| Thunder and Lightning |
Rating: NC-17. Explicit sex.
Disclaimer: The characters and universe of Farscape belong to the Henson Company, and also to everyone
involved in the creation of this wonderful, vibrant, incredibly diverse intergalactic civilization. I beg their
forgiveness for trespassing on their playground.
Time Frame: During A Human Reaction.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
The falling liquid he calls ‘rain’ hammers against the side of the building, pattering in erratic sheets against the
windows. The water gushes in torrents through the vertical pipe called a ‘downspout’, the surging sound
reverberating through the wall at the head of the bed, hypnotic rhythms trying to urge them to sleep. She runs
her fingers down his chest, fingers the thicket of dark hair at his groin, and then explores his genitals for what
might be the tenth time, playing with his flaccid anatomy for several microts, getting used to the small
differences she's found there.
“Having fun?” John asks, waking from a brief nap. Outside the window the sky lights up as brightly as when a
command carrier fires its frag cannons; this time she’s ready for the loud crack that follows when the storm is
this close. She hardly jumps at all as she catalogues the quiet grin and delight in his eyes that are revealed by
the brief illumination. He runs his fingertips along her forearm several times, then up her arm to her shoulder,
simply watching her as she continues to explore him.
At first she had thought it was some sort of ritualistic mutilation, the cutting of such a tender piece of anatomy,
but it has taken her less than two arns to decide that she likes the look of him better than that of a Sebacean.
Even in his relaxed state he appears ready, the permanently exposed head gleaming and smooth, the rim
gliding under her touch without friction or the hindrance of the extra section of skin. John rubs her back as she
leans over him, playing with the relaxed cock and stroking the soft mass of his balls with her fingertips, learning
every dench of him.
Human mivonks are more sensitive than those of Sebaceans. “Tes … ti … cles.” She practices the word he
had used earlier when she had pressed too hard, and he had yelped and nearly jumped out of bed. He had
knelt alongside her, gently kneading the abused organs, and had suggested that she be a bit more cautious
the next time. She had rolled over on her side and tried again while he stayed on his knees with his legs
splayed, reaching beneath his hardened cock to delicately finger the hanging sac, probing with infinite care to
find the round masses inside. She had seen the quiver in his thigh muscles first, then watched with fascination
as the tendons in his hips had sprung into sharp relief and his stomach had sucked in, pulling his upper body
into a hunched over comma. With his eyes closed and jaw hanging, he had grabbed at her hand and pulled it
away, his entire body shuddering and leaping.
“Th-th-that's much better,” he had gasped, and she had watched with awe as he fought back the impending
climax. It hadn't been just that a human could be brought to that point by massaging his mivonks; it was that he
would hold back at all. Only one of her partners had ever shown a desire to give her as much pleasure as he
had wanted for himself, but even Velorek had viewed release and the commensurate reduction of tension as
the primary purpose behind recreating.
After that initial exploration, the session of recreating had been simple and straightforward -- petting, arousal,
penetration, thumping rhythms and his sighs of pleasure, her own mounting tension, her moaning climax
followed microts later by his, and then the short slumber to recover. Basic, pleasant recreation. The only thing
unusual about it was how gentle he had been. She had tried at one point to pull his hips into hers to effect the
expected joining, and he had pulled away, spending nearly a quarter arn petting, kissing, and stroking her until
something new had happened. She’d never had her internal muscles pull like that, nearly spasming as they
yanked her sopping wet opening wide, exposing the swollen inner tissues. John had laughed quietly as she
cried out with surprise, and had entered her in gradual stages, denying his own ecstasy in order to ensure that
he didn't hurt her.
No one had ever done anything like that for her. Not in her entire life.
Aeryn turns in bed, fits herself alongside him and worms her way into his warmth, stopping just short of
pressing against him. The room lights up, followed by the sizzling crack and the walls shake. She sits up in
alarm, smelling the harsh flow of ions, concerned about what it means.
“Electricity,” she says, looking out the window to see what damage has occurred.
