Ch.5) Touching Feeling /k/ edition: Jealousy hates company

Light burns through my eyelids and despite my groans the dawn breaks over the horizon and firmly establishes the day. Vainly, I try to turn my back on the sun’s piercing rays, but in my weakened morning state I can’t lift this warm weight on my body. My mind starts to boot up much like an old computer, multiple processes turn over in my head and I mull over everything and nothing. I’m on the couch, my alarm hasn’t gone off yet, Sylvie is lying on me like an antebellum blanket, yesterday’s coffee is still in the pot, I can feel her breasts against my chest, there’s still a protein bar I can eat, Sylvie smells nice, and with that I’m up in more ways than one.

“Hey, Sylvie, rise and shine.” I try to shake her by the shoulders. She softly mumbles and goes back to sleep, nuzzling my chest. With that, she dictates how this morning goes. I’ve tried to wake her up before when she was like this; usually she wakes up before I do and prepares a very simple breakfast of toast and old coffee. But when I wake up before her she refuses to waken until she’s had her fill. And so, after checking the time on my phone and confirming an extra hour until I need to start getting ready, I get comfortable and with my hands resting on her hips I pull her towards me until she’s in perfect snuggling range.

I’m greeted with a sweet purr and arms wrap around my neck in return. Last night was emotionally draining; freed from rust and clothed in custom grips Sylvie was running on full cylinder after that tortuous cleaning session until she finally couldn’t stay awake anymore. Despite my best efforts, the smell of oil and rust made my bedroom unusable. Hence, the both of us slept on the couch which brings me to the present, comfy situation. Her dress made for quite a nice blanket; I had worried at first that the lace and silk would be damaged if she wore it constantly, but after a few experiments I realized that the dress was as durable as the wood the grips were made of. If my past experiences lead me right, I bet that anything I do to the dress won’t be permanent unless I apply it to the grips instead. Odd how that bit of mumbo jumbo works, but I’ll figure it out soon enough.

Luxuriating in this moment of absolute bliss is definitely one of the better changes in my life I’ve had since owning Sylvie. I’ve seen online people with their hug pillows, but no combination of cotton and fabric could beat this slumbering revolver that just so happens to be drooling all over my t-shirt. Still, the drooling is a little… It’s not stopping.


I try prying her off of me, but her grip around my neck turns into a stranglehold. Even when I give up and try to just stand while carrying her around me like the world’s most inconvenient cape she grabs the frame of the sofa with one hand and refuses to let me get up. Finally, I just give up the struggle and lay back down, with her never even breaking a sweat. Instead, I see just the tiniest hint of a smile.

The least she could do was stop faking being asleep.



It was only after I had to wholeheartedly beg her to wake up did she actually deign to. It was a slow affair with a big, affected yawn and a full body stretch before she patted the wrinkles out of her dress and got down on her knees, the very image of a dutiful servant. Of course, it would have been more believable if she actually obeyed my orders to wake up and let me get breakfast going. As it is, I’m running late to class so I forego my usual morning shower and just grab a protein bar to eat on the go.

“Oi, get in the car. I got 50 minutes to get to class.” She already knows what my schedule and commute is like, but I’m in a rush so niceties are a precious resource. Like my time is too. I grab her revolver form and my backpack before hurrying to the car. And, as usual, there she sits in the front seat of my little truck, seated prim and proper like a lady. How she managed to fit her new dress in the car without it getting caught in the door is anyone’s guess but I really don’t have time to explore the mysteries of the gun girl. I throw open the driver side door and settle myself down in the seat. I jam the key into the ignition and turn. With the reliable put-put of the engine as my background music I throw the truck into reverse and make a three-point turn out of the property and onto the road.

Before I know it I hear the crooning voice of a middle aged man singing a song about something stereotypically country. I give Sylvie a quick glance, but she looks like she hadn’t even moved a muscle. I sigh just a tad but I can tell that Sylvie pretends not to hear it; I know by now that she won’t let me touch the radio once her music is on. Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I grit my teeth and bear it.

Aren’t I supposed to be the master here?



