Ch.7) Touching Feeling /k/ edition: Fatman returns

A few days and way too many early morning dance lessons pass. Despite the weird magic training Sylvie makes me go through, I haven’t really improved all that much. My hands still fumble when I reach for rounds to reload with, my thumb still slips on occasions when pulling back on the hammer, and my eyes still don’t focus properly when I bring up the muzzle towards the target. Each morning I wake up to the same routine of breakfast and dance, and each evening is much the same.

The dancing aspect still hasn’t come naturally to me. I’ve thought about it enough to realize how dangerous it is to think about it for my sense of reality. Still, I can’t deny its effect; each tiny improvement as the two of us twirl lends itself to wielding her somehow. Learning to lead her into a pirouette,  holding my body aright as we enter our end pose, even keeping the timing of our feet to the music, it all somehow just works. Reloading, unloading, and trigger control, all my skills sharpen under this unconventional tutelage.

Still, I only sharpen them very much like someone sharpens a block of wood. Yup. Wood. Very much like the wood that I’m laying on right now. I have to say, Grandpa did have good taste in wood; the flooring, while not immaculate by any stretch, was done in a very nice red oak. Ah, if only I could stay on this floor forever, feeling the coolness against my cheek. But a crimson figure towers over me, expectantly.

“Again?”

Sylvie looks down on me, her deep blue eyes blank as they stare beyond me as if the fallen lump of flesh before her is of some strange, alien origin that she could barely hope to comprehend. I pick myself up from off the floor, slowly promising to meet it again soon. Pushing off against my knees, I stand up again. Sylvie has by now composed herself again, beaming at me with a kind smile.

“Maybe it’s time for a break. Would you like some tea, Master?”

Without waiting for me to respond she’s flowing towards the kitchen, leaving me standing in the bedroom. I return that familiar weight in my hand back into the holster on my hip. Today’s lesson was about drawing from my holster and getting the sights aligned on target. At least, that’s what it was before Sylvie grabbed my hands and tried to show me the steps that somehow aligned with that motion. Following her precise footwork was nearly impossible and before I knew it I had tripped over my own two feet, leading me to this wonderful realization of how much I liked the choice of wood flooring.  Seriously Grandpa, nice pick.

I fiddle with her as I wait. Her finish still is a bit rough, but still no rust. Her grips are still in mint condition, although my hands might have left some grime on them. I take a good look at the checkering; how do I clean these again? A toothbrush or something? I walk over to my desk, where a bunch of new and old toothbrushes lie around for cleaning purposes.  In the background I can hear a low whistle of a teapot. I guess she had started the tea before she saw me whispering sweet nothings to the floor.

I wake up my computer from sleep mode and look up online how to clean grips. Simplest way is with mild wood soap and warm water. But seeing as I have no soap, I grab a clean brush and go in dry.

“Master, is chamomile al-EEEKK!” The rattling of ceramic and my neck jerks towards the sound. There’s Sylvie’s with her back ramrod straight. The scientist in me observed quite a few things in addition: her hands have a white-knuckle grip on the platter she’s holding, the blush on her face as crimson as the dress she wears, and… oh god.

Why does she have hearts for pupils now?

Holy fuck, that’s creepy in an ungodly way. Why didn’t I take up that priest on his offer for cheap holy water?

While I lament the strange twist in how not buying water with the hell boiled out of it for 20 dollars a pop was a bad life choice, Sylvie has carefully put the platter down on the floor, not even allowing a drop to spill from the tea mugs, and is very much making her way towards me. That look in her eyes, freakily charming now that the initial feelings of “sweet baby Jesus” died down, make clear her intentions towards me right now. They tell me loud and clear…

She didn’t spill a drop just then; she’s not going to spill a drop now.

My hands are still full with both her and the brush I was going to clean her with. The animal in me has chosen the cousin of the flight or fight twins; stay still and hope its vision is based on movement. But the scientist still hasn’t had enough. What stimulus caused this strong reaction? Can it be repeated? My hands move. I run the brush along her grip and see no change in her intentions. Her dress is a tad bit cleaner, perhaps? She’s almost on me now, so I try one last time. The brush gently caresses the checkering, but I twitch as she cups my face with a gloved hand. Immediately both of her hands shoot down to her most sensitive spot. Her legs curl over her hands and lock them there, twisting and twitching with the sensations she must be feeling.