“Umm hmm,” John hums. “Lightning is pure energy. Ion exchange between the clouds and the ground. It's a
transfer of charges.” He has finally put it in terms she understands, but she is still concerned because there
seems to be too much power being shifted between the sky and the earth, and she's not exactly sure why it's
happening.
”It’s not dangerous?” she asks, peering out the window. The rain is pummeling the walls now, battering
against the exterior of the building, and the trees outside are whipping violently back and forth.
“Not usually. We’ll be fine indoors. Sounds like a cell is passing right over us. We’d better huddle together for
safety,” he says. His last comment alarms her, but she sees the glint of his teeth in the dark just before she
answers, and manages to stop the comment before his teasing can get her to say something stupid. “Come
on,” John says. He tugs on her wrist, encouraging her to rejoin him in bed.
“We've recreated. Now we can get some sleep.” Aeryn lies down beside him, because that's what one does
after recreating. He pulls her on top of him, hugging her tightly, buries his nose in her throat and snuffles quietly
into her skin, sniffing and sighing several times. “We need sleep if we're going to start running tomorrow,” she
says, reminding him of their predicament. She is trying to forestall anymore of his usual foolishness.
“Okay,” John says cheerfully. “Let's get some sleep.”
She’s just drifting off when he moves away from her. Sighing, she starts to turn on her side, thinking that he’s
giving her more room, only to find that somehow they’re tangled up again. She rolls onto her back, irritated
because he seems to want to sleep on top of her and she would prefer a little room. John squirms about next
to her, and she turns to snap something at him impatiently, only to find his legs lying next to her shoulders, the
pale skin gleaming slightly in the half-light.
“What are you … ?” she starts to ask, wondering if this is some peculiar human tradition, then his hands are
rubbing her thighs and he draws her legs apart firmly but gently. His forearms pin her thighs to the mattress, a
vulnerable position that she finds disconcerting, and then his fingers slowly and carefully draw the lips of her
vagina apart and she nearly jumps out of the bed when he licks her for the first time.
“What?” she barks, then clamps her lips shut and arches over backward with a long sigh as his tongue
presses on the already sensitized nub, working around the edge slowly and with small teasing movements,
stroking and pressing against it. “No,” she sighs, her abdomen suddenly warm and loose with infinite
excitement, and when he nudges at one leg with an elbow, her body obliges without conscious thought.
Tenderly at first, then with more force, the warm, inquisitive surface works its way around the swelling bundle of
nerves, coaxing at it until there is another surge of nervous energy floods outward, expanding like a bubble
through her body.
“No,” she says again, because it was the last word she spoke, and she can't seem to remember another one,
and thumps him on the shoulders with one fist, trying to expend a little of the mounting tension.
A low laugh emanates from the Crichton-shaped lump under the covers, and then he’s shifting so that more of
his weight is lying across her hips and he fastens his lips over the swelling point of nerves and sucks on it.
She cries out this time, her body exploding with sensation, fighting him to close her legs only he's too strong.
His tongue is moving faster, switching between the hard stroking pressure, then flicking madly against her,
then stroking again, teasing and urging her body to listen to nothing but that one portion of her nervous
system. Warm and liquid it slides to one side then the other, laves the surface, and her hips surge up under
his weight. His fingers press hard into the hollows at the top of her legs, massaging the taught muscles there,
and he hums into her flesh, the vibrations rumbling deep into her belly.
“No!” she pleads one more time, meaning ‘yes’ but unable to find the right sounds. John presses his tongue
harder, massaging the entire area with his hands, and the orgasm rolls over her like the shockwave from a
nova.
She begins to return from wherever she has gone to discover that he is still working his lips and tongue against
her, coaxing the last shivers of ecstasy out of her body. What is supposed to be one final sigh of excitement
comes out sounding more like a breathless squeak, and her body stops its wild shuddering. Aeryn takes a
deep breath, trying to get some oxygen into her deprived system, and his hands stroke the mound over her
pubic bone several times and massages her belly and thighs, caressing and relaxing her all in one.
