3 comments/ 18719 views/ 11 favorites Man on Top Pt. 01 By: LawrenceD It had been a moment of weakness, but one that pursued him like a plague. He stared into the shard of mirrored glass he kept in his tattered sleeve. Unable to move about freely, to access his encrypted savings account, he'd lost a good deal of weight, most of it in his cheeks. The face that stared back at him was almost unrecognizable. Certainly, it had something to do with the way his skin seemed to cling a little too tightly, but more so because he could see in his eyes the result of one frayed nerve too many. ** It had been sixteen years since the world ground to a sudden, deafening halt. The planet's hulking economic apparatus lay in disrepair, abandoned and withering ever since human male fertility fell below one thousand. Its rapid plunge had been foreseen and foretold, but largely ignored until critical. People around the world always seemed to fall back on vague self-assurances: We'll fix it. We'll invent a solution. We put a man on the moon...we can do this, too. It used to be you only heard about someone who'd had it happen. Then it was someone you knew, a neighbor, a couple guys from work with whom you weren't well acquainted. Later, it rattled then rocked then decimated entire towns. The 24-hour news cycle focused on the counter that had been erected in London when world male fertility fell below one million. It seemed as though one could hardly turn on the television without seeing its precipitous tumble—the numbers shedding like leaves from a maple tree after winter's first hard freeze. On the day it reached one thousand, the world of man came to a standstill. A dull reality began to set in like a hangover we couldn't shake. The human race wasn't going to win this one. It was only then that the matriarchal power structure acted as swiftly as any bureaucracy can. Where ongoing scientific sequestration had so far been voluntary in order to control as many variables as possible while searching for clues as to why this was happening, suddenly mandates rolled out giving authorities permission to seize fertile men off the street, tear them away from families and friends, and quarantine them without notice. Forced laboratory procreation became the norm. Simply harvesting sperm from a healthy male did not stop whatever was causing the pestilence. Entire refrigerators full of specimen could turn up useless. Whatever it was, it was deeper than researchers' penetrating gaze via microscope. An elaborate draconian system grew up like a bitter weed almost overnight, pairing fertile men with as many women as the new police-state could wrest control of. Of course pregnancy wasn't simply going to solve the problem. The hope, however short-sighted, was that a large enough baby boom might buy us some time to stumble upon a miracle. But even that was of little avail. Nine out of ten boys were infertile by puberty. And by the time they were even old enough that researchers became privy to this fact, it was too late. There were fewer than fifty known fertile men left. ** He eyed the old wound on his wrist. He may as well have left the barcode unblemished, for all the good it did. The bumpy off-color scar tissue was just another way of saying, I am tagged. Volunteering those fourteen years earlier had seemed one's patriotic duty. It was only now, years removed, that he could finally see how the propaganda machine had spun its noose so effectively. Everyone had been in sheer frenzy at the possibility that the human race would simply age itself out within the next eighty to ninety years. That rushing out to be tagged was supposed to be a noble thing, responsible and self-sacrificing. Gazing down at the blemish he cursed himself for the umpteen thousandth time. Here he was, squatting in an old furniture store, forced to lay low because his tag—genetically programmed to fade when a subject became infertile—had never lost its freshly inked sheen. ** It wasn't as though people stopped having sex. The world's urge hadn't subsided to any real extent. Sure, there was the initial shock over learning that the final generation was now in diapers, and for some time, volumes of people were simply too stunned to do anything worthwhile. Sex was the least of what suffered because of it. Who'd have imagined that losing the impetus for working toward a better tomorrow would cause people to suddenly realize that their jobs were of little meaning, and so to stop going to work? What no one understood until it was too late was that without the promise of tomorrow's generation, motivation was dying. The government encouraged those willing and able not to give up on sex for the purpose of procreation. Something could change. Heck, they said, the body might just figure things out on its own. So the infertile masses went about their business, some of them returning to work, while many more simply turned their back on the great big economic mouse wheel altogether. For the fifty known men left on the planet who had not yet succumbed to a similar fate, they would come to know the ultimate sacrifice. Most were rounded up and secreted away to top secret research installations. The story told to the masses was that these men were doing their utmost to contribute to our scientific salvation. And indeed, the public saw numerous photographs and videos of these famous fellows posing and working with doctors and researchers. After a while, however, details emerged of a frightening reality for those remaining men. Tales of living dissections, erectile injections and forced procreation for eighteen-hour periods leaked to the public by unknown whistleblowers.Suddenly, people got a very uneasy feeling that the matriarchal government had become desperate. ** He'd done so well at laying low, blending in. The trick was to act so completely nonchalant that nobody suspected a thing. There were two distinct types of people left in the rapidly dwindling world populous. Either you were living each moment as though it truly was your last, or you moved about like a drone. Since he couldn't afford to draw too much attention to himself, he chose the latter. It had worked for half a decade; ever since the infamous footage surfaced depicting the gruesome endings suffered by the Last Men at the hands of the Authority. She was a waitress at a dark, smoky night crawl at the edge of town. He'd gone a few times to sit in a dark corner, drink and listen to the old blues band poke holes in his heart. She was something to look at, this waitress, as dark and mysterious as the space she occupied, long-legged and always wearing dark fishnets and a very short mini. Sure, it was part of the motif, a uniform meant to quicken the pulse and pad the check. A girl like her, when she asked to freshen up your drink, it was hard to say no. He should have known it was a bad idea to make eyes at her. He'd done better than most at not taking risks. Until recently, it had been enough to go to that smoky joint, listen to music and harvest the odd mental picture of those long legs, smooth skin, and pretty face that always seemed half-hidden behind her hairstyle of the week. Later, he'd retire to his apartment and call up those images on the lids of his closed eyes, worry his junk awhile with his good hand. That was, until one incident made his well-worn custom grow tired in a hurry. It was a late evening, slow as pitch with only a few patrons making the pilgrimage away from the inner city to get their fix of heartbreak and soul music. He'd just lit a cigarette and was taking a satisfying drag when she approached. The way she walked gave him chills, and this time it seemed that those long legs carried her with a sense of purpose. It said, I'm up to no good. Even before she was all the way to his dark corner, he was swallowing cotton. She stood there at the edge of his tiny table. The hem line of her skirt was eye level. Fishnets framed her legs, turning that pale skin into a thousand white diamonds. She didn't say anything at first, just reached for the cigarette in his mouth, placed it between her full lips and took a deep drag. The cherry grew bright, illuminating her face for but an instant, and he heard the shutter on his mental camera open and close, capturing her beauty for later recall. She untied her apron and rolled it up, dropped it on the