The day passed as they always do: I stow away Sylvie’s revolver form under the seat and go to class, then I come back, drive to work, work, and then start driving home. Sylvie never seemed to really mind being left in the truck the entire day, which I find odd. I understand why she doesn’t equate being left in a car to being left in a box or bucket. From what I gather, under the seat is more like a tunnel whereas a bucket or box is more like being stuck at the bottom of a pit. But it is still unfathomable to me how she doesn’t get hungry, tired, or thirsty staying in the truck for so long. Guns must be beings with incredible amounts of patience, or maybe after being neglected for so long Sylvie has become immune to being alone for relatively short periods of time.

In any case, work was over and done with for now. I opened the door and slid behind the wheel, exhausted from the rigors of the day. It might be kind of weak of me to be so tired doing so little physically, but I can’t help it. Yesterday was draining and I was running on empty all day today. Still, greeted by this stunning woman with golden hair and clear blue eyes, this woman who just a few days ago would unconsciously try to cover her disfigurement with even more scarred hands, I could feel a healing reach into my bones. She was worth it, definitely.

Which is why I wasn’t heading home right now. I turn the key and the engine comes to life again. Without a word I start pulling out and outside of my vision she somehow manages to turn on that damn radio. My lips purse into a frown; yup, I am most definitely making a quick pit stop. If only to get a chance to try again and keep that damned thing off.

Mission firmly in mind, I make my way to the gunstore. It was a long, arduous drive relatively speaking. Every time I would give the radio the faintest attention Sylvie would be staring right at me, almost daring me to try touching the dial. Finally, I had to speak out for myself.

“Sylvie, let’s li…”

“No.” She shut me down without a thought. Despite the interruption, I persevere.

“It won’t be fo…”

“I said no, Master.” Again I’m denied my right as the driver to pick the station. Okay, I didn’t want to play it this way, but if it comes down to this or having to listen to Whiskey Lullaby one more goddamned time, I’ll take my chances.

“Look, I am ordering you to…”

“Master, I would do anything for you. Anything.” She stares deeply into my eyes as I struggle to keep them on the road. “I would go through hell and high water if you wanted. You could plug up my barrel and torture test me like those videos I’ve seen you watch.” Shit, she saw that? I’m not a deviant, I swear! Sylvie, believe me please! As I mentally plead and physically sweat, she continues. “I could bear anything you wanted me to do Master, but if you so much as touch that radio when my music is on, I’ll tan your hide and have it for garters.” And with that final browbeating, she sits back into her chair and resumes the same, subservient pose she always has.

And I give up. We ride in relative silence, with the exception of the radio churning out that what felt like the same song over and over and over again. I take my hand off the steering wheel and I can immediately feel her gaze burning into my hand. However, I’ve learned my lesson; my hand goes for the top of her head and immediately the tension in the car breaks. Ever the loving slave, she acquiesces to my touch and permits me to pat her head. From my peripheral vision I can see her fully enjoying her little slice of heaven; her favorite music and my adoration. I can feel my lips pull into a bit of a wry smile as I muse a little.

I’ve been spoiling her too much.

Well, I’m not going to stop.

I keep patting her head as I make my way to the gun store and I feel her stiffen just almost imperceptibly under my hand. A while back I made a special order for an item they normally don’t carry and I’m pretty sure it came in recently. The store is coming up; I try to bring my hand back to the steering wheel but Sylvie grabs it and returns it to its prior position caressing her. Whatever. With my off-hand I bring the truck into the store’s parking lot and slowly back into a spot. With an awkward twist I turn off the car with my left hand and wait for Sylvie to give me custody of my right hand again.

Yup. Any minute now. Any moment she’ll realize that I need to get down and she’ll…

She’s not stopping.

I try to force my hand off her head and she fights back, using both of hers to keep mine there. Struggling, I try to pull on it with all my strength and she resists, turning red from the exertion. Just like earlier today, she manages to out pull me and I go slack. Balefully I give her the stink eye, which, with practiced grace, she pretends not to notice. I notice she’s still gripping me with an almost desperate amount of strength.

“I need my hand back Sylvie.”

“Of course Master.” I wait, but she doesn’t let go. At all.

“Uh… now?”