His ankles and feet are on the bed next to her shoulder, shifting slightly as the hidden body beneath the covers
eases off her, and then they disappear completely, slithering out of sight. Aeryn lies without moving, waiting for
her body to recover and wonders where he’s gone. His actions are unpredictable, his interest in bringing her to
orgasm unfamiliar; she doesn’t know what he'll do next. There is a gust of cooler air near her ankles and she
starts to sit up. John grasps her firmly by the ankles and yanks her toward the foot of the bed, continuing the
long slide until she thinks he intends to pull her onto the floor.
“Crich--” she begins a protest. Her legs are looped over his shoulders, his arms delve under her hips drawing
her upward, and he begins the wet coaxing again. “What … don't … oh, frell.” Her thoughts break down into
uselessness.
They don't stay in that position for long. John pulls the covers aside, straightens up from his place at the foot of
the bed and tucks one of her legs beneath one arm while keeping the other one over his shoulder. She is
turned half onto her side, her legs pulled wide apart. She is supported, enveloped, invaded, and feels
incredibly secure despite what he is doing to her.
It is infinitely more intense this time, perhaps because she knows what is going to happen, and he teases her
endlessly, taking her to the edge and then backing off. Again and again she shakes and cries out, hoping that
he’ll drive her over the crest of a climax. Again and again he eases his efforts and she slides back down to
where the sensations induce only sighs and writhing, only to have him take her up to the limits once more. She
cries out as she feels it begin, one foot drumming ineffectively against the solid mass of his ribs, and he eases
away, stopping all coaxing. Her body teeters on the edge, not quite at the moment of another orgasm, but with
the first shocks traveling outward from her pelvis, and she lets out a shrieking growl of complaint.
The aching need for an uncontrolled discharge of energy backs away, leaving her arched half on to her side,
one hand twisting the sheets into a wadded mass, the other hand grasping at the short hair, trying to guide him
back to the abandoned site of his labors. John frees one hand to rub her up the center of her body, the rough
pressure traveling up her stomach to find one breast, fingering it for several microts, then pressing firmly
against both nipple and the mass beneath. It comes close to driving her over the edge, her nerves from that
breast somehow rewired to send the impulses to the swollen, overheated tissues between her legs.
“I will kill you,” she threatens breathlessly, thinking that if he doesn't stop teasing her like this, that she won’t live
long enough to carry out her threat.
The vibrations of his quiet laugh travel through his ribs and into her legs where they lie against him. John
slides several fingers inside her, then places his tongue against the engorged knob and simply presses.
Aeryn gasps and cries out. She is being controlled, manipulated, invaded, possessed, and a part of her wants
him to go on like this forever.
Another bright flash illuminates the room, leaving behind a time-frozen image of blue eyes filled with pleasure,
short hair standing on end from where she's been tugging at it, the mass of his body hovering between her
legs, John watching gleefully as he slowly drives her insane.
“For … frell’s … sake,” she gasps, and deliberately kicks him in the ribs. Her bare foot does nothing more
than smack against his side, but it seems to nudge him back into action. He licks at her slowly, drawing the
slightly rough surface of his tongue across the over-sensitized nerves, and strokes the quivering internal
muscles.
She quakes, nearly there, and he increases his efforts. His mouth and tongue are locked firmly on the
engorged mound of nerves, his fingers working inside her. He has been smoothing her own slick fluids across
her for ages now, the warm slick surfaces massaged and caressed until there isn’t a single dench of her crotch
that isn’t aching with the need to come. He pulls out of her, presses in deeply, questing, stroking hard, turning
his hand, searching for something. His free hand rubs against her belly, the two hands pressing against each
other. His tongue works across her nub faster, tickling at it, and she lurches and tries to curl into the mattress,
her stomach flexing with the promise of something far more intense. She’s crying and yelping now, knees
curling from the tension, wrapping around his body to hold them together.
His finger strokes across something inside of her, there is a jolt from the base of her spine to the top of her
head, and she nearly screams as her body tries to light up every neuron at once. John chuckles into her
crotch, places one inquisitive finger on that delightful spot inside her, and massages her abdomen from the
outside. She bucks and thrusts against him, so close, so close, her entire body doing its best to expend some
of the almost-energy.
“Please, please,” she hears herself begging him. Her legs are trembling, her breathing strained, every small
movement only serving to make it more exquisite.