table and sat next to him. Her shift was up and she was bored, wanted to know if he felt up to a little fun. The memory shattered into a million pieces and he woke up sweaty and scared. Why had he gone through with it? No woman that hot walked up to a strange man in a dark corner and asked him if he wanted to have a little fun. She wasn't really off the clock. He made his second mistake when they somehow ended up at his place, his apartment in downtown. Power came and went, causing his single overhead bulb to twitch and fall prey mostly to cold darkness, but it didn't make any difference. It was his sanctuary, the place where he escaped from the drones and the revelers, or the Infertile Dead as he silently called them. They were on his bed, kissing, touching, her beneath him feeling warm and impossibly alive. When he'd first encountered her at the night crawl, he categorized her immediately. She was a drone, one of the ones who moved about the world, doing just what was expected of them as though nothing had changed, as though the species wasn't really rafting toward a waterfall at the edge of the universe. But having her in his apartment after no more than a dozen words—mostly bitten back or swallowed by hungry kissing—he thought he'd have to put her in the other category. She was clearly out to make a fiery splash before her time was up, before the end of the world. Watching her hike up that skirt was almost too much for him. He felt flushed and over-stimulated. If she wanted him to be rough, would he get carried away? How long had it been since a woman flipped the ignition switch and said, 'Let's go'? He kissed her upper thighs and spied as her hemline shimmied up and revealed the dark strip framed like a goddamned work of modern art beneath her fishnets. She pulled his shirt over his head and ran her hands over his back, growing seemingly wilder with every kiss he plied dangerously close to her pussy. He made a motion to hook his fingers over her stockings and pull them down but she pushed his hands away. Confused, he looked up into the dark green eyes that caught soft alley light oozing through his bedroom window. She looked at him passion-drunk, her bottom lip pooched out revealing her gleaming white teeth. Leaning forward she kissed him deeply before taking his hands and guiding them beneath her top. He ran his hands up her tight stomach and found that she wore no bra before his fingertips brushed the tall eraser points that were her nipples. Energy surged through him and he lifted her top over her head. In the dim light, her tits were silhouetted full and firm. When his head fell between them, he let the skin caress his cheek, lost in a moment he wished desperately to make last. She rolled her hips then and he climbed onto the bed between her legs. He could now see why she'd stopped him from pulling her lacy stockings down. In view was the entire glory of her pouty-lipped vagina, and woven into the stockings, a slender slit intended to provide him unfettered access to her quivering sanctum. She was already rubbing at the hard spot fully formed behind his trousers. And in another moment, she'd helped him unzip, pulling his boxers down and allowing the heavy thing to fall out against her thigh. He exhaled slowly at the sensation of heat emanating from her skin. She stuck a pair of fingers in her mouth, coated them with sticky spit, and dropped her hand between her legs where she spread the moisture over her tight little jewel. Cleaving the lips, she revealed to him a deep pink hue that gave way to a hole no bigger around than her pinkie. His balls lunged and his cock tapped her leg in anticipation, causing her to giggle and reach for it hungrily. His head swam with lust as he stared down at the head of his cock which she used to smear the juices that formed at its tip up and down her swollen, blushing quim. Her tight abdominal muscles glistened with sweat in the soft light, carving her body an almost majestic silver-lined aura. Her dark hair fell in a pool against his bed, and her legs were drawn back so that her knees were bent. She lay there like that, completely and utterly open. When he pushed forward, the two of them watched as his cock sank with deliberate slowness into her hot, wet fleshy channel. Jaw unhinged, her eyes rolled back revealing the whites, spectacularly framed against her dark black eye shadow. Her bottom lip quivered and her brow furrowed as though his cock's every fibrous inch was raking each and every nerve, from clit inward. "So fucking good," she cooed. He wanted so badly to fill her, to feel his balls pressed against her, to be rooted in her and know that she was nowhere else, in no other world but his. And after savoring that agonizingly slow push into her pussy, it became reality. For a moment, they held. He stared down at her, wondering how in fuck he'd gotten cock-deep inside her. She grinned and a gracious moan escaped her gently parted lips. "Do you like how I feel?" she asked. To which he nodded drunkenly. She reached around to grasp his balls, which were pushed tightly against her newly planted fuck hole, stroking and massaging them while the muscles inside her seemed to roll over his cock, squeezing and milking him. She flashed him a lusty smile, told him to fuck her. No need for a second invitation. As he withdrew she clutched his balls still, as though afraid he'd escape. He didn't mind, retracting enough that he could see the head of his cock appear, wet and glistening with her pussy juice, before issuing a firm thrust that buried his piston once again. Catching a gear, he ground and thrust, fucking her cunt until a wet slap rose between them. Once or twice, she ordered him to pull out so she could suck his cock, encouraging him to cradle the back of her head and gently fuck her warm, wet mouth. He watched as those full lips mashed against the base of his shaft, felt her tongue rolling along the underside of his glans. He would pull out only her have her resume a position flat on her back with her legs up so he could quickly ensnare himself in her rapturously hot haven. They'd been at it for ten minutes or so when she flipped over onto her stomach, lifted her ass into the air and reached back to smear their collective lubricants over her puckered nether region. He closed his eyes and saw the star of her anus emblazoned on his eyelids as though he'd just been caught staring at the sun. When he opened them, he saw that she'd planted a pair of greasy fingers in her pussy. "Sorry, this one's taken," she cooed. Was she really urging him to make a similar arrangement between his cock and her tight little asshole? As the head popped through he felt a dizziness overwhelm him, her tightness almost demanding he blow his load right there. Shaking it off, he felt his control loosen. This strange waitress with long legs, tight body, gorgeous little tits and firm ass was begging him to fuck her naughtiest hole, the least he could do was give it to her proper. He slid in slowly, letting her become accustomed the invasion. Feeling her fingers working feverishly in her pussy, he pulled back and began drilling her. He leaned forward, gathering her tits and lifting her up from the bed. She leaned against him and he fucked her as deeply and as hard as he dared, savoring the curve of her ass as she pressed it into his pelvis. She moaned and threatened repeatedly that she would come ... or some variation of "fucking-fuck-fuckity-fuck ..." soon thereafter making good on those threats and squealing with over-sensitive lust as she climaxed down one valley and up the other. Without warning, she pulled away so quickly his cock slipped out of her ass with a glorious pickle jar pop. Sticking her tongue out at him and spreading her legs, she flashed her reddened pussy at him in a daring, playful way. He slunk slowly up the bed, grabbed her foot and pulled her to him. In a flash, he was balls deep in her cunny, thrusting for all he was worth as his balls clapped her anus in time. She wrapped her arms around his neck and they kissed long and hard, never for a moment slowing. He asked her if it was all right, and her eyes snapped open. She stared directly into his, and said inside. But he knew she knew. After all, why would anyone ask? When was the last time someone needed to request to dump a load. You took a chance