing that button. Dexterous tongue slithers inside to flip flap slip and slap, to tunnel and taste, to twist and writhe as tormented serpent, his arms snaked around her legs, hands on her hips to hold her still as she bucks. Soaked thighs press to his cheeks, trembling around his face, a tectonic bliss that vibrates out along limbs, a furnace glow that fills her core and flushes her cheeks. He rolls aside, watching chest rise, body willing, lungs not yet able. She hums happy content, leg moving foot to caress his body, toes along ribs. Minutes pass, the oppressive carnal heat of the tent filling every breath. She kneels, crawling past towards the exit. He lifts head, watching cheeks, plump lips dripping, smeared lust disappearing, outside. He follows, wet grass under hands and knees, finding her seated in the twilight. The dark shapes of hikers on the trail along the shore, their chatter filtering through the insect buzz. Without a word she turns at his arrival, smiling before returning to hands and knees. Her skin, sweat cold and drying in the cool air, his hands on her buttocks, moving to grip hips as he rises behind her. He rises, her wanton position inspiring his desire, engorged purple head pulsing, slick with fluid that catches moonlight. He feels her heat, and she his, a wiggle of hips encouraging him closer, fingertips readjusting on her hips, and then, easy, slow to savour every caress on every ridge, he enters. The soft bump as his crown penetrates, then onwards, advancing until every inch is firmly planted, her lips stretched taut around his girth. So he pumps, slow and deep. He sighs with each move, her groan rising and falling, in and out, noises in unison. Every forward push eases another sound from deep within her. One hand removed from her hip and gently, playfully slapping the flesh of her behind, to elicit a wriggle and giggle, another slap and an increase in pace, a little harder, a little deeper and her animal whimper of appreciation. He adjusts his angle and accelerates, her fingers clenching fistfuls of wet grass. The slap of skin on skin and the sticky peel as he withdraws. Thighs are soaked, coated, juices, and a light rain begins to fall once more. In the moonlight he reaches forward, one hand first on her shoulder and then in her hair, wrapping it around and pulling it back lightly until she gasps and offers half-words of rapt desire. He pulls harder and thrusts faster, burying himself deep within, over and over, slap after slap, grunt after grunt. His free hand reaches under to cup a breast, fingers pinch then pull its weight from her chest, and she grinds herself back against him. He swells inside her, she grips and releases, he pauses, waits, feeling as if he'll explode, feels it pass, then continues, causing her knees to weaken, to shudder and buckle but maintain. Their endless rutting, non-stop fucking, two bodies locked together, on show under the moon. Lust inspires tireless coquetry copulation, batteries not required.