John doesn't answer her. He spends nearly a hundred microts doing nothing more than running his fingers in
and out of her, stroking the aching bundle of nerves with his tongue, then sucks on her as he presses hard,
shoving what feels like his entire hand inside her. The final excitement builds in huge steps, as though she’s
taking deep breaths without exhaling. She starts to cry out with the addition of each increment, her legs curling
and relaxing in the cadence, and then he fingers the internal spot, the sensation almost too intense to
withstand, and drives his tongue in harsh, rippling waves across the swollen point.
It’s her body that is struck by a different type of lightning this time, every nerve ending participating in the wild
excitation as she finally comes. She cries out wordlessly with a noise just shy of a scream, her voice echoing in
the room a split-microt before the crack and boom of another discharge from the storm. Writhing, wrestling
her way into the sheets, her upper leg pinned firmly by a strong hand so she can’t hurl herself away from him,
John buries his head between her legs, licking and stroking her, the fingers inside motionless when she is
moving, pressing and massaging whenever she starts to let up, holding her in the moment of nervous insanity
for an eternity.
It can’t go on forever, although for several microts it feels like it will. She regains her senses to the slow
lapping of her most intimate places, his fingers no longer inside her, the rough warmth of his tongue
mesmerizing her as he licks away the moisture and relaxes the overwrought tissues. Aeryn lies as though stun-
shot, sweat creeping down her entire body, convinced that she will never move again.
She isn’t aware that he’s gone until he returns, gathering up her body in his arms and moving her back to the
center of the bed, then lovingly bathing her entire body with a warm, damp towel -- wiping away the trickles of
sweat until there’s nothing but the cool swirl of air across clean skin. The covers are pulled into order, drawn up
over her shoulders, then he slides in behind her, snuggling close to lend her his warmth. He fingers her hair
aside and trails warm kisses up the back of her neck, then settles in close, one arm wrapped around her
stomach to hold them together. As sleep reaches out to suck her in, her exhausted body vibrating with the last
frissons of dissipating tension, she finally realizes what John means when he refers to recreating as ‘making
love’.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Disclaimer: The characters and universe of Farscape belong to the Henson Company, and also to everyone
involved in the creation of this wonderful, vibrant, incredibly diverse intergalactic civilization. I beg their
forgiveness for trespassing on their playground.
Time Frame: During A Human Reaction.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
The falling liquid he calls ‘rain’ hammers against the side of the building, pattering in erratic sheets against the
windows. The water gushes in torrents through the vertical pipe called a ‘downspout’, the surging sound
reverberating through the wall at the head of the bed, hypnotic rhythms trying to urge them to sleep. She runs
her fingers down his chest, fingers the thicket of dark hair at his groin, and then explores his genitals for what
might be the tenth time, playing with his flaccid anatomy for several microts, getting used to the small
differences she's found there.
“Having fun?” John asks, waking from a brief nap. Outside the window the sky lights up as brightly as when a
command carrier fires its frag cannons; this time she’s ready for the loud crack that follows when the storm is
this close. She hardly jumps at all as she catalogues the quiet grin and delight in his eyes that are revealed by
the brief illumination. He runs his fingertips along her forearm several times, then up her arm to her shoulder,
simply watching her as she continues to explore him.
At first she had thought it was some sort of ritualistic mutilation, the cutting of such a tender piece of anatomy,
but it has taken her less than two arns to decide that she likes the look of him better than that of a Sebacean.
Even in his relaxed state he appears ready, the permanently exposed head gleaming and smooth, the rim
gliding under her touch without friction or the hindrance of the extra section of skin. John rubs her back as she
leans over him, playing with the relaxed cock and stroking the soft mass of his balls with her fingertips, learning
every dench of him.