on an STD, not a baby. He could see the sudden change, the fear-laced wonder that crept into the corners of her smile, threatening to rupture the fantasy for both of them. But it was too late for him. This woman had been the subject of long-building lust. She'd taken him home and fucked him, against all likelihood. He was going to finish. The raw, mind-numbing sensation crept up all at once, swelling his cock inside her so that his groan temporarily drowned out hers. He thrust deeply, feeling the lips of her pussy flatten as she was shoved against his headboard and could go no farther. She cried out and held her breath, clutching him as tightly as he clung to her. What felt like a flood suddenly erupted from his cock and he shook as he injected her snug little body with his spunk. Again and again, through wave after wave, he jerked and lurched until finally the thick clouds that covered his vision slowly began to recede. Her perfume smelled sweet and innocent, and he felt the trickle of sweat between their panting bodies. Her spectacular tits were still pressed against him, the sharp jut of her nipples ever-present. He pulled back slowly, and they watched in a sort of reverent awe as his cock revealed itself, sliding past her pretty little lips until at last, the head departed before a torrent of sticky white seed flowed out of her—this dark, mysterious waitress he scarcely knew. ** He should have known something was wrong when she wouldn't meet his eyes afterward. She stepped into the bathroom with her purse, ostensibly to clean up. To his credit, he heard the scanner beep through the bathroom door and even the towel she'd wrapped around it to muffle its warning. And despite his meticulous planning for the day that might come, having performed drills a hundred times, it still took him precious, eternal seconds to fully comprehend what was happening. He'd fucked and fucked up. So, she was working after all. But not for herself. The government recruited particularly attractive women all the time, arranging private exchanges in all the most likely places a Fertile might appear. Even if she wasn't lucky, a girl could make a few extra bucks by scanning a few random hook-ups during a fluid exchange. Coming across an actual bonafide Fertile, on the other hand, could set up a girl for life. She could ride out the remainder of humanity in the lap of luxury. He'd made the cardinal error: thinking he was special. Five years later and he still hadn't had a moment when he felt completely safe. Rumor had it there were no more than a handful of Fertiles left. The government had gotten militaristic, almost surgical in their precision when it came to hunting them down. That's what the world had come to, and here he was, hiding out in an old furniture outlet. To Be Continued... Man on Top Pt. 02 He wore a watch to cover the scar. Because watches were forbidden on the left hand, he had to wear long sleeves as well. Should a sleeve ride up, say on a crowded subway or during a window day, one could overlook a wrong-handed watch wearer if they weren't explicitly looking.After five years on the run, only those on the payroll were likely to spot his deceit. Still, risks were risks. And for him, all of them were huge. Something had changed. One of the last Fertiles was captured during the spring. Incredibly, instead of secreting him away in a lab or forcing him into a procreation camp, the government made an about-face and seemed to concede defeat. Not in a manner one might imagine, though, but in the delusion way only a government could conceive. A great ceremony was announced. It would happen during the summer solstice, and it was said that June 21 would mark the day when humanity would be unshackled from fear, unbound by a history of ceaseless, mindless Manifest Destiny and wanton propagation. The propaganda machine whirred to life, telling people that it was time to celebrate the summer of the Final Generation. It was time to forge ahead a new future, one of certainly at last, eternal freedom, total happiness, inescapable purity. Nobody really knew what any of that meant. But sure, they'd go along with it. Humans could only take so much living under the shadow of doom and gloom. Turning their backs to it wouldn't be asking a lot. That June day, whether it was warm on their side of the planet or cold, there was no question it was a festive, almost raucous atmosphere. People tuned in to the celebration live on their TVs, stood in squares and watched on big screens, and joined revelatory events all over the world. The last Fertile was there, wearing a white gown, waving his arms and smiling. He thanked everyone for their sacrifice, for their lives and for their tirelessness. What did it matter if they'd been unsuccessful? They had each other, right? The Final Generation, the biggest happiest family was no longer taking applications. And then he was seized. He was no longer smiling. His arms were stretched out where tethers were slid over his wrists before he was strung up for the masses. People around the world watched, momentarily stunned. And then the Authority appeared on the stage. A spokesperson stepped forward, raising her arms and asking for calm. "Gentle people, we are the great Final Generation. The first humans squatted in caves and gave us fire, they our Alpha. Now, look at us. Great people, we the Omega, have come so far. Do not be saddened by dark thoughts. Remember now that all is part of nature. From nature we came and back to nature we will go. But! We will go as human! Creators, builders, lovers and friends. We are no longer beholden to instinct, no longer driven to spread that seed. We are free. And so, with the world watching, we thank our friend, this man. He symbolizes the last fertile man in the world. We say to him, no more. We do not need your seed." At that point, she ceremoniously produced a long pair of sharp scissors. Stepping away from the microphone, she held them up to allow the cameras to catch their brilliant, newly minted gleam. Then she strode across the stage, bowed perfunctorily to the bonded man who could only stare back in horror. Pulling an unseen thread, she managed the almost magical feat of removing his entire lower wardrobe in a single gesture. Without so much as a pause, she snipped. Thanks to the wonder of HD, the Final Generation saw everything. Hand bloodied, she gestured to a couple of stagehands who approached to help with their now bleating and bloody captive. As they tended to him, the spokesperson for all humanity strode proudly back to the microphone. "It is done! We are free!" ** He woke in a cold sweat. He was not alone. Someone was in the furniture outlet with him. They were sitting somewhere near the front window, listening to an old portable radio. He could hear static and the occasional drone of an old song. A news bulletin cut a Duke Ellington joint short to tell the world that the last Fertile had been set free. Across the outlet, he shivered, angry that the dream had followed him back to wakefulness. He stretched his neck and peered over the back of the couch he called home. Stupid little shit, creeping in on his turf. How the hell had they gotten in anyway? He'd stuffed enough razor wire through the back entrance to bleed a small army. Gazing down at his wrist, he slid the watch over his hand and stared at his scar. What if it was true? There really was no Fertile left but he. There was no way to know for sure. He'd had a scanner once upon a time, used it out on himself from day to day, almost praying it would spit back the news that he was one of them. But after eight years—the infertility pestilence should have done its work by now—he'd been as fertile as a freshman football team. Well, that joke used to work anyway. Getting his hands on a scanner now would be suicide. Catch enough Fertiles with a scanner in his possession, and the government gets wise to the hack, puts a GPS on board, patching up one more loophole. Used to be, he'd scan himself for sport after a jack. Get a hot honey lodged in his mind, take her for a good time in his imagination and scan the mess. The radio switched off. Inwardly, he cursed himself. Somehow he'd managed to be careless again. All he wanted was to be left alone, alone to carve out a miserable existence without being harassed by every hobo with an empty