I look down at the revolver. The tip of the brush has just gotten into the crevice made between the frame and the loading gate. I look back up to Sylvie, who seemed to be catching her second wind and is lumbering over towards me on all fours. I flick the brush again. She squeals in lust and falls over, cheek to the floor, heaving as her hands push against her groin. Those heart pupils seemed to have changed color, an almost iridescent hot pink.

I flick the brush again and she squeals again with gritted teeth as if to fight against the pleasure. Her back arches before she falls over like a puppet with cut strings, her tongue hanging vulgarly beyond her lips as if she lost all control. There she stays on the floor, a crumpled mess of heavy breathing and lewdness personified.

I pull the brush back. If this was her weak spot, then I would have to be on guard against the temptation to use it carelessly. She was my beloved revolver, my most prized possession. As her master, it falls upon me to exercise the utmost restraint. Never should I use it for my personal pleasure or out of my own desires. With great power comes great…

“Please, Master. Fire me now… AHHAAAAHHHHHNNNN!” I flicked the brush and again she goes down into a twitching mess. I look down on her, her elegant form curled up in a ball, trying desperately to hold on to some bit of sanity as the pleasure wracks her body. Yes, this is indeed too much power for any one man to hold. I move the brush delicately into the crevice as she continues to writhe, thinking all the while about this current situation. I mean, a beautiful woman like this, all hot and bothered, wouldn’t it appeal to any red-blooded American? It doesn’t really matter if she’s actually a firearm right? And more importantly…

There’s probably no way for me to get out of this without the both of us ending up in a wet, contorted mess of fluids and passion, right?

Good.

I toss the brush behind my back and toy with her hammer, easing it forward as I feel out where her trigger breaks. As she struggles to retain some semblance of consciousness, I grab the snap caps that were left forgotten in my pocket and slowly I load them into her. She groans in delight with each one I thrust into her until she is filled up. As she slowly makes her way towards me, hips swaying as she crawls, any residual reluctance disappears with the almost oppressing wave of pheromones exuding from her.

To hell with the morality of it all. I lean back as she kneels in front of me, between my legs, so close that I can feel her heaving breasts against my hardening member. She reaches out to embrace me, caressing my thighs as her arms make that journey to my waist. I move my hands towards her face, stroking her flushed cheek. Nuzzling against my hand, she murmurs pleasantly.

“I love you. Master, I really do.”

Deep inside me, I feel something strange. Like, how can I feel so aroused and yet so deeply moved, beyond mere infatuation or lust? There are no words to describe it besides this, this potent mix of love and lust, this strange feeling of almost bittersweet pain:

“Ow, my nutbladder.”

Sylvie doesn’t respond, choosing to nuzzle against me more. I touch her lips with my fingers, lightly touching, feeling their softness. She brings her tongue out, licking between my fingers, before sucking them in gently and engulfing my thumb into her mouth. Each lick, each caress sends a tingle up my spine and before long I can bear it no longer. As if sensing my loving frustration with her gentle treatment, she relinquishes my hand and with an almost serpentine grace brings her body in full contact with mine as she rises to meet me eye to eye. I reach out to grab her waist, to bring her fully into my grasp, to have and to hold, and absolutely nothing would stop me from pushing her down on the bed and-

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

That was the door.

The tension in the air became thicker than a bowl of oatmeal. I look at Sylvie and she looks at me. All that romantic buildup disappeared into the aether, and now in its void came apprehension. It’s late, way too late for visitors of any kind even if I had people who wanted to come to visit. Could it be the wind?

Wordlessly I grab the revolver before standing up slowly. No time to grab live rounds. They’re too far away under some clutter. Hopefully, whoever is at the door will decide not to stay and find out whether or not I’m shooting blanks. I slowly start to tiptoe out of the room. BANG BANG BANG

Turning my head, I motion to Sylvie. 'Follow me', I mouth to her. She wordlessly obeys, offering no resistance as I bring her form to bear. That was coming from the door; I'm not expecting anyone or any packages. No one really knows I live here except my family. It reminds me of what that fat guy said about meth heads coming around these parts. The banging at the door intensifies and I hear muffled curses muttered by whoever's behind the door. Grasping Sylvie tightly I tiptoe towards the front door. Controlling my breathing is harder than I thought; blood rushes through my brain to the point where I'm no longer certain the noise I'm hearing is the door rather than the beating of my own heart. Finally, I'm in front of the door. I cock the hammer despite knowing that she doesn't have a live round in her. Leaning in, I look through the peephole.