Human mivonks are more sensitive than those of Sebaceans. “Tes … ti … cles.” She practices the word he
had used earlier when she had pressed too hard, and he had yelped and nearly jumped out of bed. He had
knelt alongside her, gently kneading the abused organs, and had suggested that she be a bit more cautious
the next time. She had rolled over on her side and tried again while he stayed on his knees with his legs
splayed, reaching beneath his hardened cock to delicately finger the hanging sac, probing with infinite care to
find the round masses inside. She had seen the quiver in his thigh muscles first, then watched with fascination
as the tendons in his hips had sprung into sharp relief and his stomach had sucked in, pulling his upper body
into a hunched over comma. With his eyes closed and jaw hanging, he had grabbed at her hand and pulled it
away, his entire body shuddering and leaping.
“Th-th-that's much better,” he had gasped, and she had watched with awe as he fought back the impending
climax. It hadn't been just that a human could be brought to that point by massaging his mivonks; it was that he
would hold back at all. Only one of her partners had ever shown a desire to give her as much pleasure as he
had wanted for himself, but even Velorek had viewed release and the commensurate reduction of tension as
the primary purpose behind recreating.
After that initial exploration, the session of recreating had been simple and straightforward -- petting, arousal,
penetration, thumping rhythms and his sighs of pleasure, her own mounting tension, her moaning climax
followed microts later by his, and then the short slumber to recover. Basic, pleasant recreation. The only thing
unusual about it was how gentle he had been. She had tried at one point to pull his hips into hers to effect the
expected joining, and he had pulled away, spending nearly a quarter arn petting, kissing, and stroking her until
something new had happened. She’d never had her internal muscles pull like that, nearly spasming as they
yanked her sopping wet opening wide, exposing the swollen inner tissues. John had laughed quietly as she
cried out with surprise, and had entered her in gradual stages, denying his own ecstasy in order to ensure that
he didn't hurt her.
No one had ever done anything like that for her. Not in her entire life.
Aeryn turns in bed, fits herself alongside him and worms her way into his warmth, stopping just short of
pressing against him. The room lights up, followed by the sizzling crack and the walls shake. She sits up in
alarm, smelling the harsh flow of ions, concerned about what it means.
“Electricity,” she says, looking out the window to see what damage has occurred.
“Umm hmm,” John hums. “Lightning is pure energy. Ion exchange between the clouds and the ground. It's a
transfer of charges.” He has finally put it in terms she understands, but she is still concerned because there
seems to be too much power being shifted between the sky and the earth, and she's not exactly sure why it's
happening.
”It’s not dangerous?” she asks, peering out the window. The rain is pummeling the walls now, battering
against the exterior of the building, and the trees outside are whipping violently back and forth.
“Not usually. We’ll be fine indoors. Sounds like a cell is passing right over us. We’d better huddle together for
safety,” he says. His last comment alarms her, but she sees the glint of his teeth in the dark just before she
answers, and manages to stop the comment before his teasing can get her to say something stupid. “Come
on,” John says. He tugs on her wrist, encouraging her to rejoin him in bed.
“We've recreated. Now we can get some sleep.” Aeryn lies down beside him, because that's what one does
after recreating. He pulls her on top of him, hugging her tightly, buries his nose in her throat and snuffles quietly
into her skin, sniffing and sighing several times. “We need sleep if we're going to start running tomorrow,” she
says, reminding him of their predicament. She is trying to forestall anymore of his usual foolishness.
“Okay,” John says cheerfully. “Let's get some sleep.”
She’s just drifting off when he moves away from her. Sighing, she starts to turn on her side, thinking that he’s
giving her more room, only to find that somehow they’re tangled up again. She rolls onto her back, irritated
because he seems to want to sleep on top of her and she would prefer a little room. John squirms about next
to her, and she turns to snap something at him impatiently, only to find his legs lying next to her shoulders, the
pale skin gleaming slightly in the half-light.
“What are you … ?” she starts to ask, wondering if this is some peculiar human tradition, then his hands are
rubbing her thighs and he draws her legs apart firmly but gently. His forearms pin her thighs to the mattress, a
vulnerable position that she finds disconcerting, and then his fingers slowly and carefully draw the lips of her
vagina apart and she nearly jumps out of the bed when he licks her for the first time.
“What?” she barks, then clamps her lips shut and arches over backward with a long sigh as his tongue
presses on the already sensitized nub, working around the edge slowly and with small teasing movements,
stroking and pressing against it. “No,” she sighs, her abdomen suddenly warm and loose with infinite
excitement, and when he nudges at one leg with an elbow, her body obliges without conscious thought.