mind and a greedy gut. The government may be playing at a game, acting like all the Fertiles had been exhausted, but they'd inadvertently done him a favor. The reward flyers that used to litter the cities, offering huge sums and everlasting riches to heroic anybodys who uncovered a Fertile were all gone now. The heat had lessened somewhat. He thought he heard something to his left, reached into a cut in the couch's seam and pulled the broken mirror shard from within the upholstery. He'd wrapped a strip of fabric around the end to give the glass a sort of hilt, and he clutched it tightly. "Squatter's paradise," said a mousy female voice over his shoulder. He took start, falling from the couch and dropping the makeshift glass blade onto the concrete floor where it promptly shattered. A piece ricocheted up from the floor and cut his cheek. He lay there wincing, listening to his heart thump wildly, and finally tasting the acrid bite of his own blood on his lips. "I thought I was clumsy," said the voice. He heard her coming closer, stepping from dusty couch to tattered chaise to wobbly end table, and at last coming close enough that he could smell her perfume. "Go on!" he shouted, trying to sound gruff. The sound of his voice echoed through the furniture outlet, and for a long moment there was no reply. "Well, are ya okay?" He closed his eyes and exhaled deliberately. He forced his weary body to mobilize, pushed himself up, careful not to run his hands through the broken glass, and climbed to his feet. There before him in the dingy light was a figure that did not match the tiny voice it seemed to have produced. She was tall and thin, but full of sharp edges. Her shoulders were bony, and though her long arms seemed stringy the way they hung haplessly at her sides, in evidence were strong sinews of lean muscle running up and down them. Her hair was shaved along the sides, with the longer stuff pulled into a ponytail, except for what hung in wispy strings over the left side of her face. "I'm not looking to take the pork," she said flatly. "So, let's just dispense with that notion right quick and we'll get along much better." "I don't want to get along with you or anybody else," he returned. "Yeah, I could tell that from the way you decorated your entryway." He was about to launch into his madman's rant, hoping it might give her the idea he didn't want to be her buddy, or share a smoke, but he paused at mention of his razor wire nest. She'd somehow managed to get past it. "Guess you forget about the air vents in the woodshop next door." Fuck. He had forgotten about them. "Look," he said. "I don't suppose there's any chance you'd just make your way back up that vent like a stringy little rat, and leave me alone?" "And leave one hobo to all this? Man, you hit the jackpot. Get to choose a new bed each night, and you want to keep it all to yourself?" "I see," he replied. "In that case, Pick one you like. The white chaise near the eastern side of the store is a particular favorite of mine. A reclaim I think, because it's already been worn down in just the right places. If it weren't for my bad right shoulder, I'd still be using it." "Mighty neighborly of you," she said. "Yes, and when you're good and comfortable, feel free to sleep peacefully. I'll just slip over there when you're sound asleep, and slip my cock into your virgin asshole and rape the living shit out of you." He stood there, his chest heaving, hoping that his words sounded menacing, that she'd turn tail and run straight from that store, out of his life forever. But she just smiled, nonplused. "Cool. Long as you're okay with getting this slid under your skin." She produced a long blade that gleamed in the dirty light. It looked like a samurai sword broken in half and perfect for concealing down one's trousers. "See," she said sweetly. "Got me a cock of my own. Hope you're into that." He hung his head. "Ah, don't be so down about things. I'm a good roommate, and I can tell a harmless hobo when I see one. You, you're about as dangerous as a soft peach." He sank down on the couch nearest him and turned his back on her. "Fine. Go nuts. Just leave me alone." But instead of doing that, she plopped down on the end of a coffee table nearby. "I'm on the outs with my father. Was putting myself through college when the teachers stopped showing up. Kind of hard to attend the lectures when there's nobody there to hand out grades. So, I took a hike too." "Why are you still talking to me?" He lay there, hardly resting. His mind worked a mile a minute, calculating exits she couldn't possible know, plotting his escape should it become necessary. "Lonely, I guess." She cleared her throat. "And no, not for anything more than an ear to bend. I'm sort of a wayfaring stranger, just trying to make sense of it all. I mean, this is supposedly the last run for our lot. I just want to see if there's anything out there worth doing before we expire." He rolled over and faced her. In this light, she wasn't terribly hard on the eyes. The loose strands of hair seemed to match her over all personality, provided she wasn't merely playing an assigned role. Still, she'd said something he never seemed to understand. "Why now? Why is it now when there's no future, people suddenly give two shits about carpe mother-fucking diem?" She was thoughtful a moment. "If you ask me, I think we're all tied together. One big long rope, person to person, living to dead. One life to the next. As far as I can see, when all the Fertiles dropped off, it was like cutting the cord and letting us all tumble down into darkness. It used to be like somebody was holding on up there, pulling us as a species into the future, however uncertain. Now, there's nobody on the other end. We aren't going anywhere. Can you believe it? Not a single one of us left to carry the tether ahead into the great darkness of tomorrow." "But it's not my, er, our problem. Our lives didn't get any shorter." "They sort of did," she said, by way of explanation. He shook his head and stared at the shattered glass at his feet, beholding in the fractured reflection a truer glimpse of himself than he'd seen in too many years. Blood was drying to his cheek. He ignored it. "My name's Isis, by the way." He looked up and considered her a moment. "Good for you." He smiled to himself from within the fog of a dream. He felt enmeshed in wondrous, wet warmth. He rocked his hips gently, trying to gain deeper purchase. His cockhead mushroomed and bumped against the back of its ensnarement. He felt that familiar tingling, gave into the sensation and exhaled as slowly as he could. Tightening like a vise, he felt his tool being worked over in an impossibly small, yet velvety soft channel. His balls lunged and his back seized. He gritted his teeth and groaned through what might have been the best orgasm of his life. A while later, he woke and sat up. Isis' tiny radio was producing static. She was seated across the room, her back to him. Confused at the reality of his dream, he cleared his throat. She did not turn around, but said, "Oh, you're awake. That's good. You were really going at yourself there for a hell of a while." Fuck. Apparently, he'd been tugging at his junk while he slept. Well, so what? Screw her. This was his home. He couldn't give two shits if she was made uncomfortable by his habits. Suddenly, a horrible thought rocketed through the danger centersinhis mind. He felt around his stomach, rubbed the fringes of his shirt, felt his boxers, the couch where he lay. No wetness to speak of. What if she'd taken it? What if she'd scanned it and found out who he was? The furniture outlet could be surrounded by now, for all he knew! Without another word, he bolted upright and leapt over the back of his couch and onto a dining room table. With practiced dexterity, he jumped from furnishing to furnishing until he reached the far side of the room. Ducking beneath the merchant's desk, he dived to the floor, grabbed hold of an a/c vent and slid it aside, having unscrewed the vent months earlier just to be safe. Now, he shimmied through the vent, following the winding metallic tube as it led to the concrete garage below. He slid out near an access hatch, and raced up three flights of stairs. The stairwell spit him out a block south of the furniture outlet. Without looking back, he