“Yes…” She rubs my hand against her cheek vigorously for a while, and then finally relinquishes it back to me. “Thank you so much Master for giving me your hand. Even if anyone else would call you giving your touch to someone and then cruelly taking it back before they were satisfied ‘Indian giving’, I would never forgive them no matter how much it was true.” And with that she not so subtly makes her feelings known. She’s gotten a lot snappier since the electrolysis yesterday. Then again, I’d be a major pain in the ass to if I had to undergo treatment involving my deepest trauma.

So I elect to ignore her pointed statement draped in her usual subservience. “I’m just going to be picking up something special I ordered.” She bows her head in her usual way and I get the feeling I’ve been dismissed. With that, I make my way to the store, wondering the short distance to the door why my back feels so cold.



Inside, the store was fairly deserted. It would make sense; this was a pretty small “Mom and Pop” kind of deal with a somewhat limited selection. That was why I had to special order the stuff I wanted. An online store would have been more convenient, cheaper too, but in the short period of time since I first visited them they’ve made me feel like a loyal customer. Money might be a bit tight until the next pay day, but I’d rather pay a premium for good service and expertise.

I walk pass the cashier, a pleasant looking girl, with thick-rimmed glasses and a tie-dye headband and head towards the gun counter proper. I see the employee, a nice enough gent, giving a bitter smile to a pudgy looking man who was eyeing a full sized pistol. And, sitting on the counter looking as if the world was crashing down around her was a raven-haired woman with pale grey eyes. She was definitely sizable but proportioned; she had large, full breasts and slim hips but likely stood around 6 feet. I browse around, picking up a few sets of 357 magnum snap caps and two boxes of ammunition as I wait for the hefty customer to finish up his purchase. Finally, the employee gathers up the paperwork and hands a plastic case to the man who, with a bit of fumbling that causes the newly purchased woman to give out a disgusted sigh, places his purchase into the case before walking towards the cashier. The employee free, I pass the fat man and start asking about my purchase.

“Yeah, give me a minute.” The man behind the counter finishes putting away the paperwork before turning to give me his full attention. “Sorry, still processing our internal documents for that guy’s Sig SP2022. What can I do you for?”

“Oh, I ordered a set of springs for a Ruger Vaquero a week or so back.”

“Right, right. Let me go grab it.” The guy heads over to the swinging door behind the counter and is gone.  While I wait, I look over their collection behind the counter. All seem to be mostly bolt-action rifles with the occasional more tactical-looking number. None stand out to me in that special way that the fat guy’s Sig did; all I see was a line of guns, wood, steel, and polymer. I turn around and peruse the aisles of odds and ends behind me. Most of items were cleaning products and random paraphernalia. I keep walking down one aisle and something catches my eye.

A holster. A leather one. The tag on it says it was a ‘crossdraw’ holster. It caught my attention with its red hue, a perfect match for Sylvie. I turn over the tag and can’t help but wince; they want that much? Robbery. Highway robbery. I put the tag down and turn around back to the counter.

Then I turn around again and pick it up. It feels good. Durable yes, but it also has that feeling that all good leather has. An indescribable quality that can only be felt. I bite my lip and think. I already splurged on the grips; if I get this I’ll be on a shoestring budget for the next two weeks. Then again…

I have a full tank of gas, but that will only last me the week out. I stocked up enough on food, so that front is taken care of. I look at the other things I was planning on buying and sigh. Can’t give up these either. Something has to give.

I do.

I take everything up to the counter and see the man waiting, tapping his fingers against the glass. I quicken my pace and realize my hands are full. He does too and puts the bag of springs on top the pile I’m carrying.

“So, you trying to be a cowboy or something? Holster and springs for a single action, snap caps… You interested in the cowboy action shooting scene?” He points to a bunch of fliers littered across the far side of the wall. I squint and read the small letters. Huh. A competition for cowboy action shooting. I heard of it before, but there’s no way I’d be ready, especially so soon. Because…

“Nah, I’ve never even shot a gun before.” The man raises an eyebrow. “I just got one, but since I just restored her, it, I mean it, yesterday I haven’t had…” He’s looking at me funny. Great, now I have another acquaintance creeped out. “Once I make sure my gun is safe, I’ll give it a shot.”

“Right, you said something about rust. Well, here, take this anyway.” With that he walks over to where the fliers are and picks one out. Without asking for my consent he rolls it up and sticks it in the holster. “If you’re new to shooting, these guys will love to help you out. You know, recruitment and all that jazz.”

