Of all the things I didn't know
about myself, didn't know that I could know, was how much I would
like it. The feel of it beneath me, still damp with water, or
sun-warmed and too-hot, hot enough to burn red into my skin when I
touched it anyway, even though I knew, I knew, but I had to
feel it.
The feel of metal.
A car fetish I could understand. Sleek lines curved over a metal
frame speaking to me of fast, fast, chilling wind rushing over my
hot cheeks as the world blurred on past. Adrenaline rush of speed as
a verb, a drug headier than any one could get in a bottle.
That made sense to me. Would have made sense.
Instead, I just want the feel of slick metal beneath me, the kiss of
it briefly cold and then skin-warm, smooth as bathwater and I could
have sprawled on it for hours, felt the glossy stroke of it against
my bare skin. Brilliantly yellow, lines of black that I didn't have
to see. I knew it by touch.
I would always know him.
The touch of hands, skin against my own, was almost an afterthought.
Bumblebee's false mouth is cool, almost a distraction, almost but
reality is beneath me, slick metal and the faintly bitter smell I've
come to know as energon.
If I opened my eyes, his eyes would be washed blue, water over
glass, and I could arch into that cool mouth. His hands would be
warmer and they could be rough or gentle, could be anything I
wanted. Anything.
But I want this and I turn away from them, sprawl on the hard shell
of the body that is truly him, and when I come, paint lines
of my own so-human color over sharp yellow and black, my thighs
shuddering against alien metal as I mark it.
As I mark him.
Sprawled out on the hood, I turn my head just enough to touch my
tongue against paint-smooth metal, tasting dust and semen, tasting
him, and if the engine shudders, faints sounds as alien as the metal
beneath me, then it is only fair.
You should always share your obsessions with the one you love.
-finis-
Comments and questions to:
mailto:keelywolfe@gonwan.com
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