descended into the subway, got the very next train heading deep into the bowels of the city, and passed from car to car until he found the one least occupied before settling down in an end seat, putting his back firmly to the wall. ** Eventually, the revelry wore off. If one were to stand at the edge of a high-rise building and listen into the world below, he could quickly discern the difference in eras.This one sounded a great deal different. Gone was the chatter of tourists, the persistently self-aware honking of car horns. Traffic may indeed be lighter, but even the proverbial five o'clock rush had lost its urgency. Lines for ticketing booths, the subway platforms and taxi stands all grew quieter. Dimness fell over the eyes of men and women, a sense beyond foreboding edging on capitulation. Schools slowly emptied when the last students finished up and came of age. There was a collective holding of breath as the final graduation occurred at a tiny rural high school in the middle of nowhere. The commencement was a somber occasion—not merely a family affair—attended by more people than would see the succession of English royalty. Tears were shed, young men and women embraced, welcomed into the dying adult populous and quickly forgotten. Libraries, gymnasiums and classrooms seemed to age overnight, becoming the dark mausoleums of our perished youth. ** He staked out the furniture outlet for a week, watching and waiting for the world to close in around it. But the Authority never came. No suspicious vehicles, no lurking loiterers, no uncanny mailmen. After another two days of squatting in parking garages and under the trees in city parks, he'd had enough. So, maybe she wasn't working for the government, but no way would he let that hobo-come-lately, Isis, take over his furniture outlet. He snuck back in via the a/c vent in the underground garage, slipping out of the wall behind the merchant's desk and pausing there to listen. Evidently, she was doing without the monotonous drone of her radio today. He wondered idly if he'd have a fight on his hands, Isis having supposed he'd abandoned the place entirely. Many hobos were territorial, resorting to any manner of aggression to keep a place to themselves. Some pissed and defecated on walls and windows. The foulness gave nomadic types the immediately warning intended to suggest that they move on, that they'd have a fight on their hands if they tried to squat there. Slowly, he got to his feet. His jaw dropped open. Isis had been busy. Every item of furniture, it seemed, had had its legs chopped off. The ends of a hundred or so legs had been whittled to a sharpened point and used to line a path she'd created through the mountains of furniture. Climbing over the merchant's counter, he stood at the entrance of this path. It wound itself through the middle of the showroom and ended at a cleared space that had been lined with couch cushions. The last remaining table and chairs stood there as well. Apart from the hostile jungle feel of the new setup, it looked surprisingly homey. He took a step. "I wouldn't." Isis, in her uncannily sneaky way, was perched on a shelving rack to his left, near the bathroom foyer, eating a banana. "At least," she continued, "not until I've shown you how it works." She hopped down from her perch, entered the path from her side and walked to where he was standing. "Good to see you," she said, cheerily. He blinked, and started to reply, but decided on keeping his mouth shut for the moment. She grinned and changed course. "I'm a bit of a DIYer, so I hope you don't mind that I spruced up a bit and added a little to your line of defense." "What is it?" he asked, indicating the dagger lined path, leading through the center of the outlet. "What we have here," she said, "is a dead guy's path. Look," she said, pointing. "There's a wire running along the path. The pikes are all on a single trigger. Somebody we don't like comes in here after we set the trigger, and they get skewered. The more the merrier, too. That's why the path runs the length of the show floor. I can take out a gang of 'em with this." "I can't believe you did all this." "Amazing what one can accomplish with the better part of a master's degree, and nobody's hiring." He simply gaped at her. "Anyway," Isis said. "Come on over to the living room. I hope you like it." He followed her through the path, unable to help gazing down at the incredibly savage points carved meticulously into the pikes, as she'd referred to them. Each one leaned in on the path, pointed at about chest level on the average soul. The living space she'd set up was indeed cozy. Two genuinely uncomfortable, yet spacious couches had been stripped down and re-lined from a mishmash of other plump cushions and covers. He noticed the two had been arranged conspicuously separate, directly across the living space from one another. Still, each couch was wide enough to allow a person to really sprawl out. "It never occurred to me to do this," he admitted. "Before your...remodel, these were the two most over-hyped pieces of furniture in this store." "I know!" she agreed. "Did you see the price tags on them?" He laughed. "I'd initially tried sleeping on one of them, and gave up after being all but broken backed after a night." "Exactly. Wouldn't you say they're worth their asking price now?" He gazed down at the jumble of hobo comfort beside him. "Still, no." She laughed at that. "Wait until you sleep on yours. That'll change your mind for sure.So, now that we're chatting. Gonna tell me your name?" He thought about it, hesitated and then pointed at the dinner table. "Left one standing, eh?" "Yeah, I thought we could almost simulate a proper meal. I may live the hobo life, but that doesn't mean I don't still enjoy at least one or two of those old modern comforts." Man on Top Pt. 02 "You can set a table," he said, "but it's still coming from the garbage bin." "Not so," she returned. "I've got a lifeline." "Really? An active bank account? Mine gave out nearly three years ago." "I got a little. I also keep a few friends who owe me a string of favors." She read his look instantly. "They're not those kinds of debts." "I didn't say—" "I'm not offended. Judge away." He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly. This Isis chick was all right. Still, a thought occurred to him. "Hang on. How did you know I'd be back?" "I thought, any guy who stakes out his own spot for a week and a half isn't moving on that easily." He sighed. "I was trying to be inconspicuous." "Oh, you were. Just not to me. You've got a lot to learn about this girl." Apparently, that couldn't be more true. ** If being hunted byone's own government was not bad enough, imagine the horror when the last Fertiles on Earth were suddenly found to inhabit a single country. All of the sudden you had foreign strike teams conducting covert missions to root out men and smuggle them back to far flung homelands. On several occasions, war nearly broke out of these illicit activities. When Cambodian commandoes posing as tourists came to the States, using intelligence they'd purchased at a premium from the Russians, things took a turn for the bizarre. The team found its mark in a small Missourian town, kidnapping the man, drugging him and proceeding to stow away on cargo ship bound for the Gulf Coast via the Mississippi River transport system. A much larger freighter awaited, ready—had the plot not been uncovered—to take the Fertile half a world away. Cables intercepted by the Authority and later leaked revealed a farming plan sanctioned by the Cambodian government, one which hinged on the acquisition of a white man known simply by the translated code name as Cracker Alpha. The Authority did not take kindly to these sorts of operations. They sent a wet work team to board the freighter as it entered maritime waters. The nighttime operation went so well, not one of the Cambodian strike force members had any idea their asset had been removed from the ship right under their noses. Several hours later, the C4 attached the ship's hull decimated the freighter as it made port in Cuba. The Cambodian government could have probably guessed with very little doubt what had transpired, but what could they do about it? It bears mentioning, the Fertile who was rescued was said to be returning to a hero's welcome in