Tenderly at first, then with more force, the warm, inquisitive surface works its way around the swelling bundle of
nerves, coaxing at it until there is another surge of nervous energy floods outward, expanding like a bubble
through her body.
“No,” she says again, because it was the last word she spoke, and she can't seem to remember another one,
and thumps him on the shoulders with one fist, trying to expend a little of the mounting tension.
A low laugh emanates from the Crichton-shaped lump under the covers, and then he’s shifting so that more of
his weight is lying across her hips and he fastens his lips over the swelling point of nerves and sucks on it.
She cries out this time, her body exploding with sensation, fighting him to close her legs only he's too strong.
His tongue is moving faster, switching between the hard stroking pressure, then flicking madly against her,
then stroking again, teasing and urging her body to listen to nothing but that one portion of her nervous
system. Warm and liquid it slides to one side then the other, laves the surface, and her hips surge up under
his weight. His fingers press hard into the hollows at the top of her legs, massaging the taught muscles there,
and he hums into her flesh, the vibrations rumbling deep into her belly.
“No!” she pleads one more time, meaning ‘yes’ but unable to find the right sounds. John presses his tongue
harder, massaging the entire area with his hands, and the orgasm rolls over her like the shockwave from a
nova.
She begins to return from wherever she has gone to discover that he is still working his lips and tongue against
her, coaxing the last shivers of ecstasy out of her body. What is supposed to be one final sigh of excitement
comes out sounding more like a breathless squeak, and her body stops its wild shuddering. Aeryn takes a
deep breath, trying to get some oxygen into her deprived system, and his hands stroke the mound over her
pubic bone several times and massages her belly and thighs, caressing and relaxing her all in one.
His ankles and feet are on the bed next to her shoulder, shifting slightly as the hidden body beneath the covers
eases off her, and then they disappear completely, slithering out of sight. Aeryn lies without moving, waiting for
her body to recover and wonders where he’s gone. His actions are unpredictable, his interest in bringing her to
orgasm unfamiliar; she doesn’t know what he'll do next. There is a gust of cooler air near her ankles and she
starts to sit up. John grasps her firmly by the ankles and yanks her toward the foot of the bed, continuing the
long slide until she thinks he intends to pull her onto the floor.
“Crich--” she begins a protest. Her legs are looped over his shoulders, his arms delve under her hips drawing
her upward, and he begins the wet coaxing again. “What … don't … oh, frell.” Her thoughts break down into
uselessness.
They don't stay in that position for long. John pulls the covers aside, straightens up from his place at the foot of
the bed and tucks one of her legs beneath one arm while keeping the other one over his shoulder. She is
turned half onto her side, her legs pulled wide apart. She is supported, enveloped, invaded, and feels
incredibly secure despite what he is doing to her.
It is infinitely more intense this time, perhaps because she knows what is going to happen, and he teases her
endlessly, taking her to the edge and then backing off. Again and again she shakes and cries out, hoping that
he’ll drive her over the crest of a climax. Again and again he eases his efforts and she slides back down to
where the sensations induce only sighs and writhing, only to have him take her up to the limits once more. She
cries out as she feels it begin, one foot drumming ineffectively against the solid mass of his ribs, and he eases
away, stopping all coaxing. Her body teeters on the edge, not quite at the moment of another orgasm, but with
the first shocks traveling outward from her pelvis, and she lets out a shrieking growl of complaint.
The aching need for an uncontrolled discharge of energy backs away, leaving her arched half on to her side,
one hand twisting the sheets into a wadded mass, the other hand grasping at the short hair, trying to guide him
back to the abandoned site of his labors. John frees one hand to rub her up the center of her body, the rough
pressure traveling up her stomach to find one breast, fingering it for several microts, then pressing firmly
against both nipple and the mass beneath. It comes close to driving her over the edge, her nerves from that
breast somehow rewired to send the impulses to the swollen, overheated tissues between her legs.
“I will kill you,” she threatens breathlessly, thinking that if he doesn't stop teasing her like this, that she won’t live
long enough to carry out her threat.