It's my neighbor. The fat one. The one who gave me Sylvie when we first met. His face is patchy, as if it couldn’t decide to be either pale with fear or flushed with exertion. He looks behind him, off into the distance as if afraid of watching shadows. Now with a calm mind I can hear him beyond the door, muttering a few expletives. Behind him are a few other figures standing silently, but the darkness obscures my vision of them. I sigh in relief and lower the revolver in my hand. With my free hand I start unlocking the door. When I do, the cursing stops. Pulling back on the handle, I open wide the door so I could talk to him face to face.

"Hey, kind of late to..."

Without a word he pushes through me and enters my house with his entourage. It knocks me back a few steps but he didn't do it so roughly that I felt any danger from him. In fact, the way he was clutching an oversized dufflebag made me think he was more afraid than anything else.

"Close the fucking door! Hurry!"

Confused more than irritated, I follow his direction and close it, locking it too. Now I turn back to the fatty to get a straight answer out of him. However, he's busying himself in going through his duffle bag, pulling out odds and ends from it. Different kind of magazines for different guns begin to litter the floor along with other pieces of gear. A survival kit? What was it called, a bug out bag?

He finally seems to find what he was looking for and brings it out. A beauty of a weapon. Burnt bronze shining against satin black. A ubiquitous shape, one that any layman could recognize. An AR-15. Some kind of optic was mounted on top and a foregrip was installed below, near a flashlight that hung off on the side. All in all, this didn't seem to be a simple plinking rifle, but a purpose built weapon. Not a scratch on it though, it must be new. My neighbor puts it to the side and pulls out from the bag some kind of chest rig. He puts it on and takes the rifle into his hands before crouching down near a window, peeking out at the darkness.

"What are you waiting for? Get down, now." He speaks, winded. I get down. Something is going on, and until I find out what I'll need to keep from catching a bullet.

"What the hell is going on? Why did you come here?" I ask, but he keeps looking out the window, tracking some unseen shadow in the dark.

"Is there a back door?"

"Yeah, but what-"

"Go and secure it. There's a pistol in the bag, take it and go."

"I already have-"

"I said, 'Go'."

With that he goes back to his panicked vigil at the window. Looking over to Sylvie, I see her down casted face contorted with emotion. She nods at the bag. Taking that as her approval, I go to the duffle bag and rummage around. Filters, gas mask, iodine tablets, and finally I find a pistol with black and blue grips. It's in a kydex holster with an integrated mag pouch. Pulling it out, I inspect it. Pop out the mag, check the chamber. It's loaded. I slam home the magazine and read the lettering on the slide. CZ-75 SP-01 Tactical. I've seen a CZ-75 before in a magazine, but I don't much about it. Like this little lever; is it a safety? I fiddle with it, trying to figure it out.

"That's my decocker. Be gentle with it, okay?" An unfamiliar voice rings out. I turn my head and remember that others came in with him. Each one stood around, two seemingly without a care in the world. I recognized one off the bat; it was the Asian looking girl with the massive mammaries. The girl who was his 1911. She was still in the same outfit I saw her in, miniskirt and tube top, but her attitude was completely different. She peeked out the window with her owner, hand on his shoulder standing up. Her eyes were focused, staring long into the distance outside. Another woman stood near him as well, but with an almost disdainful lack of concern. She wore a dress of black satin, in a long, conservative cut that belonged more in a ballroom than my house. Her ample bust, almost on the level of the asian shortstack, was anything but conservative. She wore atop her long bronze hair an absurdly long brimmed hat that almost came to a point in front of her, with a white feather contrasting against the black fabric. But one feature stood out the most.

Her mocking eyes glowed with a scornful red.

I feel an unnatural chill looking at her. That chill only intensifies as she lazily turns her gaze towards me. Her movements scream danger, the turning of her neck as smooth as a serpent coiling to strike. For a moment, I felt deathly cold, as if the room went black like a dying candle and the only light were from those sneering, hateful eyes. And just as quickly, that strange pressure that choked me lifted as her eyes lifted up from off me. Off me, and onto Sylvie who had stepped in front of me with arms spread out as if to shield me. That tall woman only gave a mocking smile with purple lips, the color and taste of poison dripping from them, before turning aside to gaze at the nothingness beyond that my neighbor stared into.

“Oh, she likes you. That’s nice. Still, hurry up and let’s go to that back room. Porky is going to get mad if you dawdle.” That cheerful, sing-song voice wakes me up inside from that nightmare and brings me to life. I grab the holstered pistol and walk to take my position before the back door. Even without looking behind me, I can sense an unfamiliar presence moving in step with me. Maybe the phrase “in step” is a little inaccurate. Whoever this strange woman is, she dances her way with me with an almost wild abandon. Her movements are large and unrestrained; she flings her body around to a jaunty tune she hums loudly. It would be comical if I weren’t pointing a pistol at a locked door, not even knowing why.