his hometown. The entire town turned out with parade floats, confetti and a marching band to celebrate the reunion of their native son with his grief stricken family. Folks waited and waited there on the tarmac of that little airfield, until word arrived that the Fertile had inexplicably volunteered to help the Authority with their little fertility problem. He was never heard from again. ** "Check this out," Isis said, snapping open an old hard shelled red suitcase. Retrieving what appeared to be a desk lamp with a coffee-stained papier-mâché umbrella, she flicked a switch and placed it on the dining table. The light came on, and thetiny lampshade umbrellaslowly began to turn. Isis turned on her radio and rotated the dial to a place between stations. She adjusted the volume until the sound emanating from within was a soft crackle. She then reclined on her couch bed. "Now, lay back and watch the ceiling." Soft orange-yellow light washed over the ceiling, trembling and flickering. It reminded him of something he'd not seen since his youth, and yet, he could not place it. The radio's faint crackle began to sound less like static, more like... He smiled, remembering. "My father once took me camping in the Interior Mountains. Can you imagine it, camping for fun?Not quite like this. We built a small fire from sticks and these tiny tinder needles that covered the forest floor." He laughed then, his voice sounding strange to him. "It must have taken the better part of an hour to get the thing to catch. We had enough smoke to fill a train station. But when it took off, it was a sight. The heat was miraculous, and the sound..." He trailed off. Isis didn't say a word, an unusual feat for her. She let him remain in that precious moment, feeling the warmth on his face again, a child without worry. But suddenly, he'd returned. He turned his head and regarded her, watched the way the light colored her skin. Her eyes were bright, flashing, never missing a thing. He started to open his mouth, to ask her where she'd come from, but in that unsettling Isis way, she answered the question he'd not yet asked. "My father was chief researcher with the Global Survey. He headed up the fertility studies back when everyone supposed our problem was environmental. He was making a lot of friends within the Authority, and as such, our lifestyle changed considerably. We were paraded to one fund-raising event after another, the kinds of events where donors were the people running banking cartels, illustrious world resource managers, heirs and heiresses to fortunes as old as the Crusades. "My sister was—you should have seen her—she really was the most beautiful creature. These were the early days of the Infert Crisis, an era—brief as it happened to be—when the lights of society considered it their privilege to acquire Fertiles like breeding stock. Within the higher echelons of wealth and power, this disgusting game began where men and women deemed genetically superior were traded like prized stallions and mares. These fools actually saw the crisis as a chance to right what they believed was a flaw in the race, one that had cursed the world with abominations such as welfare queens, reality televangelists, the Sierra Club, Greenpeace and PETA." He laughed, and Isis looked over at him. "Sorry," he said. "You think I'm joking," she warned. "The holders of forty percent of the world's wealth stood at those banquets and talked nonchalantly about how wonderful the sterility issue was. I know, I was there. I actually heard them repeatedly call it a cleansing. This was back when the Authority was assuring people it was a Third World problem. Never mind that it'd been happening with increasing frequency on these shores. Fools!" She fell silent a moment, before continuing. "My father was a coward. Fearful of what the Authority would do to him should he refuse, it was at one of these sordid galas where it got proposed that my sister be paired with the Fertile son of a Spanish import magnate. Mind you, the two had never met. But to these people—these horse traders—it made a great deal of sense. From here our story spirals into one of those well-worn tragedies. No one seemed to care that my sister was already in love with another man, even engaged to be marred. He was simply swept aside, and to be sure my sister did not make her way back to him, they dumped his body into the ocean halfway between this continent and the next. "How do I know this? How can it be that I would know what they did with the body? Because after my sister was dragged kicking and screaming into this Spanish heir's castle, she made her refusal quite plain. She would never love this man, never give herself to him while she loved another. So, in an effort to make her understand just how helpless her plight was, he told her what they'd done to her beloved." "Oh," he said, agape. "That's the most awful thing I've ever heard." "Well, then prepare yourself. Rather than be shackled to this man she didn't know, this man who'd admitted to having her fiancé murdered, my sister threw herself out of the highest window of his stupid castle, right into the river Douro." He was all but speechless. "I'm can't imagine such a thing," he finally said, then a in a low, shocked voice, uttered, "I'm so sorry." For her own part, Isis seemed oddly detached from the whole thing. It was as though the horror had happened to another family and she was simply relating the juicy details, drop by drop. "Where were you during all this?" "I was going to school and working at the same time for the National Women's Organization. I was in charge of a nationwide research study ten years in the making. At one point, I was doing so much flying, especially to rural and out-of-the-way locales it actually made sense for me to get my pilot's license. I remember taking a trip to some tiny town in the West Virginia when I was radioed to return to Washington. In less time than it took for me to land, fuel up and take off, I got back in the air only to find myself being escorted by a pair of Authority jets. Now, what does that tell you about how eager the power players were to have this thing go off without a hitch?" By month's end, I'd been told that my job at the NWO was made redundant. Threatening my father's position, they made it clear that I was to take my sister's place." "Are you shitting me?" "So, there I am, ring on my finger, housed in that man's gaudy monument-to-self,installed in my dead sister's very bedroom—the one overlooking the Douro—and left to stare down at the river she'd chosen for her grave. The newly cast iron bars were clearly meant to prevent a repeat performance." "What did you do?" "Well, I'm here now. The would-be Casanova tested Infert shortly after finding himself incapable of knocking me up. A waste of three years of my life," she said with a sigh. "But happy endings don't come without a dose of suffering." He smiled compassionately. "You've still got your optimism, I'll give you that. I wouldn't exactly call this a happy ending." She smiled. "We're not there yet." ** He'd nodded off at some point. When he woke, the only light shone in the dirty windows from the amber streetlamps outside. Instinctively, he gazed over at the other couch where Isis should be bedded down. Only, she was not there. By now, he'd become partially accustomed to not finding her there when he woke in the morning. She was an incredibly early-riser, but it must be the middle of the night. Maybe she'd gone to the staff bathroom. He didn't feel tired so he lay a while, staring at familiar shadows cast on the walls and ceiling. When enough time had passed that he assumed Isis had gone out, he acknowledged his own need to take a piss. He got off his couch bed, navigated the pike path as he liked to call it, and padded toward the foyer where the large staff restroom was. Soft light spilled into the foyer and as he put a hand on the door, he heard the sound of water splashing over the tile floor. He took a step back. Isis was using the restroom after all. But the sounds were those of someone taking a shower. Leaning forward, he spied through the crack in the partially open door. He was unable to see Isis, but immediately realized that the industrious girl had been busy. Hooked to the sink was a garden hose. From there, it looped up over a ceiling joist