The vibrations of his quiet laugh travel through his ribs and into her legs where they lie against him. John
slides several fingers inside her, then places his tongue against the engorged knob and simply presses.
Aeryn gasps and cries out. She is being controlled, manipulated, invaded, possessed, and a part of her wants
him to go on like this forever.
Another bright flash illuminates the room, leaving behind a time-frozen image of blue eyes filled with pleasure,
short hair standing on end from where she's been tugging at it, the mass of his body hovering between her
legs, John watching gleefully as he slowly drives her insane.
“For … frell’s … sake,” she gasps, and deliberately kicks him in the ribs. Her bare foot does nothing more
than smack against his side, but it seems to nudge him back into action. He licks at her slowly, drawing the
slightly rough surface of his tongue across the over-sensitized nerves, and strokes the quivering internal
muscles.
She quakes, nearly there, and he increases his efforts. His mouth and tongue are locked firmly on the
engorged mound of nerves, his fingers working inside her. He has been smoothing her own slick fluids across
her for ages now, the warm slick surfaces massaged and caressed until there isn’t a single dench of her crotch
that isn’t aching with the need to come. He pulls out of her, presses in deeply, questing, stroking hard, turning
his hand, searching for something. His free hand rubs against her belly, the two hands pressing against each
other. His tongue works across her nub faster, tickling at it, and she lurches and tries to curl into the mattress,
her stomach flexing with the promise of something far more intense. She’s crying and yelping now, knees
curling from the tension, wrapping around his body to hold them together.
His finger strokes across something inside of her, there is a jolt from the base of her spine to the top of her
head, and she nearly screams as her body tries to light up every neuron at once. John chuckles into her
crotch, places one inquisitive finger on that delightful spot inside her, and massages her abdomen from the
outside. She bucks and thrusts against him, so close, so close, her entire body doing its best to expend some
of the almost-energy.
“Please, please,” she hears herself begging him. Her legs are trembling, her breathing strained, every small
movement only serving to make it more exquisite.
John doesn't answer her. He spends nearly a hundred microts doing nothing more than running his fingers in
and out of her, stroking the aching bundle of nerves with his tongue, then sucks on her as he presses hard,
shoving what feels like his entire hand inside her. The final excitement builds in huge steps, as though she’s
taking deep breaths without exhaling. She starts to cry out with the addition of each increment, her legs curling
and relaxing in the cadence, and then he fingers the internal spot, the sensation almost too intense to
withstand, and drives his tongue in harsh, rippling waves across the swollen point.
It’s her body that is struck by a different type of lightning this time, every nerve ending participating in the wild
excitation as she finally comes. She cries out wordlessly with a noise just shy of a scream, her voice echoing in
the room a split-microt before the crack and boom of another discharge from the storm. Writhing, wrestling
her way into the sheets, her upper leg pinned firmly by a strong hand so she can’t hurl herself away from him,
John buries his head between her legs, licking and stroking her, the fingers inside motionless when she is
moving, pressing and massaging whenever she starts to let up, holding her in the moment of nervous insanity
for an eternity.
It can’t go on forever, although for several microts it feels like it will. She regains her senses to the slow
lapping of her most intimate places, his fingers no longer inside her, the rough warmth of his tongue
mesmerizing her as he licks away the moisture and relaxes the overwrought tissues. Aeryn lies as though stun-
shot, sweat creeping down her entire body, convinced that she will never move again.
She isn’t aware that he’s gone until he returns, gathering up her body in his arms and moving her back to the
center of the bed, then lovingly bathing her entire body with a warm, damp towel -- wiping away the trickles of
sweat until there’s nothing but the cool swirl of air across clean skin. The covers are pulled into order, drawn up
over her shoulders, then he slides in behind her, snuggling close to lend her his warmth. He fingers her hair
aside and trails warm kisses up the back of her neck, then settles in close, one arm wrapped around her
stomach to hold them together. As sleep reaches out to suck her in, her exhausted body vibrating with the last
frissons of dissipating tension, she finally realizes what John means when he refers to recreating as ‘making
love’.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