I thank him and move on to the cashier. She has that same, fake smile all retail people seem to master and I try to get out of her way as quickly as I can. With a few regrets I swipe my card and sign away a good portion of my remaining paycheck. Maybe if I’m lucky, I can convince my manager to give me more hours. And with that lovely thought of more time in hell, I take the bag the cashier hands me and head back to the car and to the revolver who is going to love what I spent the last of my money on.



“So, where is she?”

Where did the love go? I try to dissect what she means. She? The cashier?

“Uh, she’s still in the store?”

“So, why are you waiting, Master? Go on, pick her up. Bring her home. I don’t….I don’t mind. Not a wit. She can…” Sylvie’s eyes water and she turns her head away from me. But unfortunately, I don’t have a single clue what the hell she’s talking about. Yeah, the cashier isn’t bad looking, but I can only imagine how much she’d hate to have a customer try to hit on her while she’s working. And if that guy were to become a regular? I can only shudder in empathy at the imaginary suffering she’d go through. But I turn my attention back to Sylvie, who is staring daggers at the store with wet eyes. I follow her gaze; she’s not even looking at the cashier but at… oh.

The gun counter.

I can feel a bit of a migraine coming up. So Sylvie translated me buying a “special order” from a gun store to mean buying a new gun. Which, if I do the emotional calculus, means she’s afraid of being replaced so quickly. I shake my head and sigh. It would be really cute of her if she didn’t look like she was getting ready to burn the store down. And so, how to diffuse this? Easy, emotional arithmetic.

I pat her head and she stubbornly doesn’t react. But I foresaw this.

“Sylvie, my special order is in the bag.”

Her head turns to me so fast I could feel the heat from the friction in my palm. She looks deeply into my eyes with hers, so mistrusting and hurt I almost start shedding my own tears. She holds out her hands and I hand over the bag. Without hesitation she tears through the plastic and pulls my purchases out. First out was the ammo and her eyes soften. Then the snap caps; she gives them a bit of a complicated glare before putting them to the side. Then the holster comes out and she gasps. Dropping the bag, she holds the leather piece up to the faint light from the moon and peers over it. She turns it around, examines each corner and crevice, and then pulls it deep into her bosom. Her breathing is deep and erratic, but she closes her eyes and for a few moments she’s deep in some sort of peaceful contemplation. And then, slowly, as if coming out of a deep dream, she opens her eyes.

“Master, it’s beautiful. I mean, Master, look at it. It’s wonderful. “ She starts to babble, with the words ‘Master’, ‘holster’, and ‘sorry’ being the only things I could really catch bubbling up from out of her. After a bit, she calms down and resumes her normal pose although keeping a firm grasp on her new holster.

“Master, please forgive me for my ungrateful attitude towards you earlier. I had thought… If I had known you had ordered a holster for me I would never have even… Please, forgive me for being so selfish. Please, forgive me.” She prostrates deep before me, deeper than I thought would be possible in a two-seater truck like this. All this ‘Master’ stuff is still awkward to deal with, but her apology was especially tough to handle for me on an emotional level.

“Actually Sylvie, the special order is still in the bag.” I grab the bag that she had dropped and pull out the spring set. “I saw that you still had a bit of limp, so if I’m right…” Suddenly my lips are sealed by a wet, pleasurable force. Arms wrap around the trunk of my chest and two impossibly soft objects push me back against the door. Sylvie jams her tongue deep into my mouth, an insatiable invader, and urgently goes about the task of exploring my oral cavity. I can feel that hazy numbness of pleasure wash over my body, but as she moves her head down to peck at neck I get an uninterrupted look at the gunstore. The store where the guy behind the counter is giving me quite a confused look.

“Sylvie, sto…” She attacks my lips again, interrupting my order where it dies in the attentions of her tongue. ‘No Sylvie’ I cry mentally, ‘this is the closest store around. Don’t make me that weird, crazy guy who no one wants to deal with. Please Sylvie, stop! Stop!’ But it’s no use; she continues on and the guy behind the counter closes the blinds.

My mental pleas go unnoticed. Why must the good suffer?