and hung attached at the other end to a crude garden shower. How she'd procured such implements, he could not say. When suddenly Isis stepped into view, he caught his breath sharply. She was entirely nude, covered from neck to foot in a thin white foam of sudsy soap bubbles. Her body was lean and long, her smallish breasts perfectly round, the nipples pert and youthful. Her stomach was smooth and tight, transitioning almost seamlessly to her pelvis. He watched as Isis ran her hands over her skin, pushing a piece of bar soap over her tummy and down between her legs. She reached up to the shower nozzle, and that's when he noticed something he'd missed before. A bulky battery-operated device had been hooked to the hose before the nozzle. She flipped a switch there and some soundless apparatus must have started working because after testing the water a few times, he watched as she stepped beneath the cascading water without so much as a shiver, and began washing the soap from her body. Where on Earth had she found such a thing? So interested was he that his hand nearly pushed the door open until he remembered that he'd been spying on her, she was nude, and this whole thing was wildly inappropriate. Best to go back to bed and casually bring it up later. But he did not return to his couch, not immediately. He watched the water traveling over the floor where it had sought the path of least resistance that led it to a back-up drain near the corner of the restroom. "Not tired, either?" she said, and he looked up to see that Isis had turned and was now staring directly at him. He took a step back into the foyer, out of the light where he wrinkled his face and cursed to himself. His spying certainly didn't seem to bother Isis. "Come in here if you're bored. You can sit on the toilet and we can chat." He exhaled slowly and pushed the door open. He made a conspicuous effort at averting his eyes. "Really?" she said. "Now we're modest." "I was just—I had to pee and—I heard water sounds." "Yep, I know." He stepped into a stall, but was so embarrassed that at first he was unable to go. As if on cue, Isis began to whistle. He stood there a moment longer, trying to relax. After what seemed like an eternity, the flush crept out of his face and he was able to pee. When he flushed, there was a moment that the sound drowned out the splash of water, then Isis squealed. He stepped quickly out of the stall to find her standing beside the cascading water spout, arms wrapped around her body. "Fucking cold! Even my heater couldn't keep up with that blast. Gotta remember that next time one of us uses the toilet while the other is showering." He used the opening to ask about her about the heater. "Isn't it great?" she said. "We used to use one when the electrical went on the fritz. Takes batteries, and is pretty effective at taking the chill out of the water. I mean, it's not steaming as you can see, but it's bearable." "Where did you get it?" "I keep it in my bag of tricks. I'm pretty good at roughing it ever since I went on the lam, but a girl's got needs and a better-than-freezing shower is one of them." "It's quite impressive." Isis had gotten back under the water, and he stood there a while staring up at the device, unsure where else to look. Finally, he exhaled and nodded. Then he started to make his way awkwardly toward the door. "Oh, you're not going to keep me company?" "Huh?" "I mean, you're probably tired. I don't seem to sleep that much anymore. It gets boring, you know. Used to listen to my radio, but..." she smiled, sheepishly, "roommates." He laughed uncomfortably. "Right. Well, I guess I'm not really tired either." "Just have a seat over there," she said and pointed. "We can talk about any old thing." He shrugged, went to the nearest wall and slid down until he was seated on the tile floor. Water droplets occasionally struck his leg, but it was not an altogether uncomfortable experience. For one thing, when he looked up, he could now see Isis from an entirely different angle. Apart from a faint shock of light fuzz, her pussy was nearly bare. The lips were smooth, not the puffy sort that had always turned him on. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Did I tell you what I read when I went out yesterday?" "No." "Apparently, the Authority calls it a miracle. A lady gave birth." "That would be the first birth in three years. So, there's another—er, there are Fertiles out there still." "The boy's six," she said. "And the news is bigger than that." She closed her eyes and gazed upward so as to let the water wash over her face. "They've got some new test that can tell earlier than ever if a male is going to grow up Infert or not. Turns out he's bonafide. A new Fertile. Can you imagine that?!" He sat numbly, eyes going unfocused, his mind thrumming for a reason he would not allow himself to be sure of. "Don't you get it?" she said. "If this kid is the real deal, it's only a matter of time. It's over. The whole bullshit ordeal is over." The happiness in her voice was tinged with something else. His mind was elsewhere, a sudden wave of nausea washing over him. But he had to know. "What do you know about the child? The boy?" "They're being pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing." "What if it's a lie?" "I guess it could be. They mentioned the mother. I recognize her face from TV, even though I never knew anything about her. Some cocktail waitress-turned-socialite who got knocked up with the bastard after a random hook-up with a Fertile that had been apparently been flying under the Authority's radar." His legs felt numb as a great weight seated itself on his chest. "You don't look so good," Isis remarked. "I'm fine," he said. He was fine. He really was, right? After all, this was a good thing, the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. The boy had a few years before he would come of age. They'd synthesize his spunk, mass produce it and everything would be back to normal. Ten years tops. He could lay low for ten years. He was only thirty-one, plenty of time to go back to a perfectly normal life. But the boy, what would his life be like? He could imagine it'd already been hell, isolation, and who knew what other horrors the Authority was likely to conjure. It would continue to be hell. He'd be no better off than a lab rat, twenty-four hour surveillance, all the strain and pressure to do what the human race no longer could. The tears fell from his cheeks before he knew they were forming. His head slunk into his chest, and he tried to cover himself with his hands, to sink into the floor, or find the bathroom drain and wash away with the water that coursed off Isis' body. Let it carry him to the sea, away from what he gradually know with certainty. That the Authority had his only son. Isis was there in a moment, and even though she was wet, her embrace felt good. "That poor boy," he blubbered through his tears. Isis clutched him tightly. "Don't. You can't do anything about it." "It should never have happened," he sobbed. "He shouldn't have happened." Isis pulled back then, and peering at him, her eyes sharpened. "We do no good blaming ourselves. If things were different, they'd be different. We can only move on with what we've got." He pulled her to him and kissed her mouth, still wet from shower. She broke their kiss, and pulled away. Isis hesitated. She withdrew and got to her feet, crossing the bathroom and turning off the sink. He dried his eyes and got to his feet. "I'm sorry," he said. "I should not have done that." But she did not respond. Instead, she fixed her hair in the mirror until it was tied in a ponytail. She then led him by the hand, out of the bathroom and from the foyer through the path to their living space. She did not let go of his hand until he was seated beside on her comfy little couch bed. Standing before him, wearing nothing but a sad smile, she climbed onto his lap, straddling it and enfolding him in a warm embrace. "We cannot be together as lovers," she whispered. He looked up at her and nodded, though he didn't understand what she meant. "You see," she said, her voice halting and strained. "I told a lie." There was a moment when she did not say another word. Finally, she went on."It was not my sister who was torn away from the man she loved." "It was you." She exhaled. "A piece of me