“So you managed to fix her then? Good for her.” My nerves are wearing thin, considering how I have no idea what’s going on and just a few seconds ago was getting stared down by some personification of death. Still, this strange girl pays no note and simply twirls around. I shake my head and unholster the CZ. Leaving the holster on the counter I’m crouching behind, I try to focus down the sights; I guess fat man back there chose different color sights for aesthetic reasons. It has a standard three dot arrangement. The two rear fiber optic dots were blue and the front one was green. An odd choice. “Ah, you noticed? How embarrassing~”

I couldn’t remain serious after that. I look at this impossibly cheerful woman in exasperation. She wore a blue and black laced up blouse with white cuffs tucked into a miniskirt with matching colors. It seemed to be a themed outfit, complete with leather thigh high boots of the same blue and black scheme. It was tastefully provocative, but durable; it would look quite at home on a waitress at a more risqué setting. The woman wearing the clothes looked very much at home in them; her long, brown hair, tied up in a pony tail that extended down to her rear, had multiple streaks of blue dyed in. She had a pretty face, one that had a permanent smile that still seemed natural. It was so pretty, I almost didn’t notice her eyes. Hetero-chromatic; her right eye was green, her left blue. The same color as her sights. She had been wriggling her whole body in delight, holding her cheeks in her hands like a love-struck maiden, but she caught my gaze and returned it with a Cheshire grin.

“Ah haa? Are you interested in me? Well, my heart is set on another, but I can be yours for the night if you promise not to tell. But I don’t think that girl would be too happy with it.” She smiles brightly while pointing behind towards the motionless form of Sylvie.  Sylvie still hasn’t followed me to the back door yet. I get up from my kneeling position to go get her, but a hand on my shoulder gently keeps me down. The strange woman in blue switches between looking at me and Sylvie, as if she were following a tennis match. Satisfied, she leans forward almost intimately, her mouth centimeters away from my ear. “The way it looks, you still haven’t fired her yet? Wooow… So I might beat her to the punch? Am I going to steal you away?” Without warning she lifts her head back, all smiles, and twirls away, singing to herself.

I clear my throat and go back to my post. The post that I still don’t know why I’m posted at. I put the CZ down for a moment and unholster Sylvie. I look down on her, filled with only six dummy rounds. Should I put her aside for the moment? It would be more comfortable, more practical to put the kydex CZ holster on that side where her holster sits on my belt right now. It wouldn’t be permanent, just a temporary re-positioning. While thinking, I pull back on her hammer and slowly let the hammer down as I pull the trigger. Complicated feelings well up, feelings that I don’t have time or luxury to process right now. I re-holster Sylvie. I grab the kydex holster and pull the extra magazine from its pouch. The magazine goes in my left pocket and I take up the CZ again.

I don’t know how tonight is going to go down, but I promised her. I promised her on the moonlit night. Her place is on my hip. I won’t let her go.

I feel two arms wrap around me, a familiar scent of Hoppe’s 9 identifies her. There is a desperate strength in her embrace. Sylvie hugs me in an almost territorial manner, giving this odd girl a baleful glare. I pat her arm with my free hand, but she still bristles at the sight of this overly friendly firearm.

“Sylvie…” She doesn’t respond but still stares down the girl who ignores her, dancing to the music in her head. “Sylvie, can you grab your ammunition from upstairs?” That got her attention but she shakes her head in silence, deflating a little.  It was something I noticed; she can carry different items with relative ease, but couldn’t move around anything that was firearms related. It was an odd rule she was held to; she could go and bring me rags from the kitchen, but couldn’t do much more than hold a cleaning rod or solvent. She would spend nights holding her holster to her chest like a teddy bear, but couldn’t move it from one end of the room to another. It was a mystery, a very annoying one. I pondered my next move, but the brown-haired punkish girl broke my concentration again.

“Ah, don’t worry. Porky there is going to give you the all-clear in a minute. You’ll have some time to grab something for the missus here, maybe even powder up.” She laughed at her own joke in an oddly natural way, as if she really thought it was funny. Her eyes lit up even further, she tilted her head until I thought her neck broke, and her smile deepened until it was like a fissure on her face as she said the words that stopped my heart.

“I mean, you won’t have time to do that later on when my old owner’s friends come around to kill him.”