did jump from that tower, as much as had it been my own sister, a piece of me that will never feel that way again." She kissed him and pushed him back onto the soft folds of her couch bed. Then she lay beside him. They held each other until he slipped into a fitful world of dream. ** He'd woken to the sound of her radio; he was still in her bed, while she sat a few feet away, a long shirt draped over her. He felt a tired longing as he remembered the way she felt, the warmth of her skin, more alive than he could remember feeling in so long. Man on Top Pt. 02 Isis leaned forward and started to speak. Then she gazed about conspiratorially. "Is he really yours?" He closed his eyes and nodded. "My son, yes. I think so." Isis closed her eyes. Her face was set with fierce determination. It set her features afire with stunning color. "Our government has done this to us. We elected representatives to look after our best interests, to fight for the betterment of our society. Once in office, what is the first thing they asked us? How much are your interests worth to you? "What follows is a history increasingly besmirched by corruption, greed, nepotism and self-service. To make a priority of one's cause, it's no longer a question of what's the right thing to do, but a solicitation that demands to know who can throw the most money around. "I stood in ballrooms where men and women—the real power—drank to the end of our race because they had grown so fat off control and manipulation, they could not recognize a face whose nose had been cut off simply to spite it. "The Authority is the worst of them all. They broke our backs to prove they could, and then complained when we could no longer work. They poisoned our water, our food and our air to assert control over every facet of life, all the while charging a premium to treat us—not heal, mind you. And now, downtrodden, infertile and incapable of delivering to their system the next generation of workers who do as they are told and consumers who buy what is placed beneath their noses, the Authority has snipped off its sniffer for the last time. "Imagine this: hold the key to the world's reproductive apparatus and you hold a power the likes of which, in the right hands, could forge a new world order. Start again, empowering a new generation that would possess the strength and humility to usher in a fresh way of doing things. It could mean a resurrection for our very planet. "What I propose is a new community, built by the pure of heart—those who covet neither power nor the machinery of destruction needed to protect it." He smiled at her. "And where is this utopia?" "It won't be a utopia. It'll be right here. " "Sounds great," he said with a chuckle. "Where do we start?" "With you." He gaped at her. "Huh?" "I still have contacts that number in the thousands from my time serving as assistant director of the National Women's Organization. If I learned anything with the NWO, it's that people long ago grew weary of being told how to live. I sincerely believe that with a little realignment of perspective I could get any number of these women to help us sow the seeds of a new and improved future. Isn't that better than no future at all?" "Of course," he replied. "But...what exactly is it that you're proposing?" "Do I need to spell it out?" "I think you do." "In five years or less, your son will enter puberty. The Authority has him, and aside from you—hiding here—he's their only shot at saving their own sadistic vision of the future. What they will do to him to fulfill their aims is not even worth thinking about. What we have to do is act before they've had a chance. Save your son, save the world." He clenched his fists. "But you know if I so much as pop up on their radar for a moment, it's only a matter of time before they've got me." "There's a little something on a private airstrip in the woods about two hours from here that begs to differ. Not to mention, a half million credits burning a hole in my pocket." He sat there a long moment, head cocked to the side. "I just don't know if I can do this. I've spent all this time learning how to keep out of sight. Now, you're asking me to waggle my willy in plain sight." "If you think I'm not prepared to take every precaution, you don't know me at all." "I don't know you," he said flatly. "Listen," said Isis. "Think of your son." "You think I'm not?!" he snapped. "I didn't mean it like that. What I mean to say is: do you really have a choice?" "Well, when you put it that way." She sighed. "I'm going to make a plan. If I can blow your mind, say you'll give it a shot." "I don't know, Isis. Has it occurred to you that I might just be a coward?" "Not even for a second." ** He stood under the water, looking up at the strange little heating device. It was truly miraculous. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd had a shower in water that wasn't freezing. Before his counterfeit membership at the parks and recreation center was taken away, he'd enjoyed them all the time. But that had been four years ago. For so long, it was been sponge baths and dips in the creek. This was a blessing. Isis entered unnoticed. The white t-shirt she wore was several sizes too big and hung down to her thighs. When she stepped into the spill off from his shower, the shirt soaked through and stuck to her skin. He opened his eyes to see her standing there, nipples and modest tits outlined marvelously beneath the shirt. If the intention was to turn him on, it worked in seconds flat. He saw her look down at his cock, which rose like a tired arm slowly waving at her. "Mind if I clear your head?" "If this is what you meant by blowing my mind—" But before he could finish, she'd dropped to her knees. Here was a woman who, for all her effortless demeanor which said she was not interested in him, could take his cock in her hand so casually and... He watched as she took the head into her mouth, and shivered as the shaft disappeared inch by inch until her lips made blissful contact with his pelvis. He felt her tongue loll around his cock, and wanted desperately to throw his head back, but for the view. Isis looked up at him, her large brown eyes sharp and unwavering. He saw her reach for his hand and guide it to the back of her head. It reminded him of an old memory, long buried. Applying pressure before bobbing gently on his impaled cock, she seemed to be giving him permission to gently fuck her face. Isis then placed her hands around either side of his butt. He pulled back a little, savoring the slippery retraction from her mouth. She tightened the hole of her mouth, so that when he pushed forward into her face, the pressure was phenomenal. Having gotten into a rhythm after a while, he closed his eyes, and could envision himself bending Isis over the sink, pumping her pussy from behind. Her mouth felt sensational and after a few more thrusts, he was ready. Looking down at her, he nodded. Isis withdrew, and stood before him. He jacked his cock, and she leaned against him so that the tip of his cock made contact with her skin. It was nearly enough. He jacked for a while longer, then said, "Sorry. It's hard to do it standing up." Isis, her eyes never leaving his, took his cock away from him. Jerking slowly and deliberately, her own breath husky and thick, Isis stepped forward a bit so the head of his cock bumped at, then nestled between her pussy lips. "Is this close enough?" she whispered. He nodded, feeling the head of his cock enveloped in warmth. His balls lunged and he instinctively batted her hand away, leaned back and jerked madly. The tip was pressed right against her slit when the first shot of fertile seed sprayed out and coated her bud. Isis held her hand beneath the onslaught, catching his sperm as it slid with the shower's moisture off the hood of her pussy. "It's a lot," she remarked, breathlessly. He could not hear her, teeth gritted, still working through the wonderfully intimate moment which had passed between them and wiped his mind clean of thought. At last, he finished and staggered back a step. Isis lifted the palm of her hand and examined the copious white seed that filled her palm. "So, there is life. One half of the human genetic code, and maybe the last in the world." She held it under the shower's stream, and together they watched it dissipate. To be Continued ...